Storm Surge

by David Rees

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m worried. Worried stiff now I think about it. Where’s Ron? And what’s happened to Grandpa and Grandma? I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it before. What’s Martin doing?’ Susan came to the window. ‘The water’s gone down.’

  ‘Yes. A little. I think . . . I ought to try and get to my grandparents.’

  ‘But it will still be freezing cold!’

  ‘Well, I’m going to try. I wonder . . . I think there’s a pair of flippers somewhere in Ron’s cupboard.’

  They went into Aaron’s room. Susan exclaimed in surprise. There were clothes thrown about everywhere, a guitar on the bed, the walls covered in pictures ― pop groups, motor bikes, naked women, Aaron playing football, Aaron playing his guitar at the last school dance surrounded by admirers.

  ‘It’s a wonder your Mum allows it.’

  ‘They had a row when he started pinning up nudes. She said she wouldn’t clean in here any more and she hasn’t. Ron does it all himself.’

  ‘Not very well either.’

  He could not find the flippers. Across a chair lay a pair of trousers Aaron had dropped there, the legs sprawled out flat. Peter picked them up and put them away : the sight was too disturbing; they looked somehow dead.

  He undressed to his underclothes and went down the stairs. The water came up to his shoulders. Its cold was still almost unbearable.

  ‘I think I’ll be able to wade through.’

  ‘Wait. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If we can get through I’d best go home to Mum and Dad.’

  ‘All right.’ He felt disappointed.

  He held her hand and they struggled through to her parents’ house. The scene around them was quite extraordinary. Most of the island was quite drowned, and the surface of the water, now calmer, like a sea of ice in the moonlight. Pieces of wood floated by, plastic cups and bottles, dead chickens. A cat, in the ash tree, was mewing pitifully.

  ‘Good night, Susan.’ He kissed her.

  ‘I’ll come down to see you in the morning as soon as it’s possible.’

  His grandparents’ door, too, was open, and downstairs, was a now familiar scene of floating household objects. He could hear Grandma reading aloud, a monotonous unending drone.

  ‘Grandma! Where are you? It's me, Peter.’

  ‘In bed!’

  He found the stairs and went up. His muscles were shuddering with uncontrollable spasms. They were both in bed, peering at him over the tops of their spectacles. There was one candle, on Grandma’s side. Grandpa looked glum.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ he grumbled. ‘All this damned moonlight. And she will go on and on reading. Corinthians, all that bit about charity.’

  ‘Dry yourself, boy,’ said Grandma. There’s a towel on that rail. What have you done with your clothes?’

  ‘Never seen anything like it and I’m eighty-five. Much worse than ’97. Much worse. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m on my own. Susan’s quite safe; she’s at home now. Martin and Ann are back at the flat, but there’s no sign of Mum and Dad or Ron.’

  They’ll survive,’ said Grandma. ‘We must trust in God.’

  ‘Is that God’s work?’ asked. Grandpa angrily.

  ‘Maybe. We don’t know, do we? He sent a flood once before, you remember.'

  ‘Humph. You may know your Bible, Bessy, but you don’t know everything.’

  ‘I'll go back,’ said Peter, irritated by their complete lack of any sense of reality.

  ‘Go back?’ cried Grandma. ‘What nonsense! You stay here. There’s sheets and blankets on the spare-room bed, and I’ll find you a pair of Fred’s pyjamas.’

  ‘No. There’s nobody else to look after the pub.’

  He went downstairs and pushed his way through the water. ‘He’s a good lad, that one,’ he heard Grandpa say. A dead horse lay oh its side against a tree. Candles and storm-lanterns were alight in the windows of all the houses; it looked like Christmas. Back at home, he dried himself, then sipped more brandy; and feeling enormously tired, he curled up in his bed and slept.

