loss of a Leica far more traumatic than a mere near-drowning could ever be.
“It’ll hit him later,” Becker said. “He’s stubborn, though, and right now there’s no way he’ll let himself be taken to hospital unless I arrest him.”
“Can’t you make him?”
“Victor Watson is not a man to be forced to do anything against his will,” Becker said. “We should stick around, Polly. Do you mind very much? If he goes into delayed shock, we’ll have to get him out of here.”
The cosy picnic I’d envisioned melted quietly away. Instead, I realized, we’d have our lunch in the company of a bunch of photography nuts talking about f-stops and light-levels. Other members of the Camera Club had started arriving, and some of them gathered around Vic Watson, chattering excitedly about his accident. Someone was unpacking a huge hamper of food on a nearby picnic table, and things were already starting to take on a carnival atmosphere. “Of course, I don’t mind,” I said, trying my best to sound convincing. “What about Bryan?” We looked up and saw him grinning from ear to ear, posing with Rosencrantz and Lug-nut against a background of pine trees as several Camera Club members cooed and clicked.
“In his element. He’s a born ham,” Becker said, fondly.
“So’s Rosie,” I said, reminded suddenly of another picture of the puppy that had appeared on the front page of the weekend newspaper a few months before. Then, she had nestled in the arms of actress Amber Thackeray and actor Shane Pacey, three golden-haired beauties against a pretty Kuskawa background. The photo caption had been a sombre one, the circumstances tragic. I felt a prick of superstition and had a sudden urge to dash in and grab Rosie out of Bryan’s arms before something bad happened to both of them. Becker, never one for recognizing omens, blatant or not, just smiled.
“You’re soaked through,” I said, noticing that Becker was standing in a puddle of river water.
“I’ve got a change of clothes in the Jeep,” he said. “What about you? You’re pretty wet too.”
“I’ll dry out. The sun’s baking.” It was, too. When we’d started out, it had been overcast, but as soon as we’d performed our emergency-team rescue—actually, at the moment that Vic had upchucked and returned to the land of the living—the sun had come out from behind a cloud. Lighting effects courtesy of God, maybe.
“Would you keep an eye on Bryan for a few minutes while I go and change?” Becker said.
“Sure. I was thinking of offering to be his agent, anyway,” I said. The boy was red-haired, like his father, freckle-faced and wholesome-looking. He was totally at home in front of the camera, obligingly gazing with an impish seriousness at the cluster of photographers surrounding him. The Camera Club members had helped Vic to his feet and guided him over to one of the picnic tables, where he discarded his blanket and stretched out in the sun.
“How are you feeling?” I said to him. Sophie, the tall woman whose lemon squares he lusted after, settled companionably beside him.
“Not too bad, considering,” he said. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it unselfconsciously, wringing out the water and spreading it out on the table-top to dry. I reflected that if he’d been a woman, restored to life after being tossed in the river, and had stripped down to nakedness moments afterwards, she’d have been bundled off to the hospital no matter what. Watson looked familiar, not an unusual occurrence in a town the size of Laingford, where you’ll meet everybody eventually if you hang around long enough. His muscular, barrel chest sported a thick mass of greying hair, not unattractive (I wasn’t staring or anything) and his arms were like tree trunks. The powerful body twigged my memory, and I had a sudden image of Archie Watson, leaning over the counter at the Laingford Gazette.
“Watson. You’re Victor Watson, right?” I said, inanely. “Any relation to Archie?”
“My little brother,” Vic said. “You know him?”
“Not very well. I met him last night.”
“He try to sell you one of his horse steaks?” Vic said, laughing in a way that was not exactly the epitome of brotherly love.
“Now Vic, that was uncalled for,” Sophie said. “Your brother works very hard.”
“Keeping up the family tradition,” Vic said. “That’s right. Never lets me forget it, neither. Never forgave me for ditching the grocery business and going to law school.” He sneezed explosively and gave a great shiver like a draught horse caught in the rain.
Sophie produced a towel from her camera bag (which appeared to be bottomless, like Mary Poppins’ carpetbag) and proceeded to rub him down. Vic didn’t seem to mind, although I felt like I should maybe look away. There was something proprietary about the way Sophie wielded the towel, something decidedly intimate.
“You should try to be more careful,” Sophie said to him. “That’s the second time you’ve had an accident on one of our field trips. Remember last week?”
“What happened last week?” I said.
“It was just me being clumsy,” Vic said.
“We were at the lookout tower taking bird’s-eye shots of Laingford,” Sophie said. “Vic was sitting on the railing like an idiot, leaning way out and he almost went over.” Her face drained of colour at the memory. “I happened to be nearby and grabbed him just in time.”
“She’s a strong one,” Vic said. “It was crowded up there, and I should have known better.”
“You mean you were pushed?” I said, remembering Vic’s remark about possibly being pushed at the top of the falls.
“I might have been jostled a bit,” Vic said. “I forget. Moments like that, you don’t remember much. I was lucky Sophie was there, though.”
“You don’t have any enemies in the Camera Club, do you?” I said, half-jokingly. Sophie shot him a warning look that I found very interesting indeed.
“Nope. We’re all friends here,” he said.
“Hey, Watson, get your damned shirt on. There are ladies present,” came a loud voice from behind us. I turned to see David Kane, Kountry Pantree magnate, striding down the trail towards the picnic area.
Seven
Going on a picnic? Let Kountry Pantree make the preparations easy! Not only will we provide the BBQ chicken, potato salad and all the fixins, we’ll throw in the plates, cups and utensils for free! (Some restrictions apply)
—A giveaway offer in the Kuskawa Buy ’n Sell
“I didn’t know you were a photographer,” I said, when Kane got close enough. Like all the others, he carried a camera bag, which was leather and looked new. He wore designer hiking gear from top to toe, the kind that you can only get from the outrageously priced outfitting place next to the park. He had on a bright red sweatshirt and khaki trousers, and a khaki photographer’s vest over that, its pockets bulging with what was probably a selection of expensive lenses and accessories. Tanned and fit, Kane looked like something you’d see in a glossy photography magazine, captioned “What the professionals are wearing.” It was overkill, really. Everybody else was in scruffies.
