was empty as often as it was tenanted, for it was so cold and damp that only the desperate were willing to inhabit it. It was almost too small to have a name, so it comes as a surprise to learn that in fact it had two. Officially it was called Marsh Cottage, but it had been known for as long as anyone could remember as Basketman’s Cottage. A long time ago, the basketman had been a tenant there for a dozen years or thirty, depending on whom you talked to. He collected reeds all summer long and made baskets all winter, and everybody who needed a basket bought it from him, for his goods were well made and he did not ask too much for them. He had no children to disappoint him, no wife to nag him and no other woman to break his heart. He was quiet without being morose, said good morning very pleasantly to all, and quarrelled with no one. He lived without debts. He had no sins anyone knew of or could guess at. One morning he walked into the river, his pockets full of stones. When his body knocked into one of the barges waiting to be loaded at the wharf, they went to his cottage and found potatoes in a stone jar and cheese on the side. There was cider in a flagon, and on the mantelpiece was a tobacco tin, half full. There was consternation at his demise. He had work, food and pleasure – what more could a man want? It was a mystery, and overnight Marsh Cottage became Basketman’s Cottage.
Since the time of the basketman, the river had undercut the bank by washing away layers of gravel. This created dangerous overhangs that looked solid but would not hold a man’s weight. When they collapsed, all that was left to contain the river was a shallow slope where the frail roots of loosestrife, meadowsweet and willowherb attempted to knit the soil together and were washed away with every high water. At equinoxes and after heavy rain, and after moderate rain that followed baking sun, and in times of snow melt, and at other times for no reason other than the random malice of nature, the river flooded on to this shallow slope. Halfway up this slope someone had driven a post into the ground. Though it was silvered by time and cracked by repeated submersion, the carved lines that marked the water level were visible still, and you could make out dates that told you when the flooding had taken place. The flood marks were numerous at the bottom of the post, and almost as numerous in the middle and in the upper section. Further up the slope a second post had sprouted, more recent. Evidently there had been floods that had entirely swallowed up the first post. This newer one had two lines in it, from eight years ago and five.
Today a woman stood next to the lower post, looking at the river. She clutched her coat to her with gloveless hands that were chapped and red with cold. Strands of hair had worked loose from her too few hairpins and hung about her face, moving with the breeze. They were so fair that the silver that had started to appear was almost invisible. If her hair was younger than her forty-odd years, the same could not be said of her face. Trouble had marked her, and permanent creases of anxiety were scored into her forehead.
The river was a good yard from the post. There would be no flood today, nor tomorrow either, yet still the woman’s eyes were fearful. The water, bright and cold and fast-running, hissed as it passed. At irregular intervals it spat; when a spot of river water landed near her boot, she jumped and edged back a few inches.
As she stood there, she remembered the story of the basketman, and shuddered at his bravery, walking into the river like that with his pockets full of stones. She thought of the dead souls that are said to live in the river and wondered which ones were racing past her now, spitting at her. She thought – again – that she would ask the parson one day about the dead souls in the river. It wasn’t in the Bible – at least, not so far as she knew – but that didn’t mean anything. There must be a great many true things that weren’t in the