We Are Family

by Emlyn Rees

  This information seemed to stun her father. He turned and gawped at her.

  ‘Oh no, oh no,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t work like this, Laurie. Life isn’t about pushing people together to make happy families like a jigsaw puzzle. Only it’s not that simple and you should be old enough to realise that by now. Your actions have consequences. Everyone’s actions do. And sometimes words can’t heal them.’

  Laurie knew he was lashing out at her and even though what he was saying stung, she had to be strong. ‘Just give Rachel one moment. She needs to see you,’ Laurie appealed. ‘She’s lost Tony and you’re all she has left.’

  ‘She’s got all of this, hasn’t she?’ he countered, swinging his arms out wide. ‘She’s got you.’

  ‘She hasn’t got me, Dad. I’m not on anyone’s side.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, please,’ she said, finally exasperated.

  ‘I don’t want to see that woman, let alone forgive her.’

  ‘Fine,’ Laurie sighed, giving in. She’d done all she could. ‘I’m all packed to leave, we’ll just get in the car and leave Rachel behind. If that’s what you want, Dad. I’m with you. We’ll just go. Together. I promise.’

  Laurie touched his arm, but he wasn’t responding. Inside, she could hear the phone ringing and her stomach lurched. What if it was Sam? She looked back at her father, before starting up the terrace steps.

  ‘Laurie! Wait.’

  She stopped and turned. Her father’s look was one of steely determination as he strode towards her. He didn’t say anything, or even look at her, as he passed her.

  Inside the house, the phone stopped ringing.

  Chapter XXVI

  Stepmouth, 8.25 p.m., 15 August 1953

  Bill waded into the freezing water which now submerged the crossroads. Through the torrential downpour, he could hear muffled shouts, but couldn’t figure out which direction they were coming from. Other than the water gliding past the houses, the high street looked deserted. No one was panicking, and no one was splashing out into the street. Apart from Tony Glover, Bill could see no one at all.

  So was he wrong to be panicking like this? Sending Glover out into a flood? Willingly embarking on risking his own life, too? Was he overreacting, assuming too much from the limited information and civil-engineering knowledge he had? Would he actually end up putting his mother and Emily in more danger than they already were?

  It was possible, but he had to remain resolute and remember the fear, the cold primal fear, that had crept over him when he’d got out of the van and felt the cold water running over his shoes.

  What he’d told Tony – his concern over the buildings’ weak foundations – was only part of his fear. He’d realised immediately that for the volume of water to have been released down Summerglade Hill, the peat bogs up on the moors must have reached saturation level. But why, he’d immediately wondered, weren’t the East and West Step valleys draining the excess waters away as they normally did?

  Because they were already full to capacity, was the terrifying conclusion he’d reached.

  Full and yet the deluge continued. The rainstorm was getting worse. Thunder exploded like cannon fire across the sky. Rain pelted down, more rain with nowhere to go.

  It was seeing South Bridge which had made up Bill’s mind about getting his mother and Emily out. That the bridge was blocked – or partially blocked, at least – was obvious, and yet Bill couldn’t conceive of an object large enough to obstruct that sizeable a bridge. Only several objects, tens of objects . . . only if the engorged twin rivers had started uprooting every tree they’d encountered as they’d raced down from the moor.

  And if that was true of South Bridge, then what of Watersbind Bridge further up the valley, and the natural reservoir behind it where the two rivers met? (Not to mention the other sixteen road and foot bridges crossing the East and West Steps between here and the top of the moor.) Was Watersbind Bridge blocked, too? Was the water behind it already backing up and searching for a way to escape?

  Bill hoped to God the answers were no. Because if he was right, and the water pressure continued to build behind Watersbind Bridge as more rain fell, then it might become enough not only to flow over and around the bridge, but also to smash right through.

  And if that happened . . . well, only one thing stood between the monstrous wall of water that would then rush down the valley to the sea: and that was the town of Stepmouth itself.

  ‘What time is it?’ Tony Glover called out.

