Storm Surge

by David Rees

  ‘Following the north star brings us back to harbour;

  Warm winds are blowing back across the sea!

  Rock gently, sailboat, rock us all to sleep!’

  Here in the sailboat no one can discover;

  Aaron was reeling like a drunk, gripping railings, pausing for moments to gather strength, his leg muscles about to seize up, telling his brain they were going to give out at any moment and buckle under. Downhill, down Pretoria Street, and there was Martin’s road, Balaclava Street. It was under water. It was too much to bear, and he collapsed. The streetlights were not working, but in the moonlight, a man who was swimming through the flood saw him fall.

  ‘Can you get up, son?’

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I’m all in. Take me over the water. Sixty-four Balaclava Street.’

  ‘You should be in hospital.’

  ‘No. Brother’s.’

  ‘If I could get you to hospital I would, but there’s not a chance. Eight feet of it there on the ground floor.’ He picked Aaron up, muttering with surprise at his weight, and struggled back into the water. ‘Sixty-four, was it? That's the one with the tree wedged in the door.’

  Somehow they scrambled over this obstacle, and were through the hall and up the stairs.

  ‘What’s your brother’s name?’

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘Martin!!’ Ann came running out of the flat, Lynwyn and Kathleen behind her. ‘Get this lad into bed at once; he’s very ill. For God’s sake get him warm or he’ll die. And do something about that cut leg.’

  Aaron, now only dimly aware of what was going on, felt himself being handed over and the women were placing him gently on the carpet; the air was thick and warm, almost intolerably stuffy; they were pulling his underpants down― they shouldn’t be doing that, but perhaps it didn’t matter any more; he was being dried with towels; the voices murmured around him; their hands were gentle and healing. Women.

  ‘He’s handsome.’

  That’s bleeding badly. It’s very deep.’

  ‘Warm water and cotton wool.'

  ‘Elastoplast? On the shelf.’

  This piece will do for his cheekbone.’

  Too young for us. Or maybe not.'

  ‘I’ve refilled the hot water bottles.’

  ‘Waxy. Could be frostbite.’

  ‘No hot water bottles then. It could be dangerous, I think.’ Martin, where was he? There was the rim of a glass between his lips, whisky; he was being sick. They were dressing him in clean clothes, lifting him; he was in bed.

  ‘John’s . . . drowned,’ he managed to say, thickly, and an enormous pressure rose from inside him which he couldn’t resist, making his eyes dissolve the room into whirling yellow shapes, and it hit his brain like a sledgehammer, and he knew nothing more.

  Charley ran from the telephone kiosk to the car. ‘I can’t get through on that one either. That’s the third ― it can’t be vandals, not three in a row. I reckon the telephone exchange has been damaged.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Doris.

  ‘Go to the police.’

  The police station was well away from the flooded area, but it was obvious when they arrived there that a major catastrophe had occurred. A young constable was on duty behind the desk, looking tired and harassed, trying to answer questions and take information from a crowd of agitated people, some of them on the verge of panic. It was difficult to move, for so much miscellaneous luggage was cluttering up the room : suitcases, cardboard boxes, people's pets ― three cages with budgerigars; several cats and dogs; there was even a pig tied to a door handle. A senior officer appeared and ordered two of his men to move everything out to the Ferry Primary School; ‘It's like a zoo in here,' he said. Messages were shouted from one official to another; policemen dashed in and out; all was pandemonium and disorder.

  Charley and Doris waited, learning from the conversation some details of what had happened. Doris was very relieved to hear that the patients in the hospital were safe; only the ground floor had had to be evacuated.

  'Get the caretaker at the Methodist Church to open the hall. . . I don’t care if he’s in bed or not. . . I want him to take in a hundred people . . .’

  ‘Ask the W.V.S. to do three hundred soups immediately. No? Oh, no electricity

  ‘An old lady in Royal Street wants to know if we can find her dog. Answers to the name of Holly.’

  ‘The Yacht Club say they’ve no more space.’

  'Get those bloody cats out of here!’

  ‘At least ten breaches in our patch. The worst one’s knocked out the power station. Concrete blocks from the wall have smashed all the equipment.’

  ‘Warn Southend.’

  The Town Clerk’s in his office right now, sir. The Mayor’s at a dinner party in Harwich.'

