‘All we are trying to do is expand, darling.’ Veronica sensed confrontation was imminent. ‘We want to develop a stud, but without more land, that’s just not going to be possible. Marsh Farm is the only viable proposition…’
‘It’s failing; the Tuckers are hopeless farmers; they’d be glad to sell…’ Hugh ignored Vee’s signals for restraint.
‘But from what you said, you’re setting out to make sure they fail,’ Anthony stormed on, his face still livid, his eyes flashed with anger. ‘I didn’t believe it. Even knowing you, I didn’t believe it…and I was wrong. You’re rotten to the core, both of you. You have everything and yet you want more, and you don’t care who you hurt or destroy in the process…’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying!’ Hugh jumped up and bawled, ‘You ungrateful little tyke! In the long run, you’ll benefit…’
Simultaneously, Veronica stood up and chimed in, trying a different tack. ‘Darling, the Tuckers aren’t worth fretting over – they’re peasants – they’d be as happy in a council house…’
‘What do you know about people like the Tuckers? You’ve never made any effort to find out. You just set about destroying people’s lives without bothering to know the first thing about them. Greedy! Avaricious! That’s what you are.’ Veronica put out a hand towards him. He looked at her, contemptuously. ‘And don’t pretend you’re doing it for me, that you care about me. You don’t care about me – the only thing you care about is what you want, then doing whatever you can to make sure you get it, and bugger the rest of the world!’
Hugh pushed his chair over with a crash, and lurched at his son, bellowing, ‘Apologise! By God, apologise!’
But Anthony ran back up to the staircase, ignoring his father’s shouts and his mother’s cries of ‘Anthony, come back, you don’t understand…’
In the middle of the pandemonium, the telephone started to ring.
‘Answer that, Paula, and tell whoever it is we’re busy and we’ll ring back later,’ snapped Veronica. ‘Hugh, calm down. Let me deal with this, for goodness sake.’
Paula left Lenny standing by the kitchen door, crossed the hall to pick up the phone, and delivered Veronica’s message to Mrs Merfield, who was the caller, making no effort to shield the receiver from the sound of Hugh, who had dashed into the hall and was bellowing up the stairs for Anthony to come down and apologise. Veronica had followed, and was doing her best to calm him down, to no avail. Paula replaced the phone and went back to join Lenny at the kitchen door, with a smirk.
Moments later, Anthony re-appeared, his leather jacket half on, and a bulging rucksack over his arm. Attracted by the noise, Cordelia came out of her room.
‘Why’s everyone shouting? I’ve got a headache… Anthony, you’re not going already, are you?’
Anthony ignored her and started down the stairs. Veronica, standing at the bottom and looking up at him, made a huge effort to bring the situation back under her control. ‘Darling, what are you getting so upset about? I don’t know what you thought you overheard, but really, it was nothing!’
Anthony stopped in his tracks and regarded his mother with lip-curling contempt. ‘Nothing? Bribing Lenny Spinks is nothing? Badmouthing the Tucker’s dairy in an effort to close it down is nothing? Somehow getting the bank to put pressure on them is nothing – Gordon, who’s Gordon? Some tame little bank clerk you’ve flattered with your sexual favours?’
With a howl, Hugh rushed at his son, brandishing his fists, but Anthony, rapidly descending the last few stairs, punched back, hitting him in the face and sending him sprawling at Veronica’s feet. With a shriek, she went to Hugh’s aid.
Anthony opened the front door to a vertical sheet of rain; paused for a moment and turned to address his parents, who were shouting at each other and him, on the floor at the foot of the stairs. There was such vitriol in his voice that both Hugh and Veronica fell silent, and Paula, watching in the background, involuntarily clutched Lenny’s arm.
‘It’s as well I’m going to France tomorrow. I’m not coming back. I’ll send you my address in Durham. If you want to send anything on, that’s fine. If not, burn it all. I don’t care. I’m ashamed of you. I’m ashamed of myself. You’re poison and you’ve poisoned me, and everything I care about! ‘ As he turned to leave, he suddenly had a clear image of Alison, about to disappear into a curtain of rain, staring at him, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Go boil your heads in hell,’ he said, a sob welling up from deep within his breast.
