The reservoir is deceptively smooth

In one of my novels (yet to be published) there is a story-line about someone drowning in a reservoir. I was a swimmer in my youth, and swam in local rivers and in the sea, sometimes in very low temperatures but I never swam alone and young as I was I was water-wise. I have never swum in large bodies of water, such as lakes and  reservoirs – I guess I’ve never had the opportunity, but also I’ve never been tempted. There seems something sinister about a large area of water, still apart from wind-ripples across the surface. Who knows what’s lurking beneath? Even in its shallow shore line in clear water where you can see the bottom, sandy or pebbly, weedy or muddy or clear, like crystal or opaque, the bottom slopes away into mysterious and sinister depths. The reflection of trees in the water of a lake may be beautiful, but they can add to the deception.

In my story, the tragic drowning happened  many years ago and knowledge of what had occurred was reported in local newspapers. It was an imaginary reservoir and the fictional victim was a seventeen year-old boy who may have gone for a swim – although it was late autumn, or maybe he had intended to take his life. None of the characters in my story who were investigating this knew of or had ever visited the reservoir, and only knew of it through their research. My description of the reservoir was… well, there wasn’t one because the incident was known through the news report.

In actual fact, there doesn’t need to be a description, but something I saw in a TV programme coincided with my imaginary event. It set me thinking about it, not because I wanted to expand what I’d thought, but because it triggered other ideas, other thoughts of someone, somewhere, stripping off and entering a reservoir for a swim. A scene has been conjured, sparse coniferous woodland, native trees, the dead sound in such places because of the thick carpet or needles, the occasional cry of birds, or the wind setting the tree tops thrashing against each other. The water is in the bottom of a valley; above the treeline the rocky hilltops, crags and cliffs stand as grim sentinels. The water, dark, steely, slaty grey, its surface rippled, looked grim and uninviting and yet a pile of folded clothes, had been placed beneath a tree.

The commentary on the TV programme went something like this:  “the reservoir is deceptively smooth, but the ripples across the surface tell another story. A peaceful day in a beautiful part of the country has ended in tragedy.” It made me realise that there is another story to tell – a completely other story, not in my novel, but a similar scene in a different tale.