All the dear faces

by Audrey Howard

  “I wish you would come to Upfell, Annie," Charlie managed to gasp when they reached the safety and comparative quiet of the Browhead kitchen. They could barely speak, either of them, bending forward, hands on their thighs as they gulped air into their tortured lungs. "I don't like to think of you here alone in this."

  “In what, Charlie? This will soon let up. It's a bit unusual for the snows to thaw so early . . ."

  “1 know that, but this rain after the thaw is going to make it much more ... " He had been about to say `dangerous' but she was smiling as though to reassure him that this Lakeland where she had spent most of her life could not frighten Annie Abbott. She was concerned for her flock, naturally, but when the rain stopped there would be vegetation for them to crop and they were knowing enough to come down and gather on the inlands above the farm where she would feed them the hay from her barn. Royal would drag the loaded sledge up the slope and, before it snowed again, as she knew it would, her flock would have a nourishing, life-saving meal to see them through the next few weeks.

  “I'll have to go, Annie. Phoebe will be worried."

  “I know, Charlie, and don't concern yourself about me. I have plenty to eat and enough peat and wood to last a month, though I don't expect it will be that long. And these two will keep me company," pointing to the dogs who steamed before the fire.

  “I'll come back as soon as I've let Phoebe know we're all right."

  “You'll do no such thing. You can't divide yourself between two farms, and you must put your wife and child first, Charlie. Besides, this farmhouse has stood here for hundreds of years and will continue to do so for a long time to come. Now go on, off you go, and tell Phoebe I'll be up as soon as this lot stops.”

  Reed Macauley urged on the weary mount he had persuaded the owner of the livery stable in Clifton to sell him. He would let no animal of his out in this weather, the man had told him churlishly, and only when Reed had offered to buy the beast – a somewhat ancient grey – which would then, Reed explained, keeping his sharp temper in check, belong to himself and would therefore no longer be the livery owner's responsibility, had the man parted with the sorry-looking nag.

  He had moved in an almost straight line from the village of Clifton, across low, rolling hills through the villages of Tirril, Dacre, Hutton and Wallthwaite until he hit the Penrith to Keswick road at Burns. He crossed the River Eamont, the waters almost reaching the arch of the bridge, thundering down its course in full spate, carrying on its surging torrent the flotsam and jetsam it had picked up on its mad journey. Broken branches, great swathes of torn-out vegetation, birds, small animals, boxes and chairs and planks of wood which were becoming jammed against the structure of the bridge. It was the same at the Glenaeramackin river and at Trout Beck, the water beginning to overflow and flood the surrounding fields. When he reached Keswick it was a foot deep, the Market Place filled with frightened horses, bogged-down carriages and carts, shop owners, their clothing plastered to their bodies as they tried unsuccessfully to stem the inundation as it crept over their doorsteps. Moot Hall stood like an island in the middle of it. The Derwent and the Greta were both in flood, pouring not only their swirling, swollen waters into the town but all the rubbish they had collected on their race down the high fell.

  And still the rain poured out of a low and surly sky, sweeping in a great impermeable curtain across Little Man as Reed rode out of Keswick, blotting out the high peaks of Skiddaw Forest until it seemed to Reed he was riding into the skies themselves. He had exchanged his exhausted grey for a fresh mount in Keswick, paying over more money, for though the livery owner knew him, he was reluctant to part with a good beast, especially to hazard it, a roan mare this time, in the elements which shrieked their furious spite on the fells.

  “Nay, Mr Macauley, tha' don't mean ter ride over ter Long Beck in this, do tha'?" for you are a fool if you do, his thunderstruck expression said.

  “I do, Archie Wilson, and what is it to you?"

  “'Tis nowt ter me, sir. What yer do is yer own business but this animal is mine." The feel of good solid cash in his hand quietened any misgivings he might have had!

