by David Rees
Charley braked sharply. The road and the railway had vanished. He drove on, but the water rose rapidly to the bonnet. He stopped, revved the engine madly to prevent it cutting out, and reversed back onto the dry part of the road. Water was pouring across in front of them with the speed of a mill-race, taking with it what looked like quantities of seaweed and torn-up tussocks of grass, planks of wood, clothes even, a suitcase and travelling-bags. In the distance was Flatsea; it was too far away to detect many separate details, but they could see houses surrounded by water. The island had changed : it was a long narrow spit of land instead of its normal shape, almost as round as a dish.
‘I left my wedding-ring on the draining-board,’ said Charley.
That’s not all you’ve lost,’ said Doris, in a choked voice.
The engine spluttered and died. Charley got out, opened the bonnet, and frantically dried the plugs. He was ankle-deep in water. Miraculously the car started again; he turned it round and they drove back into Oozedam.
‘Where are we going?'
The nearest phone. We must try and get hold of Martin or Peter. Then the police. They must know what’s happening. Then to Ann’s, if we can get there, to see if Ron is all right.’
‘My God, Charley. To think this can happen. Three of my boys! Where are they? If anything’s happened I’ll never forgive myself, never!’
‘Shut up! Get a grip on yourself!’
Martin’s car was the last vehicle to cross the bridge between Flatsea and the mainland. Though the road ran near the sea wall, they saw nothing to alarm them unduly. Water running down the inside of the concrete or lying in pools beside the railway line was unusual but it had happened before; and so had waves booming against the wall, showering spray onto the road. The wind worried them more than the sea. It swung the car towards the hedge, and made the two yellow moons of other cars coming towards them waver unsteadily. There were branches lying in the road as the Oozedam crowd in the pub had said. Martin drove slowly, and was relieved when the first houses and street-lamps appeared.
They could see now how strong this wind was, battering at trees, spinning a closed-open sign at a petrol station round at crazy speed, whirling a cardboard box across the road in front of them. Lights glowed cosily behind curtains where people were watching the Queen, or upstairs in bedrooms and bathrooms. There was no one about; the town was dreary and empty. Oozedam was a grey place at the best of times. It had built its fortunes on fish, and when that trade had dwindled, the car ferries had taken its place. People drove straight to the ship, then embarked for Holland or Denmark and paid no attention to these nondescript East Coast streets.
When they were inside the flat Martin began to feel uneasy again. There was something unusually sinister about this wind, the way it whooshed between the attic gables and the chimney pots, smashed the empty milk bottles on people’s doorsteps. It even stopped the sound of next door's television penetrating their wall. As he cleaned his teeth he thought he could hear cries, not human, but perhaps the animals in their sheds on the allotments. He opened the curtains, but could see nothing. Then there was a heavy thud and a tearing noise, a large lump of wood it sounded like, hitting a fence. He opened the window. The gale immediately blew the curtains in his face, slammed the door and knocked a plastic mug into the basin. He leaned out, trying to see. The triumphant thunder of the sea sounded very near. He could just make out the line of the railway embankment in the dark, but beyond it nothing. It was one dark mass. Then, as his eyes became used to the blackness, he could see movement out there. Water. Some men running along the railway line. And he could hear above the wind faint screams, pigs probably, frightened by the noise. The sea had come over and was filling up the space between the wall and the embankment. He shut the window with difficulty, and went into the kitchen.
‘Ann, the allotments are flooded. Do you think it will come up any further?’
‘They’ve been flooded before. There were some pigs drowned last year. The Council’s always telling people they shouldn’t keep animals out there, but nobody takes any notice.’
‘Has it ever come over the embankment?’
‘Never.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘What do you mean? ’
‘Well. . . a first time, perhaps? I’m . . . I don't know . . .’
‘Come on! It would be fantastic if the sea came over! Why, that embankment’s been there at least a hundred years!’
There was a crashing rending noise from the roof next door, a moment’s silence, then something smashing in pieces.
‘A slate.’
Ann shivered. ‘Let’s go to bed. Or we’ll talk ourselves into a panic.’
