In the afternoon he and Rose set off for the bridge with sandwiches, nets and jam jars; their fishing equipment. They sat close to where the old stones were sunk into the bank, and the sun spangled off the water like white flame, spotted every so often with the iridescence of dragonfly. The river was sleepy here, the water brown with depth and slow as syrup. It looked cool and calm. Michael, peering past the unbroken reflection of his own pudgy face, could see weed waving like a faraway forest in a gale, and freshwater shrimps scuttling along the bottom in trails of silt like horses galloping along dusty roads. Maybe there were little countries down there, where eels were dragons and trout great airships hovering above. He looked up again, and saw the black maw of the bridge in front of him. Near the entrance reflected light writhed snake-like along its roof, but farther in there was nothing but darkness. The bridge was not especially wide, but it bent slightly in the middle so that it was impossible to see the light at the other end. Because it had once been below an off-set crossroads, his grandfather had said, but one of the roads had fallen into disrepair and was gone now, its only remnant long ruts in the neighbouring fields and this queerly constructed bridge.
There was a plop beside him, and Rose had set her net in the water. She was kneeling on the bank with her skirt pushed up around her thighs, her free hand tucking hair behind one ear. Her knees were almost as scraped as Michael's.
'Missed the bugger!'
'What? Where?'
'Right below your eyes, dreamer. A trout as long as your hand, but he's made off for the deep water by the bridge. Just as well; he'd never have fitted in the jar... Are you here to fish or to stare at your reflection?'
Hurriedly he sank his own net into the water, twiddling the bamboo pole. He was stirring up a hurricane down there. The shrimps were scattering in all directions and a great whirling cloud of silt was enveloping the weeds.
'Watch it! You're dirtying up the water.'
'Sorry.'
They trolled in silence for a while, Rose stopping once to nudge Michael and point surreptitiously to the kingfisher that was perched on an alder spray just downstream, watching them with his head cocked to one side. He darted off like a cobalt jewel in flight, seeking a less crowded spot. Rose and Michael grinned at one another.
'Ah, you bugger, you wicked little shite, I've got you!'
'What is it?' Michael craned to see.
'An eel, half a foot long if he's an inch. Look how he twists!' Rose's catch was a silver coiling snake in the mud and weed of her net. 'Reach me the jar—no, put water in it first, you fool. Hold it up. He'll have it over. There he is!'
The jam jar was full of brown soup through which they could catch sight of the eel as it pressed itself against the glass in its attempts to get away. A dragon, Michael thought. We've caught a dragon and put it in a magic cage.
They regarded it in silence for a few seconds, until Rose sighed in disgust. 'It's no good. He's too big for it. Chuck him back, Michael.'
He tipped the jar into the river and the eel poured away. The dragon released, soaring through the air above the lands below. It wiggled off and disappeared under a submerged stone. Back to his lair. Perhaps there was gold in there, and he was coiled up on top of it.
'God, it's hot,' Rose said, sitting back and letting her net loll in the water. She watched the mayflies dancing over the surface of the water like gossamerwinged fairies, then started as a trout broke surface to snap one up. In the deep part, by the bridge. She had told Michael that there was a pike in there her father had almost caught a score of times. An old, wily grinning killer fully three feet long. Perhaps he lurked now in the mud of the bottom, biding his time.
'Is there anyone about, Michael?'
He looked up from the muddy broth his net was stirring. 'Don't think so. They're over the other side today.'
'Then I'm for a swim. Coming?'
'All right.'
She took his hand and led him over to the sheltering spray of a riverside oak, and there they threw off their clothes, giggling. Her skin was very white where the sun never touched it, and the sable curl of hair below her belly button drew his gaze for a moment.
'Rose, why-?'
But she tugged his hand, half dragging him along, and with a whoop had plunged into the water, taking him with her. He felt a moment of panic as the coolness covered him, closing over his head. His hands flailed. Then Rose's arms were about him and he was lifted above the surface, the river streaming off his face in blazing sunlight, his ears full of her laughter. The panic trickled away, and he laughed himself, feeling the soft push of her breasts against his chest, nipples hard with the cold water. She kissed him.
'Now, Michael-boy, can you float on your own or do I have to carry you everywhere?'
He realized that she was in her depth, standing with her feet planted in the silt of the bottom and the river lapping round her shoulders.