  Bill checked his wristwatch, the silver-plated one which had once belonged to his father. The light thrown down by the street lamps was too weak to read it by. Bill pulled his torch from his coat pocket – glad to have remembered it now, before it had got soaked – and shone it down on to the watch’s cracked surface. Cracked by Keith Glover, he automatically thought. Cracked the day he’d killed Bill’s dad.

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

  ‘I’ll have her safe by a quarter to, I swear it,’ Tony Glover shouted as he pushed on towards the high street. ‘I’ll see you back on the hill. Good luck.’

  Bill would say one thing for Glover: he certainly didn’t lack guts. Not after the way he’d run back to get help for Rachel. And not after what he was doing now.

  ‘And to you,’ Bill shouted, as enthusiastically as he could.

  But already, he’d started questioning his own judgement again. He dreaded to think how his mother would react when Glover turned up. But what other choice did he have? Glover was dog-tired and crossing over South Bridge was going to take a miracle and every ounce of strength Bill had. Downstream, however, the way Glover was heading now, that would be easier. Glover would find help quickly, too, on the high street. Not that he’d necessarily need it, Bill hoped, because Giles Weatherly had probably returned home by now. And if he had, then he might have already spotted the danger and got Bill’s mother out of there and somewhere safe.

  Which is more than could be said for Emily, Bill thought, as he turned and began slogging upstream towards South Bridge. Emily cared too much about the Sea Catch Café to up sticks and leave it just because the river had broken loose. She was too determined, and had too much faith in her own ability to make things right. She’d be there now, he was convinced, shoring up the doorway, frantically bailing out water with a saucepan, fighting the river with both fists.

  Switching off the torch till he needed it again, Bill held it high above his head. As he drew nearer to South Bridge, the water began pushing steadily against his thighs. He threw off his coat, which had started to drag, and hunkered down low like a dog pulling a sledge, dropping his centre of gravity, imagining himself as solid as rock.

  But the closer he got to the bridge, the more the velocity of the water rushing outwards from behind it increased. Until finally – while he was still some fifteen feet away – he and the river reached an equilibrium. Matching him strength for strength, it roared defiantly, as he pushed against it with all his might and yet remained quite still.

  Sideways, then. If he couldn’t go through it, he’d have to go around. He forged his way right – towards the rocky bottom of Summerglade Hill. The water level dropped with each step, uncovering first his waist, then his thighs, until he was only submerged from the knees down.

  He staggered out of the water and into the bushes beyond. He stood there panting, as the wind sliced through his soaking clothes and left him numb.

  He worked out then what he had to do. Forget about crossing over the bridge. The current was too powerful there. He’d been crazy even to try. He’d head up the valley, away from the town, and attempt to cross the river higher up.

  Using the torch to cut out a path through the black night, he hurried around the base of the hill, stumbling on over rocks and mud and grass, before finally lurching back downhill to where the land levelled out. Finally, he burst through the undergrowth twenty-five yards upstream from South Bridge.

  Normally, the River
Step would have flowed past several feet below where Bill had emerged, but it was now almost level with his feet. In the darkness, it looked as stationary as a fenland canal. It was only when Bill shone the torch across it that he saw its speed. Flotsam rushed by . . . sticks reaching up like the hands of drowning men. And branches too, covered in green foliage . . . the remains of healthy trees ripped from the river banks . . .

  Upstream, South Bridge glowed ethereally, its Victorian street lamps casting off rainbows in the rain. Bill could see from this angle that it was only partially blocked by trees, and water still ran beneath it. What was causing it to burst out and branch out into two new rivers on the left and right was the volume of water rushing down from Watersbind above.

  The reservoir, then, at Watersbind was so full that it had started to overflow. Which meant that – if the bridge there gave out – Watersbind could also burst.

  Bill gave himself no more time to think. He threw down the torch and stripped off his sweater and shirt, then hurled himself into the ice-cold flow.

