Tim stood beside the weir, watching the extraordinary transformation as the wild flickering waters sprang onto the top of the rock wall of the weir and ran with smooth docility down the vivid green slope and entered the white churning frenzy below before crowding themselves into the tunnel. He felt himself as mad, as self-destructive as that water, as wild and unpredictable as its atoms; and the substance of his madness was misery and remorse. And, oh he felt so tired. It was time to climb the rocks and return to the village and go back to England.
He retraced his steps along the curving stone verge to where the long green grasses and the thorny acacia bushes leaned down over the racing stream. A jay cried and passed, then posed momentarily in the acacia. Blue dragonflies zoomed over the water. The sun was already hot and a warm wind was blowing. A grasshopper took flight, opening rose madder wings. Brown butterflies swarmed near the pine trees. All these things which could have given pleasure were metamorphosed into things of sadness because the world was cursed. Tim looked upstream at the long vista of the turbulent grey cool water between its abundant banks of green. He looked, then suddenly he saw that there was a bulky dark object, tossed about in the current, approaching him fast. Immediately Tim was terrified. Was it a body, a drowned man, what should he do? It was a darkish and palish thing, turning over and over in the speeding foam. He stared, then recognized it as a dog. He saw the shape of the doggy head and the wet muzzle lifting. It was a large black and white dog which was being bundled along by the canal. Tim grimaced at the miserable portent, for he took it to be another bloated corpse, like the one which he had seen with Gertrude.
Then he saw, as the thing came near, that the animal was not dead but very much alive. It was a black and white beast, not unlike an English collie, and it was struggling desperately, making evident hopeless efforts to check its progress and get some hold on the steep grassy banks. Tim saw the helpless white paws reach up and touch the overhanging grass. In a moment the animal would be swept past him, would whirl round the corner between the stone verges, and over the weir to drown in the tunnel.
Tim’s body had already identified itself with that drenched form, that desperate lifted muzzle, those white clutching paws. He threw himself down, as he had done when he wanted to drink, and slithered down the bank until one hand was in the water while the other hand held onto the grass. As the dog approached Tim reached out to grip it as it passed. His hand touched the long drenched fur and touched the warm slippery body (he felt its warmth). A paw brushed his wrist (he saw the claws). Then the dog, wrenched round by the water in an eddying whirl, moved out of his reach and passed him by. Tim slipped head first into the stream.
The translation, the cold, the shock deprived him of sense for a second. Then he found himself trying to swim. His instinct still was to rescue the dog. He could see the beast struggling only a yard or two ahead of him. With his utmost strength Tim contested with the swift water, to gain on it, to reach the dog and pull it to the shore. But the stream, not his efforts, determined their relative velocity.
At the next moment Tim had stopped thinking about the dog, he was thinking about himself. He tried to grasp the bushes and the trailing grasses which were fleeting by, but the stream jerked them from his grasp. He was breathless with swallowing cold water and wearied with his brief strenuous attempt to swim. He kept clutching at the banks and trying to veer off the main stream and arrest himself in their shelter, but against the flow he could not control his limbs or alter the direction in which he was being hustled along. His leg struck violently upon an underwater obstruction. Then his clutching hand touched smooth wet stone and was being whirled round the curve of the canal.
Tim had by now pictured what was to come and had already made a plan. There was a precious crucial moment when the water paused at the top of the weir, when it checked and paused and hopped itself over the stone lip before it went streaming down the smooth green slide into the whirlpool. Tim felt that if he could only hang onto the stone at the top of the slope where the torrent became docile for a moment, or spread-eagle his body against the vertical wall below, he could gain enough control to cling there, to steady himself, then to edge along to the side of the canal and, rising to his feet upon the head of the weir, to climb out onto the brink.
He tried to straighten himself so that he could look ahead. This proved very difficult. If the stream had been straight it would have been possible to assemble his limbs for the operation. As it was, however, he was pinned against the outside wall of the curve by the centrifugal force of the water, and whisked along half choking by the high wave of foam. He was by now mainly concerned with keeping his head above the surface. He caught a sideways glimpse of the sudden glossy smooth line of the checked stream, and beyond it the stone wall above the tunnel mouth. He had a quick vision of the black and white dog appearing for a moment on the edge of the fall, then tumbling over and vanishing. Tim tried to prepare himself for the impact with the vertical edge, the near side of the weir. Then one of his knees banged against something very hard below him. He realized too late that there was an underwater stone ramp leading up to the head of the water slide. If he had been prepared for it, this ramp could have helped him to slow himself down in the shallower water against the tearing rush of the stream; but now the unexpected obstruction and the sudden knock simply confused him further and destroyed what was left of his intent to clasp the high point of the fall and stay there. He retracted his hurt knee, pushed his hands instinctively against the rising stones, turned sideways in the water, found his shoulder already upon the smooth lip of the weir, grasped helplessly at a green slimy surface, took the urgent current like a blow in the back, then found himself rolling over and over down the slope into the whirlpool.
