CHAPTER 22
Jess followed the river as far as the footpath allowed, but like the rivers before and unlike the canals, it gradually petered out as it left the town. So she was forced to go across country again, taking the first footpath that appeared to go in the direction she wanted: south.
It was late afternoon, she judged around 4 p.m., and the path took her across wheat fields to the edge of a copse, which then spread out and upwards over a hillock that stretched far into the distance. She spotted a nature trail sign that directed her into the trees and took her uphill on a winding path, higher and higher through an ever-thickening wood. The afternoon sun streamed through the trees from the south-west like spotlights on a stage, and when each shaft of light reached the ground, it was dappled by the leaves of the trees above.
Upwards and upwards she climbed, until after thirty minutes the trees opened out onto a narrow plateau, a ridge from which she could see open countryside for miles on either side. The path followed the ridge as far as she could see, and with the sun at three o’clock, she calculated that it was taking her due south, which was what she wanted.
Two hundred yards along the ridge she stopped for a rest, unloading her rucksack and tent from her tired shoulders and laying it on the thick, coarse grass. She sat herself down and took a mouthful of water from the bottle she had bought at lunchtime. It would only just last the night, she thought, so she had to be careful. One of tomorrow’s tasks would be to find some more, but she had enough to wash down the half a sandwich she had kept from earlier in the day.
She gazed out to the west and in the clear air saw rolling fields and hedgerows, isolated farm buildings and in the far distance, a conurbation she couldn’t identify. The whole world seemed to stretch out before her and she felt insignificant in her tiny space. She wondered what lay ahead for her and where in the world she might find peace, if she found it at all. She reached into her inside jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled picture of Leila, and the three-year-old’s cheeky face beamed at her and she smiled tears of joy and heartache.
She would be four now, her birthday would have been last weekend. One thing of which she was sure, whatever Mo had been he would not have hurt their daughter and she clung onto that hope. It was all she had.
Clouds were forming from the south-west and the temperature had dropped. But a gap in the cloud caused a sparkle of light to shine on the ground far in the distance below her and she judged it was light reflecting off water, a river perhaps, probably the same river she had left this morning. It was too early to set up camp and the top of the ridge was too exposed, so she elected to make her way down towards the river and once the light had gone, find a sheltered spot to set up her tent. She stuffed Leila’s picture back into her pocket and got to her feet.
***
Peter had been cruising for a couple of hours since lunchtime and had originally planned to cruise on to Lower Croxley where there were decent moorings and a pub where he could have a nice dinner. But the weather was taking a turn for the worse and he could see dark clouds gathering ahead. He judged he was a good two to three hours from civilisation and would not get there before the rain came down, and the weather forecast had suggested it would be heavy.
He knew this part of the river well, and around the next bend he remembered the land on his right would open out onto a wide field where the bank was vertical and clear of shrubs and trees, where he could safely moor for the night. He would have time to affix the cockpit cover before the weather broke and keep the old girl as waterproof as possible. Batten down the hatches, so to speak. He would then hunker down for the night and carry on tomorrow.
Within thirty minutes he had arrived at his destination, and as the river appeared otherwise deserted, he had his pick of the bank. The great advantage of this section was that the bank was more or less on a level with the deck, so he did not have to leap off the boat with a rope and risk a poor landing. They had taught him how to roll in parachute training, but that was over forty years ago; and at seventy, he decided it was asking for trouble to try that technique here, especially when there was no one around to help if he got into trouble. No, he would bring Carician in dead slow, parallel to the bank and make sure she was at a complete stop before stepping off.
The field came into view and he slowed the boat until she came to a halt, reverse drive engaged and engine revs at tickover, just enough to counter the current which would otherwise pull him downstream. Carician sidled naturally into the bank and he waited for a few moments with his hands off the controls to make sure she would not drift. If the bow drifted outwards once he had stepped off then he still had a chance to get back on and try again, but the thing he feared most was losing control of the stern and being stuck on the bank. He chose his moment, threw a hammer and two spikes onto the bank and then carefully stepped off, rope in hand. He checked for movement and there was none, so as quickly as he could, hammered in one spike and wound the rope around to partially secure the stern.
Then, because running was out of the question, he walked briskly to the front with hammer and second spike in hand, hammered it into the ground, and was able to reach over and grab the rope he had left hanging over the forward deck rail. He did a quick wrap around the spike, walked back to the stern and reboarded. He took the engines out of drive and waited until he was satisfied the boat held. Then he got off again, hammered both spikes in further, tied secure knots around each and took them back on board to wrap around the deck cleats.