  Doris spotted a constable she knew, who occasionally came to The King’s Head for a pint when he was off duty. Charley pushed his way through the crowd and managed to stop the man just as he was hurrying out. From him he learned that most of Flatsea was under water, but as far as the police knew the sea had not reached the first floor of any of the houses. However, it would be impossible to rescue anybody before dawn. ‘You’d scarcely believe it, Charley,’ he said, ‘but there’s a chronic shortage of small boats. Here we are living right by the sea, but because it’s January most of the dinghies and small craft are unseaworthy ― caulking, repairs. And those that were outside have been smashed to pieces.’ Charley, thinking now that Peter and Martin were probably safe upstairs in the pub, maybe even asleep, decided that Aaron was their major worry, and asked the constable if he knew whether the last train had reached Flatsea before the sea burst in, He now learned of the train’s derailment, that a number of people were missing, and that a party of sea scouts had gone out to try and rescue the survivors.

  Charley went white. ‘I’ve good reason to think my son Ron was on that train,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell Doris.'

  ‘Go down to the Comprehensive,’ said the constable. That’s where they’ll take them. There’ll be a list of names.’ He rejoined Doris, and told her most of what he had heard, though saying only about Aaron that if he had been stranded in Oozedam he might be at the school.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ she demanded. ‘Come on.’

  The school hall was an enormous area which easily accommodated fifteen hundred children at morning assembly. Now it was lit by dozens of candles and for once looked beautiful rather than functional, a vast cavern, its roof lost in the leaping shadows. People were milling about everywhere. Many were already asleep, or trying to sleep, on makeshift bedding on the floor; others, half-dressed, hurried about looking for washrooms, or other members of their families. Some children were crying and adults were attempting to comfort them, while others ran about in a great state of excitement, enjoying the novelty of it all. The headmaster darted here and there with lists in his hand, answering questions, directing people. His secretary had moved her desk and typewriter into the hall and was busy taking particulars of new arrivals, who came in every minute, many of them dazed, drenched and hysterical.

  Charley joined the queue at her desk, while Doris buttonholed the headmaster. At last it was his turn. Yes, the survivors from the train had all arrived. She checked through her list. Aaron's name was not on it.

  Charley stared, unable to speak for a few seconds. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

  ‘Aaron Brown, believed missing,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t say that. You know him, my Ron? In the sixth form.’

  ‘Yes. I. . . I don’t. . . I can’t say how . . . Wait a minute!’ She shuffled through the papers on her desk. ‘I have another list. One of the men rescued from the train wrote everybody’s names down.' I’ll just check it. Yes, his name ison the list! How very odd! Why isn’t he here? Just like him.’

  Charley’s relief left him as drained as the anguish of a moment before had done. He wiped his eyes again. He thought for a moment that he was going to pass
out. ‘He’s probably gone to his brother’s,’ he murmured. He moved away, but the secretary called him back.

  ‘Mr Brown! One moment. You’re from Flatsea, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t go back there tonight.’

  ‘I know, I. . .’

  ‘What are you going to do? ’

  ‘I don’t know. Go to my son David’s. I haven’t really thought.’

  ‘You’re an evacuee, you know, just like everyone else.’

  ‘Am I? Yes, I suppose I am.’ It had not occurred to him until that moment that he was also homeless, and now Authority wanted to know all the particulars, where Peter and Martin were ― ‘I remember Martin,’ said the secretary, ‘nice polite boy. Prefect’ ― where David lived, how long he would be likely to stay with David, and so on. Just like the war, Charley thought, just like the blitz : we escaped all that living on the island. Now it’s caught up with us. Even lost my wedding-ring.

  ‘What now?’ Doris asked, when they were outside.

  ‘We’ll go and see if he’s at Ann’s. We won’t be able to get to the flat, because the road’s eight feet under water, or so Bill Masters said at the police station. But we may be able to see from the rise in Pretoria Street if there’s any light on.’

  ‘That headmaster. Who does he think he is? Says Ron’s a most unsatisfactory boy. Never settled down properly to serious work. Too much pop music, too much sport, he said. Waste of a fine intelligence. I said the boy’s got to relax sometimes! I told him.’

  In Ann’s flat the curtains were open. They could see a candle burning, and shadows behind it, caused by someone moving.

  ‘He’s there, he’s there!’ Charley shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Ron!’

  ‘It might only be Ann and Martin.’

  'But they’re at the pub. Ron! Ron!’

  ‘Charley! Don’t shout like that!'

  ‘How else can we make him hear? We can’t get through that water unless you want to swim,’

  Throw something at the window.’

  He found a stone, but it missed. His second throw, however, hit the glass. Someone lifted the window. Ann.

  ‘Ann!’ Charley shouted. ‘Are you all right? Is Ron with you?’

