Thursday

by David Ridgway

  The civil servant drew his remarks to a close. The Prime Minister looked at his colleagues, but no comments were forthcoming.

  “What’s the situation in East Anglia? Is the tide receding without any flooding?” he asked.

  “There have been no reports of flooding anywhere on the east coast.”

  “When is the next High Tide?”

  “At Dover, it will be at 2.00 am tomorrow. In London, it’ll be at 4.30 am, so in East Anglia it will be about 7 in the morning.”

  “Has the advice to evacuate been taken up?”

  “No, Prime Minister. The Environment Agency has advised my department that no one was evacuated at all and, further, that their advice has been downgraded following the passing of the High Tide.”

  “I sincerely hope that’s a sensible conclusion. What are the forecasters suggesting?”

  “That the depression off Ireland will move slowly to the east across southern England; that the depression over the north Atlantic will also move slowly east towards Stavanger; that they will both deepen, causing further high winds, with rain.”

  The Home Secretary looked up from her tablet. “Excuse me, Prime Minister, but I’m getting reports of flooding in Northern France. In relatively isolated places between Dunkirk and the Belgian border.”

  “Please keep an eye on all this and inform me immediately of any specific changes.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  As soon as he left the school premises, David hurried home to get ready for his evening with Jackie. They had planned to meet at the railway station and get the train into Waterloo. To give sufficient time to travel up the Northern Line to Piccadilly, they wanted to leave Richmond by 5.30 pm. As she lived further away from Richmond, it was more of a rush for Jackie, but she was already at the station when David arrived.

  As he turned into the station, the wind seemed to be increasing once again, but there was no rain. It felt cold and David was glad that he had put on a warm woollen jumper over his shirt. Jackie was wearing her sheepskin coat, which was unbuttoned, showing off her mini, figure hugging dress underneath. It was a pale sea green colour and, with a pair of suede leather boots, her legs were shown off to perfection. David was entranced as he rushed forward to embrace her.

  “Come on!” She pulled his arm. “There’s no time for any of that. The next train leaves in exactly three minutes. I’ve already got your ticket.”

  And with that, they ran to the platform and boarded the train. Twenty-five minutes later, they were in Waterloo, descending the escalator to the Northern Line. They walked along the passage, hand in hand, chatting about everything and nothing, just happy to be with each other. In no time at all, they reached Leicester Square and travelled up the escalators to the surface. Emerging from the dusty warmth of the Underground, the air felt cool and fresh. The bright lights were enticing and the crowds of people, swirling around them, were both exhilarating and irritating. The noise was surprisingly loud, but this meant nothing to Jackie and David whose senses were attuned only to each other.

  “The film starts at half past eight,” Jackie announced. “It’s on at the Odeon, so shall we get something to eat first?”

  “All I want to do is to eat you,” David replied somewhat crudely. Jackie playfully punched his arm.

  “If you behave, perhaps you will,” she laughed, her whole face lighting up.

  They found a small, Italian restaurant close by the cinema, surprisingly with a free table. Sitting down side by side, after taking off their coats, David could feel a comforting and welcoming warmth coming from Jackie. They were sitting close to each other with their backs to the wall. Her thigh was pressed hard against his and as she made an amusing, or even a meaningful remark, she would lean sideways closer to him so that her upper arm and her shoulder seemed to nudge him. Her eyes were sparkling with fun, her hair seemed to be slightly scented and she was wearing a permanent half smile, which often broke into a full grin, revealing her perfect teeth.

  After ordering two Peronis, they both decided to have a Pomodoro pizza to start. Jackie then ordered Italian meatballs and spaghetti for them both. David had never eaten meatballs and was reluctant, but after some mild suggestive teasing from Jackie, he agreed.

  As he cut into the first one, Jackie said, “Do that very carefully, or it’ll hurt.”

  “What do you mean?” David looked up at her, to see her laughing quietly. In answer, she placed her hand on his jeans and, giggling, gently squeezed. David nodded twice and his face went a little red. She’s so much more sophisticated than me, he thought, as he started to cut his spaghetti.

  “No! Not like that,” she said. “Try it like this.”

  She put her fork into four or five strands of the pasta and started to twist it round, making a reasonable mouthful. Delicately, she lifted the fork, allowing the unwanted spaghetti to fall back onto her plate, before twisting it just once more and then, slightly leaning forward, she placed it in her mouth. She saw David watching her.

  “Don’t you have spaghetti at home?” she asked.

  “No. Not really. Mum makes a good lasagne, but Dad says spaghetti is messy. He does what you’ve just done, but he uses a spoon, rather than the side of the plate.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen people do that. But only ever in England! In Italy, they will put a napkin into their collars and lean right forward. Well,” she giggled, “Not the girls, of course. They are always much more elegant. Try it.”

  David picked up his fork and stuck it into his pile of spaghetti. He twisted it and got far too much. He let the tangled mess fall off the fork and started again. Jackie nudged him.

  “Look over there,” she whispered. On the other side of the restaurant, a middle-aged man was eating his spaghetti, just like Jackie had said. Serviette in his shirt collar at his neck, he was leaning forward and whenever his forkful was too large, he bit the strands, allowing them to fall back onto his plate. “That’s the Italian way,” Jackie whispered again.