‘Why hot water bottles?’ She was holding two.
‘It’s so cold. I bought them yesterday.’
‘You have me.’
When they were in bed they heard a distant muffled boom, not a loud noise, but long and deep as if some enormous heavy thing was being slowly pushed, then a great shout from the sea, a swamping drenching sound of fearsome strength.
‘What was it?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m frightened now. Hold me.'
‘I am.’
They listened. Wind. Sea. Nothing else. The scream of a pig, nearer maybe than it should have been. Then the telephone rang, outside on the downstairs landing.
‘Not for us, I hope.’
‘Dad? Peter? Ron? I wonder where Ron is.’
Lynwyn, the Jamaican girl downstairs, walked across her room. They heard her answer the phone, then her feet on the stairs.
‘Martin. It’s your brother.’
‘Right, I’m coming.’ He rolled out of bed and pulled on his trousers. ‘Which brother? ’
‘I don’t know. He says it's urgent.’
He listened to Peter’s brief message, his terrified shouts of ‘Save me! We’re drowning!’ and felt sick with fear and guilt.
‘Peter! Get out! Get upstairs! Peter?’ But the phone was dead.
He rushed back into the flat, shouted to Ann to get dressed, threw, his arms into his T-shirt and ran to the wardrobe for a coat, completely forgetting that Peter had asked him to phone the police.
‘We should never have left, never. If anything happens to those two kids I’ll never forgive myself. Why did you persuade me? No, it’s not your fault. It’s mine, entirely mine. Where are the car keys? We’re going straight back to Flatsea.’
She was dressed now, too. ‘How will we get over the bridge?’
‘Swim. Try to. I’d bloody well rather drown than not try.’
They ran downstairs. As they were making for the front door it was flung at them, ripped from its hinges by an enormous tree-trunk that had hit it, and a deluge of water poured in. Ann shrieked and ran back up the stairs. Martin hesitated and it surged round him, piercingly cold. The tree remained wedged in the doorway; the door was jammed between the walls of the hall. In seconds the water was up to his waist, helped by a second avalanche that burst in through the back door and the windows of the downstairs kitchen, preceded by a tremendous smashing of glass. The force of the water pushed open the door of the ground floor flat. He struggled towards it. Inside was a young woman and a tiny baby, born there only ten days before.
‘Martin! Come back!’ Ann screamed. Lynwyn was now on the stairs shouting at him as well.
‘Can’t you think of anyone but yourself?' he yelled. ‘Catch this.’ He pulled off his coat, for it was impeding his progress, and threw it at Ann. It missed and floated down the passage. The water was up to his chest, stifling and icy; he could scarcely breathe with the shock of it. It was slimy and felt more like oil than water, being dirty with innumerable substances it had swept before it since it broke in, from pig-sties, gardens, houses.
Now he was almost into the flat, and swimming.
‘Kathleen! Are you all right?’
Then the electricity failed. It was pitch dark.
Peter struggl
ed towards the kitchen. The water was up to his neck, the cold of it stupefying. When he tried to swim he was pushed back by the force of the torrent against the wood of the staircase. He clung to the banisters. His head felt as if it didn’t belong to him and the muscles of his chest seemed rigid as if they were trying to stop his lungs taking in air. Several things banged into him. It was so dark that he was not sure what they were, but he thought they came from the kitchen, the plastic bread-bin, a milk jug. From the bar came the jingling brittle sound of dozens of bottles all crashing into each other. Then the flood began to lose its strength; the flow slackened and it was rising more slowly. He swam towards what he thought was the kitchen door, and banged his head on the wood of its frame. There was still some space between the water and the ceiling, but he was afraid it would not be there for long. He lashed out with one arm trying to find the lintel and hit a cup and saucer floating on the surface, the saucepan he had used earlier to make the cocoa. Then his right foot struck the door-knob, and he was able to heave himself up onto the top of the door, his foot still on the handle, his head touching the ceiling.
‘Susan! Where are you?’ he shouted.
