In May the reservoirs were low and the river slowly carried a scrim of weed to the weirs. The sun was higher in the sky. The days filled out and the long nights of winter were distant. Les Thompson walked his fields and waited for the first heading of the grass. The stems were starting to stiffen and at the base the leaves were dying back. The cut was days away. In the conifer plantation the goldcrest nests were thickly packed with eggs the size of babies’ thumbs. There were sheep bones by the side of the tracks on the moor, picked clean and beginning to brittle. The sound of a lorry missing the cement-works entrance was heard, climbing the hill to the village and the engine rising suddenly in pitch before cutting out entirely as the driver dropped another gear. In the beech wood the fox cubs were weaned. By their den entrances they fell about each other or sat waiting for their mothers to return. There was trouble at the Jacksons’ when Simon told his mother he’d be going to Australia with Mike. A second man was seen in the orchard with Sally’s brother, and although he was known to be staying in the caravan it wasn’t clear that he was welcome. He didn’t appear to be doing any work. Richard Clark called round to see Cathy. They’d agreed to go for a walk, but when he knocked on the door one of her sons answered and said she was out. Richard waited for more information but none was offered. He asked if she’d be back soon and the boy said did he want to wait. Hardly a boy in fact; a young man now, already done with university and filling the house with his lumbering uncertainties. Thanks, Nathan, he said, guessing at the name; I will, if that’s okay. Nathan shrugged and left the door open. Richard went through to the kitchen and checked his phone. Probably he shouldn’t text her. She’d be driving back from somewhere. Held up in traffic, or by a conversation at the market, or wherever she’d gone. He looked at the photos and notes stuck on the fridge. REMEMBER JOBSKILLS INTERVIEW WEDS, in Cathy’s handwriting. And a photo of Patrick amongst the ones of the boys at university, and of people who were presumably cousins and grandparents. So much that he didn’t know. So much that he’d missed. Nathan came into the room and slapped out a kind of drum roll on the worktop and asked if he wanted tea. Thanks, Richard said; yes please. Nathan put the kettle on and reached over a mug. I was at school with your father, Richard said, tapping the picture on the fridge. Nathan either knew this already or wasn’t interested. The three of us were very close friends, he went on; your mother and Patrick and I. We did everything together. Nathan had his back turned, fishing the teabag from the mug. Milk’s in the fridge yeah? he said, edging out through the door. From somewhere in the house, Richard heard a television turning on. He waited long enough to drink the tea and then let himself out. When he texted Cathy later to ask if there’d been a mix-up she said she was sorry but she’d had to go to Manchester and had forgotten to let him know.
At the bus stop Andrew waited with his mother. There was something happening way up on the hill. There were vehicles moving on the access road. The first phase of a construction project. He could search the planning records online when he got to the day centre. Now that he’d seen the activity he would find it hard to get through the day without finding out. For now he just watched, and his mother watched him. She had no idea what was going on in his head most of the time. He was old enough not to need walking to the bus stop, but she preferred seeing him off. If she let him just walk away from the house she wasn’t going to stop worrying. But if she saw him going up the steps and sitting in the seat behind the driver she could switch off for a few hours. Which was half the purpose of the day centre. Respite. His quietness was a relief now. It had been a noisy morning. He wasn’t what anyone would call dressed appropriately. But he was dressed. She felt his hand pulling at hers, and holding it. He tipped his head down towards her, still looking up at the hill. He mumbled something that sounded like Mummy, and laughed. He said it again. Who knew what he was thinking. The bus came round the corner and he dropped her hand like a hot coal. She watched him climb the steps and when the bus drove away she didn’t know where to go. She didn’t feel ready to go to the post office as she’d planned. She didn’t quite know what had happened. She went and sat in the churchyard, in sight of Ted’s grave but not too near. He wouldn’t have had a clue, of course. That man. What had she expected, really. She’d been young but she should have known better. She sat for a few minutes, moving on before anyone could see her and think they should ask. She could do without the asking. In the village hall the well dressers were pressing strips of bark into the wet clay where the design had been pricked out, and it was late in the afternoon before this first stage was complete. In their nest in the conifers the first buzzard chicks were hatching. There were hot days and one afternoon the Cooper boys ran back and forth from their house, filling water pistols and balloons and tracking water through the hallway until no one in the Close was safe from a soaking. Some people took it in good heart. At midsummer the protest camp held a full-moon party, and some of the younger villagers went and joined in. The drumming