The door slammed and he was gone. Moments later, they heard the motorbike burst into life and the throbbing engine fading rapidly into the distance, till they could hear it no more. For a moment, they stood, frozen.
‘Blimey!’ said Paula.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ said Lenny. ‘What was all that about, then, eh?’
* * *
‘That’s it Ange – spread your arms out and shout at lem. Give ’em a good slap if they try to get past. You’re doin’ great. Come on! Come on girls! Come on yer stubborn ol’ things… Come on!’
Standing on the edge of the riverbank, up to her knees in swirling, brown water, trying to herd Stephen’s cows to the safety of higher ground, Angela couldn’t remember ever being so wet. About to leave for the Merlin Players rehearsal, Stephen thought he had better check on a small herd of cows that were grazing in a field next to the river on the Summerstoke side.
‘They’re in between milking, Ange, so I ain’t seen them today, and what with the storm and this non-stop rain… It’ll only take a couple of minutes, I’d just like to know they’re OK…’
But the cows were far from ‘OK’. The river had broken its banks and they were marooned on a patch of higher ground. Refusing to stay in the shelter of the Land Rover, Angela had found an old Macintosh and a pair of Wellingtons, far too big for her, in the back, and gone to help Stephen dismantle the electric fence that confined the cows to one section of the field. She had then waded with him through the muddy water to try and herd the frightened, stubborn creatures to safety.
‘Come on old girl!’ she shouted, trying to imitate Stephen’s tone, ‘Move on there!’ And she slapped the sodden rump of the nearest cow. Uncomfortable though she might be, she was the happiest she could remember, and not for one moment would she have exchanged the discomfort of their situation for the warmth and dry of the rehearsal room.
Slowly, lowing loudly to emphasise their displeasure, the cows started to move. Angela could scarcely see anything through her rain-spattered glasses, but she heard the relief in Stephen’s voice as he shouted, ‘They’re shiftin’! Great stuff, Ange, keep ’em goin’ but watch their backs, Ange. Ange, don’t get too close…’
Too late. A cow suddenly stopped and backed into Angela. She was sent flying and landed, with a squelching splash, on her back in marshy shallows of the flood, her boots flying off in different directions.
‘Ange, Ange, are you all right?’ Stephen was by her side in seconds, and pulled her to her feet.
Drenched through, and now muddy from tip to toe, the water swirling over her ankle socks, Angela smiled mistily up at him. ‘I’m fine, Stephen, really. Don’t worry about me. Stay with the cows.’
‘Oh they’re all right. They’re on the move. Ange, you’ve been brilliant. I couldn’t have managed without you…’
Angela, retrieving her boots, blushed with happiness. ‘Anyone would have done the same…’
‘No, they wouldn’t…’ Stephen looked at her seriously. ‘They wouldn’t ’ave, Ange. You’re one in a million…’ He suddenly broke off, looking alarmed, ‘Oh my God!’
‘What is it, Stephen? What’s wrong?’
‘Come on Ange, we’ll secure the electric fence, the girls’ll be safe up here, then we’d better get over to the manor. Look at the way that water is spreadin’… If we don’t alert everyone, the whole of Lower Summerstoke could be under water and the
manor will be the first to get it.’
So it was that the youngest Miss Merfield, staring out at the rain, saw a battered Land Rover career through the gateway, screech to a halt and two bedraggled figures jump out.
She had barely time to murmur to her sisters, ‘A diversion, what fun!’ when the thunderous sound of the knocker reverberated throughout the house. Nanny’s voice could be heard, reproving at first, then silenced by the urgency of the other voice. The sitting room door opened and Nanny came in. Following behind her in the hall, the ladies could see Stephen and Angela, dripping onto the polished flagstone floor. Stephen’s face was ruddy with anxiety and embarrassment. His hair, dark with the rain, clung to his somewhat chubby features, and his large red hands, hanging by his sides, opened and closed nervously. Not tall, he towered over the diminutive creature by his side, who was in a similar waterlogged state, wearing an outsized mac and boots, blinking across at the ladies through a pair of huge spectacles. Signalling for them to stay where they were, Nanny addressed Mrs Merfield. ‘It’s Mr Tucker, ma’am. He says the river is rising fast, the meadows are flooding and we could be next…’
Mrs Merfield rose to the occasion.
