Storm Surge

by David Rees

  The only way to find out whether he was really interested in her or not, he often thought, would be to ask her out, to somewhere other than the Youth Club. But he would be humiliated if she refused, and he might be bored with her anyway. He was thinking about this on the train home that evening, and he found himself, much to his surprise, asking her. It was almost as if the Words had formulated themselves out loud without any action on his part.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ she answered.

  ‘Where to? There’s the disco where Ron plays.’

  She hesitated. ‘If you like.’

  ‘You don’t want to, then?’

  ‘Well. . . I don’t really like dancing much. I didn’t think, Peter, that you did.’

  He thought a moment. ‘I’ll ask Ron.’ he said.

  ‘Why do you always have to ask him everything?'

  He blushed, feeling dreadfully snubbed. His heart was beating louder than the storm outside.

  ‘Look at the sea!’ she cried, Changing the subject, he thought; she doesn’t want to. I won’t ask her again. But he turned his head and looked out of the window. The darkness outside and the reflected light of the railway carriage made it difficult to see much, but it was obvious that water was tipping over the wall, long tongues of it running down. Here the defences were solid concrete on both sides to protect the railway; and now there was a continuous stream down the inside, like water flowing over a dam. What he had thought was heavy rain slapping the window was spray slung by the sea. Between the wall and the railway line he could see reflections of the train blurred by the wind: more water. Nearer to Flatsea both wall and track rose very slightly, and it was some relief to find the sea still firmly on its own side. But the wind rocked the train violently on this more exposed section, and the driver slowed it down to a crawl.

  ‘The bridge will be covered,’ she said.

  ‘Then we’ll have to take off our shoes and paddle.’

  He returned to his own thoughts. Did he really ask Aaron everything? Perhaps, now David and Martin had left home, he did rely on him too much. Not that he had ever been close to David; the age gap was too large. He was such a different person, anyway. David was the conformist; he had worked at school, and though he disappointed Mum by failing his ‘A’ levels, he had a steady job in a solicitor’s office in Oozedam. He was married at twenty-one, and was buying his own house, and now he had a son of his own. He went to work every day in a dark suit, a collar and tie. Peter could not bear such a life. He was closer to Martin, who was thoughtful, generous, someone you could trust and look up to. He wished he was clever in the creative way Martin was. He missed his brother badly since he had gone to college. There was something about Martin that attracted people, honesty perhaps; you walked down a street in Oozedam with him, and so many people stopped him, ‘Hi ya, Martin! When are you coming to see us?’

  Spray again hit the window and Susan looked up, but Peter was thinking about Aaron. Ron was quite different. He was arrogant and secretive. He was the most intelligent, but the laziest. He didn’t care what people thought, teachers, any adults. He just lived for sport, and playing his guitar. And girls. Ron was the best-looking; no girl ever refused to go out with him. In every classroom Peter worked in there were messages carved on the desks about him, bleeding hearts and ‘I love Aaron’, ‘Aaron Brown, superstar’. But Ron had never had a proper girlfriend; two or three dates and that was that. Peter thought Martin had a better life with Ann.

  He was the bonehead of the family, the only one of the four who was not bright enough to do any ‘O’ level courses. He preferred working with his hands; when he left school he was going to find work on the island, with Geoff Fox, the boat-builder. He was determined on two things; he would never leave Flatsea, and one day he would become the landlord of the pub. And he would get married, to someone like Susan, only it would not be her, of course.

  The train pulled into Flatsea and jolted him from his thoughts.

  ‘Come on, dreamboat,’ said Susan. ‘We’re here.’

  Half an hour in the hospital restored Doris to a very good temper. Baby Kevin was the most beautiful baby in the ward. It was quite obvious : his skin was so white and clean, not that horrid wrinkly red babies usually were; there he was, fast asleep in his little cot, and she longed to pick him up and cuddle him, only the nurse would not allow it. Pat was well too, no problems there; and Kevin did look so like a Brown! She was a bit disappointed he did not more resemble her side of the family, though it was a comfort he did not take after Pat who was, after all, not that attractive, even if she was David’s wife.

  ‘Doesn’t he look just like Ron? Charley!’ She poked him in the ribs. ‘I said doesn’t he look just like Ron when he was born?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh he does, Charley! Look at the little darling!’

  ‘He takes more after Peter.’

  ‘I think he’s the image of his father,’ said Pat.

  Afterwards they drove to David’s house, it was on a new estate a few miles to the west of the town. A typical modern house, Charley thought, far too tiny for a couple starting a family. More convenient perhaps than their living quarters at the pub, and less draughty, the sort of thing he would fancy when he retired, but definitely not when you hadn’t been married long and had kids. Doris, convinced that David wasn’t feeding himself properly, set to in the kitchen. She had been rather put out when he refused her invitation to stay at The King’s Head while Pat was in hospital, and, certain as she was that Pat was not a good cook at the best of times, she started work on several of her son’s favourite dishes. While she cooked, David and his father drank beer in the living-room. Charley found talking to this middle-class son of his a bit difficult. Peter he loved most, the exact copy of himself at that age. A day out fishing with Peter down at Dangie Point on a calm summer’s day was his idea of perfect pleasure.