‘Here!’ Her voice was. quite near him. ‘I thought you’d . . . I climbed on the table, then pulled a chair onto it. Now I’m standing on the chair.’
‘But . . . why are you so near me?’
The sea’s pushed the table against the wall and jammed it against something. It’s not floating; perhaps it’s my weight.’
‘We must get out. There won’t be much air left soon.’
‘How can we?’
‘Swim of course. Can you follow me?’
‘I can’t swim.’
‘Bloody hell!’ He kicked out from the door with his left foot, and found the table; he stood on it and was holding her thin, wet, shivering body against him. The shock of this for a second was more than his fear or the intense cold. He said ‘I’m going to turn round. Put your arms round me, under my armpits. That's right. I’m going to take a very deep breath, then I’m going to swim. Will you trust me?’
‘Yes.’
But once in the water the combined weight of both of them dragged him under. She let go of him in fright, then grabbed him round the neck. He was suffocating; her arms were strangling him, and there was water flooding into his mouth and nose. Striking out through the filthy black water from the kitchen table to the staircase were moments very close to death : blinding stars in his eyes and red hot spears in his lungs; he was drowning, here in his own hall, where he had walked unconcerned half an hour ago, or crawled as a baby : he had a sudden picture of himself as a small child on this floor only a foot or so below him, playing with toy bricks. Then he was touching the staircase, groping for the banisters, and heaving himself upwards with an immense effort; her grip loosened as she too grasped one of the uprights, and they were both safe, panting, spitting, spluttering. Then over the top and onto the stairs, and crawling up them, and flopping onto the landing carpet which was dry and infinitely soft, her hand in his and she whispered ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ and he was kissing her, several times and with a sort of wild exhilaration; and thinking, you don’t ask, it happens. He smiled : why for him when the whole world was drowning, and pulling them down with it?
Then he stood up, so weak at the knees he had to lean against the wall in case he fell over, and said in a hoarse whisper, for he had not the strength to speak louder, ‘Where are the candles?’
‘On your parents’ bed.’
He managed shakily to light one, and returned to the landing where she was still sitting. He looked at her in the flickering candlelight; she was soaked, shivering, and exhausted. He thought he had never seen her face, really seen it, till now.
‘We nearly drowned,’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes. But we’re safe.’
‘If we don’t freeze to death.’
He went into the bathroom and started to run hot water into the bath.
‘You go in it,’ he said. Take those clothes off and I’ll find some of Mum's.’
She giggled. ‘I could get three of me into her things.’
‘Well . . . how about my jeans? Yes, I’ve a clean pair, and some vests and pants and sweaters.’ He lit another candle and went into his bedroom. ‘Don’t let the water out when you’ve finished; as the electricity’s gone, the tank will fill up cold. I’ll go in it when I come back.’ How ordinary this conversation sounded, he thought; it should somehow be important, significant. He put the clothes on the bathroom chair.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Down to the bar. I’m going to rescue Martin’s picture.’
‘Peter! You're mad!’
‘Get in the bath.’
She did as he told her, and he walked down the stairs into the water. The bottles and glasses in the bar were bobbing and circling and making music, hundreds of sugar-plum fairies. The level had gone down slightly : it was now lower than the top of the bar door. The height had fallen as it spread out across the island, and some of it was making its way out of the pub by the doorways and windows it had burst open. He had no trouble in finding the picture and lifting it off its hook; he slipped his arm through the cord and swam back. On the stairs he found a quart bottle of beer, one of the old-fashioned sort with a stopper, and he took this up with him. He could hear Susan in the bath. He dried the picture with the counterpane from his parents’ bed, and stood it on the dressing-table. In the candlelight it seemed unharmed by the salt water, and beautiful. There was all of Martin in it. Then he took off his wet clothes and slipped under his parents’ huge eiderdown, and waited for Susan to finish. Outside King Charles’s head moaned in the wind. He began to feel the shock. Now that he was a little warmer, a huge wave of relief that filled him and demanded release almost wanted to break all the bones in his body in order to wash over him and swallow him up.
Susan came out of the bathroom.