When Tim’s head rose above the surface of the raging foam he was already close to the tunnel. He could see the waters contending, boiling, stooping as they constrained themselves into the tunnel whose entrance was below the surface. The smooth stone walls of the canal now rose high above on either side, cutting out the light of the sky. Tim thought, oh why did I have to drink this water and not the other? And he thought, oh Gertrude, Gertrude - He was fully conscious that he was about to die. He took a last gasping breath and instinctively ducked his head into the foam as he was sucked down under the submerged centre of the stone arch.
Tim had taken another breath. He was aware of the breath as a miracle, a precious amazing event. Then something hit him very hard on the head. He swallowed water, choking. He was in total darkness, at any rate if his eyes were open, which he was not sure about. With the realization that he was still alive came an instantaneous absolute death-fear identical with hope. The roof of the tunnel was at this point, and for the moment and only a little way, clear of the water. Tim took another breath. All the time he was, in some sort, swimming, that is he was agitating his limbs instinctively so as to keep his head above the surface. This was difficult since his legs seemed to have been swept below his head rather than behind it and the strong water in the narrower space had somehow imprisoned his arms. His dabbing feet could touch no bottom below. He made a schematic effort to float on his back with his nose and mouth towards the roof, but this failed, and he received in the process a hard bang on the brow. He had already grasped the problem, which was to keep his face above water while not being stunned and rendered unconscious by a blow from the roof. His body rather than his mind informed him that it was no use. In a moment the roof would descend to the level of the water or below it, or else the whole torrent would plunge headlong into some deep hole. He would die indeed like a rat, and perhaps no one would ever know what had happened to him. No one would know and no one would care. Oh let me live! he prayed. A little while ago he had seemed to want death, but now he desired so passionately to live. He thought, I must live, I must, I must!
The roof seemed to be descending, more and more often and more and more violently it struck him as he opened his mouth to breathe. He had by now established a rhythm, not
just instinctively gasping, but taking a deep breath and holding it with his head ducked down in the water, then taking another. He even tried with one hand to gauge the height of the roof before he lifted his head to breathe. This was no help however since the darkness had deprived him of all sense of space and touch and it was difficult to manoeuvre his arms. Moreover his head was spinning with repeated blows and he was swallowing more water. Each time he took a breath he thought this may be the last. He thought this fear, this darkness, is death, this is what it’s like. But oh I so much want to live, please let me live, any life is better than death, oh let me only live ...
Suddenly and with no warning, perhaps his eyes were closed after all, Tim emerged into brilliant sunlight. There was nothing now above him except the bright blue morning sky. He gasped, taking another wonderful breath. As he did so he saw ahead of him, with a clarity which remained with him forever after, the sparkling canal, looking so peaceful and beautiful between its grassy banks, running a little to the left and leaving behind it on the outside of the curve a little yellow stony beach. And upon the beach Tim saw the black and white dog climbing out of the water.
Instinct moved his wearied limbs and somehow it seemed at that moment that the canal actually helped him. It deposited him gently on the beach and hurried on. It had finished with him. Tim crawled on hands and knees out of the water. Looking up he saw the dog again. It was shaking itself. After a good shake it began to sniff a nearby tuft of grass. It lifted its leg against the grass, and then trotted off with a preoccupied air.
Tim blessed the dog, he blessed the open sky and the sun, he even blessed the canal. He crawled up the slope of stones until he reached the grass and lay there spitting. He felt that his body was full of water, it had entered his mouth and his nose and his ears, it had soaked into his flesh. He sat for a while and concentrated on breathing, that wonderful wonderful operation, now suddenly so easy. The sweet air, smelling of dry grass, rushed gladly into his lungs. He breathed, not looking round him, letting the light dazzle his eyes.
Then he found that he was taking his shoes off. He was surprised to find that they were still on his feet. He recalled now how awkward they had felt in the first moments of his immersion. His feet seemed to have swollen inside them. When he had pulled them off he rested, lying flat. The sun was hot. Then he sat up, and with more difficulty took off his shirt and trousers and socks, and wrang the water out of them and spread them upon the grass. Then he rested again. Then he sat up and stared about.
He was in an unfamiliar valley, in a large flat meadow of yellow grass. There was no habitation, no person. On the other side of the canal (he noticed the canal with a kind of surprise as if he had forgotten it) there was a well-tended vineyard protected by three dense rows of cypress trees. Beyond the cypresses, far far away across the flat land, he could see the blue mountains. Behind him, on his own side of the canal, were the familiar rocks, rising up quite close to him out of dense dark green prickly undergrowth. He was glad that the stream had deposited him on the same side as the village. He would have been very reluctant to enter that water again.
Still sitting, he pulled his shirt and trousers on. They were still damp. He was aware of pains in his body. He had received a blow on the cheek bone and one on the brow and several on the top of his head. He felt these places carefully. He had a headache and felt giddy. The sun hurt his eyes and the landscape jumped about before him and became covered in dots. His hand was hurting and had started bleeding again. There was a nasty graze on his knee. He began to stop being glad to be alive, and to start feeling very ill and wretched. He felt very tired and very hungry. He tried to get up and failed, feeling too giddy. He got up at last and stood holding his shoes and socks in his hand and wondering which way to go.
