by Saci Lloyd
“Hmm, well the trick is, to make it all into an adventure . . .”
“But what if you don’t know how to?”
Arthur lowered his voice to a whisper. “You use your imagination. You’ve got one of those, haven’t you?”
I shrugged.
“Oh, I think you do, so you’re off to a flying start. The thing about rationing I remember most clearly was that everyone did their damndest to carry on as if it were normal. And soon it was. I know it’s a dreadfully dull thing to say, but in a way they were very happy times—all pulling together, knowing we were doing something good for the country. And that’s how it’ll be with this generation. Carbon rationing won’t last forever. If we do it properly it won’t be long before alternative thingumajigs fill the gap and we’ll be flying around the globe and what have you again.” He took a swig of punch. “But, Laura, these years, when we all said No, enough!—those who come after us may well view us all as heroes.”
The thing is, though, it’s all right for him to bang on like Churchill—he’s gonna drop dead soon. And what’s a rook, anyway?
Fri., Nov. 6
Rain, rain, rain. Leicester Square is flooded cos—this is so disgusting—a 120-meter block of solid cooking fat is blocking the sewerage tunnel underneath. It’s built up from the restaurants and cafés sending all their oil and grease down the plug hole. Thames Water is pleading for help from the public with pickaxes.
I bumped into Adi in the Yard, asked him if he was going. He spat on the ground.
“Like they helped us in the summer. But, anyway, I can’t, Laura, that fat’s bare raw.” He shuddered. “Have you seen it? It’s all white like a dead body.”
“D’you want to come to mine later? I’ve saved up 2 extra points for downloads this week.”
He shook his head. “Nah, can’t make it. I’ll bell you when I got some free time.”
“Adi. What’s wrong? Are you mad at me?”
“No. Why should I be mad at you?”
I was gonna say something back, but I dunno, maybe Stace is right, I’ve got to back off and let him have his space. God, I’m talking like he’s my boyfriend or something.
Sat., Nov. 7
Historic band practice. Claire ran down the garden, leaned against Adi’s garage door and gasped, “PoleCat’s just offered us a track on their New Wave download! They’re booking us into a pro studio on December 6 for a whole day!”
“Oh, my God!” screamed Stace, throwing her sticks into the air.
Adi got Claire in a big hug and then he ran over and lifted Stace clean off the ground—and then just nodded at me. I walked outside and sat on the garden wall.
Suddenly Adi was there beside me.
I turned. “I’ve had enough. You’re treating me like a total stranger.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve just got sick of being your little friend. Y’know, the one who always lifts you up. What about me? I got feelings, too, man.”
“You guys, come on! We’ve got beer!” Stace yelled.
Adi turned and went inside. I followed him and joined in blah blah blah, but I hated it. I don’t wanna be in this band if Adi’s not my best mate anymore.
Sun., Nov. 8
The sewers can’t cope with all the rain so Thames Water pumped 800,000 tons of shit into the river. Good day for the fish.
Tues., Nov. 10
Central London is disgusting. The whole place stinks like mad. They’re calling it the Second Great Stink cos there was one before, in the 19th century, back in the days before drains. But the worst thing is the rats. They’re running around all over the place cos their little homes are all washed out.
Wed., Nov. 11
A wave of sewage swept down Oxford Street today and Kim got caught up to her knees on Wardour Street. She dragged herself back home for the first time in weeks. Mum was around picking up some clothes. She saw Kim, went “Jesus,” and pushed her into the bathroom and made her stay in there for 3 hours.
“I wanna get in there, Mum. She’s been ages,” I whined.
Mum looked up from the laptop screen in the office. “Well, you’ll have to wait. I’ve been doing research and that water’s filthy—full of salmonella, cryptosporidium, giardia, norovirus, cholera . . . all of them are killers given half the chance.”
I rolled my eyes.
Mum grinned. “Ooh, and listen to this—an eighteenth-century flood, as described by Jonathan Swift . . .” She clicked on a page:
Seepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts and blood,
Drown’d puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,
Dead cats and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.
I went to my room and shut the door. It’s weird when Mum comes around, like everything’s normal again.
Thurs., Nov. 12
Kim stayed the night. Her and Kier are mad cos they’ve had to cancel a big event on the South Bank this weekend.
“What happened to global warming?” Kieran growled. “We’re just going to have to rethink the whole thing now that London’s turning into a big river. Oooh . . . rivers, canals—what about taking to the water . . . a gondola event! The—the reflective streets of beauty. That’ll get the punters.”
“Punters?”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Sorry. Date members. They’re like a family to me.”
Ever since parents’ evening, Dad’s been in manic overdrive. He spends his whole life either in the cellar making home brew or outside with the pig. Seeing Mum just makes him crazy. There are 2 possible reasons for this.
1. He hates my mother’s guts.
2. He is still in love with her.
Larkin spends all day in his sty looking miserable. He is one big pig.
Fri., Nov. 13
It took me 40 minutes to get to school this morning cos Lee Road’s all flooded. When I finally turned into the gates, site staff were setting up sandbags around the walls of the building. Everyone looked kind of scared but trying not to show it.
