Storm Surge Page 8

  ‘It’s only Calor gas.’

  ‘Makes no difference. What are you putting your clothes on for? You’ll get them wet.’

  ‘Fred Brown, you don’t think I’m going down to my kitchen in the nude? The idea!’ She jammed her hat on, and thrust the pin firmly into it. ‘Matches, Fred.’

  ‘In my coat pocket, over there. And who’s going to see you, girl?’

  That’s not the point, and if you can’t see the point at your age you ought to be ashamed of yourself!’ He listened to her going slowly down the stairs.

  ‘Ooh, Fred, it’s cold!’

  ‘Of course it’s cold. Can you manage?’

  ‘Yes. Ooooh!’

  Twenty minutes later she re-emerged holding a tray. On it were a pot of tea, cups, plates, slices of hot toast, butter, marmalade, and two boiled eggs in their egg-cups.

  ‘You’re the most prodigious woman, Bessy, who ever walked God’s earth.’ He took the tray from her and put it down on the bed.

  ‘Sorry, Fred, but I can’t find the salt anywhere. And no sugar. The basin was lying on the window-sill. Can’t think how it got there, but the sugar’s all dissolved. I found the milk but we can’t touch that; the sea’s in it and it’s all gone grey and queer.’

  ‘I’ve never had such a good breakfast.’

  ‘Good job we keep so many things on that shelf. The water hasn’t reached it, so the bread’s dry, the butter’s dry, the marmalade’s dry. I had a devil of a job, though, finding any plates and knives. You’ve never seen such a mess in your life!’

  ‘What about the stove?’

  ‘Water’s been over it, but it’s gone down now. Lit first match. The flame’s a bit funny, but it’s working all right. Now you tuck in while I get these wet things off.’

  She went out to find a towel. Grandpa listened to her rummaging in the cupboard, singing softly to herself :

  ‘O Sacred Spirit, who didst brood

  Upon the chaos dark and rude,

  Who bad’st its angry tumult cease

  And gavest light and life and peace.’

  She’s a sacred spirit, he thought, and he filled his mouth with boiled egg. He switched on the radio; breakfast was never the same without light music and news and weather forecasts. But it was all music, not even a news flash to give him the comfort of knowing the outside world was aware of their predicament.

  ‘A funny thing down there, Fred. When I’d boiled the eggs I didn’t know where to put the water.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t seem much point in throwing it into the sink when the floor's swimming, so I just chucked it anywhere. The sink is full of mud anyway.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well . . . just seems wrong, somehow, pouring boiled egg water on the floor. Not that I could see what was the floor and what was water. But I don’t like doing that sort of thing, really.’

  ‘Oh, Bessy!’ Grandpa roared with laughter. She sipped her tea, and looked at him, wondering what the joke was.

  Martin pulled himself up the stairs. Kathleen and the baby were asleep in Lynwyn’s bed, Lynwyn was in his and beside her, he realized with a surge of joy, Aaron. Ann was dozing in a chair beside the fire. She opened her eyes.

  ‘Martin! Oh, Martin!’

  ‘Help me off with this suit. My hands won’t work any more.’ She peeled it off, and dried him with a towel. ‘Peter’s all right. He’s asleep in bed. How did Ron get here?’

  ‘I don’t know. He collapsed just after he arrived. He’s very ill; he ought to be in hospital. But all he could say was John is drowned.’

  ‘John Hewitt drowned! Were they on the train? How did Ron escape?’ He sat on the floor and put out his hands to the fire. ‘I feel dizzy and weak.’

  ‘Get into bed. I’ll make you a hot drink.’

  ‘Which bed? Lynwyn would be nice.’

  ‘Would she?’ said Lynwyn, who had woken up. She threw back the blanket and put on her dressing-gown. ‘You lie there beside your brother and warm up. I’ll see to the fire.’

  Martin did so, but despite the heat of the bed, he was still shivering. He took the tea Ann held out to him, but he could not keep the cup still. She fed it to him, as if he were a baby. When he had finished she put the cup down, and stroked his face and hair.

  ‘I do love you so much, Martin. I’ve been so thoughtless and selfish.’

  ‘You have not.’

