Gathering the Water Read Free

dam. The outer wall is sheer, faced with gritstone blocks, already darkening. The inner wall, that to be submerged, is raised in a gradual curve. Here, too, it is faced, but the blocks are less precisely arranged. The centre of the dam is of rubble fill and poured lime. Again unlike dams elsewhere, there is no walkway along the top of the structure, only the exposed rim left unsecured against the elements. The surface is broad enough, and the blocks set level enough for a man to lead a horse across, but there is no connecting road or path at either side, only the exposed rock of the blasted hillside.
    The valley downriver runs in a series of overgrown gorges until the water reaches its mother flow. By contrast, the land above the dam is broad and open. Downriver, the dwellings and mills are of necessity tightly gathered, surrounded by woodlands and small pastures, whereas upriver the dwellings are scattered and the only cultivated land is either taken in close by them or alongside the river on its small flood plain.
    You might say the world was conveniently divided here, and that the dam was its neatly drawn line.

5
 
    â€˜My name is Mary Latimer,’ she said at the instant of our unexpected encounter. She held out her hand to me. I was becoming accustomed to such abruptness – forthrightness, they would call it – but there was something in the woman’s manner and in her formality, her gentility almost, which led me to respond more cautiously.
    I introduced myself.
    â€˜There is not a single person here who does not already know you,’ she said. ‘And, as you must be well aware, that which they do not know about you they can easily imagine.’
    â€˜And those who do not possess the imagination?’
    â€˜Oh, lies, half-truths, speculation.’ She smiled at this, and though she remained reluctant to look me in the eye, I feltthen as though an understanding existed between us. I knew from her voice, her choice of words and her accent, by the way she held herself, and by her reserve, that she too in some way stood apart from the place and its people.
    I guessed her age to be between fifty-five and sixty. Her grey hair was held back from her forehead in a tortoiseshell comb. Strands hung by her ears, and she smoothed these back into place as she spoke. Her face, too, bore none of the more usual marks of age and hardship with which I was already familiar. Her skin was pale and little lined; her teeth even and white.
    â€˜Do you live here?’ I asked her.
    â€˜I have done for the past ten months. Before that I lived here as a girl and young woman.’ She looked around her as she spoke.
    â€˜And are you back here because of the dam?’
    â€˜Because everything is to be lost? Yes, in a sense. I am here to take care of my sister.’ At this last word she turned from me, and I knew then that she and her sister had been my silent watchers of several days previously.
    â€˜You were on the hill,’ I said.
    â€˜You raised your hand to us. You must consider us unforgiveably rude.’ She went on before I could answer her. ‘My sister is not well. We heard the raised voice of your visitor. She was alarmed by his dogs. Tell me, will the water come this far up the valley?’ There was no pause in her speech as the subject was changed and I was diverted from talk of her sister.
    â€˜It can rise no higher than the height of the dam,’ I said, and regretted the glib remark immediately.
    â€˜I meant will there be changes this far upriver? I know the hills will not be drowned.’ She continued to lookaround us. She showed neither anger nor remorse for all that was to be lost.
    â€˜Where were you before returning?’ I said.
    â€˜I’ve lived in many places. Some close by.’
    â€˜But this is where your sister lives?’
    â€˜This is where our parents lived. Lived and died. She and I were born here.’
    â€˜And do you still feel some