I went to my Design Tech session, but we could hardly hear Dave Beard over the rain crashing down onto the plastic roof of the technology room. Suddenly a piece of pipe broke away from outside and sent a stream of dirty water gushing across the roof and walls. It was like being inside a car wash.
Phil Dixon, this dweeby kid in high-waister tracksuit pants, put his hand up and asked the question we all secretly wanted to ask.
“Is London going to flood, sir?”
This was met with a chorus of shut up, idiot, duh from all of us and the kid next to him mock-cuffed him around the ear. Dave Beard held up his hand for silence.
“No, we’re going to be fine. London’s got the Thames Barrier to protect her.”
We all stared at him.
“You know what that is, don’t you?”
Silence.
Dave sighed heavily and turned to the smart board and began to draw. “Watch. Thames Barrier, opened in May 1984, consists of a line of reinforced concrete piers spanning the river at Woolwich Reach. Their foundations are sunk 17 meters into the chalk.” He flashed a small smile. “That’s pretty deep, ladies and gentlemen.” When we didn’t smile back, he blushed and plunged back into his explanation. I don’t think anyone’s ever listened to him like this before.
“Right, there are four main gates to allow for the free flow of the Thames through the barrier. Normally the rising gates lie on the riverbed to allow boats to move, but when the tide is high—due to flooding, tide, or surges—the gates can be put into flood defense position with hydraulic rams, which are controlled by a tower on the south bank. That’s what I’ve drawn here. Is that clear?”
“Who makes the decision to close them, sir?”
Dave frowned. “Er, not sure. The mayor, maybe? It used to be that individual boroughs had their own emergency plans, but since the barrier was built the whole system’s been centralized. The decision is taken on the basis of data from the Met Office—and then they close the gate four or five hours before high tide.”
Everyone nodded.
“And another thing—you say the mayor makes the decision? Last night I watched Jaws with my little bro, man. Y’know when the mayor and the money men won’t close the beach even though Inspector Brody’s seen the shark with his own eyes? I ain’t got no faith in no white mayor.”
Dave shook his head sadly. “Well, Nathan, be that as it may, if this rain continues to fall, or we’re hit by a bad storm on the east coast, the Thames Barrier system is what’s standing between us and disaster.”
Suddenly the bell started to ring, even though it wasn’t the end of the lesson. Dave jumped up and went out into the corridor. When he came back in, he looked pretty white. “All right, everyone to the main hall. Quietly.” But no one was talking, anyway. We all knew what it was about.
Bob was already on the stage when we got in there. I dunno, there’s something about that guy; the more he tries to look like he’s in charge, the less you believe in him. He got straight to the point. “As you are all no doubt aware, the rainwater is rising to a dangerous level. Today’s storm has, I feel, taken this to an unacceptable point—and therefore I have made the decision to suspend classes until conditions improve. Which of course, they will. Any questions?”
The hall exploded with voices. Bob held up his hand for quiet. “I understand you have a lot of questions so now I’d like to ask our energy specialist, Ms. Parry-Jones, to come up to deliver a short lecture on flood preparation procedures—and to answer any of your queries.”
GPJ leaped onto the stage, looking like a woman whose hour had come. “First point on the agenda—sandbagging,” she began, eyes sparkling like sapphires. “If you act early enough, sandbags will help to keep water out of your home. They are available at places like B&Q and other home improvement stores, but you can make them yourselves from plastic bags or pillow cases. The important thing is not to overfill the bags with sand or dirt—otherwise they won’t sit on top of each other properly and water will seep through the gaps.” A student carried a sandbag onto the stage and demonstrated filling it with soil.
I sat there, numb, as she droned on about turning off gas and electricity, filling baths with drinking water, getting mops and buckets ready, moving supplies of food, clothes, blankets, and pets upstairs. An image of Larkin romping around on the landing flashed into my head. “And finally, do not go out in a flood—even 20 centimeters of water can suck off manhole covers, uproot paving stones, and knock an adult off his . . .”—her eye briefly met mine—“or her feet.”
Sandbags? Give me a break.
When I got home Dad was staring out the kitchen window at the ruined garden. It’s just a big churned-up mass of mud and water.
“It’s time to get out of this city,” he muttered.
I can’t believe it. We just go from one crisis to the next.
I’m so lonely without Adi.
Sun., Nov. 15
Loads of neighbors met in our kitchen today. When I walked in, Shiva was going, “But surely this Thames Barrier is enough? The British government would never leave London unprotected.”
Loud Dad snorted. “Yeah, right. I’ve worked in the Environment Department for fifteen long years and—”
“And what?”
“Well, basically, the barrier’s too small. And they know it. The thing was built in the first place because of the storm of 1953. Y’see the real danger to London isn’t all this rain, it’s a storm surge, and that’s what happened then. Ten thousand people had to be evacuated. The Docklands was flooded, but that time central London was spared.”
“Yes, I remember it well,” said Arthur. “Awful business—the East End was a total disaster. One minute we were safe and dry and then this huge roaring wall of filthy water swept everything up in its path.”
