loss of Maud, his mind turned to the most painful loss of all and the tears ran more abundantly down his face.
‘Oh, Robin. Where did I go wrong, Fleet? Oh, Robin, my son.’
A great distance now separated him from his first child, and a massive weight of sorrow sat on his heart and oppressed him. Twenty-two years of love, and now? For four years his son had not consented to live at the farm, but resided in Oxford, apart from his brothers and sisters. They didn’t see him for months at a time, and then only when he wanted something. ‘I tried, Fleet – but did I try hard enough? What should I have done? Is it too late?’
And thinking about Robin brought him back to the child – Robin’s child – and he started the cycle all over again.
After some time of this, an elderly man came into view, leaning on a stick. Armstrong wiped his face on his sleeve and, as they came close, stopped to speak to him.
‘There is a little girl gone missing from Bampton,’ he said. ‘Four years of age. Will you put the word out? I’m Armstrong, my farm is at Kelmscott …’
From his first words, he saw the man’s face change.
‘Then I have sorry news for you, Mr Armstrong. I heard it told last night, at the cockfighting. Fellow on his way to Lechlade for the morning train told it to all o’ us. A little girl plucked out o’ the river, drowned.’
So, she was gone. It was only to be expected.
‘Where was this?’
‘The Swan, at Radcot.’
The fellow was not without kindness. Seeing Armstrong’s grief he added, ‘I don’t say as it’s the child you are looking for. Chances are it’s a different girl altogether.’
But as Armstrong geed up Fleet to gallop to Radcot, the old man shook his head and pursed his lips. He had lost a week’s wages on the cockfighting last night, but still, there were others worse off than he.
Three Claims
THE LEACH AND the Churn and the Coln all have their separate journeys before they join the Thames to swell its waters, and in similar fashion the Vaughans and the Armstrongs and Lily White had their own stories in the years and days before they became part of this one. But join it they did, and we now come to the meeting of the waterways.
While the world was still smothered in darkness, someone was up and about on the riverbank: a stubby figure, clutching a coat about her, scurried in the direction of Radcot Bridge, panting steam.
At the bridge she stopped.
The usual place to pause on a bridge is the apex. It is so natural to pause there that most bridges – even youthful ones only a few hundred years old – are flattened at their upmost point by the feet that have lingered, loitered, wandered and waited there. That was a thing Lily could not understand. She stopped on the bank, at the pier stone, the massive piece of rock on which the rest of the construction was founded. Engineering was a bewilderment to Lily: stones, to her mind, did not reside naturally in the air, and how a bridge stayed up was another thing she could not fathom. It might be revealed at any moment for the illusion it surely was, and then, if she happened to be upon it, she would plummet through the air, plunge into the water and join the souls of the dead. She avoided bridges when she could, but sometimes crossing was a necessity. She balled the fabric of her skirt in her fists, took a deep breath and launched into a heavy-footed run.
It was Margot who woke first, roused by the banging at the door. The urgency of the hammering got her out of bed and she pulled her dressing gown around herself as she went downstairs to see who it was. As she descended, her memories of the previous night shook off their dream-like air and revealed themselves to her as surprising reality. She shook her head wonderingly – then opened the door.
‘Where is she?’ said the woman at the door. ‘Is she here? I heard she was …’
‘It’s Mrs White, isn’t it? From over the river?’ What’s wrong here? Margot thought. ‘Come in, dear. What’s the matter?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Asleep, I should think. There’s no rush, is there? Let me light a candle.’
‘There is a candle just here,’ came Rita’s voice. Roused by the hammering at the door, she was