‘All right?’ he murmured wearily.
‘Yes. I put lots of cold in it. The heat seemed to scald me, because I was so frozen, I think.’
The sense of relaxation unwound him more and more as he lay in the bath; his whole body was tingling and melting; he was a disembodied spirit, dead, nothing but a voice or a ghost. He almost fell asleep.
Later, when he had dressed, he drank some of the beer, not much, for it made him feel sick. He remembered the brandy.
‘Susan. Do you want some of this?’
‘No thanks. Come and look.’ She was standing by the window in Martin’s old room. The clouds had lifted and the moon was shining, its brilliance dazzling on the sea with a strange cold intensity, illuminating everything. There were black and silver trees and houses, all marooned in the sea, not a blade of grass anywhere.
A light waved in a window about fifty yards away.
‘It’s Mum and Dad! Peter, how can we tell them we’re safe?’
‘Put the candle on the window-sill. No! I’ve a better idea! Dad keeps a torch in his bedroom.’ He went off to fetch it.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Send a message. Does your Dad understand Morse?’
‘Yes, I think so. Yes, he learned it in the war.’
‘I was a scout for two years. The only thing they taught me was the Morse code. I wonder if I can remember it.’
Slowly he spelled out the message, ‘We are safe. Peter. Susan.’ Back came the answer, after what seemed an eternity of slowness, ‘Thank God’. Then the torch in the Allgoods’ window whirled and leaped in a joyous dance. Peter sent another message. We are alone. Mum and Dad not returned. Martin and Ann left before it happened. Ron not come home.’ The Allgoods’ torch began to spell out an answer.
What’s, he saying?’ Susan asked.
Wrap . . . up . . . well . . . keep . . . each . . . other . . . warm.’
They both laughed. ‘Roger and out,’ Peter flashed.
‘It’s cold in here,’ said Susan.
This is Martin’s room.
Was.’ It was the smallest bedroom, now full of spare furniture and junk. The only things of Martin’s were three cardboard boxes full of odds and ends. They went into Peter’s bedroom, and sat on the floor, their backs against the bed, close together for warmth inside his eiderdown and the patchwork quilt he had brought back from Grandma’s. It smelled of mothballs, old and cosy and secure.
‘Do you want some of this brandy now?’
‘A sip.’
They took a mouthful each from the bottle, and choked almost as much as when they pulled themselves from the water.
‘This is a decadent teenage party,’ said Peter. ‘Mum was reading about them in the Sunday People this morning. Drinking spirits, and a girl in my bedroom.’
‘Peter, please take me out to the disco. I do want to.’
‘Yes. The soonest we can.’
He put his arm round her, and after a while she fell asleep against his shoulder. He was happy, a soaring, liberating sensation, free like flying weightless through the air, like nothing he had ever known. Absurd, he thought, with my father's house a wreck, and the rest of the family Heaven knew where or in what trouble. He took another sip of brandy, and stared round at his room, the blank walls papered pink, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers. There’s nothing in here, he thought, that says it’s me, not like Ron’s, cluttered with things. I shall put some of Martin’s pictures up. He felt drowsy, and tried to sleep, but could not. Susan began to be a weight on his arm; he stirred, and she woke.
He shivered, not with the cold, but the happiness could not last. Nagging questions the first shock of everything had swept out of his mind crept back. Where were Mum and Dad? David had said they’d gone. Returned to his house? Surely they were all right. Martin ― safe from the flood, he knew that, but his phone call must have driven his brother crazy with worry. What was Martin doing? Trying to rescue him, in terrible difficulties that were completely unnecessary as he was quite safe? And Ron. Anything could have happened to him, hard though it was to imagine the god-like Aaron really suffering. And his grandparents : they would surely have been in bed, and therefore unharmed. He stood up and went to the window. He could see the end of their cottage, but whether there was a light there or not he couldn’t be certain; the angle of the windows obscured it. All the familiar things looked unreal as in a dream, the flickering of the guttering candle making his room insubstantial, the hard unnatural sheen of the moon on the water turning trees and houses into cardboard cut-outs.