We Are Family

by Emlyn Rees

  Tony placed his hand gently on Rachel’s stomach. Let them do their worst, he thought. He was going to be a father. A father. That’s what had given him the strength to get as far as he had, before the storm had shredded his plans. And that’s what would keep him going now. He’d take on this night and whatever it threw at him. And he’d win.

  The van slid to a halt.

  ‘What is it?’ Tony asked.

  Ignoring him, Bill yanked on the handbrake and climbed out into the night.

  ‘Bill?’ Rachel called out, but got no reply.

  Rachel groaned from the pain of her bruised ribs as she leant forward to see what Bill was doing. Ahead of them, the lights of Stepmouth shimmered in the torrential rain, like a fleet of fishing boats on a storm-racked sea.

  ‘I’ll go and look,’ Tony said.

  Other than the vicious sting of the wind, the first thing he noticed as he stepped from the passenger door and on to the road was the back of his feet turning freezing cold. Then he looked down and saw why: he was standing in a stream of running water, ankle-deep already, and gathering pace in front of him, onwards to the town below.

  Bill stood on the other side of the van, rigid as a gundog with a view to a kill. Following his line of sight, Tony joined him in gaping speechless ahead.

  From where the van was parked, the road ran another twenty yards down a steep incline until it reached the crossroads which signalled the start of the town. Tony had been up and down this road so many times before that he knew it better than his own reflection.

  But the crossroads had vanished. Or it was no longer visible, at least. In its place was a river, a rising flowing river.

  At first, Tony assumed it was a continuation of the streaming water in which he stood, but then his eyes moved to the right of where the crossroads had once been. South Bridge was still there, only now it seemed to be half submerged itself and acting not only as a bridge, but also as a dam.

  Something must have blocked the channel which ran beneath it. And the river had done what water will always do: it had found another way through, pouring from the river bank like blood from a ruptured artery, searching out the path of least resistance. So that now the great black snake of the River Step slithered down the high street, lapping hungrily at the walls and doors of the terraced houses, trapping the people who lived there inside.

  ‘Wait here,’ Bill shouted.

  Tony watched him run back to the van and get in. The gears ground noisily. Then the van was reversing up the hill, away from where Tony stood. Shielding his eyes from the glare of its headlights, Tony watched it retreat: ten yards, twenty, more . . . He waited: nothing. Thirty seconds past, forty-five . . . then the headlights dimmed and died . . . he caught the sound of a van door slamming . . . and a figure lurched towards him, splashing through the gloom.

  ‘My mother and Emily,’ Bill said. ‘We need to get them out of there.’

  Tony was tired enough to lie down and sleep where he was. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted to stay close to Rachel, no matter what. ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘Why not wait till morning? We can get them then. They’ll be safe enough inside. Not like us, freezing out here in this –’

  ‘Because I think that what’s happening down there is going to get worse. A lot worse.’

  The two men stared at one another. Tony glanced over at the high street. What did Bill mean, it was going to get much worse? How much worse could it get? Chances were that the ground floors of all the high street properties had already been flooded and ruined. And what were those people to Tony? What did it matter to him if their tables and sofas got soaked?

  ‘Forget it,’ he started to say.

  But Bill wasn’t listening. Shielding his eyes from the rain with one hand, Bill pointed with the other at South Bridge. ‘All this rain,’ he shouted, ‘it must have washed stuff downriver . . . branches, leaves, fallen trees, even boulders . . . and that’s what’s blocked the bridge . . . The water that’s draining off down the high street,’ he continued, swivelling round now and pointing straight ahead, ‘it’s two feet high already and I’m worried it’ll soon be enough to rip the foundations clear out from underneath some of those houses . . . They’re structurally weak . . . I’ve lived in one of them all my life and studied enough engineering to know . . .’ He pointed back at the bridge. ‘And there,’ he said, ‘the river’s burst its banks on the other side, too, which means it’s flowing down East Street and Emily’s place will be in exactly the same danger . . .’

