Down by the River

It is the middle of the night and rain is lashing against the window pane. The curtains are closed but he can hear it, like crystals popping. He lies in bed, his body aching from the day’s events. Tired but unable to sleep. He closes his eyes and tries visualising the rain crashing onto the roof tiles above. Gushing off, the gutters overflowing, carrying away the dead leaves. The dark puddles rising quickly. Yellow warning for rain, his weather app had said. A chance of fast flowing water causing danger to life. A chance he took. He concentrates on the sounds. He can only just hear the river roaring past the end of their garden. But he is safe now. Tucked up, away from the icy cold rain, trapped under the heat of a thick duvet.

“We’ll be able to go somewhere hot soon. Sleep under the stars even,” she says. He is pleased she is awake too, though still feels guilty for bringing her into this.

The thought of a holiday had seemed a remote possibility until recently. Brexit is taking its toll. Sure, everyone has gone into negative equity, it isn’t just them. But they virtually bought their house with credit cards, and now the banks want their money back. At least the insurers are still paying out.

He imagines the day ahead. Just after sunrise he will make a cafetière, as he has every day of this royal visit. A new tradition within the new annual tradition of the family get-together. His Father finally wanting to spend time with him, desperate to make up for the lost years. Except this cafetière will never be drunk.

He will have to slip on his anorak and boots, it will hopefully still be raining. He’ll stomp across the waterlogged lawn, parallel to the river, to the summer house. He’ll knock on the door but his Father won’t answer. He’ll leave the steaming cafetière outside, but as he walks back to the cottage, he’ll notice his Father’s canoe has gone from the pier. He will also look at his watch and make a note of the time. Hours will then pass, and the kids will probably ask where Grandpa is, in between staring at their phones and the TV.

“Probably enjoying the peace and quiet,” he’ll reply.

His Father had bribed his way into their hearts, lavishing them with gifts. The old man had been surprised at first to find out he was a grandfather, but he had taken to the role much better than being a father. He always remembered the kids’ birthdays at least, and every time he visited, he came armed with sweets and toys. Yet his Father had tried the same approach with him, as if it compensated for the missed school sports days and Christmas pantomimes.

“I’ve made you my next of kin,” he announced last summer. Finally, he was useful.

In the late afternoon he will trudge back to the summer house to fetch his Father for dinner. He will see the untouched cafetière and realise that his Father hasn’t returned from his canoeing trip. That’s when he will raise the alarm.

It has only been a few hours since their twilight cruise. He remembers taking the keys from his Father as they walked down to the river.

“Here, let me look after those Dad. I’ve got a zip-up pocket in this jacket.”

Their fingers briefly touched as he passed over the keys, and it occurred to him how rare it was for them to make physical contact. They never hugged and rarely shook hands. The result of years of estrangement and resentment, still lurking beneath the surface. Later, after locking up the summer house, he threw the keys into the water.

His Father agreed to anything. Keen to make amends for having been absent for so long. He was initially anxious at the suggestion of going out on the water so late, and the river was flowing faster than on previous days. But then that ugly smile crept across his face.

“Life is living,” he concluded fatalistically as they reached the end of the pier, neglecting to put on a life jacket. They slipped into the canoes and pushed off down the river, just as the dark clouds rolled in.

“She’s a wild one today!” his Father shouted as they paddled downstream, laughing nervously.

He didn’t reply, just focused on the task in hand. As they got further out, the rain started crashing down. The river responded enthusiastically to the raindrops pummeling its surface. The fast flowing water he had been warned about had finally arrived.

“We should probably head back in!” his Father said, his expression more serious.

“Okay!” he replied, having second thoughts. The river was getting too wild, even for him. So they turned to head back home.

It wasn’t long before the old man got into trouble. The waves, just like the years, sapped his strength. He struggled against them but was getting pushed further downstream, towards the rocks. The river willing it. Before he knew it, his Father was free flowing away from him, out of his life for a second time.

“Help!” he shouted, turning to look at him one last time.

The colour drained from his face. He felt a sudden urge to grab his Father, pull him back. But it was so unnatural for them to touch, his arms wouldn’t rise. Then it was too late.

He recalls how a strange numbness momentarily overcame him. His arms felt weak, his heart felt so heavy it might sink the canoe. Did he regret what had happened? The waves kept coming, splashing and jolting him from side to side, further down the river. He snapped out of the haze, and with every ounce of his strength, struggled back upstream. It was dark by the time he reached the pier. He noticed something had changed. It wasn’t guilt he felt. It was relief.

Now as he lies in bed, he listens to the rain streaming down the glass. It feels like it is washing away everything that had calcified during those lost years. All those missed school sports days, the Christmas pantomimes. The fact his Father hasn’t returned suggests either the river has gotten the better of him or, if not, the storm will. He will definitely have to raise the alarm tomorrow. The police will scour the riverbed and the woodlands, though given the downpour he wonders if his Father may have even been swept out to sea by now. He imagines him floating out there for years, staring at the sky, miles away where he can’t be found, in a world of his own. Bloated and detached, just like he remembers him.