‘I can’t hear you!’ I shout.
He points. I turn around, then back to him.
‘OPEN THESLUICE GATE!’ I hear him shout, clearly this time. ‘The gate, to the wheel! Let the water in!’ and I understandexactly what he’s telling me to do. I need to divert the water, let it run into the pit where the wheel is.
I run over to the gate. There is a round wheel at the top. I take hold of it and turn the handle, as fast as I can. It spins, but nothing happens. I turn it the other way, but still it doesn’t do anything. I try again, but the gate doesn’t move.
I look at the square bolt head in the middle of the wheel that should be catching and turning, but it’s worn and loose in its setting, spinning and slipping. The gate won’t move. And as my sodden arms drop, I realise something. I reach into my wet pocket and pull out the single euro. I drop it into the hole where the worn bolt sits.
I twist the wheel again. This time it doesn’t turn at all. I’m exhausted.
I look back at Laurent and see him raise his hands into the air. And then, in one swift movement, he dives from the canoe into the water. He takes a few long strokes to the lakeside and pulls himself onto the bank, the muscles in his arms showing through the wet shirt that is clinging to his chest and shoulders.
You just have to keep paddling.
I turn back to the handle, give it one more twist and, suddenly, I feel resistance. Then I feel it catch, the loose bolt not loose any more. With the euro coin in there, it bites and starts to move. My heart lurches. I twist it again, much harder, and hear the bolts start to move the mechanism, the sluice gate starting to shift. I carry on turning the wheel, hard.
Really hard.
The sluice gate moves upwards and I turn until, with effort, the gate is up and I hear a whoosh, followed by splashing. Water gushes, tumbling through the sluice gate into the dry pond, there to feed the wheel.
‘What’s happening?’ I hear Laurent call. It seems to havetaken ages for him to get here. But, then, he did have to swim out from the lake where I abandoned him.
‘It’s open! The water’s flowing!’ I shout, but he can’t hear me.
He runs barefoot over the lawn, splashing across the wet grass – the lawn is struggling to cope with all of this water. Laurent’s clothes are soaking: his jeans are clinging to his thighs, and his T-shirt to his chest. He comes to stand behind me, making me shiver with delight.
‘You did it!’ He squeezes my shoulders.
‘I did!’ I beam as we stare at the water filling the pit. His body is against mine and, despite the rain, I can feel its heat. We stare at the pool as the water from the lake spills into it, rushing and gushing over the edge. Together, we hold our breath and wait. I am shivering, cold, but hot with excitement. And then it happens. A gentle creak, so quiet I don’t know if I’ve heard it. And then again. I turn to look at Laurent’s face, close to mine over my shoulder. A smile spreads as he runs his hand over his long hair and pushes it off his face – his attractive, kind face.
Oh. I do fancy him. I really do.
There is another creak and I drag my eyes away from his because my heart is racing faster than I know it should. I look back at the wheel. There is a longer creak and a groan and, suddenly, it begins to move. I can feel Laurent’s breath on my neck as he exhales with relief.
There is a squeak, then a louder one, and another creak. A wobble. As the excitement in me grows, the wheel groans and moans as it starts to turn, like someone getting up out of an armchair they’ve been sitting in for too long. But once it’s turning, it gathers pace, and the water pushes it harder and harder.
‘Ça marche,’ he says quietly.
‘It’s working,’ I whisper.
And then we watch as it stutters, stops and starts again. Then,like a toddler finding their feet, it begins to turn, slowly and steadily, discovering its rhythm.
‘It’s really working,’ I shout with elation, as I jump up and down and turn to Laurent.
‘Oui! Ça marche!’ He grins and I’m alive with excitement. He grabs my hand and, like teenagers racing from school for the long summer break, we run towards the mill door. There, we stop and stare as the recently oiled cogs begin to turn and the old mill comes back to life.
Suddenly, behind us, we hear clapping and cheering. We step back onto the flooded lawn. The rain has eased and the fisherwomen have clearly been waiting in their cars for it to pass.
‘Ça marche!’ Laurent shouts to them.
The women clap and cheer and shout, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ clearly delighted to see the wheel turning again. And it’s not just the mill that has come back to life. I have too! I’ve never felt more alive – and Laurent is still holding my hand. I don’t want him to let go.
‘Ça marche!’ I shout, standing in the rain.
‘Allez, allez, allez!’ shout the fisherwomen.
Laurent turns to me, soaked to the skin, water running down his face, just as it is on mine. Behind us we can hear the gentle whoosh as water is scooped up and sends the wheel turning. We are beaming, staring at each other.