  “Do you want me to do it like that?” asked David, disingenuously.

  “No,” she replied. “That’s just the other end of the scale.” She laughed. “Don’t stare at him. He’ll get self-conscious.”

  “It is rather fascinating.” David continued to watch the man, as he tackled his own meal.

  He quickly got the hang of it, vowing to himself that he would never use a spoon to eat spaghetti.

  After coffee, they ran hand in hand through the rain up to the cinema. David noticed that the wind seemed stronger and was whipping the trees in the square. It was also noticeably colder. It was almost half past eight as they went in and, to his surprise, Jackie produced the tickets from her bag.

  “I can’t let you buy my ticket,” he protested.

  “Why not?” she responded. “You bought the dinner.”

  “That was because you’d got the train tickets.”

  “Look. It really doesn’t matter. I’m with you and you’re with me and that’s all there is to it, really.”

  They entered the darkened auditorium. Their seats were on the back row, next to the left-hand wall. It was warm and the seats were very comfortable. Jackie stood up to take off her coat. As she did, David couldn’t help but notice how the hem of her dress rose enticingly up her legs.

  She sat down again and whispered, “Did you enjoy the view?”

  Quietly, he replied, “I certainly did. You’ve got the most beautiful legs in the world.”

  He would have been really surprised to know, at roughly the same moment, his father was saying almost exactly the same thing to Alice.

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday – One Day to Go (Evening)

  As the evening progressed, the wind speeds increased all along the south coast. High Tide had come and gone in London just after four o’clock in the afternoon. As the tide had flowed along the south coast, there had been some local flooding in the river estuaries, but no more than might have been expected. The Environment Agency had issued alerts, bu
t there had been no specific damage and no loss of life. The press had taken photographs of the spray from the breakers surging over rocks at Lyme Regis and crashing against the harbour wall at Dover. The next High Tide in London would be due at half past four in the morning. No one seemed to notice that, as Low Tide approached at midnight, the sea levels were still much higher than normal in Falmouth, Portsmouth and Dover.

  As the wind continues to increase, the rain started to fall once more. The intensity of the downpour looked like a continuous shower billowing down the streets. Windows were buffeted as the wind moaned around the corners of buildings and amongst the rooftops. Right across the south of England, more trees were uprooted and, as the evening progressed, the reports of structural damage began to rise.

  Michael Varley and Alice had enjoyed an early, excellent meal in a local restaurant. He had decided not to join his banking fraternity, giving, as his excuse, the need to work further on his welcoming speech for the morning. In fact, working together, they had finalised his address, quite quickly! It was almost half past eight when they finally struggled back to the Gloucester Palace Hotel through the wind and the rain. Michael’s raincoat had been next to useless and the jacket of his suit had been soaked. Alice had fared little better. As soon as they entered their room, Alice announced that she was going to have a bath and that she would hang her clothes over the bedroom radiator where they could dry. Michael mixed her a rum and Coke. He made himself a whisky and soda.

  As she went into the bathroom, Alice left the door ajar. She ran the bath and after taking off her wet dress, she re-entered the bedroom with it to hang over a radiator.

  “You have the most beautiful legs in the world,” he remarked. She slipped off her bra, stepped out of her knickers and picked up her drink.

  “It’d be a shame to waste all that hot water,” Alice said. “Shall I leave it for you when I’ve finished?”

  “Good idea. I always find a bath most relaxing.”

  Holding her drink, she went back into the bathroom, once again leaving the door ajar. She squeezed out the full tube of bath oil and got into the bath. It was hot and relaxing as lay back luxuriating in the relaxing aroma. Through the open door she heard Michael switch on the television. Very soon the nine o’clock news came on and, amongst other snippets of reported storm damage, she heard the announcer report that fallen trees were blocking several railway lines, including between Waterloo and Richmond. There was further news of severe weather in the north, especially in Scotland where considerable damage was causing widespread disruption to power supplies. All football matches for that evening were cancelled and the cross-channel ferries were once again confined to port. There were some reports of widespread flooding in northern France and Belgium.

  Michael pushed open the bathroom door. “Are you going to be long?” He looked at Alice in the bath, pink, relaxed with her hair tied up and her knees resting on either side. God she looks so beautiful, he thought.

  Through half closed eyed, she looked at him and wondered why on earth she was even here. “I think I must have drifted off for a moment,” she murmured. “I’ll be about ten minutes or so. I’ll give you a call when I’m ready.”

  Michael returned to the bedroom and took off his trousers. He carefully hung them inside the trouser press and turned it on.

  After being told about the attack on Milton, Pamela felt she should keep a close eye on her texts and phone messages, as she was now worried that Carl and Les might arrange for someone else to ‘have a go’. She and Milton left the station together and went back to his home, where Milton prepared a meal for them both. It was the first time she had eaten authentic West Indian food. The previous evening Milton had pre-prepared the goat’s meat over a low simmer in the hope that he might persuade Pamela to come to eat with him.

