The Night of the Flood

by Zoe Somerville

  ‘Hello, soldier,’ said Muriel, her eyes fixed on Jack.

  Verity forced herself to smile at her old friend, remembering the polka dot dress at the Midsummer dance and the way Muriel’s feet moved nimbly in her red shoes, while she had been clumsy and slow in that preposterous blue dress. ‘Hello, Muriel, how are you?’

  ‘Oh hello, Miss Frost, I didn’t recognise you without your glasses.’

  Verity scowled. She rarely wore her glasses these days, only for studying.

  ‘Miss Frost? You two know each other?’ Jack wore an expression of surprise and discomfort. The three of them stood in an awkward circle until he broke it. ‘Let me get drinks.’

  They both started to protest, but he moved swiftly to the bar, calling out, ‘Whisky sours for three!’

  ‘What about me, old boy, can I get one too?’ They all turned round and Verity felt herself flood with cold.

  In front of them stood Peter, his hair plastered to his face with rain, dripping onto the dance floor in his long, waxed coat, his face a distorted picture of fury and love.

  *

  First breach of the sea wall, where the old ships’ channel leaves Wells channel for Holkham Staithe

  They ate their tea and she didn’t mention it again or pressure him to stay in. After all, every Saturday was the same. Arthur never used to do his deliveries on Saturday afternoons as he always saw Verity, bothering away at the unbearable itch, and completed them later instead. Although he’d hardly seen her recently, his mother hadn’t noticed.

  His mother used to go to the cinema. They were showing the Clark Gable flick at the Regal, the sort of thing she would have loved. But she never seemed to go any more. There was something ailing with her but he couldn’t bear to find out.

  As he was leaving, she said, ‘You enjoy yourself then.’

  ‘What did the doctor say, Mother?’ It came out tersely. He resented being pressured into asking and was guilty for it too.

  She brightened. ‘Just a little trouble with my insides,’ she said, but he saw her thin hands were fluttering.

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  His mother tried to smile at him but it was a mere flicker. He knew the answer before she said it. Cancer. She didn’t tell him where or how bad, which told him there was no hope. He leaned down to kiss her cold cheek and found it damp.

  ‘I’ll look after you,’ he said, and he wanted to. But his head was screaming with the injustice of it. She had to get better so he could leave. He could feel the tentacles of her need suffocating him.

  Out on the quay, it was dark. Rain drove into his face as he tied his packages onto the basket with rope. Down the street, a little crowd was cramped together under the protection of the awning from French’s fish and chips, their coats pulled close around them, bathed in the amber glow.

  It wasn’t long past five. If he was quick with his deliveries he could see Verity at the dance. He could ask her to marry him. The sickness in the flat made him want even more to flee to her. He couldn’t wait any more.

  4.

  Northerly gale of exceptional severity

  ‘Pete, buddy. Have mine,’ Jack said, beaming, handing Peter a drink. And he put his hand on her brother’s back and led him to the bar. Verity stood, hovering, watching them, when Jack looked over his shoulder and winked at her. There was a movement at her arm and she whisked round to find… nothing. Muriel had gone. Verity had momentarily forgotten that Muriel had even been there.

  Abandoned, she found a chair and took small sips of her whisky and watched the dancers. She wondered what they were talking about. Peter must be livid that Jack had brought her here. Or, more likely, he was livid with her. She looked over to the bar but could no longer see them. She began to feel stupid, sitting on her own. As they were still not at the bar, she might as well get a drink.

  She was standing, sipping her whisky sour though each sip made her gag, when Peter came striding up to her. He looked furious. Had Jack gone off with Muriel? He wouldn’t do that to her, surely? Not after all he’d said. No, that was impossible.

  ‘That’s enough, Cinderella, home time for you.’

  ‘But I don’t want to go,’ she said. ‘Just because you don’t like other people, it doesn’t mean I don’t. I like dances and other people and—’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Peter and he had a nasty little smile at the corners of his mouth. Then he added, ‘You don’t know what you’re getting into, Ver. Besides, it’s foul outside, a storm is coming.’