  * * *

  Aaron roused himself at last from his misery. He knew that if he did not stir and attempt to keep warm he might never be able to move again. There was hardly any feeling in his legs or hands; they were insensible blocks of ice. Other people sat on the roof, huddled together or stood, stamping their feet and flailing their arms, trying to keep some heat in their bodies. He decided to walk along to the front of the train to see what had happened. Someone spoke to him, but he answered curtly, hardly hearing the question. The man was trying to make a list of names, of survivors as well as those missing. Aaron eventually told him who he was, and the name of his friend.

  ‘Anyone else in your compartment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think that’s everybody accounted for. But I’m afraid there’s ten drowned in there.’ He pointed to where the overturned first carriage lay under the sea.

  ‘Is this your jacket I’m wearing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take it. I’m going to swim for it.’

  ‘I think we should all try that, those of us who can. But not yet. The sea’s far too strong.’

  Aaron thrust the jacket at him, and made his way back to John. He knelt beside him, touched the dead boy’s hands and face, then unclasped the Christopher medal, and fastened it round his own neck. Numb though he was physically, he had never before felt such strong emotion. He remembered his remark to John ‘I’ve never had a chance to love anybody’, and he knew it was a lie. He jumped into the sea.

  He was so deadened with cold that it was no worse than being on the train roof, but fear that the sea would take him too made him thrash out furiously with his arms and legs; it was so rough that every movement was a struggle to keep his head above the water as one soaking saturating weight of a wave after another rained down on his head. The current pulled him sideways, then back against the train; he kicked himself free, and his arms were round a telegraph pole. The sea tried to suck him back, but he held onto the wood, and as the wave surged forwards he let go and he could feel earth underfoot, slippery and impossible to grip, and he slid, swallowing the foul, slimy water, under the surface; then another wave threw him into a wire fence. He clutched at this, and forced himself over it; then a huge wave swept him headlong inland and he couldn’t breathe at all, he couldn’t push his head up through it, he would burst, he was getting more feeble, this was the end . . . he cracked his head against a tree. With his last strength he grabbed at a branch and heaved himself upwards. The moonlight showed him that the tree was in a corner of a field, and though the land beyond was flooded, the hedge was acting for the moment as a breakwater taking the full fury of the sea. On the far side it was calmer. He drank in lungfuls of air, almost doubling up with the pain in his chest, his heart racing madly. The wind was swaying his perch dangerously, and he crawled out along a branch, noticing dimly that there was blood on his arm and that his legs were filthy with mud and dirt from the tree-trunk. He dropped into the water on the other side; it was not so deep, coming up only to his shoulders, but it was treacherous underfoot, slithery ridges and furrows of ploughed earth. In the distance was dry land. He walked, floundering and falling for a yard, then swam. It was easier this time, though he was nearly exhausted and very slow. There was a terrible pain as something stabbed into his left, thigh, and his head went under in a half-somersault as it abruptly stopped him swimming any further. He came up retching, then stood ― the water was only waist-high ― but he was still caught. He fumbled desperately with both hands, forcing his leg back, and it came free suddenly with another jab of pain. It was barbed wire. He forced it downwards as far as he could, groping for a place to hold where there were no barbs, and floated himself over. Now he walked as the water became shallower, and finally he was out of it, stumbling through a field of cabbages.

  Through the gate and into a lane, where th
e stones were Sharp and agonizing to his feet, but it led to a road with the first houses of Oozedam and a pavement to walk on. He dragged himself along. His main fear now was that his strength might give out before he reached Martin’s. Blood was pouring from the cut in his thigh and mingling with the mud on his legs, and it throbbed dully, but he would not allow it to stop him. These were the only thoughts in his head; get to Martin’s; leg won’t stop me. He was beyond noticing the wind's power to freeze him still further; he was so numb that he could not have said whether he felt cold or hot. Nor did it occur to him that there were now rather more people about than would normally be expected, running purposefully or in alarm. People stared and asked if he was all right, and he nodded, or muttered ‘I’m going to my brother’s. I’m O.K.’ and after looking at him strangely, they left him with some reluctance, having desperate worries of their own to see to. Even a policeman who stopped him let him go on.

