And on an afternoon when the clouds hung so low you could practically reach up and touch them without even standing on tiptoe, we started with equal verve on every flying creature there was.
Some way off, next to one of the idle backhoes, we spied the new kid watching us again. We’d noticed him lurking about for the past several days. He was all skin and bones, and his heavy blond hair made his head look at least three times too big for the rest of him. ‘Here comes Water-on-the-brain!’ we hissed, as soon as we caught sight of him. When he was around we found ourselves talking in louder voices and laughing more than normal. Noisily we bragged about our ark and our animals. We gave each other encouraging slaps on the back while out of the corner of our eyes keeping careful tabs on the new boy hanging out by himself, aimlessly kicking at clumps of grass.
But catching a bird by the tail with some stranger watching your every move was harder than you’d think. We finally plunked ourselves down at the water’s edge, panting heavily, for a powwow. Somebody suggested scattering breadcrumbs on the ground and then pouncing with salt and a net. Lucy said we could probably rustle up a net big enough in the rectory’s basement. We immediately took her at her word. In that basement anything we ever needed always seemed to be there for the taking, usually in plain view, as if helpful hands had put it out for us.
Waiting for Lucy to return, we were just lighting a bulrush cigar when Water-on-the-brain approached us. He gazed at us with his hands in his pockets. ‘So, how’s it going?’ he asked politely.
We glanced at our jars and buckets. We already had quite a trove.
‘How’re you gonna catch the pelicans? Or the zebras?’
We were rather taken aback for a moment.
‘I can help, if you want.’
To save face, we howled with scornful laughter. Oh, sure! Really? Maybe he knew how to catch a duck-billed platypus! And we didn’t have any dinosaurs yet; we’d welcome any suggestions. Yeah, right! We started shouting out the names of animals. We yelled elephant, we yelled lion, we yelled crocodile, we yelled and yelled, all excited at first, but then less so, as it dawned on us that now our ark would have to be at least ten times bigger and, come to think of it, we’d probably need cages, too, if we didn’t want to end up being mauled or devoured.
We were still yelling when Lucy returned, dragging a huge fisherman’s net behind her. She began spreading it out in the mud without deigning to look at the new boy. It was only when she was done wiping her hands on her jeans that she turned to him and asked, ‘And who are you?’ She was a head taller than him.
‘Thomas Iedema,’ he answered promptly. ‘I moved in last Monday, on Shepherd’s Close.’ He gestured at the cluster of houses in the distance. The rain had plastered his hair to his oversized skull.
We didn’t know whether to feel envy or mistrust. We had spent our wholes lives in one place. Here was a boy who had actually lived somewhere else, which meant he must have seen quite a bit of the world. But hadn’t we been told that moving house was for Gypsies? It only led to trouble, and broken crockery.
‘My father’s got a job here, with the Parks Department,’ he went on. ‘We used to have a shop, but it closed. So …’
Impatiently, Lucy asked, ‘So what do you want from us, exactly?’
Thomas Iedema shrugged. ‘I know about all the animals. My father has this book, it’s so cool! It starts with the amoebas. First you have to work through all the invertebrates and arthropods; you’re halfway through the book before you get to the mice and such. So if you want, I could …’
‘We could use some of those ducks over there.’ She pointed at the ditch.
‘Those are moorhens, actually.’
‘So? We don’t have any of them yet, either.’
Strange, really, that after so many years, this single moment should remain etched so deeply in our minds. It’s been a long time since we were mud-spattered kids. The kind of thing we think about nowadays is whether or not to move in together, or whether or not to buy an affordable second-hand SmartCar. But if, on some rare occasion, late at night in bed, we allow ourselves to think about the events we set in motion, wincing with shame, we’ll have a glimpse of this one scene, when it all started: that innocent challenge down by the water.
‘Or don’t you dare?’ Lucy taunted. She was moving her hips as if about to start dancing. Her eyes shone.
‘He doesn’t dare!’ we all shouted in chorus.
‘Scaredy-cat,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s really shallow.’
Quick as flash Thomas unbuckled his belt, whipped off his trousers and, without a moment’s hesitation, slid down the bank into the ditch. Arms flailing, he waded through the murky water. The two moorhens immediately rose out of the water and whirred into the stand of rushes growing on the opposite bank.
We whooped and yelled.
Startled, Thomas lost his balance. He went under. He came up again, his hair matted with duckweed, water pouring out of his nose and ears. He was coughing and spluttering like crazy.
‘Hey, stupid!’ we jeered. ‘You should be on the other side. That’s where they’ve gone!’
Because he was so short, the water came up to his waist. The pelting rain was leaving bubbles as big as tennis balls on the surface. The moorhens quacked in the rushes. Then, suddenly, Thomas let out a yell and plunged head first in the water, throwing up fountains of spray. For a split second his striped shirt ballooned around his neck, then it, too, went under. We saw one foot kick in the air, then the other, and then they too were gone.
We waited.
After a little while we cupped our hands to our mouths. We shouted, ‘Hey!’
The water swirled and bubbled.
‘Hey, show-off!’
The moorhens re-emerged from the rushes. They paddled into view, their coal-black heads cocked as if to show they felt quite safe again, now that their hunter lay drowned at the bottom of the ditch. If his body was ever recovered, we’d be in big trouble! We just stood there, petrified.
‘Out of my way!’ screamed Lucy, running up with the bird-catching net in her arms.
Relieved, we stepped aside for her, then closed ranks again. We each picked up a corner of the net, regrouping this way and that since we couldn’t immediately agree on the best way to proceed—dredging, dragging, each had his or her own quite valid opinion about what to do, and clung to it stubbornly.
‘One two three … now!’ cried Lucy, jumping into the water with a huge splash. She landed safely, no more than knee-deep in the ditch, and without hesitating bent down and plunged her whole head underwater to reconnoitre, her little bum sticking up in the air.
At her Now! some of us had already started casting out the net, but others hesitated, so that the net wafted down in slow motion, entangling Lucy as she tried to stand up again. We were in such a tizzy that, without thinking, we began pulling it in. The net went taut, it cut into our hands, and Lucy went down. The water closed over her head.
We let go of the net. We were in a complete panic. We wanted to go home, we wanted to be in the kitchen watching Mummy shell peas with her steady hands. But we couldn’t move. We tried to think of water lilies and other nice things, and then about how great it was that we were going to learn to read, after the summer vacation! Once you knew how to read, our parents had told us, you could have all these vicarious experiences without having to live them yourself. Reading books let you have life doled out to you like homeopathic drops: diluted to the hundredth degree. Which was definitely a better option,