The water meadows beside the river wallowed beneath a lace mist that muffled bird calls, muddling them with the bleats of sheep. A runway-straight path along the top of a bank divided the fields. The June-bright morning cast long shadows and Tom followed his westward, towards the languid river and the churning mill race. A chill drifted over him. He shielded his eyes to look up at the ‘krornk-kronking’ of the ghosting heron, grey legs trailing like a kite tail, as it overtook him on its way to the river.
‘Happy fishing, Jackie Crane.’ The warming air teased the must of damp vegetation from the pasture and he tasted its muddiness on his tongue.
He heard the mill race long before he saw it. The noise pounded against his ears like horses galloping around a hippodrome in a chariot race and it made Tom’s blood pump faster. He was doing the Romans at school. He flicked his imaginary whip in the air, clutched the reins to his stomach and broke into a canter. The rhythmic hoof beats echoed in his head, the shouts of the charioteers swirled in the air – and then he slowed to a walk. Having fun wasn’t fun when Phoebe was miserable. Real life wasn’t like ‘The Waltons’. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his old school trousers and kicked a yellow crowned ragwort that spat dew over his plimsol.
A shout cannoned towards him and he stopped. Up ahead, a pair of ducks were startled into flight when two policemen ran along the far bank of the millpond. They were closely followed by a young woman who screamed in short bursts like a jumping record, like Dad’s Rod Stewart, growling ‘sailing, sailing, sailing’ after the sun had warped it.
And that’s when he spotted the shoes. They were discarded on the bank like boats for Borrowers, pulled up clear of the tide. One was upright, ready for a foot to slide into the dew-damp inner; the other lay on its side, shiny red leather latticed with snail slime. The tassels at the front hung limp, like dead flower heads. Mum had worn shoes like that, with high heels when Dad was alive.
The spark of a memory glowed inside him and he tugged at the neck of his t-shirt, exposing his skin to cooler air. Dad dancing with Phoebe. Her small feet were thrust down into the toes of Mum’s shoes, her pudgy hands raised upwards, clasping Dad’s. She tottered across the kitchen flagstones, scraping and clopping like a lame pony, before falling over, the room pulsing with her shrieks of laughter. Mum never bothered with shoes like that now; sometimes, when she went to the shop, she even forgot to take off her slippers. And Phoebe’s laugh had died with Dad, three months ago.
Tom lifted his eyes from the shoes at the scrunch of approaching boots. A constable was guiding the hiccoughing woman in his direction and pointing a finger at him.
‘You. Stay there with her. You wait here, Miss Woods.’ His badge shone super-hero bright as he returned to his colleague.
The woman stared at the pond, sobbed, and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Tom looked across to the stile that was his way home. He wasn’t keen on woman-sitting and especially not one with leaking eyes. It brought back Dad’s funeral; Phoebe laying on the floor, silently watching cartoons she had shared with Dad, dismayed relatives stepping watchfully around her.
He assessed the distance. Could he snatch them and race away before he was spotted? Phoebe would love those shoes. The woman snuffled and Tom sighed with resignation. The policeman had told him to stay.
She pointed to the pond. ‘Oh my God, look. Look.’
A bare arm rose from the water, pointed to the sun, waved once, then dropped beneath the furrowed surface. The constables edged gingerly along the bank towards the spot.
Miss Woods was magnetised. ‘That’s my roommate, at the College,’ she whispered. ‘She jumped in to save a boy from drowning.’ Her voice was almost submerged beneath the booming water.
‘What’s her name, Miss?’ He would tell the class he had seen her rescued.
‘Sue, Susan. She saved the boy but…’
Drips of cold water trickled down his spine. She hadn’t been waving.
Lights flashed blue, skimming across the rippled surface as an ambulance drove onto the far bank. Men pulled Susan’s body out of the water and up onto the bank. Tom stared. He had never seen a dead body before and would have liked a closer look. He wondered if her eyes were open. One of the policemen crossed himself like Reverend Peters, then stooped to remove a necklace of duckweed from her body. It sparkled like emeralds as he dropped it onto the grass.
The ambulance slipped away, no lights lassoing the surroundings, no need for a siren. Miss Woods, quiet now, turned to follow its departure. Tom was surprised to see her silent tears, seeping like blood from a deep, invisible wound. When Phoebe cried, she howled like a banshee, face scrunched up, mouth gaping.
‘Sue didn’t come home last night. I waited up.’
Tom squatted down, reached into the tall grass and his fingers closed around the shoes.
She followed his movements. ‘I came to find her. She always comes back from Church along this path.’ Her voice was hazy.
The shoes were warm and pliant beneath his fingers, the snail trail crisped by the sun. Tom ran his thumb around the hard edge of a heel. Would it clatter on the kitchen tiles?
She held out her hand. ‘How did you find them. They’re Sue’s. Give them to me.’ Cheeks tinted madder, she blinked as if the sun was too bright for her eyes.
His fingers tightened for a moment, he looked across to the stile but his image of Phoebe wearing the shoes was evaporating like the lifting mist. He would have to find another way to make her smile again. He handed Miss Woods the shoes and she folded her arms around them, wrapping them to her chest.
The policemen walked along the opposite bank, heads down, eyes scouring the damp turf, before stopping to stare in their direction. Tom’s skin pulled tight. Did they know he had meant to take the shoes for Phoebe? He so needed to hear her laugh. She and Dad were tickled by the silliest things when he was alive. They were always laughing together.
He was startled when a small hand slid into his and he looked down into her upturned face. She had plaited her own hair again this morning.
‘Mum said to find you. You’re late.’ She slanted a look at the woman, and then studied the policemen. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’ He squeezed her fingers gently. ‘Come on. Let’s go. Race you to the stile.’
She looked from his plimsols to her wellingtons and shook her head. ‘’S’not fair.’
A shout from the constable carried across the water. All three watched as he slipped, slid down the bank, throwing out an arm for balance and plunged into the pond deluging his colleague in a white-edged silver sheet of spray.
Phoebe gasped and clapped both hands over her mouth. The officer waded back to the bank, grasped the proffered hand of assistance and clambered out onto dry land. Water gushed from his trouser legs and dripped from his elbows. The duckweed crown wrapped around his helmet, streamed behind him like a shredded cartoon cape.
The corner of Tom’s lips twitched and beside him the woman sobbed a laugh. Phoebe took one hand away from her mouth to point at the men and her shriek of laughter escaped and jigged towards them, soaring above the bellow of the race.
‘Look, Tom, the policeman’s all wet.’ Phoebe rocked backwards and forwards, laughs jumping out in short bursts.
Tom wanted to reach out and hug her but conscious of his new role as man-of-the-house, he sneaked a look at Miss Woods to see if Phoebe was upsetting her.
‘Sue loved slapstick, too.’ Her voice was soft. ’She would have thought that was so funny.’
‘Who’s Sue?’ Phoebe looked from one to the other.
‘A lady we saw.’ Tom thought of her waving good-bye to this world. ‘Come on Pea-brain. Mum’ll be wondering. ‘Bye, Miss Woods.’ Tom hesitated, searching for something else to say. Nothing came to mind.
The squelch of boots plopping into mud snagged his attention and he chased after Phoebe. Her spikey plaits bounced above the lace-mist. She was singing to herself, her voice mingling with the bird song, and muddling with the bleat of sheep.