  The meal took a long time, then there was washing-up, and Charley became increasingly anxious. High water might produce a flood worse than this morning’s, and he did not want to be cut off on the mainland. He had promised Martin not to be late, and there was Peter out at the club, and heaven only knew where Ron might be. But Doris was not to be hurried. Now she had decided to come out she was going to make the most of it. She found several shirts of David’s that needed buttons, and socks with holes in the toes and heels; these had to be seen to before she would consider moving.

  ‘He can’t go to work, Charley, looking like a scarecrow!’

  David sensed his father’s worry and said, ‘You can always stay the night here.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Then a violent gust of wind sent something crashing down in the garden. Charley pulled the curtains and looked out.

  ‘A piece of the fence,’ he said. ‘Useless modern materials, they won’t stand up to anything.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think I’ll ring the police,’ he announced.

  ‘The police!’ cried Doris. ‘Whatever do you want the police for?’

  ‘Do you mind if I use the phone, David?’

  The sergeant on duty was certainly aware of the danger. There had been a lot of water inside the sea walls in many parts of Oozedam but they had not been breached anywhere. The tide was much bigger than predicted; it might even come up several feet more, for it was not yet high water. There had been reports of flooding in Lincolnshire and round the Wash, but he couldn’t say how serious it was. They were warning people who lived in low-lying areas of the town to take valuables upstairs, and advising those who slept in basements to move out, just in case. Flatsea? He thought the bridge might soon become impassable, but there should not be much water over the walls. It was unlikely. Nevertheless, sir, it would be a reasonable precaution not to leave anything important downstairs.

  ‘Doris, we’re going. The police say the bridge will soon be covered. And it will be worse in the morning.’

  ‘Well, in that case I suppose —’

  ‘I’m going now. It’s half past ten. With or without
you, I don’t care.’

  He went out to the car. Doris followed, grumbling, with a half-darned sock.

  ‘I’ll take it with me,' she said. ‘And post it to you.’

  ‘Sorry, David, to leave like this, but Peter and Ron . . .’

  ‘Good night, Dad. Bye-bye, Mum.’ They kissed. ‘Safe journey.’

  The car went off at great speed, tyres squealing, Doris protesting at Charley’s recklessness.

  ‘We had to wade,’ Peter explained. He had pulled his jeans above his knees, and was carrying his shoes. Susan was wringing out her wet socks in the sink behind the bar. ‘If you don’t go immediately, you’ll be here for the night.’

  Ann glanced anxiously at Martin. ‘We haven’t cleared up yet,’ he said. ‘And we ought to wait for Dad.’ He could not make up his mind what was the right thing to do.

  ‘We’ll wash up the glasses, put the lights out. It won’t take long.’ Martin said nothing. ‘Look, I’m quite capable of tidying up this place.’

  ‘Dad wouldn’t like it. What do you think, Ann?’

  ‘Not for me to decide, love.’

  ‘Martin, I’m quite capable as I said. There won’t be any burglars tonight unless they want a very cold swim.’

  ‘Suppose Mum and Dad can’t get back?’

  ‘Listen, if you want to go, go now. If they are stranded, I don’t mind sleeping on my own. Ron may be here soon, anyway.’

  ‘What about Susan?’

  ‘I’ll take her home as soon as we’ve finished. Yes, and I’ll make sure I lock up before I do. For goodness’ sake, Martin, you’ll only just get the car through now!’

  ‘Well. . . if you’re sure. . .’

  ‘I’m quite sure. Even if Ron doesn’t come in, I can manage.’

  ‘O.K. then, landlord. As you say.’

  Peter and Susan listened to the sound of the old car fading in the distance as it reached the bridge, then there was only the wind screaming and the pounding of huge waves, the smack of water as it came over the wall and hit the ground, the slap of the spray as it drenched roofs and windows. They washed up in silence, then went into the kitchen to dry their clothes.

  ‘Do you want cocoa?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Please.’ He poured milk into a saucepan. ‘Peter, about going to the disco. I would like ―’

  ‘Forget it. I’m sorry I asked.’

  ‘Peter, I didn’t mean ―’

  ‘I said forget it.’ He glared at her.

  ‘Will you take me home?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘We’ll drink this cocoa first.’ He switched on the television. It was a programme about the Queen’s visit to East Anglia the previous week, very boring he thought, but Susan, who was a sucker for royalty, quickly became absorbed. He didn’t remind her that she had just asked him to take her home. She didn’t have to be in till eleven, even though her parents would probably be hoping she would come home earlier, considering the weather and the tide. Cocoa in the pub kitchen was part of the usual Sunday ritual anyway, and she could damned well wait till he was ready. He was having no more nonsense from her.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a strange noise coming from the floorboards. At first he thought it was a mouse scratching, then it became more continuous, a hiss like escaping gas. He went to the stove, but all the taps were turned off. He looked again at the floor, and watched in horror as water came bubbling through the cracks between the boards, at first in long lines, but they were rapidly spreading into a lake that would soon cover the floor.