There was a distinct chill in the air but he felt warm after his exertions and there was still more to do. Back on board, he opened up the storage locker on the rear deck and dragged out a heavy blue canvas cover. He manhandled it over the cockpit windscreen, stretching it out over the entire rear deck, huffing and puffing at the effort involved in first lifting it up, then unfolding and positioning it so all the clips and ties lined up with the small chrome cleats on the superstructure.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. You’re getting too old for this malarkey. He then resumed his task, the final elastic strap hooking on twenty minutes after he had started. Access to the rear hatch now cut off, he sidestepped his way along the landside decking and re-entered the boat through the forward hatch. Mercifully, the rain had held off, but it would come soon, he thought. But he was exhausted, and he looked at his watch: 6 p.m. Get the kettle on. No, bollocks, get the wine open. You deserve something after all that work. He pulled the forward hatch shut. He and Carician were secure.
***
Jess had left the ridge, and as the skies darkened, she found herself again in the woods but this time descending gradually. She had left the designated footpath in favour of an unsigned track that she judged might take her closer to the river. She would need to find food tomorrow, and although logic dictated the marked footpath might lead her to a road and then perhaps to a village, she was instinctively drawn to the water and was sure she would stumble across civilisation at some point.
Her priority, though, was to find somewhere to pitch her tent. She thought she was in for some rain and she wanted to get set up for the night before it came down rather than spend a very uncomfortable night in damp clothes. But the woods were too dense and she needed to keep going until she found somewhere suitable.
Eventually, she entered a clearing where the land opened out into a field of wheat on her right, the woods continuing on to her left. She skirted the perimeter of the field and after half an hour came to a hedgerow that divided it from a field of open grass, and she decided this was a suitable spot.
The tent flew out of its bag and landed upright as if by magic. She had last used it four weeks ago and was relieved to find it was still in one piece, although it still bore some of the muddy stains it had picked up on its last outing. She pressed the guide pins into the ground with her walking boots, pulling the ropes taut – she hadn’t lost the knack – and crawled in, pulling her rucksack behind her.
She unrolled her self-inflating mattress, spread her sleeping bag out on top and flopped over on her back. She dozed for another half hour, before deciding it was time for dinner. Dinner! She suddenly craved a bowl of pasta or egg and chips or a slice of pizza or bangers and mash, simple food that the chefs at The Navigation knocked up for the staff and which to her had been total luxury.
She thought about her time there and wondered whether Trish and Dave had called the police to report the theft of money. If they had called the police, then they may well trace the driver of the truck and he would explain where he had taken her. But that would all take several days, by which time they would find out that the money had ended up in their bank account, so no crime had been committed, not by her anyway, and surely no sane person would pursue her for the missing £20.
She remembered Trish and Dave arguing, no, screaming at each other, and she shuddered at the memory. Trish had accused him of rape and Jess remained deeply disturbed by it. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that that was about the sum of it. No, she hadn’t struggled, nor tried to fight him off. And no, despite her token resistance at the beginning she hadn’t said no to him. Her acquiescence had been a contributory factor, had maybe even spurred him on; although she couldn’t imagine what might have happened if she had not given in.
Trish’s face, aghast that Jess should be so casual about it, was etched on her mind. The fact remained she had endured such treatment before, at the hands of both her father and her husband, and had seen it perpetrated by her husband’s friends on young women who seemed to accept it and knew no better. She was just the same, she thought.
Over time she had come to consider such behaviour to be normal. It had been second nature to her and although she took no pleasure in it, she had become inured to its effects. Maybe it was a survival mechanism. The least bad option. But maybe she could do something about it. Maybe she had more power than she imagined and maybe in future she could assert herself and protect herself and maybe it was not that difficult. Maybe.
She lay on her back listening to the breeze rustling through the hedgerow outside and the evening birdsong. She was hungry. She sat up and moved to the front of the tent and pulled out the plastic carton containing half a sandwich, now a little squashed and dried up around the edges. She took a bite and it tasted okay.
She wondered where the old woman was. Where had she gone? Had it been a dream? No, she was real all right and her words kept coming back to her: “Never give up. You’ll be all right. Love will keep you strong.” She only had one love. Leila. But how could that keep her strong? She was powerless to do anything. “And don’t fret about stuff you can do nothing about.”
But she did fret, and it was something she could do nothing about. It caused her anguish and pain and it would not go away; it would never go away. She felt herself welling up again and then shouted out loud, “Stop it! It happened. Move on!” Angrily, she wiped away a tear that had formed in the corner of one eye. She took a mouthful of water from the bottle. One mouthful left, for breakfast. Then what? It had been an eventful day. Tomorrow was another day. Another fresh start.