  He was right: from this elevated position, again illuminated by the street lamps, Tony could clearly see another rippling black river, pouring itself out into the town beyond the bridge. ‘But Emily might have already got out,’ he said.

  ‘Why would she have? She can’t see what we can from there. No, I need to be sure.’

  ‘What about Rachel?’ Tony asked. ‘We can’t leave her here.’

  ‘It’s the river that’s the real danger, not the water running down here.’

  Tony hesitated. So it was safe here. So why not just stay put? Why should he help Mrs Vale? And Emily: Tony liked her all right, but his place was by Rachel’s side, not hers. He opened his mouth to protest.

  ‘It’s what Rachel wants,’ Bill cut him off.

  Tony knew Rachel well enough to know that Bill was telling the truth. He also knew she’d be out here herself to help if she had the strength.

  He stared at Bill, resigned. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘We split up,’ Bill answered. ‘It’ll be quicker that way and I don’t know how much time we’ve got.’

  ‘All right,’ Tony agreed. Of the two journeys Bill was suggesting, the one to reach Emily, being the further, looked the more difficult. ‘I’ll get Emily,’ he volunteered, not because he wanted to prove anything to Bill, but because the last person in the world he wanted to see right now was Mrs Vale, and he’d take the harder journey over that any time.

  Bill said nothing. Tony watched as he closed his eyes, as if struggling to reach a decision. Then Bill nodded, as if drawing whatever internal debate he’d been having to a close.

  ‘No. You haven’t the strength to get across South Bridge,’ he said, ‘not after doing what you’ve done already . . . And I won’t forget that, Tony, not ever . . .’

  What did he mean? Tony wondered. Was he forgiving him? Or warning him that he hadn’t forgotten everything else? Had they become allies now? Or were they still enemies? There was no time to ask.

  ‘It’s got to be me who crosses the bridge,’ Bill finished.

  ‘But what about your mother? She can’t walk. How am I meant to –’

  ‘You get help. Get the neighbours out of their homes. Warn them all of the danger. Get them to help you move Mum. Tell them what’s happened to the bridge. Tell them to get the hell out of there, out of their houses and up to higher ground.’

  Tony turned and waved at the van behind them. Although he couldn’t see Rachel, he knew she’d be watching. He couldn’t believe he was leaving her. Not after what they’d already been through. And yet he realised that saving Mrs Vale might be the only hope of acceptance that he and Rachel had left. He’d do it, then, not for the old woman who hated him, but despite her. He’d do it for himself, for Rachel, for the family they’d soon be. He’d take this chance to prove to Bill and Mrs Vale, and everyone else in the town who thought he was no good, how wrong they’d always been.

  He set off with Bill down the last twenty yards of Summerglade Hill. The closer they got to the town, the more signs of life they saw: the silhouettes of people watching from their windows; a dog paddling desperately against the current, before being spun around and disappearing, yelping from sight. There were noises, too: thunder rolled and lightning cracked; the water roared where it was bursting free from the bridge. In the distance, at the harbour end of the street, Tony glimpsed what looked like a dirigible, but then it was gone.

  As they reached the crossroads, neither Bill nor Tony broke their s
tride. They waded into the freezing water.

  ‘What time is it?’ Tony called out to Bill.

  ‘Twenty-five past eight,’ Bill yelled back.

  By a quarter to nine, Tony swore to himself he’d be out of this water and somewhere safe, with Rachel’s mother by his side. Everything would be over, he swore, by then.

  ‘I’ll have her safe by a quarter to,’ he called to Bill, as if committing to it out loud might somehow make it more possible. ‘I swear it. I’ll see you back on the hill. Good luck.’

  ‘And to you.’

  Then they separated, Bill pushing off into the oncoming waters which came from the right and Tony downstream, over the crossroads towards the high street.

  The hidden road beneath his feet was as slippery as a salmon’s scales. Tony stretched out his arms like a tightrope walker. He felt like he was trying out roller skates for the very first time as he slid and stumbled on. A piece of debris jarred against his hip.