  He added ginger, garlic, thyme, onions and hot peppers to the meat. He could remember his mother saying that the garlic should never be crushed, rather it should be sliced and the onions should be skinned, cut in half and then in quarters, to retain the flavour. As his own preference, he chopped up a generous amount of ginger and added the hot peppers after removing all the seeds. Lastly, he added curry powder to the pan and after simmering for around three hours the previous evening, he had left it all to cool. Now they were home, it was only necessary to heat it up and add the potatoes. He also cooked rice and peas, to make it an authentic Jamaican dish.

  They sat at Milton’s kitchen table to eat, each with a glass of water.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s fantastic. It tastes so exotic and the meat is so tender. What is it?”

  “It’s goat’s meat.”

  “Really? I don’t think I’ve ever eaten goat’s meat before.”

  “I’m not surprised. Because so much is halal these days, white folks won’t buy it. As it happens, this isn’t halal, but prepared by a West Indian butcher, who’s a friend of mine. Not many people know that goat’s meat is eaten by more people around the world than any other meat.”

  “Well, I think it tastes divine,” announced Pamela. “And the rice and peas set it off so well. But it is rather hot!”

  She could feel herself warming from the inside and knew that her face beginning to glow. Milton watched, fascinated with the change. He could see that the spices were making her eyes sparkle and there was a sheen on her forehead. She drank some water and ate a little more rice. Although he knew that West Indians liked their curried goat stew hot and spicy, he was also aware that the English palate sometimes tends to struggle with the spiciness. Pamela, however, was making good progress, after her initial surprise.

  “I’ve always liked curry.” She explained that, when she was a child, her mother had lived in a bedsit over a Bengali restaurant for a few years. Naturally, they both became quite used to hot curries and spicy food. Even so, she found it necessary to remove her pullover and continued the meal dressed in her work blouse and skirt.

  After the curried goat stew, Milton provided an ice cream made with pineapple, mango and coconut. It certainly cooled down Pamela’s mouth and she felt well fed and relaxed. It was quite some time since she had felt so comfortable in the home of another man and she really couldn’t remember when a man had ever actually cooked her a meal. She felt very lucky to have found Milton. Or did he find me? she thought.

  “I don’t want to be forward or anything,” Milton commented, “But I have a late start tomorrow. I’m not back on duty until lunch time. If you have to get back…” He trailed off.

  “Actually, I’m in no real hurry because it’s my day off tomorrow. So I don’t have to get back home any time soon.”

  “That’s OK,” Milton smiled. “Let’s forget the weather outside and take some coffee into the front room.” They could hear the wind howling round the side of the house and the rain spattering on the windows. “It’s not a good night for being out there.”

  He made the coffee and they went through to the other room. It seemed quite small although very well appointed and comfortable. There was a screen in the corner with a music centre and Skybox in a custom-made cupboard underneath. A coffee table was in the centre of the floor with two black leather settees set at right angles to each other. Milton put the tray of cups and saucers and the coffee onto the table before dimming the lights.

  “Is that OK for you?” he asked. “I’ll switch on the TV, it you want.”

  “No thanks. I’d rather just chat with you and find out more about you.” Pamela looked at him, as he busied himself with the coffee. He’s completely in control of his life and his environment, she thought. “Have you always lived in London?”

  “My granddad came over to the UK on the Empire Windrush in 1948. He always said that he and the other Jamaicans had been promised that England would be like the Promised Land but, of course, it didn’t really turn out like that.”

  “I’ve never heard of the Empire Windrush.” Pamela looked at Milton, enquiringly. “What was that?”

>   “I’m really surprised, after the scandal that emerged in 2018. Don’t you remember when the Home Office was caught in the act of deporting a number of West Indians who came to Britain as children, even babies? Their parents were here to help the so-called Mother Country reconstruct after the war. All their lives they had received education, worked, paid their taxes and National Insurance, only to find that the single specific document proving their arrival had been destroyed by the authorities.”

  “I do remember something about that,” Pamela replied. “Wasn’t it something to do with their landing cards?”

  "That’s right. And what made it so scandalous was the uncaring, ignorant attitude of the people working in the Home Office.

  "It must be remembered that, after the war, the Government was concerned that the returning soldiers would no longer want to work in mundane jobs like public transport, the new National Health Service and Local Government. So they invited people living in the colonies to come over to England, to help with the re-construction. There was a vast amount of bomb damage everywhere and such a massive amount of work to do. In all the large cities, work was easy to find, but the lifestyle was very different from home. It was cold, wet and it always seemed to be raining.

  "There was a chronic shortage of housing and, much to the Government’s surprise, almost straightaway there was a rise in racism and discrimination. It was quite normal for people looking for temporary accommodation to be greeted by signs saying ‘No Dogs, No Blacks and No Irish’ hanging in the front windows.

  "The amount of exploitation was massive. Some people got very rich owning houses that were cold, damp and dangerous. Many still had outdoor sanitation and yet the rents were high because there was very little choice. So many West Indians, who came over on what they believed was a promise of a better life with better wages and an improved standard of living, well, they felt trapped in an alien world, with no hope of salvation.