This novel opens with two small children quietly slipping out of the world by drowning in the river near their house on a summer's afternoon in 1958. In 1987, their parents Isabel and Robert, as well as the close community of Cameldip, are struggling to put this tragic event behind them. Their grief has been unrelenting and their loss has changed their lives irrevocably.
When Anna arrives from London to start a new life in this small village, she cannot possibly know the secrets the village holds. But her new found friends Robert and Isabel are not the only ones with things to hide, and Anna herself fails to tell them at first she is pregnant. When the baby comes she is relieved to have Isabel on hand to help. But as the time passes Anna begins to see a side to Isabel that she didn't before, and wonders at the growing obsession she has with a child that isn't hers.
The river flows through this book; it is everywhere and in everything. Wastvedt's writing ebbs and flows like water, with a steady underlying pulse of the river as a constant reminder of the past. This is a book about intense sadness, unshakable grief and a lingering sense of loss that pervades community. And it is not as bleak as it may sound, for it is also a book about new life, love and passing of time.
The narrative switches between characters so that events are revealed through different viewpoints and from various periods in history. The gradual revelations keep the reader hooked until the end, where the dramatic climax which builds throughout is finally realised. Will the river consume everything in Cameldip or will the villagers be able to start again? Will they keep their secrets buried or will all become revealed with time?
'Accomplished, dramatic...with a finale that Du Maurier herself would have been proud of' Daily Mail
'Moving and impressive, strongly atmospheric. A remarkable achievement' Penelope Lively
'Full of brooding sadness, right up to the unexpected horror of the ending' The Times
'Intense and lyrical. A narrative of escalating suspense' Guardian
'Impressively understated, lyrical, deftly written' TLS
'Wastvedt, like Alice Sebold in The Lovely Bones, casts a wide net that goes beyond the immediate family. Captivating and evocative' Toronto Globe and Mail
Water seeped through the boards and slipped from side to side, folding and breaking in tiny waves. At first only an inch or two round their bare feet, then enough to reflect the clouds and the trees.
Catherine liked the river inside the boat, and as it floated lower the wooden edges became an outline, the shaped of a boat drawn on the green water.
They had tried to push to the bank but the oars were heavy and slippery and had gone sliding away. Catherin reached for overhanging branches but the pull of the boat was too strong and she was left with handfuls of leaves.
She sat in the cool water, her skirt puffed around her like a party dress. Jack was in the prow.
Catherine was not frightened, not even when the sides of the boat disappeared and they were sitting u to their waists barely moving in dark, mottled water under a tunnel of tress. But Jack was frightened now and plunged towards her sas if he were diving. With the movement the boat disappeared beneath them and Catherine caught him in her arms. He struggled and splashed, climbing up her, his hands over her face, pulling her hair as if he had forgotten who she was. The water churned around them, sending waves to the banks and back again into their faces and mouths.
She held him tighter, holding him up as high as she could and at last he was quiet. He was quivering and slippery. She tried to say things that would calm him.
Treading water, Catherine could feel gentle invisible things stroking their fingers, or fins or lips over her legs. Then her feet found a place to stand. It was soft, her toes sunk in and she leaned back against the push of the river. The coldness lapped at her chin and her hair floated out like a cloud of weed. Jack's arms around her neck were too tight but it was not hard to hold him, the water took his weight.
She was standing on the bottom but she could not feel the riverbed in front or behind. There was only a little mound of silt under her feet. She could not move; Jack was too big to swim with and he held too tight.
It was quiet under the trees. The water stretched out around them, smooth now and peaceful. Far away on each side were the banks, and it was strange to see all the secret places under the edges of the river, the wet dark doorways of water creatures, their little harbours and jetties.
The sun going down made slanting gold across the brown water lighting up the billions of microscopic floating things that gave the river its colour.
Jack stopped crying.
'What are we going to do?' he said. He let go with one arm and patted the water, then cupped his hand under a patch of sunlight.
Catherine said, 'Do you want a story?'
Jack did not answer and Catherine let her head lean back on the water. She looked up at the trees, layers and layers of yellow and copper and brilliant green. That is the roof and the river is a pillow, she thought.
Her arms were numb and Jack was slipping down. He rested his head on the top of hers and sometimes whispered things to himself.
Catherine thought of the boat sunk beneath them somewhere, resting like a turtle on the bottom. She felt sorry for the boat and sad that no one would ever see it again. They were the last two people on earth to sail in it.
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