Calmness, Courage and Duty

The day that Miss James was shown into the front room to sip tea out of the best china cups was also the day that I nearly drowned.

“Go and fetch your brother.”

My mother was referring to my brother Paul, two years my junior, not William or George, who both worked on the railway and wouldn’t brook any fetching from me. And because we spent so much time together, except for when he was at school, she always assumed that I knew where Paul would be, and she was right. The choice was always the woods, the rabbit warren or the river. The woods, as the light faded in the evening, was a better bet; the best time for setting and checking snares, and the best time for waiting and watching. Paul knew where all the birds nested and where the badgers would emerge from their sett. He knew where the foxes’ dens were, and when vixens were likely to move their cubs. He knew about stealth and about the importance of making approaches from downwind; observing and stalking. He knew about these things because that’s what I’d taught him.

“Go and fetch your brother.”

But at that time of day, I knew he’d be down at the river and I also knew why Mam wanted to speak to him. If stealth around animals is useful, around grownups it’s vital. Make yourself silent, make yourself invisible and see where that gets you. For me, it made me privy to a lot of conversations and I knew why Miss James had been taken into the front room to drink tea from the best china cups.

The river was our malign neighbour. Still long and languid after a lazy summer, the river had a fascination for us both. We knew of its threat, but always it had the allure of potential treasure. Paul would be down there now finding the best position, making sure that the sun was not casting treacherous shadows. I had to close my eyes to a squint, to pick him out in his favourite spot, bent double up to his knees in the river flow, poised like a heron.

On the riverside path, I increased my speed taking care to make a silent approach. I was less than twenty yards away from him when he darted, a hand movement quicker than a pike. A hit! But then he was struggling to stand upright again and he slipped and disappeared below the surface of the water. His head emerged and then was lost again into the increasing depths. Now I ran flat out. He wasn’t far from the bank but there was nothing I could chuck out for him to grab. I may have gasped at the shock of cold water but I plunged straight in, not understanding why Paul’s attempts to save himself should be so hampered. My only thought was to get a hold of something and drag him clear of the dark god of the undercurrent. But there wasn’t a flailing arm I could clutch, both arms were wrapped around his chest as though he had consigned himself to this fate. So, instead, I got a handful of sodden hair and put my other hand around the back of his neck and began to pull, only to lose my own footing and slide, still with my clamp grip on Paul, into the wild silence below the surface.

And then back clear again, gulping a lungful of air before another descent and a remorseless drag downstream. We were pulled, buffeted and tossed around before finally being discarded; eddied into a shallow and a last chance we couldn’t scorn, from here we could reach the river’s muddy edge, and together in our desperate embrace we scrambled and staggered towards the bank heaving and exhausted.

Did I get him out or did he pull me on to the grassy sanctuary? I don’t remember. I couldn’t think; I was curled up in agony as though someone had run a giant stitch through my upper body and was now pulling it tight. Then there was the coughing, the pa