  She looked around desperately for Jack but couldn’t see him.

  ‘You’re not my father, Peter,’ she said, words tumbling out. ‘You’re just jealous!’

  ‘I’m getting you out of here,’ he said, his teeth gritted, grabbing her and hurting her arm. Under his breath he hissed, close to her face, ‘Bloody disgrace.’

  Where the hell was Jack? She scanned the bodies in the hall but could see no one with red hair. Peter had a hard grip on her arm and although she struggled against him, he propelled her out of the door.

  Outside in the dark, she yelled, ‘Get off me! Leave me alone!’ but he ignored her, keeping a tight hold on her arm and looking grimly ahead until they got to his bike.

  ‘Hitch up on the back. We need to get home to the farm. Father needs us. If you hadn’t been such a silly tart then I wouldn’t have had to come and get you.’

  ‘You didn’t need to come and get me. I am not a child,’ she spat. ‘If you were normal you’d understand.’

  He stared at her coldly and just said, ‘Get on.’

  Glaring back at him, she did as she was told, afraid of his reaction. With a hollow thud, the realisation hit her that he was in love with Jack and had been from the beginning.

  But he didn’t say anything about Jack, he just said, ‘Focus on bloody holding on, you’re going to have us both over in a minute. You’re drunk, you stink of it. You’d better start sobering up before we get home.’

  She clung onto his sodden trench coat on the back of one of the farm bikes, her face against the wet cloth as he wove as if drunk himself against the wind and the rain, towards home.

  He was wrong. She wasn’t blotto, she couldn’t be. She’d hardly managed to drink anything before Jack had whisked her onto the dance floor and before Peter had turned up. Two whisky sours, hardly worth writing home about. She wished she was drunk.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Peter shouted. ‘Look at that.’

  Water was already lapping over the quay wall, splashing onto the quayside.

  ‘Christ, we need to get a move on. There must have been a breach already. Get on,’ Peter shouted and she obeyed, perching herself back on the bike after slipping off.

  For a suspended moment, before he began pedalling, she thought she could run back to the dance, to Jack. But her limbs were heavy and her head hurt and the water seemed as if it would swallow her. It didn’t look like the usual high tide. It was unnatural. Wrong, somehow.

  When they arrived at Leafy Lane, it was a wide, running stream already and they had to dismount and haul themselves and the bike through the cold water. It was up to their ankles and then, as they dragged on, up to their calves. Peter shouted, ‘Come on, Ver!’ as she fell behind but her legs were so slow. He held her hand and pulled her sometimes, until they finally stopped and clambered up a small bank on the corner to the farm where they could see, thank God, lights on in the farmhouse.

  Breathing heavily, they looked at the water, ruining the winter-sown crops. She could smell it too – the smarting salt of the sea. Saltwater – no place on the land, she heard her father’s voice – glistening in the moonlight, beautiful and destructive. Peter passed her a small silver flask in silence. She looked up at him but he wasn’t looking at her. It made her think that Peter must be drinking more than she’d realised; that he was becoming like Father. She drank the whisky and spluttered, then drank again; the sweet, cloying, powerful liquid slipped down her throat.

  ‘We’ll need it,’ Peter said
, taking it back off her, and returning it to his pocket, already lowering his long legs back down into the dark water.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, clutching her stomach. It heaved and buckled and she felt she had to hold onto it or she would explode.

  ‘Bloody hell, Ver,’ she heard him say, but she didn’t care because she was doubled over, vomiting the whisky into a black hedge.

  Later, all she remembered of the last part of the journey was the pain in her legs, the bitterness in her mouth, her tongue swollen. Something hard brushed against her in the water. Fear rose inexorably like the water.

  At the house, the lights were off on the ground floor. Stumbling, splashing through the wavelets sloshing round the door, the water almost up to the letterbox, Peter said, ‘You’re here now, get him up to the top floor and stay there.’

  ‘What about you?’ she wailed. ‘Aren’t you coming too?’