  As he broke the river’s surface, he gasped. The water was so cold that it burnt. He struck out with long, powerful strokes towards the opposite bank, as the river rushed relentlessly on towards South Bridge, carrying him with it.

  Fail to reach the other side in time and he knew he’d be pinned like a fly against the web of flotsam beneath the bridge: crushed, eviscerated, drowned. Or forced through by the current, bludgeoned by the boulders in the channel beyond.

  Another second passed. The water rolled like thunder at the bridge. But Bill had already reached the far bank. Arms outstretched, he clawed for something – anything – to grab on to. But still he was dragged downstream. His hands tore over rock and mud. Pain shot up his arm as his right thumb twisted and broke. Then his hand latched on to something, and locked around it like a vice.

  Water rushed into his face, into his mouth, eyes and ears, as the river swung his body round and tried to tear him loose. His right arm stretched like it was going to snap. But still he clung on, got his left hand to whatever his right hand already had a hold of.

  Tree roots. That’s what they were. That’s what had stopped him from being sucked beneath the bridge. He grabbed another, then another, and finally started to haul himself free from the river.

  He slumped forward as soon as his knees found solid ground. He lay face down on the river bank and vomited, spewing up the bellyful of water he’d just been force-fed.

  But there was no time to rest. Instead, he willed himself to stand. The rush of water was deafening. He looked around in an attempt to orientate himself. He was ten foot upstream from the bridge. The tree he’d grabbed on to had been the last chance he’d had. If he’d missed its roots, he would have been dead by now.

  The land he was standing on was at the very top of the river bank. But still the rain hissed down. Soon the river would breach the banks here, too, and widen the flood to the rest of the town.

  The clock of St Hilda’s glowed feebly at him through the hammering rain, like a full moon behind a cloud. Bill stumbled on, away from the river, into the shallows of where it had already flooded out beyond the bridge. What he saw before him was a mirror image of what he’d seen on the other side of the bridge. Where the water was flooding down the high street there, so it was charging down East Street here.

  It looked the same depth, too: two feet, maybe even higher, maybe three . . .

  Bill pictured Tony as he’d last seen him, wading into the water, choosing the fastest route to get him to where he needed to be. Bill decided to do the same. The flow shouldn’t be any faster this side, he thought. And the hardest part of his journey – crossing the river – was behind him now. He’d be going with the current, not against it, from now on.

  Bill heard shouts. Through the screen of rain, he saw people, loaded with possessions, battling upstream from the roads which ran parallel with Emily’s, making for higher, drier ground.

  ‘Richard,’ he shouted, seeing his friend steering Rosie and the girls away from the oncoming waters, to the east. ‘Have you seen Emily?’

  ‘No,’ Richard called back. ‘What’s happening, Bill?’

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Bill shouted. ‘Get as far away from the river as fast as you can.’

  Whether Richard heard him or not, Bill would never know. Already, he was moving in the opposite direction to Richard, skirting around where the new river now ran, before wading into its waters where they began to channel down East Street.

  The pull didn’t seem so bad at first. He looked down East Street. Emily’s place was – what? – fifty yards away. He’d be there in no time. And then what? Then he’d get her out of there and on downstream, before cutting off right along the streets, away from the flood path, to the east.

  Then the current shifted, suddenly stronger, ripping at his legs. Bill’s heart pounded his ribs. Beneath his feet, he felt the pavement slabs rise and fall, shifting beneath the force of water. Then something struck his hip and he was over, under.

  Darkness. Cold. Water all around. An ocean filled his ears, a million rushing bubbles.

  He was tumbling now, over and over, trying to right himself. Inside his head, he screamed. He couldn’t tell up from down. Something soft brushed against his face. But then it was gone. His knuckles scraped the road. Then came air. A lungful. Enough to raise him up.

  He could breathe. But he couldn’t see. He thought for a second that he was dead. That he was still underwater. That the reason he thought he could breathe was because he’d already left his body and no longer needed oxygen at all.