  ‘I'm standing on the bed! Over here! Quick!’

  Martin was swept by the current towards Kathleen, and hit something soft and wet and heavy on the surface of the water which span away from him.

  ‘That’s Donna!’ she screamed. ‘Oh my God! What have you done? That was her mattress; I was holding it up!’ She moved towards him, scrabbling frantically. He gripped her hands and held them away from him.

  He let go of her, and knocked into a piece of wood and a shoe that was still floating, then became entwined in a sheet that draped itself round his face, cold and smothering. He sank right under the water as he disentangled himself. He was coughing and choking and thought he would sink again, but there was the top of the wardrobe door, and he clung on to it until he recovered. He struck out again and found the mattress, water-logged, just below the surface, but the baby was there, and apparently- still asleep.

  ‘I've got her!’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m going to swim out, pushing the mattress.’

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Swim for your life!’

  The mattress was cumbersome and not easy to guide. He wondered how long his strength would last. He was a good swimmer, but his muscles were knotting painfully with shock, and his breath was coming in short, painful jerks. He found the doorway, but the water had risen above it. There was only one thing to do : abandon the mattress, and plunge underneath the lintel with the baby in his arms. As he rose above the surface in the hall she began to scream with terror. He swam to the stairs, where Ann and Lynwyn were standing holding candles. He thrust the baby into Lynwyn’s arms. He was speechless. They ran up the stairs, and he followed slowly. They were in Lynwyn’s room, taking off Donna’s wet clothes and drying her.

  ‘She’s a darling,' said Ann, trying to soothe her.

  ‘Where’s Kathleen?’ Lynwyn asked.

  Martin turned. ‘What?. . . She was supposed to be following me!’ And he ran out, back down the stairs into the water. He found the lintel of the door with some difficulty and ducked under.

  ‘Kathleen!’

  ‘I can’t find the door! I’m almost touching the ceiling! Where are you?’.

  ‘Over here! Follow the direction of my Voice! I’m not coming back in or we might never find the way out.’

  He could hear her splashing, but it seemed ages before she was near him. His foot touched her face.

  ‘Hold my hand. I’m going to duck under and pull you after me.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I can’t. . .’ Her words were lost as he dragged her under. When they surfaced on the other side of the doorway, she gasped. ‘You shouldn’t have done that! I’ve swallowed so much water!’

  ‘If you hadn’t you’d have bloody well drowned!’

  When, he had taken off his wet clothes, he sat down on the bed feeling faint. He was breathing as if he had run a mile; every part of his body was trembling and would not stop. He had never felt so cold in all his life.

  He dried himself and dressed, putting on two thick sweaters. He walked slowly down to Lynwyn’s room. Kathleen was wearing some of Lynwyn’s clothes; she was nursing Donna, who had quietened down to a good steady cry instead of the first strident screeches of terror.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes. None the worse for it, I think.’

  Ann came in from the kitchen. ‘Martin, the gas won’t light. You turn on the tap, and it makes a funny noise. There’s no gas coming out.’

  The water must be in the pipes. Better not try; it might be dangerous.’

  ‘But that means we can’t cook anything or heat ourselves!’

  ‘I’ve a little camping stove with a bottle of gas,’ said Lynwyn.

  ‘Let’s all go upstairs,’ said Martin. ‘We've got a paraffin heater, so we can at least keep warm. ‘How’s the oil?’

  ‘Enough for an hour or two.’

  ‘Good. We’ll pull it out from the grate, and light a fire as well. We’ve got paper, and we can bum that old rickety chair in the kitchen. One of the surfboards is wood. And the frames from my canvases.’

  ‘Martin, you mustn’t do that!’

  ‘Well, we’ll see . . . Now, we’d better look at the water. It may still be rising.’

  As far as they could make out in the dim candlelight it had gone down slightly. Lynwyn, however, did not feel safe in her flat, and they moved her mattress and bedding upstairs, her clothes and some of her other possessions. Ann lit a fire; the baby was quiet; all three women were busy with various jobs.