  She kissed him, and lay against him on top of the bedclothes, and soon he was asleep.

  Later he woke with a dry mouth and a splitting headache. Feeling was restored to all his limbs, and every bone and muscle in him seemed to ache. The fire was dying and the candles had burned out. Ann was not in the room. He could hear her downstairs talking to Lynwyn. Aaron seemed to be awake; at least Martin could sense his body moving restlessly. After a while he realized that his brother was crying : there was no sound, but the movement was that of someone trying hard to control his tears.

  ‘Ron.’

  ‘Who’s that? Where am I?’

  ‘In Ann’s flat. In bed. It’s me, Martin.’

  Aaron buried his face in the pillow. ‘John Hewitt is drowned,’ he said at last, trying to steady his voice. ‘I tried to save him. I tried and tried.’

  ‘Ron, it’s all right.’ Martin put his arms round his brother and pulled him closer.

  ‘He was my friend.’ Now the tears came more freely, warm and salt on Martin’s face and throat. ‘I do feel ill,’ Aaron said at last, with a great sigh. ‘My feet and hands are burning. So is my face. I feel sick and I can’t be sick. My lungs are full, as if they want to burst.’

  ‘Ann says you should be in hospital. We’ll get you there as soon as we can.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care. I wish I’d gone with John.’

  ‘No you do not. Did you know that before I got into bed Lynwyn was sleeping here?’

  ‘Was she?’

  There you were sharing a bed with a beautiful girl and you didn’t even know it.’

  ‘Just my luck.’

  ‘That's better. That’s not dying talk.’

  Ann and Lynwyn came in. ‘We’ve made baked beans on toast!’ said Ann triumphantly» ‘Lyn’s camping stove is a marvel. Would you like some?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Martin. ‘Look,, is there any milk? Heat some up for Ron, and give him some aspirins.’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ said Aaron.

  You just shut up and do what you’re told»’

  *We must get a message to the hospital,’ said Lynwyn, holding a candle close to Aaron’s face. ‘He looks dreadful. They must come out and take him.’ She and Aaron stared at each other.

  ‘What’s going on outside?’ Martin asked.

  The water hasn’t gone down much,’ said Ann. Two men rowed past in a dinghy a little while back. You can still hear people calling for help. There’s traffic at times, grinding in low gear, swishing through water. Your car must be saturated. I don’t somehow think you’ll be going to college.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I will. What are we going to do? I mean where are Mum and Dad? The police want to evacuate Flatsea in the morning. Where will they go? David’s? And what about us? If the water level doesn't fall I think we shall have to move out too.’

  ‘We’ll know soon. It’s nearly morning.’

  Lynwyn came up with the hot milk. Aaron took it without objection. Soon both brothers were asleep again. Ann and Lynwyn sat in front of the fire and talked.

  Just, before six o’clock Doris and Charley were ferried across Balaclava Street in a dinghy paddled by a helpful man from the Yacht Club. He could not negotiate the fallen tree, and Charley waded in up to his chest, Doris sitting on his shoulders. Upstairs they saw Aaron's blond hair and Martin’s black hair on the pillows.

  ‘Two of my babies,’ whispered Doris. ‘Fast asleep. Bless ’em.’ She kissed both heads.

  Ann recounted the night’s adventures, and assured them that Peter was safe.

  ‘It seems as if David�
�s the only one of the family not involved,’ she said. ‘I suppose he’s safe and sound in bed, not a care in the world.’

  ‘He’s had just as bad a shock as any of us,’ Charley said.

  ‘The sea can’t have reached there! That’s impossible.’

  ‘Oh, he’s kept his feet dry, I grant you. But Peter phoned him when the water was just coming into the pub. That put him in a state, I can tell you. He’s spent half the night driving round Oozedam, trying to get news of us all. The police told him about the hospital. No one’s hurt there, but it was completely cut off. Poor David! He’s in more of a state than when Kevin was born, worried out of his mind about Pat and the baby. We found him at his house, pacing up and down, smoking cigarette after cigarette.’

  ‘And is Pat all right?’

  ‘Sure to be. She’s on the fourth floor. There can’t be any heat or light, but babies are tough.’