  The hailstones began to hurl themselves down on him and the roan just as he reached Dodd Wood. He had decided against going up and over the top of Skiddaw when he came out of Keswick and saw the water pouring down the slopes on to the road as he inched his way beyond Mallen Dodd. If the road here was already a debris-filled swirl of water, what would it be like higher up from where it came? he asked himself. The roan was badly frightened, shying nervously at everything which brushed against her legs, flinching and rolling her eyes, difficult to handle. There was muck and mud, ripped-out heather and gorse bushes, loose scree, timber, and the bodies of many small, fellside animals bobbing madly about her and she did not like it.

  When the hailstorm began Reed was forced to dismount, moving to the roan's head, holding her with both hands, soothing her terror. She was slippery with the rain, her coat giving the appearance of having been oiled, and from her mouth great lines of spittle drooped and were whipped away in the wind. The hailstones, as big as pigeons' eggs, sliced into her flesh and with a pain-filled scream of terror she broke free of Reed's restraining hands, rearing up above him, her hooves flailing, one catching him a glancing blow on the temple.

  “Steady . . . steady, girl . . ." he tried to shout, the blood beginning to pour across his forehead and into his eye. He hung on grimly to the reins but even as he did so she turned towards the lake, escaping, as she thought, the tumult which crashed about them from the fell. He could not hold her and she went, vanishing in a moment as though the earth, or the lake as was more likely, had swallowed her up and Reed's last thought as he sank to his knees and then on to his face was that Archie Wilson had been right after all.

  *

  Though it was no more than three o'clock in the afternoon it was so dark it might have been midnight as the cloudburst emptied over the giant of Skiddaw. The wind had risen to a howling gale and both dogs cowered at Annie's feet. Moving to the window which rattled with every beat of her frightened heart, the dogs clinging to her heels, Annie peered out at her own reflection. There was nothing to be seen, absolutely nothing and she might have been buried in a great black hole. There was nothing from which she might get a bearing. No building, no tree, not a star in the sky, nor a shape on the ground, and the feeling of disorientation was appalling. Not in all her years in Lakeland had she seen such black nothingness and she wished now she had gone with Charlie. At least she would have had the comforting, comfortable good sense of Phoebe to sustain her and the baby's sweetness to cheer her. She had hoped she would be able to make her way over to the barn where Royal was stabled for he must be hungry by now, and probably terrified out of his wits. The cows would be easier to get to for the byre was attached to the house and she had only to feel her way along the wall to reach it but she would have left the animals to fend for themselves, really she would, if she could have crawled up the track to Upfell and the company of Charlie and Phoebe.

  She was badly alarmed by a sudden thump at the back of the farmhouse, then another, the second one so violent she could feel the tremor of it in the soles of her feet as it shook the sturdy building. What was it? Had something fallen, a tree perhaps or . . . ? The thought had not had time to formulate itself in her mind when she felt the icy cold surge of water bite into her bare feet. She looked down and to her horror, seeping under the door was a dark slick which stained the floor with the sediment it contained. It moved inexorably about her feet and across the stone flags, rising, even as she watched in stupefied amazement, to lap at her ankle bone.

  “Oh, dear God . . ." she moaned, shaking her head in denial, ready to wrench open the door and escape it, to run screaming up the track for Charlie and Phoebe, for anybody since she did not want to drown here all by herself. Not here in this dark and empty space where she existed alone. Alone because of her love for one man. A self-chosen loneliness but terrifying nevertheles
s and she could not bear it. Reed . . . I need you, Reed . . . I am so afraid in this cold and alien place . . . Reed . . . Oh, dear Lord . . . where? . . . where should she run to? . . . the dogs . . . Dandy, they were beginning to panic . . . to howl in fear, catching it from her and if she did not get a tight grip on herself . . . help me . . . someone . . . Reed .. .

