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watched the youngsters throwing themselves in the water. You hold an important position, he reminded himself. In a major organisation. For some reason he had a recurrent image of a needle penetrating the skin between his fingers. It would bring relief. It would dissolve the pressure in his mind. Then Tom insisted on swimming right across to the opposite bank. He was a strong swimmer. He had been the weakest in this morning’s rolling lesson. Louise, Brian, Amelia and Caroline were trying to follow.
    Your buoyancy aids! Keith arrived at a run. He was yelling. No one in the water without buoyancy aids! The swimmers protested. We must keep an eye on them, the group leader told Vince. There was a hint of reproach. Out! He raised his voice. It’s a question of insurance. There are rapids round that bend.
    But we’re here, Amelia complained. You can’t accuse us of being round the bend!
    Caroline wallowed beside her. Respect, she said.
    Out of the water at once, Keith insisted.
    Wally! Show Wally!
    I’ll show Wally when you get out.
    Only as they came out on the mud did Vince realise that one of the boys had a club foot. The red—haired lad with the sly face. He had trouble getting to his feet. It was a serious malformation. I’ve forgotten their names, Vince told himself. He breathed deeply.
    Crazy as it may sound, we now paddle upstream, Clive told them. Remember, no one said this was a holiday. In about quarter of a mile, we get to some white water and we can have our first go at a wave. But getting there is going to be a sweat.
    Hear that, Phil? Keith asked. Neoprene jacket unzipped, the man’s paunch was in evidence.
    Doddle, the boy said. On the back of his helmet he has a skull and crossbones and the words, Don’t follow me!
    Clive smiled. Okay, basically, the thing to do is to use whatever slack water you can find, in the eddies by the bank, or behind the rocks midstream, to keep moving upstream. It’s an exercise in reading the water. Anyone in despair, there’s a path behind those bushes on the other side. You can always carry the boat.
    There was a minute’s unpleasantness pulling the damp wetsuits back on, a minute’s sleepiness, perhaps. The day was clouding over, as so often in the mountains at noon. It was muggy and chill by turns. There were midges and dragonflies. The air hummed. As soon as Vince was back in his boat, paddle in hand, life seemed possible again.
    All right, Mark? he asked Adam’s son, when they were on the water. He knew that name.
    Fine, the boy said. He had an earnest, slightly vacant face. Just me feet going numb. Like having your legs jammed up yer arse.
    You look good on the water, Vince said.
    Tell me dad that!
    No sooner had they rounded the bend, upstream, than the river narrowed. The water began to flow more swiftly. The boat wobbled. Wake up, Vince told himself. There was a constant gurgling. He was concentrated, nervous. Lean back when you break into the stream from the eddy, Keith warned. Lean back, you’re crouched! You’re tense. How can your shoulders work like that? Relax.
    The kayaks zigzagged, gaining in the slack water behind rocks and spurs, fighting to cross the swift flow in the centre. Show your butts to the stream, everybody. Make the river carry you across! Vince rested behind a boulder. His eyes moved over the water ahead. From brown it had turned black. Perhaps that was the sky growing darker. There was no time for the landscape. He looked for the flat swirling of water that marked the lower part of an eddy.
    Break into the current with the hull scraping your rock, Max! Clive called. Scraping it, I said!
    I’m Brian, the boy complained. Max is the fairy.
    Bugger you, Bri.
    See what I mean!
    Vince watched. Brian then was the boy with the club foot— concentrate— Max the blonde lad who had worn the straw hat. He was surprised to find how well he was doing. Never in his life had it been so difficult to get through a day, or even a single hour. There had