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He tipped over. Under water, instead of thrusting the right hand forward and across to his left side he did the reverse. His paddle felt for the surface. He pushed the arms far up and away towards a glow of daylight. It is strange how different it feels making a movement you know well, but with the other side of the body. He is disorientated. Like writing with the left hand. Or walking arm in arm with someone you’re not used to. Concentrating, upside down in the glacier—fed water, he pulled the left arm through a wide arc and leaned his head back. To his surprise the boat turned, his body came up. For a moment it stopped, it seemed he might fall back. Vince thrashed with his paddle and suddenly he was upright. He felt proud. He had done the right thing to come on this holiday. Clive was sceptical. See if you can do that in turbulence, he said.
    They picnicked. On the bank people peeled off closed smock jackets with tightly sealing rubber cuffs and necks. Everybody has strips of neoprene hanging off them, or wet T—shirts, or towels round their necks. It is uncomfortable. At the back of the Kent County Council van where the sandwiches have been stored, Vince found himself beside Michela. There are cheese sandwiches and crisps and melting chocolate, bottles of water. To his surprise, the Italian girl came to sit beside him on the grass. She had pulled down the top of her wetsuit so that the shoulder—straps hung round her thighs. Vince felt vaguely embarrassed by the thought that his daughter would see them sitting together. But this was ridiculous because now all the adults came to eat in one group, the adolescents in another. Your daughter is relieved to be out of your company, he thought. I am relieved too. They would never live together again.
    Clive said how hard it was to predict river levels with this global warming. The glaciers retreated each year. The hot weather came too soon. This summer more than ever. The full melt was on you before you expected it. By now they were paddling on the snows of centuries back, the blizzards of the Middle Ages. There were more thunderstorms, perhaps, but less of the same steady release of the winter’s snow. The river could be bony or even dry before you knew it. It’s amazing they do nothing about the greenhouse effect, he went on. What was the temperature in Milan during the demonstration the other day? Thirty—six degrees? Thirty—eight? No wonder people went crazy.
    He was sitting on a rock beside Michela. She leaned her back against him. I can’t believe, he insisted, how enthusiastic they are when car sales are up. Keith nodded, eating. The world cooks and dries up and they worry about car sales! There was a silence. Mandy was rubbing sun cream into her shoulders. I should take a picture, she said. You wonder, Clive went on, if they will ever really open their eyes before something major simply forces them to.
    Like what, Adam asked coolly.
    A drought, Michela said at once. A flood.
    Well, which? He had a wry smile.
    Vince was not following. His eye had again been drawn upward to the hugeness of the mountains above them. The majesty of the place was crushing. It appeased some obscure desire in him. At the same time he was intensely aware of the young woman, of the fact that her belligerence now, saying something about multinationals, was to do with her being together with this bearded instructor, this strong capable man. Suddenly, he was stumbling to his feet.
    We’ve bored Vince to death, Keith said.
    Hearing his name, he managed to turn. He shook his head. Not at all. He tried to smile. Just need to cool my feet in the water. He had kept his wetsuit on.
    The climate changes anyhow, Adam was saying. This whole thing is being exploited by people who have an axe to grind and time on their hands.
    Vince sat on the upturned hull of his boat with his feet in the water. It seemed impossible that he would get through these days and months without asking someone for help. He