33
Friday, 27 April 2012
Kew Bridge was pinkish grey in the evening sunlight. The Thames, choppy from rowing boats skimming under its arches, was a mix of dancing lights and shadows. Above the drone of traffic could be heard the hoarse shouts of a man cycling along the south towpath, holding a megaphone; he kept pace with a boat cutting through the water near the shore.
Stella paused until the man had passed and then, hurrying along, she spotted David Barlow further up the path. He was gazing down at the fast-flowing current, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Light sleek sunglasses complemented prominent cheekbones. He cut a striking figure. Stella noticed two women in their thirties, jogging side by side towards the bridge, see him and share a glance. Despite herself she was gratified it was she he was waiting for.
Her phone rang. It was Jack. She didn’t answer it. She wouldn’t abort a second date with David
‘You found it,’ David murmured, turning from the river as if he’d known she was there.
‘I came here as a kid.’ The memory came out of nowhere. She had cycled behind her dad from the Ram pub, over Hammersmith Bridge, back along to Kew and then past Strand-on-the-Green. Her mum had said it was far too much for a child.
‘I often see children with their fathers here.’ He led them away from the bridge. ‘It can make me feel envious.’
‘You don’t have children?’ Stella was spiked with heat at her temerity and then at her forgetfulness. David had told her he didn’t.
‘Jennifer had a miscarriage soon after we got married and what with one thing and another that was it. I might have liked to be a dad.’ He was briefly wistful.
‘Children are a lot of work.’ Stella appreciated the idiocy of the comment, but fortunately David Barlow went on:
‘What bad parents we would have been. No child should live with two people quietly at war with each other. My own home was happy until Mum died. I was eighteen and already engaged. What was your childhood like?’
‘My parents divorced when I was seven. My mum wanted it, but she complains about my dad as if they’re still married. I think she wanted him to fight it, but if someone asked him for anything he did it. Mum got her way and has been unhappy ever since.’ This unexpected insight was obvious now she had said it. Stella thought of telling Jack.
‘Maybe she wanted him to make her feel loved?’ David was keeping up a fast pace that suited Stella’s long legs. ‘Don’t we all. Oh no!’ He swerved into Stella, holding her shoulders briefly to steady her, then he ran over to the edge of the bank.
A small dog was making its way along the water’s edge. It was unsteady on its legs and perilously close to the river, which Stella saw was rising. Oblivious to danger, it batted and snouted at an overhanging branch above its head.
‘Bloody thing!’ David Barlow flung off his jacket and handed it to Stella.
‘Dogs are sure-footed. It’ll be fine.’ With a shock Stella watched David Barlow shuffle and slither down the steep bank, finding foothold in the merest of indentations in the soil. Stella knew nothing about dogs, but she did know people died trying to rescue them while the dog survived. Going by the speed of scum and flotsam racing by, the current was strong.
‘It’s a puppy, it has no sense.’ He spoke through clenched teeth as he grasped a clump of groundsel. He anchored his foot in a gap in the concrete ballast.
Stella was relieved he wasn’t wearing the Italian loafers of her first visit. Grasping another branch, David whistled at the animal. The puppy cocked its ears and looked around.
Stella cast about either way along the towpath. They were alone. The sun had gone in and a breeze whipped over the water, sending ripples across the grey-blue surface. Deep in conversation and walking fast, they had come a good way and the bridge was out of sight. There was no one to help.
‘Here, Bubsy.’ He clicked his tongue. The dog gave a sudden spring into the air and landed facing the other way, its hind leg in the water. To Stella’s horror, a sparrow flew out of nowhere and alighted between the dog and David. The puppy stared at it with liquid brown eyes. It lifted a front paw and held it bent.
‘If the bird flies off, he’s going to try to follow.’ David spoke in a crooning tone presumably intended to placate the dog rather than herself. He undid his belt buckle. ‘Pull it, Stella.’ Still in the soothing voice.
Stella didn’t move.
‘Quick!’ he gasped, the effort causing him to slide closer to the water’s edge.
Stella put a tentative boot on the mud-slicked stone, dizzied by the sheer incline. She caught the thin leather and gave it a tug. David shifted on the slope. She stopped.
‘I’m OK.’ He nodded curtly.
She pulled again and the belt whooshed out of his trouser loops. The buckle whacked her thigh.
‘Do it up around that branch, on the last notch so the noose is wide.’ He indicated the branch near her with a tip of his head. ‘Don’t fall in.’ He gave a short laugh as if the idea was absurd rather than likely.
The leather was warm from being around his waist. Stella did as he had asked. Slowly, keeping his balance, David felt with his hand behind him and caught the loop. He thrust his arm through and hitched it under his shoulder.
The sparrow, a twig between its beak, shot upwards into the leafy canopy above. The dog launched itself after it, paws flailing, flying over the rushing water, David caught it by the belly and pulled it against his chest. It struggled. He did a pirouette on the bank, dangling by his belt. Then he lost his foothold. Stella grasped at his shirt.
Everything slowed. Sounds were muted. The cloying odour of river mud filled her nostrils, cut with the tang of David’s aftershave. She was pushed backwards and landed heavily on the bank, her palms stinging. Strong hands dragged her to the towpath. The fragrance was stronger now. David’s jacket smothered her. She struggled up. David was crouched in a ball beside her. Two button eyes glared at her through the crook in his arm. His white shirt was streaked with mud and needle dots of red.
‘You’re hurt.’ Stella croaked. A cut ran from his little finger’s knuckle to the base of his thumb.
‘I’ll live.’ He sucked it.
Stella’s phone rang. Jack again. She turned it off.
David helped her to her feet and, clasping the dog, retrieved his belt from the bough. Still with one hand, he rethreaded it through his trousers. Stella looked away as if the action was intimate.
‘You could have died,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s a plaque on Hammersmith Bridge for a man who drowned saving a dog. It could have been you.’ She contemplated the dog: scrawny, with matted fur; it was hard to tell the colour.
‘There are worse ways to go.’ David Barlow did up his jacket and finger-combed his hair back. ‘He’s a poodle. They’re intelligent animals. We’d better take it to the police.’
Stella’s heart sank. She did not fancy turning up at Hammersmith Police Station with a poodle, with anything.
‘Someone’s dumped this little lad. No collar, see? He’s been fending for himself. Let’s eat first. We can’t take him into a restaurant. Are you OK with a takeaway round at mine? Unless that call means you have another mercy dash.’
‘It wasn’t important.’ Stella linked arms with David Barlow and strolled back with him along the darkening towpath.