  ‘You men!’ Doris said. ‘You don’t know anything!’

  ‘Little Donna’s been right in the water,’ said Ann. ‘And she seems none the worse for it.’

  Later Lynwyn came in with the ambulance men and they took Aaron out on a stretcher. He did not wake.

  ‘Looks like frostbite,’ said one of the men.

  ‘I must put on some dry clothes,’ said Lynwyn, and went downstairs. Ann followed her,

  ‘You like him, don’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ron.’

  Lynwyn hesitated, then said, ‘A bit.’ They smiled at each other. ‘Look, I must get to work somehow. There’s probably a great mess of rubbish to clear at the shop. Do you think Ron’s Dad would carry me out into Pretoria Street? If I leave it much longer the water will make it impossible. Are you going to work?’

  ‘No. You’re pretty keen, leaving for work at this hour of the morning!’

  ‘I’m wide awake. Might as well get on with it.’

  ‘I’m dead tired. When those two have gone I’m going to crawl in beside Martin and sleep the clock round.’

  Grandpa listened to the news at eight o’clock. Severe gales had brought havoc to Scotland, causing a number of shipping disasters in the North Sea. An enormous number of trees had been uprooted, and the roofs of several houses in Aberdeen and Edinburgh had been blown off. The floods were too recent for detailed news : ‘Reports are coming in of widespread flooding after last night’s high tide along the whole length of the East Coast from the Humber to Margate. There has been considerable structural damage to many seaside properties and it is feared that a number of people may have lost their lives. It is too early yet to estimate either the extent of the damage or the number of missing persons.’ The weather forecast that followed said that the ‘vigorous trough of low pressure’ which had produced the high wind was now moving eastwards. Gales would die down everywhere, but it would be cold, with the possibility of isolated showers of snow or sleet.

  ‘It is cold,’ Grandpa said. Bessy was still asleep, her face flushed; probably a high temperature, he thought, after her efforts in the small hours with breakfast. He dressed and went downstairs. The Water had drained out of the house, leaving the rooms almost unrecognizable. The lino, slippery with inches of black mud, squelched underfoot. The furniture was all wrecked, the chairs a heap of matchwood and the table lying on its side. Broken china and glass were strewn everywhere, all those precious family relics, some of them saved and loved for over a century. Saddest of all to Grandpa was the embroidered sampler that had hung all his life over the fireplace; a picture of a house surrounded by the alphabet in capital letters, sewn by his great-grand-mother, with her name and the date, Rachel Cross 1831. It was lying upside down in the grate, its glass shattered, the material sodden and torn.

  He put on his gumboots and went outside. The chicken-house had been too well-made, the wood firmly secured in a concrete base, and the water had not smashed it. If it had floated free the birds might have had a chance, but every one of them was dead. Most of the plants in his little garden looked as if they had been trampled to pieces; and the lawn was covered with dead worms, whitened by the sea. Clouds of screeching gulls overhead flapped and swooped, enjoying this unexpected feast.

  He went out into the road. This, too, was covered in thick oozy mud and he found it difficult to keep his balance. The haystack opposite, which belonged to the farmer, Alf Brookfield, had disappeared. A few wisps of straw showed that it had existed. Telephone wires and electricity cables sagged or were snapped off, and where they hung down low seaweed and twigs festooned them. His neighbours were busy clearing up. Women mopped their floors. Their menfolk carried out furniture and soaked carpets, in the hope that the sun would dry them before the next high tide came up and forced them to carry everything inside again. Alf Brookfield’s parrot, which must have escaped from its cage in the night, sat on a branch of a tree, watching.

  Grandpa walked towards the sea. The fields were ruined, covered in places by mud, the grass battered and flattened. The salt would poison the earth for years to come. There were many dead animals, pigs and cows, some of them caught in the barbed wire fences as they had tried to flee the engulfing water; and the countryside was littered with debris ― plastic containers, dustbins, wood. Even a boat, seemingly intact, perched on top of a hedge. He could not reach the sea wall for there was still too much water caught behind it. But he could see at least one gaping hole several yards in length where it had been crumbled to ground level, leaving a great jumble of boulders and layers of mud and sand spread over the grass. The tide was beginning to flow in again over the land. The wall would take days to repair, and dozens of men: they would be flooded out many times yet before the sea was safely where it should be. He stared out across the estuary, to Oozedam, and even to his old eyes things seemed different. The town itself, at this distance, looked normal, but elsewhere great sheets of water covered acres of the land. The sea was not the fury and force it had been last night, but it was grey, rough; and restless, a stiff breeze tossing its surface into white ridges.