  Another lungful of air. And another. He clawed at the water with his arms and legs, like a drunk attempting to rise. Then his brain caught up with what his body had already worked out for itself. He wasn’t still underwater. He wasn’t dead. The electricity, he realised. The electricity had failed again.

  He heard a shout. A scream. His name. Light flashed into his eyes. Something tore across his leg, then snagged his belt.

  ‘Pull!’ a voice called out.

  Then the weight of water tore into Bill’s face once more, as he found himself being hauled upstream.

  ‘Take his arms,’ the same voice yelled.

  Bill felt hands on his wrists and under his elbows. Fingers dug into him. They burnt against his freezing skin. Dragged from the water, he cried out in pain. Brickwork scraped across his ribs. A window of light appeared from nowhere. He was dragged quickly through. He toppled over on to the dry carpeted floor.

  Then another voice, warm in his ear, a voice he thought he’d never hear again: ‘Bill, Bill, oh my darling, Bill.’

  He lay breathless in the candlelight, staring into Emily’s eyes. She was drenched, wrapped in towels. Warmth flowed through him, like none of what had just happened was real, like he and Emily were actually in her bathroom and he’d nodded off in the bath and had woken to find her gazing down at him. He managed to sit up and pulled her close.

  But then the real horror of what was happening returned.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ he said.

  He looked up and saw that they weren’t alone. Giles Weatherly, drenched and pale, was gazing down at him. Next to him was Lewis Cook, Giles’s friend who lived next door to Emily. Lewis was shaking. His left temple was swollen and split. His blue V-neck sweater was ripped, its sleeve hanging off. In his hand he gripped the boat hook he’d just used to pull Bill to safety.

  If Giles was here, then that meant that he wasn’t there to help Glover carry his mother away from the high street. Had Glover found someone else to help? Was Bill’s mother safe? Bill struggled to his feet.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked, looking round the unfamiliar room. Emily’s hand was in his, their fingers tightly intertwined. He saw a chest of drawers and a white washbasin, luminescent in the candlelight. Absurdly, a brand new television set – the one Giles must have come here to watch – stood in the centre of the bed.

  ‘My house,’ said Lewis Cook. A thickset man wit
h a shock of white-blond hair, he ran the post office and was one of the town’s volunteer lifeboat men.

  ‘The café’s flooded,’ Emily added. ‘Giles and Lewis fetched me round here.’

  ‘We thought, because our doorstop’s higher, we’d be safe,’ said Lewis. ‘But the water level kept rising.’

  ‘Here,’ Lewis’s wife, Josephine, said, hurrying into the room and draping a blanket over Bill’s shoulders.

  Lewis returned to the window. Wordlessly, Bill, Emily and the others joined him there to take stock. The rain crackled like static. Lightning splintered the sky. The stink of peat and woods and mud rose up.

  It was only now that Bill realised they were on the first floor and the others must have already been driven upstairs by the water. He peered into the darkness. East Street must be five foot deep by now. And hurtling by. He’d been lucky not to have been swept out to sea.

  The lights were all out in the buildings opposite. Perhaps they would come back on like they had done before. Or maybe, if Bill’s theory about Watersbind was right, they wouldn’t. Maybe the concrete channel which diverted water from the reservoir to the hydroelectric power station had flooded. Maybe the station itself had now flooded, too.

  A torch flicked on and off in the dark mouth of a window across the street. Morse code. Bill read it automatically, like he’d been taught to in the army: SOS – save our souls, the international distress signal.

  ‘It’s John Mitchell,’ Lewis shouted over the surging waters, ‘but we’d never make it across now. They’re on their own now, the same as us.’ A memory flashed through Bill’s mind of John leaning out of that very window back in the spring to water his hanging baskets of daffodils. Was this really the same planet?

  ‘We need to find a way to get out of here,’ Bill said. Even as he said it, though, panic rose inside him. Because how could they get out? How could he get Emily away from here, when the water was now running so fast it would sweep them away?