Water

By Maxim Griffin.

High summer – a still, hot day – cumulus clouds tracking out east – the forecast says it’ll get hotter – 25 going on 30 – this is not your natural climate, but you are determined to make the best of it – a canvas knapsack of nice things – a paper map, one of the old OS Pathfinders, 40 years out of date but still the best – water, pop, a pie, some mustard, a little ice pack to keep things fresh – you don’t do hats but the day requires one – you could be mistaken for a post-impressionist on their way to Arles – there’s a haze on the horizon and your plan is vague – a direction, some drawing perhaps.

Big fields – wheat, etc. – not far from harvest – a chalk track, bleached and baked – you’re kicking up the dust, old boots on bone white clay – it has been weeks since any serious rainfall – you take a glug of water and feel the jealous glare of a billion insects – the trees have started to look unwell – you’ve broken a sweat and it’s not even 10am – the track takes you deep through the crops – ochre, pale – the earth is cracked and shrunken, a pair of gums receding – if you were to paint it, it would be a brown painting.

Sky watching
Onward – the swifts are feasting – preparations for the long migration – their shrieks and swoops remain one of your favourite actions – you stop to watch and notice your arms – Thrips – your flesh teeming – harmless enough but you are compelled to brush yourself down – you keep walking, now highly aware of your passengers – a 12 spotted ladybird lands on your rolled sleeve and as you carefully go to remove it, it departs – you park yourself at a red metal farm gate and shake your shirt out in the vain hope to remove further bugs – you take another glug of water – the air’s hot – not a breath – you wipe your forehead with the old man’s neckerchief – you carry it everywhere – dark green, faded, a relic from his National Service.

It’s cooler down the lane – big oaks and ash – dappled light – there’s a rumble – something big coming this way – you can tell a Merlin engine from 10 miles away but it’s not one of those – you come out from the shade just as a military transport plane comes over low – low enough to see the markings of the USAF – not the first you’ve seen this week, this month – something’s brewing – you saw the B52s the day before it kicked off again in Iraq – you’re used to seeing Typhoons over Lincolnshire but the bigger wings of foreign powers make you uneasy – you watch it go, south and east until it disappears into the haze.

At first you think it’s sweat on the small of your back – you reach behind you – knapsack is wet too – uh oh – hopefully it’s just that ice pack – nope – the water leaked – didn’t put the lid on properly – you’ve a tin of West Indian grapefruit pop, so that’s something but water is a necessity – no houses nearby to ask at – so you aim for the nearest church – churches always have taps – two miles, maybe three – an hour if you take it steady – best get a move on.

Hidden oasis
A straight lane becomes a straight track – high beech hedge on the right, big fields to the left – must be pushing 30 now – you know from the old map that there was once a village here – earthworks on the other side of the ridge – there’s a farm that way but the church is easier to get to – you should have applied some more sun cream – you’re starting to feel it – that can of grapefruit drink is calling to you – it was only 40p from the bargain shop and could possibly be the greatest thing you have ever tasted, give or take – you neck it, pouring directly from can to stomach and immediately feel the sugary benefit – then you belch a belch Homer would be proud of – refreshed and powered up you march through the field of wheat to the applause of grasshoppers.

The church is out on its own – this is often the way – the last signifier of a distant settlement – a plain tower in dark trees that are home to a colony of corvids – the air feels cooler as you approach, a little breeze – the field ends, you cross a lane – a gate with a sign – Church Open – good – you check the churchyard – newest headstone is 15 years old, fresh flowers in the pot – a pair of war graves – RAF, same date on each – must have been a crash – cheers lads – the far side of the church is beautifully overgrown – an index of grasses, nettles and brightly coloured weeds – it is ravishingly pretty – you make a note of a sketch, a list of lines – your eyes are open for a tap – nothing – the church has a small porch – it’s a cool place to sit – old nests in the woodwork – handwritten notes on the notice board suggest occasional use only – you try the iron handle on the door – heavy but it lifts – you were taught to knock and ask permission to enter – the rule was if anything answers back, moves or creaks then it’s a sure sign you are intruding and you’d best be on your way – you knock twice and ask to enter – your folks weren’t superstitious, it was, they said, a small ritual of good manners – you carry it with you – you hear nothing, feel nothing except cooler air – the interior is simple, chairs rather than pews – room for 20 at a push – the tap is easy to find – they’re always behind a curtain – bingo – you move the maroon drape – a tiny sink with a tiny tap – two mugs, two spoons, instant coffee and a small carton of milk – milk’s in date – huh – you run the tap for a minute to clear the pipe and fill the water bottle – you leave your name in the visitors’ book, put a quid in the donations box and say thanks to the church as you close the door – crows stir as the latch settles.

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