  She looked about her, fighting her panic and as suddenly as it had come, and for no apparent reason, it left her. It was as though his strong and vital presence was standing beside her filling her with a calming peace, and she was calm. As though his mind had reached into hers, giving her comfort, touching something in her, steadying her, soothing her pounding heart, and she was renewed by it.

  “Come on, lads, stop that noise, Dandy," she said firmly to the animals, "it's upstairs for us. There's nothing to be done here until the rain stops. Now, let's see . . . food . . . water, rushlights, flint and striker . . . and there's the milk. Up you go, Blackie . . . aye, it's all right, boy, up you go," for even in his terror he was not sure he should move up the stairs where he was never allowed. "Good boy, up you go.”

  It took her ten minutes to collect as much food as she could, the hot `tatie-pot' which had been bubbling on the fire, the last to go, and even as she moved to the bottom stair the water was already there before her and on the hearth the fire was doused for only the second time since she had returned to Browhead, its acrid smoke billowing up the howling chimney.

  Chapter41

  It was the water flooding into his mouth which brought him to his senses, choking him to consciousness, coughing and spluttering, though at first he was so confused he had no idea how he had got where he was, or even who he was.

  He sat up, held fast in a violent bout of shivering, the pain at once beginning to bang agonisingly inside his skull. Dear God in Heaven, where? . . . what? . . . he was soaked through, his clothing plastered to his body like wet cement and just as heavy, but he could not seem to be able to collect his wits sufficiently to tell him how he had got into such a state. He could hear nothing but the thunder of water and the howling of the demonic wind accompanied by an occasional thud which he could not recognise though it sounded dangerous. What in hell's name? .. . where was he going? . . . how? Jesus Christ, but his head hurt, and it was as he put his hands to it, unable to bear the pain of it a moment longer that a dead sheep came to rest against his back, almost thrusting him from the flooded road and into the lake where . . . yes . . . where his horse had gone! He remembered that . . . his horse galloping away into that impenetrable curtain of hailstones . . . He had been on his way to Browhead . . . to Annie, when the ice particles had sliced at him and the roan he had purchased in Keswick, but how had he come to be hurt? There was blood coursing down his face, mixing with the pelting rain. He could taste the saltiness of it in his mouth, but he really could no longer sit in the rising water, pondering on how he had come to be here when he needed — with all his heart he needed — to get to Annie. She would need him. She would be alone now that chap had married her maidservant and presumably taken her off to a life of their own, and Annie would be in need of him. He knew that with a certainty which had first come to him in New York and had grown with every mile he had travelled to get to her. At last, at last, Annie Abbott needed Reed Macauley.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet and the dead animal behind him thudded into the backs of his legs almost knocking him over again. It was a dead sheep as he had thought but the force of its journey down the rocky fell had shorn it of its fleece as neatly and cleanly as if it had just come from a 'boon' clipping. He watched it in absolute honor as it hurtled away from him towards the turmoil of the lake. He knew the terrifying elements of the Lakeland weather, but he could scarcely believe the forces which had been capable of such a thing. What power had been called up that was so fierce it could strip a fleece from a sheep and what damage was it causing up on the mountains, and more importantly, between here and Browhead? He must get on. He had almost five miles of road to cover and already he was up to his ankles in a rushing, foaming torrent of water. His head was bursting in a pain which almost blinded him, and the rain continued to drown him in its vicious clutch. The wind whipped about him, lashing the downpour into a frenzy and as he straightened himself, turning his sightless gaze towards the head of Bassenthwaite Lake the trees in Dodd Wood, their tops whipping and soughing like demented souls in hell, began to move towards the lake.

  “Jesus God!" he moaned. "Oh, Jesus . . ." for before his horrified eyes a whole line of them, enormous oaks which had stood for hundreds of years, slid slowly from their birthplace and on to the road, the earth in which they had stood torn cleanly away by the force of the water which carried them. They remained upright for a moment then slowly, painfully, lifted by the boiling, brown fury which had convulsed down the mountain, they toppled over.

