Rapids Read Online Free Page B

your foot, she warned. Go to the kitchen tent, there’s a mallet just inside on the left.
    The kitchen tent was a big, hut—shaped canvas structure open at both ends. Inside, between a dozen cardboard boxes with provisions, Vince’s torch flashed over two figures asleep on the floor, in separate bags but face to face. Vaguely, he took in the sharp fine features of the one girl, the dull heavy jowl of the other. When he returned, Michela already had the tent up. Louise was complaining she had put the door at the wrong end. Don’t look, Dad, she said some time later when they were undressing. It was cramped inside. They were lying on their backs, barely a foot apart. What? Don’t look! Of course, sorry. That Max is so stupid, Louise complained. She huffed and puffed, turning this way and that for a comfortable position. Vince lay still.
    Half an hour later he had to get up to pee. This was what he always hated about camping. Two zips to undo, shoes to find, struggling to your feet in damp grass to pick through the guy—ropes. Gloria loved it, he remembered. I always refused. In Florence, he had taken Louise to an air—conditioned, four—star hotel. The weather had been torrid. Here instead the night was chill and smelt strongly of pine resin; the sky was solemn with stars. But he didn’t raise his head. As he arrived at the bathrooms, the urinals all flushed of their own accord under ghostly neon. I hate campsites, he thought. Why had he come?
    Then walking back— it must be three a. m. at least— he saw that the young woman was still sitting where they had found her earlier. He hesitated. He had forgotten her name. She was hunched among the pine roots, face in hands. Somewhere nearby a clock chimed. Perhaps she was expecting another late arrival. There was a church tower just outside the entrance to the site. What if I’m not up to it, Vince worried, crawling back into his sleeping bag. He was a weak kayaker. Before the most ordinary outing he felt a shiver of fear. Maybe that was why he had come.
    Then four hours later everybody was woken by a wild clanging of bells. For this is how the day always begins in Sand in Taufers. Christ Almighty, Louise yelled.

A WAVE
    T he first thing is padding up. Michela stands beside Clive while he gives his little lesson. The course that they have been advertising in canoe clubs all over England is called An Introduction to White Water: Five Days in the South Tyrol. A year ago, Vince Marshall would never have dreamed of coming.
    You have to be tight in the cockpit. Okay? This isn’t the Thames Estuary. Tight tight tight. The perfect fit.
    Like sex? ventures a voice. Brian has a fuzz of red hair, a small snubbed nose, droll expression.
    Actually no, not like sex at all, says Clive patiently. He is wearing a khaki cap. The girls are giggling. As somebody might know, if he had a minimum of experience.
    Cru—el!
    With sex, Clive continues in his measured sensible voice, two entities move constantly in relation to each other,
n’est—ce pas?
    Two what? Phil demands.
    Michela’s hand is just touching Clive’s as he speaks. Vince, who hadn’t been paying attention, is suddenly caught by this. He stares.
    There is a certain amount of lubricant, Clive insists, with only a faint smile beneath his beard. Of give.
    I do beg your pardon, Mr Riley, but what time of day is it? Mandy asks.
    Two what! Phil whispers to Amal now.
    Whereas if you’re properly padded up in your kayak, kids, there should be
absolutely no movement at all.
Got that. None. You and the boat move welded together in the water.
    May I venture to say, then— Max’s facetious voice pipes up— that this is more like the male member’s relationship with a condom.
    Oh do shut up! Adam complains.
    Only hazarding an ay—nalogy, smirks Max.
    Anal? Phil demands.
    I said, shut up! Adam insists. Let’s remember some basic rules of decency.
    Well, the condom would certainly be a more accurate description, Clive acknowledges