The manor had been flooded before, and after the last occasion, some ten years ago, a good supply of sandbags had been stored in the cellar. ‘The only thing is,’ she explained to Stephen, ‘I know they are terribly heavy, and I doubt if my sisters and I could lift them.’
Stephen looked at the frail old ladies, and at tiny Angela.’ No, Mrs Merfield, you couldn’t.’ Overcoming his shyness, the urgency of the situation made Stephen decisive, in a way that would have surprised his family. ‘We must get some help. A bit of phone bashing is what we need. If you can ring round, Mrs Merfield, please, and explain the situation, people’ll help out. We need to alert the lower part of the village in any event, ’cos the flood’s heading their way. I’ll get hold of my brother, Charlie. He can drum up a few of his mates. Meantime, p’raps you should take some of the lighter things up to the next floor. Ange’ll help. I’ll go and make a start on those sandbags.’
‘I’m coming with you, Stephen. You can’t do it by yourself…’ Angela moved, determinedly, to his side, bedraggled and shivering.
He shook his head and put his arm around her thin shoulders, ‘No, Ange. It’ll be too much for you. Besides, you’re soaked through. I don’t want you to catch your death. You stay here and help Mrs Merfield.’
‘The first thing your young lady’s going to do is take those things off and put something dry on,’ said Nanny, firmly. ‘Come along, my dear.’ She took Angela by the hand. ‘Your fellah’s right and we best get a move on. We’ve got a lot to do!’
Outside, staring through the downpour across the lawns, Stephen could make out the spumey tendrils of the water, still at some distance, but creeping closer. He had tried Charlie’s mobile, but with no success; then Lenny’s, but with the same result. In desperation, he phoned Marsh Farm. Alison answered and he filled her in.
Jeff had already left with Jenny for the cinema, but Alison said she would phone around and then come over herself. Making his way back to the cellar, Stephen reflected that he was beginning to see his sister in a different light; her readiness to help was in stark contrast to the absence of his older brother who was, he thought, probably still at the pub. Hoping help would come soon, he started to heave the sandbags out.
Mrs Merfield sat by the phone and made a succession of calls. When she had finished, she went to the basement and reported her results to Stephen. ‘My great-nephew will be here shortly. Fortunately he has a friend staying who has volunteered, too. Mr Featherstone, at the Foresters Arms is sending two of his staff. The vicar has a heart condition, but has promised to try and drum up more support. I tried the fire brigade, but they said they were very sorry but at the moment they are fully occupied. At least we’ve got sandbags, they said, and they should hold the water at bay for a while. They will get here when they can.’
‘Did you try Hugh Lester? He could send some of his men.’
Mrs Merfield’s voice became cold. ‘I tried, but was told they were busy and would phone back later...’
Within a short space of time, much to his surprise, Stephen was joined by Simon and by another man, whom he was introduced to as Marcus.
Then Alison turned up. ‘I can’t get hold of Uncle Jeff,’ she told Stephen. ‘He must have turned his mobile off in the cinema. But four or five of my mates are on the way. Oh, hello, Simon…’ She was even more surprised than Stephen had been to see Simon, staggering from the depths of the cellar, carrying a sandbag. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘My Aunt sent out an SOS.’ Simon grinned, ‘so I had to stop making the chocolate cake we’re having for tea and ride to the rescue.’
‘Mrs Merfield’s your aunt?’
‘My great aunt to be exact. I don’t think you can lift these sandbags, Alison, but see if you can get hold of a wheelbarrow and then you can trundle them into position. You’ll find my mate, Marcus, outside, putting them in place.’
Within the space of half an hour, Alison’s friends had arrived, a cheerful group of teenage boys, in leather and denim, and sporting nose rings, earrings and shaven heads, the sort of lads whom the Merfield ladies would normally have crossed the other side of the road rather than meet face to face. Three kitchen staff from the pub also turned up, so a chain gang was formed, and the bulky sandbags were moved swiftly from the cellar to the outside. By the time the water started filtering through the rose garden and onto the terrace, every sack was in place and every possible entry point into the house blocked.