  It was terrifying, unbelievable. They were a fortress, those trees, unassailable, invincible, and though he had seen it happen with his own eyes, Reed could not believe it. He had ridden past their enormous trunks, in the shadow of their grandeur, beneath the magnificence of their summer foliage since he was a boy on his first pony, taking them for granted, not really seeing them, or their beauty and now they were gone, humbled by a strength greater than their own, torn from their roots as though they were no more than young saplings. He felt he wanted to weep for their destruction and yet he had no time for it. He must get by them, or over them or through the jagged root system which barred his way, standing twenty feet or more in the air, tangled and clogged with earth, for beyond them was his love and there was nothing more sure in this terrifyingly unsure world than the certainty that she needed him.

  Annie stood at the top of the stairs looking down them to where the pale gleam of the rushlight she held aloft showed the flood water. It gave the appearance of lying still but in reality it was creeping inch by slow inch towards her. It had reached half-way up the stairwell, black and silky and in it floated minute particles of debris which had been forced under the door by its strength. There were other things, familiar things, pots and pans and cups, the stool on which she had rested her feet to the fire several hours ago. The box in which she kept her rushlights, the rush-light holder, the one Phoebe had used, and the snuffer. They turned idly in the water where the light reached, bumping against the stairs and each other as though trying to be the first to get up to her. Which they would soon if the water continued to rise.

  She had no idea of the time, nor even of how long she had been up here but she knew if the water came any higher, reaching the upper floor she would have to get out. As soon as it was as high as the top of the bedroom windows her escape route through them would be cut off. She would be trapped. She would drown and so would the animals.

  She moved back into her bedroom and closed the door behind her, an instinctive action which came from her need to shut it out, to bar its entrance, that which lay behind her, though her commonsense told her there was no shutting it out. The menace was behind her, beneath her, all around her. And if she got out, when she got out, what would she do? Where would she go? The wind howled viciously beyond the window and there were constant thuds at the back of the farmhouse as, she supposed, debris was brought down from Middle Fell, from Ullock Pike, Great Calva and Skiddaw on the seething discharge of floodwater. If only she could see out into the vortex of madness which she could only imagine and which was crashing and thudding about the building, but apart from the window-sill which was revealed when she placed the rushlight up to the glass, it was as black and dense as it had been for the . . . for the? . . . how long? . . . what time of day was it? . . . or night? . . . She really couldn't seem to assemble any sensible thought into her brain for it had lost its bearings in this strange and displaced world into which the storm had thrust her. She must think .. . think. . . decide . . . make a plan, some action which, if it came to it, would get herself and her animals to a place of safety, if such a thing existed in this mad confusion, this violence and de
struction which was threatening her. If only she had someone to talk to, to discuss the predicament she was in. Someone to whom she could say, 'what d'you think? Shall we hang on and hope the water goes down, that the deluge stops and the tempest ceases to rage, or shall we get out now, climb up on to the roof, perhaps . . . ?' She had no one, only her dogs who were whimpering at her feet, and Dandy, the straining unease showing plainly in three pairs of eyes as they looked up at her.

  She sat down on the bed, the dogs huddling against her legs, the cat at once crawling into her lap. She was cold, so cold she could feel the violence of her shivering shake the bed. It was January, the coldest month of the year up here on the fells. She had no heat, only the blankets on her bed and the clothing she wore, to warm her. She was tempted to get into the bed but if she should fall asleep what would she find when she awoke? Her bed floating on the water, her nose to the ceiling . . . ?

  A short, nervous laugh erupted from her. God, this was no time to be laughing, she thought, but it had the effect of steadying her. She must eat something. The tatie-pot was cold now but if she was to . . . Oh, Lord Jesus, but the thought terrified her . . . if she was to climb out of the window into the unknown tenor beyond it, then she must be strong, fortified at least by a nourishing meal for the struggle ahead of her.