  ‘I’ve got to check on the animals.’ He gave her hand a quick squeeze and she clung onto it.

  ‘What about the house? All the furniture, Mother’s things? And we don’t know if Father is… How do you know he’s not out there?’

  ‘He won’t be. But if he is, I’ll find him. I can’t wait. The livestock, Ver, the bloody cows. I’ve already been away too long. It’s probably already too late, but I’ve got to try. We can’t afford to lose them. We just can’t.’ His face was contorted in worry.

  As if from high up in a hot air balloon, she saw what a precarious state the farm was in. It would only take one thing to sweep it away. As he started wading she was immobilised by helplessness.

  Peter stopped, came back. ‘Take this, you might need it. But eat something, for God’s sake.’ He put the silver hip flask into her cold, wet hand.

  ‘You might need it too!’ she shouted after him, but there was no sign of him in the darkness.

  *

  Second breach of the sea wall, halfway along the embankment

  Rain was lashing the sails of the boats in the harbour and dripping off the guttering in Staithe Street when he emerged from the house of the spinster sisters, stuffed with the scones that they baked specially for his visit. He stood under the slight protection of their doorway lintel, peering down the street, which was lit from above by the yellow light from the sole street lamp, making strange shadows on the cobbles. It would have been easy to have dragged the bike round the corner to home but at the end of the street was the village hall. He could hear, just above the crash of the sea and the banging of Thurgood’s sign against the wall, the bee-bop of a jive. It was later than he’d wanted, already after six. He must have missed most of it, chit-chatting with the old ladies in their dark and musty rooms, while his peers were flinging each other around. Whenever there was a jive on the radio, it would only be a few bars before his mother switched it over, tutting about ‘black music’. He imagined the girls’ skirts flung out like fans, their feet a blur of taps and kicks, Verity’s dark hair swinging.

  Arthur ran down the slippery street, past the dark windows of the milk bar and the butcher’s, tripping over his bicycle and his own feet in haste. He slowed on sight of the village hall and leaned the bike against the wall opposite underneath the awning of the haberdasher’s. He smoothed his hair, trying to catch his breath. The twang of the guitar floated over, through the rain. The music had changed. Now it was a crooning song. Inside, there would be slow, awkward dancing.

  Before he pushed through the doors and into the bright space beyond, he needed courage. He felt in his pocket, pulled out a cigarette and sparked it up. He was smiling at the words as he took two steps across the street, to where the hall door, miraculously, was opened for him. In the seconds the door was open, he tried to adjust to the glare. He had just enough time to get the impression of figures in movement, when a blonde girl pushed past him, out of the door and onto the street. He barely turned his head. He stayed with his hand on the door, transfixed by the warmth and movement of the room, trying to make out Verity or Peter. Then, something – the lingering breath of a familiar perfume, a clatter – made him turn and look back into the darkness of the rainy street. The girl was hurrying away, her coat billowing out behind her in the wind.

  He realised, with a start, it was Muriel.

  ‘Muriel, are you all right? What—’

  He looked back to the hall but the light from the dance glowed momentarily and the door swung shut.

  ‘Muriel, wait, I’ve got my bike…’

  She turned and hesitated long enough for Arthur to pick up his fallen bike and run, dragging it down the street to draw level with her. Her hat was pulled down low over her hair and she looked past him, back to the hall. In the light of the moon, he saw that her face was shiny and flushed pink and her hair was falling out of the hat in bright blonde sprays, like the straw hair of a scarecrow.

  ‘Got a cigarette?’ she demanded and he produced one for her.

  ‘What are you following me for?’ she said, looking up at him with black smudges round her eyes, her red mouth smeared at the edges, her hand pushing her hair back under the hat.

  ‘I… I don’t know, I thought you looked upset… Has someone hurt you? Sorry.’

  ‘I should’ve expected it. He were never going for me, not with her around. What are you always sorry for anyway, Arthur Silver, you’ve done nothing wrong. Why do you always say sorry for everything?’ She seemed angry with him but he couldn’t think what he’d done. ‘She ent here, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘No, I… I don’t know… sorry.’