He saw the wall of smooth stones out of which the canal was bubbling up like a spring, the opening being under water. Beyond it stretched the unbroken meadow, bordered by distant poplars and umbrella pines. He looked up at the rocks, trying to recognize something in their formation. Blinking hard, he thought he could descry at the skyline two of the humpy dome-shaped rocks which had been a feature of his night-wanderings, which now seemed so long ago. He could not estimate the length of time he had been in the tunnel or how far away the other end of it was. In any case he wanted to get away from the canal. He decided to see what the rocks looked like at the nearest point. He began to walk barefoot across the meadow, but the sharp dry grass hurt his feet. He sat down to put on his shoes and socks. The shoes would hardly go on, his feet seemed miles away, and he felt so dizzy and fatigued he could hardly get up again. At the least exertion lights flashed before his face. One of his eyes seemed to be closing up.
The foot of the rocks, when he got there, proved to be defended by a mass of scrub oak and box and gorse and brambles, trailed over by the local version of old man’s beard, which had woven itself into a barrier so impenetrable that one could not even introduce a foot, let alone dream of pushing one’s way through. However after walking a little way he came upon a narrow path which had been cut through the thicket by one of those invisible persons who used the rocks for their own purposes. The path led up to an easy ascent and he thought that he could recognize the profile of the summit. He climbed wearily and slowly; and only at this point did he suddenly and urgently ask himself, where am I going? He had, he supposed, been making his way back to the village. What a fuss they would make at the hotel when he turned up looking like this. Would they insist on his seeing a doctor? Where was his wallet, where was his passport? Had the canal taken them away? As he began to search he remembered that he had left the wallet and passport in his jacket at the hotel. His questing hand found something however in his trouser pocket. It was his wedding ring which he had put there on the day when he went from the bank to Daisy’s flat at Shepherd’s Bush. He slipped the ring onto his finger. He thought, I won’t go to the village. I’m so tired and so hurt and so miserable. I’ll go to Gertrude. After all, she is my wife.
Vigilant Anne Cavidge was once more the first to see him. She watched him descending slowly through the vineyard on the other side of the valley. Anne was in a different mood this morning. After a night of suffering she was feeling considerably less resigned and heroic. To let Tim go a second time would really be too much. She kicked her suitcase out from under the bed.
Tim could hardly walk now but his will and his intent had grown stronger with every step. He came very slowly through the despoiled poplar grove, treading on the gold and silver leaves. At the bridge he did not walk impatiently into the water, his impatience was over now, but laboriously pulled and pushed the big willow branch out of the way and crossed the bridge. He had no anxiety, no calculation. He wanted simply to reach Gertrude.
He mounted the hill panting loudly. It was hard to make the climb over the ploughed earth of the olive grove, but now he did not pause to rest. Nor did he look up at the house. He looked, trudging, bent forward, at the earth at his feet. He crossed the dry grass of the little meadow full of mauve thistles and wispy scabious, and climbed the last short slope to the terrace. He saw his feet planted upon the mossy terrace steps, upon the scattering of yellow fig leaves, then he stood upon the terrace straightening himself up and looking about him, still panting.
Gertrude came out of the sitting-room doors. She saw Tim and came towards him. ‘Oh - Tim - darling - darling - thank God -’ And she took him in her arms.
‘Come on, hurry,’ said Anne to the Count. ‘Pack your case, it can come later with the car. Just put a few things to take with you in a bag, here, take this bag.’
The Count was completely dazed. ‘But I told Gertrude I’d help her to mend the loggia this morning -’
‘Never mind the loggia, Tim will deal with that. Oh hurry, hurry, we’ve got to go!’
‘But, Anne, what’s happened?’
‘I told you, Tim’s back, he’s back!’
‘Yes, I saw, but -’
‘We’re off! We’ll take the bikes.
But be quick, please.’
The Count confusedly put his shaving things and a shirt picked up at random into the shopping bag that Anne had given him while she hastily stuffed the rest of his belongings into his suitcase. She had packed her own case in the four minutes that followed after Gertrude had put her arms round Tim.
‘But, Anne, we can’t just go like that - neither of them can drive, and -’
‘Manfred can fetch them or fetch the car or whatever. He’s made for fetching and carrying.’
‘But Tim coming like this - it may not be -’
‘It is. He’s back. Anyway it’s not for us to speculate. Don’t you see?’
‘Yes, but - we must talk to Gertrude, ask her -’
‘We’ll tell her, we won’t ask, we’ll leave a note. She’s not concerned with us now. She’s forgotten we exist. She’s talking to Tim. We must leave them alone, we can’t stay, we can’t! Better to go without conversations or explanations. After all, what have we got to say to those two? Nothing.’
‘Oh Anne-I don’t know what to do -’
‘Do what I tell you! No, leave the suitcase here with mine, we can’t carry suitcases on the bikes. Have you got all you want in that bag? And your passport and money?’
‘Yes - oh what a muddle -’