  ‘Susan! Look!’

  She shrieked with fright, then ran to the window and threw back the curtains. The clouds had lifted and there was a full moon. There was no land any longer. The sea, black and silver in the moonlight, stretched from the kitchen window to the horizon. It was swirling past at speed, rising every minute, not in great waves and torrents, but in an almost orderly fashion, like a bath filling. The walls had held, here at least, but they were not high enough.

  ‘Peter! We can’t get out! I shan’t get home! What’ll we do?’

  Do? What on earth should they do first? They must not panic. He banged his hands against his head; no thoughts would come.

  Take the money out of the till and get it upstairs. I'll try and get hold of Dad.’

  He went into the hall and dialled David’s number, but before his brother answered, Susan was back. The water was up to their ankles, black and freezing cold.

  ‘What now?’

  The important thoughts came to him. There’s candles in the larder. And matches. And take the brandy from the bar. And any rugs or cushions you can find. Get them all upstairs. David?’

  ‘Candles?’

  The water will fuse the electricity. David? The sea’s in the house; it’s almost up to my knees. Where? In the pub, you fool. Where’s Dad?’

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  The phone went dead. The water must be in the wires somewhere. What now? What now? Martin. He dialled Martin’s number, hoping against hope that it was David’s phone that had failed, not his. There were three separate flats in Martin’s house, one phone they all shared on the landing. Answer it, Martin! He must be home by now. Susan raced downstairs and floundered past him. ‘I’ve left my bag and coat in the kitchen,’ she said.

  ‘Martin, the water’s in the pub. I’m up to my knees . . . police? No, I didn’t think. You’ll ring them? I’m getting upstairs―’

  There was a tremendous crash as the three doors of the pub burst open simultaneously, a deafening wrenching noise of splintering wood, and a great wall of water surged towards him. The lights all flickered, and went out.

  ‘Martin!’ He was shouting, terrified. ‘Save me! Save me! We’re drowning!’

  Aaron and John thoroughly enjoyed the film. It was, as Aaron had said, ‘a good laugh’. The audience were mostly teenagers, who kept up a running commentary on the film’s absurdity, accompanied by jeers, cat-calls and whistles, so that even in the genuinely frightening bits it wasn’t possible to feel alarmed. Aaron was one of the ringleaders in the rude remarks shouted at the screen.

  Afterwards they went into The Waterman’s Arms, which shut half an hour later than other pubs in Oozedam, as it catered for workers coming off the evening shift on the continental car ferries. There were not many customers; a few dockers and couples from the cinema.

  Aaron looked round. “Those two girls there. They were in the queue for the film.’

  John looked at them. ‘Slags.’

  They don’t look so bad.’

  ‘Come and work this machine.’

  They drank and smoked, and played table football. ‘They're looking at us.’

  ‘Ron, why don’t you get yourself a real girlfriend?’

  Aaron concentrated on a difficult shot. ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t met one I could be bothered with. I mean one to be properly interested in. I prefer the company of my mates. You in particular.’

  ‘Compliments! But you often go out with a girl.’

  ‘Yes. I like dancing, taking them home.’

  ‘You’re just sex-mad.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, but I want more from a girl.’

  ‘So do I. In theory.’

  ‘Let’s have another drink.’

  Aaron looked at his watch. ‘Quick one, or we’ll miss the train;’

  ‘And you were talking about picking girls up just now.’

  ‘I thought they might fancy a free ride to Flatsea.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  It was not till they were outside that they had their first notion of anything unusual happening. A police car passed slowly down the street, broadcasting a warning that there was a serious risk of flooding within the next hour. Policemen on foot and a number of volunteer helpers were knocking on doors, advising people to move upstairs. Even this far from the quay they could hear the deluging sound of water, hammering and battering at the walls. John limped slowly, so Aaron put his arm r
ound him to hurry him along. The wind was still very strong and bitterly cold, driving handfuls of snow-flakes horizontally before it, but the cloud was beginning to thin and the moon showed fleetingly between dark scudding shapes.

  The train was in at the station, the last one for the night. There were very few passengers. They walked the length of it so that Aaron could discover if there were any unattached girls who needed their company. John grumbled a good deal, and eventually they climbed into an empty compartment. He lay his plastered leg along the seat, and his head against the window; Aaron sprawled on the seat opposite. The train did not move. After a while they began to wonder why, and Aaron stuck his head out. There was an argument going on between the driver and the station-master. The driver was saying there was so much water over the line ahead that it wasn’t safe to continue. The station-master said he’d heard nothing official or indeed unofficial about it, and if the train wasn’t out of his station in ten seconds there’d be hell to pay.

  ‘Get this bloody old crate moving!’ Aaron shouted, and ducked his head inside before he could be spotted.

  The train did start moving at once, which made them both laugh, and Aaron made V-signs at the station-master as they passed. Then he lay flat on the seat, lit a cigarette, and listened to the wind and sea.