19
The vicar might have had a heart condition, (which was why, as he had explained to puzzled friends, he, with all his intellectual abilities, had been content to settle in a backwater like Summerstoke) but deep down he saw himself as a man of action as well as a man of God, and this man of action was deeply bored. Guiltily, he had prayed for something exciting to happen, something to lighten his days, dull days, spent listening to the litany of woes his parishioners knew he was helpless to do anything about.
Therefore, when he heard of the impending flood, he was secretly thrilled. Visions of marooned villagers rose before his eyes: children calling for rescue from first floor windows, families gathered on roof tops, old Mrs Long floating by on an upturned table. It was his duty to save them if he could!
Fired by the challenge, he startled his churchwardens with a firmness of purpose he had never displayed before. He ordered the church bells to ring the alarm, despatched the wardens to warn those living in Lower Summerstoke of the danger, and rang the fire brigades of Wiltshire and Somerset. Unlike Mrs Merfield, he was not to be fobbed off with promises of ‘later’ and peremptorily brushed aside any question of delay. They had to come immediately, bringing sandbags, ladders, pumps and those ‘silver foil hypothermia bag-things to wrap the victims of the Elements in.’
Thus it was that Paula, hurrying down the High Street in the drenching rain, wondering why on earth the church bells were making such a racket, stopped in amazement at the sight of four fire engine tenders (there were two from each county – they both would have sent more, but the service really was stretched that afternoon). She joined a small group of villagers, standing under their umbrellas, watching the action.
‘Bloomin’ ’eck… What’s goin’ on?’ she asked Rita Godwin.
‘It’s the river, Paula. It’s flooding. You better get on home. Who’s looking after your kiddies?’
‘Me mum, till I get back. But Lenny’ll be there. He should’ve got back half an hour ago. Oh, bloomin’ ’eck!’ And she ran, as fast as her four-inch heels would allow.
She turned down the garden path, shaking her head at a group of locals who had gathered on the bridge to watch the rising waters. ‘Last place I’d stand to watch a flood. Supposin’ those arches gave away – they’d be for it!’
&n
bsp; As yet, there was no sign of the flood in her garden, apart from the huge puddles of rain forming on the broken path, but from an upstairs window she heard her mother shout ‘Up here, Paula, we’re up here. Quick, before you’re swept away. I’ve got the kiddies safe.’
She found her mother sitting in the main bedroom, in a state of nervous collapse, clutching a teapot and the kettle. Far from being frightened, her four little children were rushing excitedly between the three rooms, jumping, in turn, on each of the beds to check which would make the best boat on which to sail away when the house was flooded.
‘What’s goin’ on, Mum? Quiet, you kids. How many times have I told you not to jump on the beds? Where’s Lenny, Mum?’
‘It’s a flood, Paula. This man came bangin’ at the door. Said the vicar said we was to put sandbags out, then take our valuables upstairs. I couldn’t find no sandbags; leastways nothing to put the sand in – the kiddies’ sandpit is nearly empty – so I grabbed the kettle and teapot and come upstairs.’
‘We ain’t got no sandbags, Mum, don’t be daft. Where’s Lenny? Why ain’t he here?’
‘He come in about half an hour ago… got a call on his mobile and said he had to go. Didn’t say what it was. Said he was needed, urgent…said he wouldn’t be long.’
‘He better not be, ’cos he’s needed here, urgent. I’ll just zip downstairs, Mum, and pick up one or two other things.’
Over her Mum’s moans not to be too long and not to take any chances, Paula rushed downstairs, rescued the copy of her favourite Joan Collins movie, The Tales from the Crypt, grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels that Lenny had been given for his work by the event people, a carton of milk, some teabags, a large bottle of Coke and a jumbo pack of selected flavoured crisps for the kids, and then dashed back upstairs to await the arrival of the flood.
* * *
‘Thanks, Charlie.’ Linda turned out the bar lights. ‘Thanks for everything this afternoon. You’ve been great. I owe you.’
A Tangled Summer Page 31