  She laughed, showing her sharp little teeth. ‘You don’t know much, do you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he said, miserable that he hadn’t seen Verity and he was now standing out in the rain with Muriel Gittings laughing at him. ‘I was going to see you home, but I don’t have to.’

  She gave him a proper smile. ‘No, I’m sorry, I was being raw, don’t worry about me.’

  He was struck by the redness of her cheeks and her mouth, the knowledge in her very green eyes. He leaned forward, almost toppling towards her. In the same instant she reached up towards him and kissed him on the cheek. He felt his breath catch and had to grip his bike to stop himself from falling forward.

  ‘I best be off home, night’s going something terrible.’ She moved back a step.

  ‘No, you can’t, it’s dangerous.’

  People were hurrying past them, heads down against the wind and rain. An older woman shouted to them, ‘Get off home, they’ve stopped the film, flood’s coming,’ and she pulled her headscarf tighter still round her neck, bent her head and scurried off down the High Street, splashing through the rain.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘You can’t go on your own, there’s a flood coming.’

  ‘I can, Arthur. I know these streets better than you do. You get back to your mother.’ Was she mocking him?

  ‘I should take you home.’

  ‘If you must,’ she said, and strode off towards the East End.

  Arthur thought for a moment, dumped the bike against the house opposite and trotted awkwardly after her.

  There was no one about now, everyone tucked up at home, sitting out the storm. She darted through the little streets and Arthur struggled to keep up against the rain. He was drenched to his skin, and almost blinded by the rain in his eyes. All he knew was that they were back now, close to the sea; the roar of the water was unnaturally loud, so loud that it crowded out all other thoughts from his head. Finally, she stopped, somewhere down near the East Quay.

  ‘You can leave me here, it’s all right. You go back. Water’s rising, you better hurry,’ Muriel called to him as he ran to catch up with her.

  He had been so desperate to keep up, he hadn’t noticed his wet feet. The street was flowing with pale brown water. It came down towards them in little rolling waves. There must have been a breach.

  ‘I can’t leave you,’ he shouted at her through the rain.

  She leaned in close to him and he could see the outline of her m
outh and her eyes still shone.

  ‘You have to. You get your mother. I’ll be fine. I’m a mermaid, me.’

  ‘Muriel, please.’ He found himself gripping her shoulders.

  She came in close and kissed him on the lips and his heart faltered at the boldness of it. ‘You’re a good one, Arthur Silver. Not like them other ones. I won’t forget.’

  And then she tore from his grasp and splashed into the water, hop-skipping through it as if it was a mere puddle, towards the shacks and cottages of the East End.

  ‘What happened at the dance?’ he shouted after her, but perhaps the wind took the shout because she only turned, very quickly, put her fingers to her lips and was gone. He hesitated for perhaps thirty seconds of horrible indecision then turned and ran away from the coming water, cold around his ankles, choosing the back way to avoid the sea, back towards home.

  5.

  19.27 train from Hunstanton hit by a bungalow at 19.32 Wells beach and woods cut off from the town by the flood

  The front door wouldn’t open, but one of the windows in the bay could be prised ajar, the wood old and brittle. It came away in Verity’s hand and she tripped into cold water in the shadowy drawing room. It was up to her ankles here, not so bad. Thank God for the slight rise the house had been built on, the way it looked out from the top windows over the sea, thank God for that. But the rugs! The Queen Anne chairs! They’d been in her mother’s family for years.

  ‘Father!’ she called. The only answer, the wind whining and rain pounding on the windows.

  Again she called, wading through to the hallway. No answer. He must have left the house, but she went forward to his study anyway. She imagined Peter out there in the dark, the cold, the relentless rain, the rising water.

  No light. She felt along the walls.

  ‘Father,’ she called out again, but quieter now, not expecting a response. In her throat a jagged pain.

  But a sound came from ahead, a muffled sound, she couldn’t think of what, but hurried on and came to the study door at the end of the hallway.