was heard for most of the night. There was talk of nudity, although this was never confirmed. The missing girl’s father did a long walk for charity, from his London home to the top of the moors above the village. There was a lot of publicity about it in the papers, and a website published updates of how far he’d got. He mostly followed canals on his route north, as he said that was the best way of not getting lost. He also made lengthy remarks about following the psychic energy of the water right back to the reservoirs, but most of the papers chose not to publish those. He came north at a surprising pace, and when he arrived there was a crowd of reporters waiting to meet him in the village. He said he was proud to have raised so much money for the missing-persons’ charity. He asked for some privacy to go up to the hill and the photos in the newspapers were mostly of him walking away on his own. The evening before Mike and Simon left for Australia, the Jackson boys all went into town for a few drinks. Claire was with them for a rare night out. They’d left Tom and Molly with Maisie. At the start of the evening Claire was talking quickly and making a point of pacing the brothers for drinks, and then at some point she was no longer there. She’d been in the pool room when Simon had last seen her, and Mike thought she’d gone out in the yard for a smoke, and when they made Will phone her to see where she’d gone there was no answer. She’ll have gone home and be asleep already, he told them. It’s what she does. Simon started to argue but Gordon gave him a look to leave it, and while he was at the bar he phoned Susanna and asked her to check. None of them thought it worth asking why this seemed like something that had happened any number of times before.
The long days of July were hot and the heat rose from the heather in waves. In the mornings the air outside the Jacksons’ lambing shed was dashed with swallows. James Broad finished his second year of university, and didn’t come back to the village at all. His mother had prepared the small guest room in her new flat for him, but from his Facebook page she learnt he was travelling in Thailand with someone called Saoirse. The girl looks pretty enough, his mother told Susanna. But I don’t even know how to pronounce her name. There was a day of action at the protest camp. Some of the villagers went up there to join in, but most people just listened to the noise of drumming drift down the hill. The first excavations started a week later. Su Cooper found a post-office book for a savings account of Austin’s that she knew nothing about. There was close to five thousand pounds. When she challenged him about it he said it was meant to be a surprise. Bloody well is a surprise you’ve got five grand I didn’t know about, she said. What else is there, a second mobile phone? What are you, Austin, some kind of a drug dealer? Or are you having an affair? She giggled when she said this, at the outlandishness of it, but she was furious enough not to regret the hurt on his face. He told her he’d been saving up for a big family holiday, that he’d been planning to surprise her. He wanted to take them all to China, he said. China? she asked. He thought the boys would appreciate learning about their roots, he told her. Their roots? Their roots, Austin? Their roots are in bloody Chorlton
, man. What are you talking about, roots? I thought it would be important for them, he said. She shook her head. You haven’t even got a passport, she reminded him. What do you know about travelling? Do you know how big China is? Where would we go? I thought we could talk to your parents, he said. I thought they’d have ideas. I wondered if they might want to come with us, show us around? Su covered her mouth in shock, her eyes widening. She leant back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. Really, Austin? But my parents fled China, remember? They actually fled. Do you know what that word means? Do you have any idea? Things have changed now though, he said. It’s not the same place they left. She looked at him, shaking her head again. She loved him but he could be such a prat sometimes. We’re not going to China, she said. This conversation is finished. You can keep the money for something else. You can spend it on your mistress if you like. She smiled at him in exasperation. She held on to the savings book and put it with the rest of their papers. Martin Fowler was seen talking to that pair in the caravan in Fletcher’s orchard, and sometimes even sitting at their fire, drinking cans of lager and looking out of place while they muttered jokes he didn’t understand. Ruth sometimes asked after him, and was told he was doing okay. Cathy Harris and Richard had lunch together in town, and she told him that she’d signed up to an online dating agency. He kept his voice casual and asked how that was going. She said there’d been a few misfires but that she was seeing someone regularly now. He could feel her watching his face for a reaction. I wanted you to know, she said. He shrugged, and said that was nice, and then he asked the man’s name. Anthony, she said. He works in Manchester. Is it serious? he asked. I’m not sure yet. But it’s nice. I’m having a good time. It felt strange not telling you, that’s all. He said he appreciated that. He talked about the next project he would be working on, and when she wondered whether they might have any dessert he said he should really be going.