  ‘I’m going, then,’ said Martin.

  ‘Where to?'

  To find Peter.’ Ann looked at him. Martin smiled faintly. ‘I’ll be back, don’t worry. Thank God I’ve got the wet suit.’ He took it from the wardrobe, and changed into it. ‘I’m taking the malibu.’

  ‘You look like a frogman,’ said Kathleen.

  That’s just about what I am.’

  ‘How will you get there?’ Ann asked.

  ‘Walk where I can. Ride the malibu. Steal a boat. I don’t know. But I’ve got to try, Ann.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked pale and very frightened. He took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘Do take care,’ she said, trying to make it sound light, and she stroked his face. ‘Martin, I couldn’t. . .’ He broke away from her and left. On the first floor landing he thought he would see if the telephone was working. There was no dialling tone, only a distant babble of voices, as if dozens of wires had become inextricably mixed up.

  He had to swim across the street, propelling the malibu in front of him. Cold water trickled between the rubber suit and his skin. The flood he could see had risen to the height of the first floor of the houses, but had fallen back a little leaving seaweed and wisps of grass hanging from some bedroom window-sills. The wind whipped across the surface of the water. There were candles in most of the bedroom windows, shadows of people behind them, faces looking out. In Pretoria Street he reached dry land.

  He walked through the side-streets in the direction of the main road to Flatsea, the malibu under his arm. The water inside his suit was now warmer, less uncomfortable. There were several people about, hurrying in all directions, but most of them stopped to ask him for information, and tell him what they knew. A family of ten were trapped in a basement in Canewdon Road . . . the harbourmaster was stranded on the roof of his office . . . the fire station was under water and all of its appliances out of action . . . the landlord of The Grove Tavern had drowned in his cellar . . . the hospital was badly damaged, but there were no casualties . . . four people were known to have died in Elsie Street, one of them a girl of five. . . A police car drove slowly along, broadcasting a warning to people not to turn on gas fires or stoves. A woman ran by, saying ‘A damn fine night for surfing!’

  He made his way out of the town through streets that were mostly dry; only occasionally was there water, and that no more than knee-height. Three times he was asked for help, but he refused, hating himself for doing so, but Peter was his first priority. He did not dare think too much about his youngest brother. The chances of
finding him alive might only be slim. Yet Peter was sensible, a good swimmer; he may even have got out in time. Even if the water was upstairs in the pub he could be in the loft. But those last words on the phone, ‘Save me!Save me! We’re drowning!’ and the terrible panic in his voice perhaps meant things had happened just too quickly . . .

  The moon was out now and he could see his way clearly. His difficulties started when he came near the wrecked train. The water here was up to his throat at times; he had to swim, and this was not easy, for the sea was churning violently backwards and forwards, as if it was breaking on a beach. He could see people crowded together on the roof of the train; it must be Aaron’s train, and he yelled ‘Ron!’ several times, but nobody heard. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction. He wondered whether he ought to try and struggle over there, but decided not to; either Ron was on the roof, or . . . But this was the same situation as Peter was in. He was either safe, or dead. Neither of them could be swimming now; neither, he suddenly realized, in fact needed his help. But he went on. Aaron was older than Peter and easily the strongest of the four brothers; if Peter could somehow be rescued, then they would go back to Ron.

  Soon he could see Flatsea clearly, what was left of it; there was the roof of The King's Head sharp and silver against the sky. There was about half a mile of water between him and Peter. He lay on the malibu and paddled with his hands. The waves were rough, but no rougher here on the submerged land than he had ridden over last summer at Newquay; out away to his left in the open sea they were impossible; he could hear the thunder of the surf and see the hungry tumbling of the foam, a greenish white in. the moonlight. The wall, despite the breaches in it, still acted as some kind of barrier here, and kept the force of the main body of the sea away. He paddled on, the wet suit stopping him from becoming stiff and numb. He sang to keep his Spirits up :