  On the other side of the crossroads, Tony steadied himself against the brickwork of the corner house where Granville Road and the high street met. Further down the high street, the gaudy wooden signs above the doorways to the Channel Arms and the Smuggler’s Rest banged in the wind, still glowing invitingly beneath their spotlights. Up above Tony, someone called his name. He looked up and saw Mr Tyler, the teacher who’d first taught him how to read, hanging out of an upstairs window.

  ‘The bridge,’ Tony shouted up, ‘it’s logjammed. Get your family out and up the hill to safety. Bill Vale . . . he says it’s too dangerous to stay.’

  Tony didn’t hear what Mr Tyler called back. A great gust of wind tore into him, screeching into his ears. Clinging to the brickwork, Tony worked his way along the corner house on to the high street, and then on to the next house along. He wedged himself up against its front door and pounded his fist against it, over and over again.

  ‘Who’s there?’ someone finally shouted through the letter box.

  Tony crouched down, his legs and waist now submerged in water. A pair of terrified eyes stared back at him through the letter box.

  ‘Tony Glover,’ the voice shouted over the wail of the wind, ‘is that you?’

  Thank God. It was Wilfred Lee. Tony’s mother had known him since school. Hurriedly, Tony passed on Bill’s warning about the bridge, then explained why he was here: to fetch Mrs Vale. Without being asked, Wilfred offered to help Tony carry her to safety.

  ‘I’ll get dressed,’ he said. ‘Go get her ready to leave and I’ll join you there.’

  Tony stood and faced across the street. Already the water seemed to have risen. Now it was nearing the tops of his thighs.

  Opposite him was Vale Supplies and to its right was Giles Weatherly’s ironmongery. At the head of the alley which separated the two shops was the great old oak tree which Tony had clambered up in June to see Rachel. Its solidity brought him comfort now, even though he saw its trunk was surrounded by water and that the alleyway was flooded, too.

  None of the lights in the ironmonger’s were on. But in the lit upstairs front window of Vale Supplies, Tony suddenly saw the silhouette of a head appear. It had to be Mrs Vale. Had she seen him, too? He raised his arm to wave, but just as he did, the street lamp above his head fizzled and died. Sparks cascaded down.

  Tony opened his eyes to discover the town thick with darkness. The sense of isolation that accompanied it was terrible, like the conversation he’d just had with Wilfred Lee had been nothing but a trick of the mind. Like he was truly alone.

  At first, it was like trying to look through oil. But then shapes began to distinguish themselves from one another – houses, windows, doorways – as his eyes took advantage of the scant light thrown down from the flickering night-time sky which swirled above him. Soon, only the water in which he stood remained as black as pitch.

  The power was down. He thought of Don. Was he up at the power station on night shift? Tony hoped not. He hoped he was somewhere safe. He thought of his mother . . . and the twins . . . and Rachel . . . everyone he loved . . .

  Then he saw candlelight spread across the upstairs window of Vale Supplies and remembered why he was here. Everything slotted back into place. How many minutes had it been since he’d split off from Bill? Five? Ten at most? He wanted this done with, and now.

  He’d use the candlelight as his beacon. He’d let it guide him home. He braced himself and stepped out into the street. Immediately, he noticed the change: the water level was now up to his waist, now faster, now dragging him downstream.

  Shoulders forward, head down, he pushed out in what he thought was a straight line. But with each stride he took, the weight of oncoming water forced him further down the street, leaving him crossing it in frantic, faltering, sliding steps in a diagonal line. Three feet . . . four . . . six . . . Already, by the time he got halfway across, he was two houses down from Vale Supplies.

  The water ran fastest here and nearly threw him. For an instant he felt both his feet leaving the ground. But somehow he kept himself from toppling over, and got a foot down. Then another. He steadied himself against the onslaught. Then onwards. One step . . . two . . . just one more and he’d be –

  Something loomed at him out of the darkness and he threw himself at it, got a hand to metal, something solid, and gripped it tight. He hauled himself upright and caught his breath.