I glanced over at Arthur. Honestly, he’s like Forrest Gump—he’s been at every single major event of the last century as far as I can see.
Dad held up his hand. “Sorry. What’s a storm surge?”
“Roughly speaking, it’s a big hump of water that rises off the Grand Banks of Canada and sweeps across the Atlantic, becoming more dangerous as it travels onward. Surges happen all the time and mostly they sweep away north once they reach Iceland but, sometimes, if the wind is blowing the wrong way, the hump is forced down the North Sea and into the Thames Estuary. You can imagine the sort of force we’re looking at.”
“Plus the Estuary’s shaped like a trumpet,” said Mousy Woman, shyly.
Arthur turned to her. “A what?”
“A trumpet. I—I looked it up. The shape makes the surge travel even faster. But mostly it’s all right—as long as the surge doesn’t happen at the same time as high water. And it almost never does, it’s called the—the . . .”—she pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag—”. . . the surge-tide interaction! That means that the surge nearly always happens four hours after high water—and so the barrier can cope with the water levels.”
Loud Dad reached for the sheet and traced his finger over London. “And that’s where the politics comes in. They don’t want to put any more money in—the current barrier ran 75 percent over budget so the government line is that surge-tide interaction is a proven fact—that it’s impossible for a surge to happen at the same time as high tide.” He shook his head. “But it’s not impossible, it’s just unlikely. And if it does happen, the barrier’s too small. Add to that all this damn rain and rising sea levels due to global warming—I tell you, it’s just a matter of time till London goes under.”
“How long would it take?” asked Dad.
Mousy Woman looked at her paper again. “High water only takes an hour to travel from the barrier to Putney—central London could be flooded within two hours of the barrier over-topping. How deep depends on the size of the surge and the height of the embankment walls. But in central London they’re not that high—only about five and a half metres.”
“But surely there are systems—emergency services, a plan?” cut in Shiva. “I do not believe all this doom and gloom talking.”
Loud Dad shook his head. “I don’t mean to sound so negative, but the barrier has given London a false sense of security. Councils don’t even have maps anymore that show where in their borough is likely to flood and where’s safe. You’ve no idea of the power of moving water—once it rises above exhaust-pipe level, that’s the whole emergency ground force knocked out—fire brigade, police, ambulances. Then you’re relying on river and air rescue. Rescue from the river is a joke—all we’ve got is a few tugs and barges—and d’you know how long it takes to evacuate people by air?”
The room went dead quiet.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, it’s good to look the devil in his face—but let’s remember that this is all very unlikely.”
Loud Dad sucked in air between his teeth but said nothing.
Mon., Nov. 16
It’s stopped raining!
Wed., Nov. 18
Still stopped. God, I was just looking back in the diary to the summer when I was praying for rain. Now I’m praying for none. We’re messed up.
Thurs., Nov. 19
Still stopped and the water levels have dropped fast cos the summer was so dry—the ground’s just sucking it up. Maybe we’re not so messed up. Like there’s a new balance.
Sat., Nov. 21
Still stopped. The Met Office forecasts dry weather for the week.
Sun., Nov. 22
I woke up to a disgusting burning smell in the house. I legged it down to the kitchen and found Dad, standing over the grill. I could only just see him thru the smoke, scooping a blackened pancake onto a plate.
“Ah, Laura. There’s my girl! Hungry?”
What, now? I’ve never seen him cook a pancake in his life. He came and sat down next to me.
“Wondered how you felt about having this place to yoursel
f for a few days? I want to get away—and the Met Office say the worst is probably over.”
“Where are you going?”
He fiddled with his fork. “Er, well, I want to take a look at a couple of market garden farms in the country.”
“But, Dad, I don’t want to move. . . .”
“It’s only research. I want to explore growing under glass—we could extend our crop life out in the garden here all year . . . even grow some exotics.”
“Oh, come off it, I’m not a kid.”
“All right. I know you don’t want to leave, but I don’t know how much longer London’s going to be safe.”
“We’ve been fine this year. Nothing bad’s happened.”
He poked at a pancake. “That’s not true, and you know it . . . and anyway, how long—”
“But this is where I wanna be. I’ve got a life here, the band. All you’re thinking about is you.” I watched him sawing at his pancake. “And you’re gonna need a chainsaw to get thru that, it’s radioactive.”
He threw his fork down. “I don’t know how much choice we’ve got anymore.”
Tues., Nov. 24
Dad went today. He came into my room early this morning.
“Will you be all right? I mean, I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
“I’ll be fine. Mum and Kim are around if I need them.”
“Sure?”
I nodded.
“Well then, I’ll see you in a few days. No mad parties, okay?”
Spent the rest of the day completely alone. Claire and Stace are on a field trip. I’m too proud to call Adi.
Wed., Nov. 25
Did nothing. Spoke to no one.
Thurs., Nov. 26
I called Kim, but she had about 6 call waitings just in the 30 seconds I spoke to her.
“Look, it’s not a good time, Laur. Now the floods have started to go down everyone wants to get out . . . The flower delivery’s late and I’m having a . . . No! Not there—in the freezer! Look, I’ll call you later.”