In August the weather kept up. For a week there were mists rolling down from the hills, burning off as the sun rose sufficiently high. In the heat people broke down the fence around the flooded quarry and swam, despite everything that was known. Notices were put up but people were still seen swinging from the rope and leaping into the shockingly cold, deep water, screaming as they fell, cheered on by others spread out on the baking rocks around the water’s edge. The river crept beneath the packhorse bridge and seeped into the gravelled shore. In the woods and along the shaded riverbank the ragged robin was still in flower. The cricket team went over to Cardwell, and the match was lost again. There was talk the second man in Fletcher’s orchard was an associate of Woods. The talk was unfounded but he looked the type. He had a rough strength that was nothing to do with the gym, and a ropy tension in his arms. His eyes were always moving and he spoke in a type of low mutter. There was something of the prison yard about him. Man’s name was Ray, according to Martin, who’d stopped by on his way down to the river one morning and ended up making some suggestions about the pruning. The other one went by Flint. Martin said they weren’t friendly as such but they made for passing company. Ray had a good supply of cheap tobacco, and Flint knew a thing or two about knives. When he found out Martin had once run the butcher’s he asked if those were Martin’s knives up behind the counter. Martin said they’d been his father’s. Flint said they looked like they were worth a bob or two. Sheffield, Martin said. Back when they knew what they were doing in Sheffield. You’d have to go to Japan to find work like that now. Japs know about blades, Ray muttered. Truth. He spat into the fire and went off to the caravan. He never took much part in the conversations. Martin wondered if he might be a bit remedial, although he knew it wasn’t called that any more. He noticed that Flint sometimes kept an eye on him while they were talking, the way you’d keep an eye on a dog that was liable to upset the furniture. When he went into the caravan he always put the radio on and a distraction came over Flint while he talked. There was something between them that Martin couldn’t rightly describe. Not a gay thing but some hold they had over each other. At least he didn’t think it was a gay thing but who really knew these days. Martin felt like he was intruding, some evenings. Took his leave without sitting down and carried on along the lane to the packhorse bridge.
The widower was known as a man with secrets, so there was no real surprise when he turned out not to be a widower at all. His children came and spent the end of the summer with him, dropped off by a woman who was understood to be his ex-wife. It wasn’t clear how the misunderstanding had started but some people felt cheated. The children were three teenagers or almost-teenagers, who seemed to spend most of their time at the playground or along by the river. In the first week they were seen setting off from the visitor centre with their father leading the way, returning an hour later in the sort of glowering silence that follows a difference of views. They weren’t known to go walking again. The missing girl’s father had been causing more concern. Since his charity walk he’d returned to the area repeatedly, always on foot, and been found on private land and in farm buildings and in restricted areas around the reservoirs. Eventually he was arrested and questioned at length, and although there were rumours he was being reconsidered as a suspect he was again released without charge. The first fieldfares were seen, gathered on a single hawthorn and chattering into the wind. It was a good year for hazelnuts. There were few in the village now who went to the trouble, but for those who did there was good gathering. There were thick stands of hazel growing along the high ground between the flooded quarry and the beech wood, and it was possible to pick bagloads at a time. Winnie took her share, of course, and lately Ruth had been coming along to take a few baskets for selling in the shop. Very popular they were, she told Winnie. People will pay a good price. It was Mr Wilson’s turn to put together the Harvest Festival display at the church. He told Reverend Hughes that he was planning to raise awareness of unexploded ordnance for a charity he supported by making an arrangement of model landmines and mortars and calling it ‘Bitter Harvest’. She told him she understood how strongly he felt about the issue, and she shared his concerns, but perhaps a poster next to the bookstall at the back of the church would be more appropriate? There was a break-in at the old butcher’s shop and the knives were taken from the wall. Later they came into Martin’s possession and he asked no questions. The smallest one was missing and he thought that was reasonable. Boards were put up over the shop doorway. The rosehips were out, and Su Cooper took the twins along the river path to collect a bagful. Winnie had told her how to make the syrup, and promised it would keep the boys free from colds through the winter. It was only once they were heading home that all three of them noticed how badly they’d scratched their arms. You look like you’ve been fighting with a sack of cats, Austin said to her later, holding Su’s arm up to the light in bed. He kissed each scratch, and she winced and drew him closer. In the night she went downstairs and checked on the faint red syrup slipping through the muslin she’d hung over the preserving pan. It didn’t smell as pretty as it looked. She wondered if the boys would even take it.
