Englishwoman in France by Wendy Robertson

have this prickle of unease. I know when things are not quite right, in this and other worlds. I close my eyes and have another glimpse of them but now the boy has his hair tied back in a kind of cue and the man is wearing a hooded jacket.
    I blink. Now the boy’s sitting upright and leaning across to speak into his companion’s ear, making him laugh, bringing that dimple into full play. The man’s teeth gleam in a flicker of sunlight. The man cuffs the boy on the shoulder and they dissolve into conspiratorial giggles. I know now that things are all right with these two and the black cloud that has been sitting somewhere in my head all morning starts to shred itself.
    Oh! Now the boy has climbed up and is balancing on the rail, arms out straight, like a tightrope walker. He makes his way, dancing on light feet, towards the prow of the boat. A mutter ripples through the crowd and a woman nudges the arm of the boy’s companion, making him drop his book. He stands up, just in time to see the boy launch himself off the prow of the boat and sink like a stone under the grey-green water, creating ripples that surge towards the bank, swilling the roots of the great trees that hold the canal safe, soaking the bright yellow irises sitting there on the verge. The muttering swells into shrieking and the canal boat’s engine putters into silence.
    At last the boy’s head breaks the surface of the water and the shouts turn from panic to relief.
Dieu merci!
The boy swims to the bank and hauls himself out, water dripping from his whipcord muscles. He grins a crooked-toothed grin and holds his clenched fists above his head in victory. The people are cheering.
Bravo!
Everyone cheers the boy except me. And the boy’s companion.
He
shrugs, leans down to retrieve his book, and starts to read again.
    The sky darkens and rain begins to patter on the boat’s awning. Of course this is not like English rain. It does not cool the warm air. The boat’s engine starts up again. Now the boy is jogging on bare feet along the towpath. We race the boy the last half mile to the jetty. He’s fleet footed and wins the race, but the boat is not far behind.
    My Philip is standing under a big golf umbrella in the rain at the jetty. He searches my face anxiously. I take a deep breath. As I’ve said, my state of mind these days is Philip’s big nightmare. He’s always been so afraid of my agitation. His myth is that I just need to
calm down
for me to get better. His recipe is afternoons in shaded rooms; platefuls of his gourmet food; more wine than is good for me – anything to
calm me down
. You’d think a murdered daughter was an illness visited on a person by natural processes. And by similar natural processes you will eventually become
calm
and thus be cured of her death.
    He’s well intentioned, is Philip, but he’s the mad one, when you think of it. But he wouldn’t know, would he? Not knowing could be a sign of his delusion.
    When we moved into the Maison d’Estella two weeks ago I tried to tell Philip I actually
liked
the house – not least because it had presences. I mentioned the people walking through the rooms.
    â€˜Ghosts?’ he said. ‘Sweetheart! You are so funny. Imagination getting the better of you again!’ Then he smiled in that special inward way he has, complimenting himself on his tact with this woman whom he loves, but who is rather inconveniently crazy. What he first thought charming he now finds wearying.
    And now today as we splash our way through the traffic across the bridge and up into the old town, he scoffs at my tale of the red-headed boy. ‘I was there at the landing, sweetheart! No saturated boy, no man with a black book got off the boat! I assure you.’
    But there was. The people on the boat cheered the boy’s safe emergence from the water. The woman nudged the man. I
saw
them.
    And I’ve seen the boy since. Walking on top of