banks and swelled into a seething river. The water cascaded over the speed bumps and gushed down our streets. It sloshed against the front doors, it rose and kept rising. When we peered out our bedroom window, we saw bulging fish eyes staring blankly back at us. Alarmed, we dragged a chair over to the window so we could look out. In the moonlit waves we saw ruined lampshades bobbing by; pots that had once held lush houseplants; tablecloths whose colours, cross-stitched by our grannies, had begun to run; welcome mats; old newspapers; and the cushions of the living-room suite our daddies had worked so hard to pay for. Way out in the distance we even caught a glimpse of a cooker adrift, its pots and pans still rattling on top, and, not far behind, an entire family packed like sardines inside a giant enamel colander, paddling away like crazy. Not long now and we’d all be goners.
Upon waking up in the morning it was reassuring, to put it mildly, not to see fish scales plastered to the walls. We were so relieved that at breakfast we went a little wild. One fine day our mothers just lost it. Stop it! I can’t take it anymore! For Christ’s sake, go play outside, let off some of that steam! Their voices were at such a high pitch that we knew it meant trouble. Nervously we grabbed our macs from the peg, pulled on our boots, and got the hell out of there.
Your mother had to have the house to herself for a few hours every so often or she would go completely round the bend. Her own mother had felt the same, as had her mother before her; it couldn’t be helped, mothers as far back as the Stone Age all suffered from the same syndrome.
Heads tucked inside our mac hoods, we ran to our meadow to inspect the water level in our ditch. We hadn’t been there in all the weeks it had rained, and were surprised to find a crane and several backhoes parked there. When the summer was over they were going to start building a viaduct there. It had been in the newspaper; our parents had read it aloud to us, including all the pros and cons. So they were still intending to build that bridge? So you mean people thought that by the end of the summer, the world would still exist?
We were just debating amongst ourselves what we should do when Lucy came splashing along. Lifting her knees up high, she stomped down hard in puddle after puddle; at every splash her plaits would whip round her face and she’d shriek with delight. ‘Don’t you think we should build an ark?’ she called to us from a distance.
All the ominous thoughts were at once forgotten. We ran to Mr De Vries’s store for some vegetable crates. Then we raided our fathers’ tool chests for nails, nuts, bolts, saws, hammers, and pliers.
We worked in shifts, from early morning to late at night. Some of us sawed and hammered. The others had already started digging earthworms out of the mud, catching beetles, pill- and ladybugs, and trapping slugs so big and fat that they almost didn’t fit in the jam jars our mothers were kind enough to provide. You had to punch a hole in the lid to give them air; if they couldn’t breathe, they’d die. The toads, the slippery yellow-bellied salamanders, the tadpoles, and the sticklebacks were kept in buckets, with some duckweed. After the deluge, every crawling or swimming creature was assured of a safe future, if we had anything to do with it.
And on an afternoon when the clouds hung so low you could practically reach up and touch them without even standing on tiptoe, we started with equal verve on every flying creature there was.
Some way off, next to one of the idle backhoes, we spied the new kid watching us again. We’d noticed him lurking about for the past several days. He was all skin and bones, and his heavy blond hair made his head look at least three times too big for the rest of him. ‘Here comes Water-on-the-brain!’ we hissed, as soon as we caught sight of him. When he was around we found ourselves talking in louder voices and laughing more than normal. Noisily we bragged about our ark and our animals. We gave each other encouraging slaps on the back while out of the corner of our eyes keeping careful tabs on the new boy hanging out by himself, aimlessly kicking at clumps of grass.
But catching a bird by the tail with some stranger watching your every move was harder than you’d think. We finally plunked ourselves down at the water’s edge, panting heavily, for a powwow. Somebody suggested scattering breadcrumbs on the ground and then pouncing with salt and a net. Lucy said we could probably rustle up a net big enough in the rectory’s basement. We immediately took her at her word. In that basement anything we ever needed always seemed to be there for the taking, usually in plain view, as if helpful hands had put it out for us.
Waiting for Lucy to return, we were just lighting a bulrush cigar when Water-on-the-brain approached us. He gazed at us with his hands in his pockets. ‘So, how’s it going?’ he asked politely.
We glanced at our jars and buckets. We already had quite a trove.
‘How’re you gonna catch the pelicans? Or the zebras?’
We were rather taken aback for a moment.
‘I can help, if you want.’
To save face, we howled with scornful laughter. Oh, sure! Really? Maybe he knew how to catch a duck-billed platypus! And we didn’t have any dinosaurs yet; we’d welcome any suggestions. Yeah, right! We started shouting out the names of animals. We yelled elephant, we yelled lion, we yelled crocodile, we yelled and yelled, all excited at first, but then less so, as it dawned on us that now our ark would have to be at least ten times bigger and, come to think of it, we’d probably need cages, too, if we didn’t want to end up being mauled or devoured.
We were still yelling when Lucy returned, dragging a huge fisherman’s net behind her. She began spreading it out in the mud without deigning to look at the new boy. It was only when she was done wiping her hands on her jeans that she turned to him and asked, ‘And who are you?’ She was a head taller than him.
‘Thomas Iedema,’ he answered promptly. ‘I moved in last Monday, on Shepherd’s Close.’ He gestured at the cluster of houses in the distance. The rain had plastered his hair to his oversized skull.
We didn’t know whether to feel envy or mistrust. We had spent our wholes lives in one place. Here was a boy who had actually lived somewhere else, which meant he must have seen quite a bit of the world. But hadn’t we been told that moving house was for Gypsies? It only led to trouble, and broken crockery.
‘My father’s got a job here, with the Parks Department,’ he went on. ‘We used to have a shop, but it closed. So …’
Impatiently, Lucy asked, ‘So what do you want from us, exactly?’
Thomas Iedema shrugged. ‘I know about all the animals. My father has this book, it’s so cool! It starts with the amoebas. First you have to work through all the invertebrates and arthropods; you’re halfway through the book before you get to the mice and such. So if you want, I could …’
‘We could use some of those ducks over there.’ She pointed at the ditch.
‘Those are moorhens, actually.’
‘So? We don’t have any of them yet, either.’
Strange, really, that after so many years, this single moment should remain etched so deeply in our minds. It’s been a long time since we were mud-spattered kids. The kind of thing we think about nowadays is whether or not to move in together, or whether or not to buy an affordable second-hand SmartCar. But if, on some rare occasion, late at night in bed, we allow ourselves to think about the events we set in motion, wincing with shame, we’ll have a glimpse of this one scene, when it all started: that innocent challenge down by the water.
‘Or don’t you dare?’ Lucy taunted. She was moving her hips as if about to start dancing. Her eyes shone.
‘He doesn’t dare!’ we