  His footsteps led him, by force of habit more than conscious thought, in the direction of The King’s Head. Outside the pub were four Landrovers. A police car came slowly along the road towards him relaying over its loudspeaker a message which was repeated several times. ‘This is the police. The island must be evacuated before high tide. Please bring only essential possessions with you. Everything else that is movable should be placed upstairs. When you are ready report to the army transport at The King’s Head.’

  Peter, white-faced with anger, was arguing furiously with a policeman, who stepped back to avoid being splashed with dirty water from the mop the boy was brandishing.

  ‘Grandpa!’ he shouted. They say we’ve got to leave! I won’t!’

  ‘You haven’t got any choice.’

  ‘Are you related to this lad?’ the policeman asked. ‘Just make him see reason, will you? If they’re all as stubborn as this one, we’ll end up marooned here before we can move anyone out.’ He walked off in the direction of the next house.

  ‘What do you think you’re trying to do?’ Grandpa asked.

  ‘Clean the place out before opening time.’ He looked inside and Grandpa followed the direction of his gaze. Susan was on her hands and knees with a pail of hot water and a scrubbing-brush, cleaning the floor.

  ‘Peter . . . You’ve some spirit, I’ll say that. But it’s no use. The sea’ll be right up here again soon.’

  ‘I’ve got sandbags filled. We’ll keep it out. I’ve been working for hours.’ Grandpa shook his head sadly. Peter went back indoors, shouting, ‘I’m not going unless Dad tells me to.’

  Grandpa followed him. ‘Your Dad's not here, so you’d better listen to me for once.’

  Peter looked down at his feet, then back at his grandfather, and said, quietly, ‘No.’

  Grandpa sighed. ‘If you really wanted to help your Dad you’d stop messing about with scrubbing floors and filling sandbags, and you’d start putting the stock upstairs. Get all that sherry an
d spirits and tonics into a bedroom and lock ’em in a cupboard. And the beer out of the cellar, that should go up too. And stop being such a headstrong young fool!!’

  And he walked out before his grandson could reply. On the way back to his cottage, he met another policeman. ‘Are you going to seal off the island?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re putting a road-block on the bridge. You’ll be allowed back on certain days to clean up, but we can’t risk anybody staying here at night. And don’t worry, we shan’t let anyone near to do any looting.’

  ‘There’s not much left worth stealing.’

  ‘You’ll be away for at least three weeks. So take what you need.’

  Everything downstairs in the cottage could be left as it was. But he picked up the old sampler and removed the splinters of glass, then rinsed it out under the kitchen tap and squeezed it dry. That he would take. If it wasn’t completely spoiled he’d give it to Peter.

  The sea was rushing in over the island when the evacuation began. Susan had gone when her parents called for her, but Peter had to be forcibly dragged out by two policemen, and was thrown unceremoniously onto the floor of a Landrover. He said nothing during the journey, but seethed in silent indignation. His parents had arrived soon after eight, and together they had moved most of the stock upstairs, but there were still kegs of beer left in the cellar. Charley told him to leave them. Peter had not left in the car as Doris had filled it with luggage the family needed, clothes mostly, but also Aaron’s guitar, which Peter thought was not an essential possession. When they left he had returned to the cellar, and there the police found him.

  Few of the people in the army transport had much to say. Most of the islanders had coped well with the catastrophe of the flood; after the initial shock and horror they had kept themselves alive and cheerful. Nobody had been drowned. Some were justifiably proud of their endurance,

  or deeds they had performed during the night; now this forcible ejection from their land and property was a second appalling blow, however necessary it might appear to the authorities, which humiliated them in a way the sea had failed to do. When the Landrovers arrived at Peter’s school it was a very despondent and bewildered crowd of people who climbed out.