  Now that he was on the same side of the street, he could no longer see the candle in Vale Supplies. His beacon of hope had vanished and he felt his spirits drop.

  He searched through the darkness till he saw where he was: at the bus stop outside the church hall, where back in March he’d fought Bernie Cunningham and lost. Film posters lolled from the side of the bus stop, licking at the passing water like thirsty tongues.

  Tony stared across the street at the shadowy awning of the fishmonger’s which flapped like a wing in the dark. He counted two doors up from there, to where he’d only a minute before been talking to Wilfred Lee. A burst of panic. What help could Wilfred be now? Even if he made it across, what chance would they have of getting Mrs Vale back upstream to safety?

  He should never have come.

  But he had come. So now he should get on and see what he could do. Upstream. Upstream then, on to Vale Supplies. He stretched out and grabbed the church hall door handle and began the slow process of clawing himself back up past the remaining two houses which separated him from Rachel’s home. He pounded against each door and window he passed, but got no answer.

  Finally, he reached the front door of Vale Supplies. He hit it, shook it, screamed up at the window above. Nothing. As the water continued to pull at him, his strength began to wane. But he wouldn’t let go. He thought of the dog he’d seen swept away. It would have drowned by now, sluiced across the quayside at the end of the street and into the harbour like a piece of rubbish. There was no way Tony was going out like that.

  Then, as he gave the door a final shake, he remembered something else: the great bunch of keys Rachel had shown him on the bus. Keys for the windows, keys for the front door and yard door and the door to the alley.

  Of course: the alley door. Had Bill locked it when he’d left? Tony couldn’t be sure, but it was worth a try.

  Another two minutes and he was there.

  It was wide open. The same water which had flooded the alley to waist height now swamped the downstairs of the house. He pushed his way in.

  Eerily silent, it was like a shipwreck inside, like the tomb of the vessel which Tony had once watched Robinson Crusoe search through for salvage in a film. Water dripped. A candle flickered on a saucer on the hexagonal wooden post at the bottom of the stairs. Six inches below it, floating on the surface of the water, were straw table mats and a magazine cover featuring the watery visage of Marilyn Monroe.

  Yellow light glowed at the top of the stairs. Tony dragged himself free of the water and sloshed up the remaining dry wooden steps which hadn’t yet been submerged.

  ‘Mrs Vale?’ he called, as h
e reached the landing and saw that the source of the yellow light was an old oil lamp which had been hung from the wooden ladder which he guessed led up to Rachel’s bedroom.

  No answer.

  ‘Mrs Vale?’ he called again.

  He was about to turn into the room on the left: the room at the front of the house, where he thought he’d seen Mrs Vale peering out at him. But something else snagged his attention: a faint flicker of light, in the room to the right. Someone was there, huddled in the gloom at the back, shielding the candle which they held with their hand.

  ‘Mrs Vale?’ he asked, gently now, not wanting to scare her. He stepped into the room. The window behind her which must have overlooked the river channel was a stamp of black. ‘It’s me: Tony Glover,’ he started to explain.

  ‘Keep away.’

  Even after what he’d just been through – perhaps because of what he’d just been through – the hatred in her voice stunned him. It was the first time she’d ever addressed him. But what had he expected? He told himself to keep calm.

  ‘The houses aren’t safe. We need to get you out of here. Bill sent me here to help.’

  ‘Liar.’

  He could see now that she was next to a drawing table. The candle she was holding flared, briefly illuminating a drawing of what looked like the old Bathers’ Pavilion on the wall.

  ‘But I swear to you, Mrs Vale,’ he insisted. ‘Wilfred Lee across the road. He’s going to try to –’

  Something fell from her hand, rattling as it landed on the floor. He looked down to see a small silver crucifix on a silver chain. Then the candle guttered and the only light left was that which came from the landing behind him. His shadow stretched towards her.

  ‘Get out.’ She screamed the words. ‘You think I don’t know why you’ve come here?’ Panic was rising in her voice. ‘It’s because of Rachel. It’s because –’