Martin Fowler was working at the meat counter in the new supermarket when those two from the caravan showed up. They met him round at the loading bay on his cigarette break, and a few nights later they all went hunting together. It didn’t go well. There was some disagreement about which way they should head, and what they were after, and in general there was too much talking for Martin’s comfort. He wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for the knives. He owed them something. The evening was clear and still. They set off around midnight, down over the packhorse bridge and across the hill towards the high moorland beyond the Stone Sisters. There had been drinking. Martin had been careful to pace himself but he wasn’t sure about the others. They were carrying a backpack each, and a lamp, and Ray had a gun in a long black bag. They’d asked him along to do the dressing. This one made a right bloody mess of it last time, Flint said, and Ray had nodded cheerfully. Fair cop, he said. Not my thing. I’m a shooter. There’d been
a moment, in the caravan, when Martin had realised there was no licence for the gun. This could have been a moment to leave, but he’d stayed. It took an hour to get beyond the Stone Sisters, and another hour to reach the first clough at the edge of the moor, which Flint had insisted would be the best place to start. They were after a deer, apparently, although Ray had said that if that didn’t work out they could just go for rabbits or hares or grouse. Basically, he’d said, if it moves, we kill it. Martin was fairly sure they weren’t going to see anything with the noise they were making. This was partly his justification for coming along; that no harm was likely to arise. His evenings were long sometimes. It was good to have something to do. The three of them sat in surprising silence for half an hour, the ramshackle incoherence of the evening transformed into concentration and poise, and when Flint finally turned on the lamp Martin wasn’t completely surprised to see a small group of deer standing a hundred yards away. They had a look of interruption. They’d been grazing on the heather and were now staring into the light, blankly curious. Martin held his breath. He heard a rustle as Ray brought the gun to his shoulder. Five of the six deer scattered. The sixth turned its head and tensed to run and was knocked from its feet by the first of Ray’s shots. Martin had been too close to Ray when the gun went off, so he didn’t hear what was said as Flint started running towards the deer, which was even now lunging to its feet, a piece of its foreshoulder torn away. The light swung wildly as Flint raced across the heather and then the gun went off again, closer yet to Martin’s head, and the light went dark as Flint threw himself to the ground. In the whistling silence Martin could just make out the deer, careering lopsidedly towards the lower end of the clough, and Ray bending over Flint to shout something before hurtling in a high-stepped gallop across the heather, his gun held over his head. Martin sat and watched while Flint got to his feet and brushed himself off, uplit by the grounded lamp. There was a ringing sound as his hearing came back. Flint appeared to be checking himself for blood. Somewhere over the hill they heard another shot. Martin headed home. At the weir a heron speared suddenly into the water, its body wriggling on long straight legs, and came up empty-beaked. It shook its head, twice, and resumed waiting. There were springtails in the compost heap in Mr Wilson’s garden, and in the morning Nelson sat watching while they leapt and popped from the surface. A steady rain began to fall and fell unchanging through the day. At the quarry great pieces of limestone slab were being craned into trucks and driven out to the main road, dozens of loads a day, the truck engines grinding under the strain. Somewhere a lot of building was being done.