  ‘Yes!We’re safe; he’s here.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Doris murmured.

  ‘And Martin? Is he there too?’

  ‘Gone back to the pub to look for Peter.’

  ‘Peter! What’s wrong?’

  Ann thought it unwise to mention the phone call. ‘Nothing. Martin wanted to make sure Peter wasn’t in any danger. He’ll be back soon. Are you coming over?’

  ‘No. We’ll go back to David’s and wait till the water’s gone down a bit. Look after yourselves.’

  Ann waved and shut the window. Charley put his arms round Doris. ‘I thought he was drowned! Now everything’s allright!’

  ‘It isn’t. What about Peter?’

  The flood in The King’s Head came up to Martin’s chest, but the moonlight showed him that at its highest it had nearly reached the ceiling. There was a dirty line above the picture rail, and wet silt and mud smeared on the walls. He had no idea of the time ― the clock in the kitchen had stopped when the electricity failed ― but he guessed it must now be well after midnight. The bar looked as if it had been wrecked in a fight: tables and chairs had been thrown against one wall and most of them were smashed beyond repair. There was broken glass everywhere, but he found a bottle of rum that was undamaged. He unscrewed the top and drank from it.

  There was no sign of a body, so, leaving the malibu on the counter like a stranded whale, he went upstairs. Peter was fast asleep in bed. Martin touched him : he was warm and breathing. The cold wet sensation made Peter stir.

  ‘What is it? Who’s there?’

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘Martin!’ Peter sat upright. ‘I thought it might be Ron. How did you get here? Wait a second; I’ll light a candle.’ He groped his way out of bed, and a moment later the two brothers could see each other.

  ‘I paddled over on the malibu.’

  ‘You must be frozen. There’s some brandy there.’

  ‘You’ve drunk all that? Dad will have a fit.’

  ‘Susan had a little.’

  ‘Susan? Where is she?’

  ‘She's all right. She’s at home. And the old people are safe. I swam up there.’

  ‘I expected to find two drowned corpses.’

  ‘I know, the phone call. I’m sorry.’ And Peter explained what had happened. Then Martin told him what he knew of the situation in Oozedam, and said that Peter should come back with him, and their grandparents too; it would be much safer than staying on the island; they could all go to David’s; the water level was only going down because the breaches in the wall must be huge, and that meant the next high tide would swamp the island again. Peter thought the idea was ridiculous.

  ‘Why?’ asked Martin, irritated, knowing that his younger brother was right. But he did not want his arduous journey to prove completely pointless. If only he had not listened to Peter and trusted his own judgement instead! Probably neither of them would have got wet at all, and they could be fast asleep how, in warm beds;

  ‘Why don’t you take that thing off and dry yourself?’

  ‘If I do that I shall never get back, and Ann will be insane with fright. Now listen, Peter. I insist you come back with me.’

  ‘How, for a start?’

  ‘I could find a boat.’ He knew this sounded absurd.

  Peter just laughed. ‘I’m certainly not going to swim, or even wade. I’ve had enough cold water for one night.’

  ‘Well, how are you going to cope with the next high tide? ’

  ‘Ah. I’ve got that all worked out. I’ve set Dad’s alarm clock for five o’clock. It’s about low tide then and I reckon the water will all have gone. First job, get as much sand as I can possibly find and fill those sacks in the shed. Block up all the doorways with sandbags except one, as the customers will have to get in somehow

  ‘Customers! Now you're being ridiculous. Who do you think’s coming out here to drink tomorrow?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if no one comes. The law says the pub has to be open every day of the year except Christmas Day, I shall keep plenty of sandbags in the bar for the front door when the tide comes. I'm going to nail wood over the broken windows. I’m going to clean out that bar ―’

  ‘Enough work for a week. And where are you going to find the sand?’

  There’s plenty in the shed. Dad bought some last week to do some concreting out the back.' He yawned. ‘Now let me go to sleep, Oh, and Susan will be down first thing to help.’

  ‘Will she?’

  ‘I saved your picture. I swam through the bar and brought it upstairs and dried it.’

  ‘Peter, you're marvellous. And I thought I was the great hero, coming out here like this.’

  ‘You are. But I’m sorry I made you.’

  ‘So long, landlord. If I find Dad first I’ll tell him he has no worries.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to look at the picture?’

  ‘It will keep. Are you quite sure Grandma’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, It’s Ron I’m scared about.’

  ‘Yes. But he has nine lives.’ Martin decided not to say anything about the wrecked train; there was no point in upsetting Peter unnecessarily.

  ‘He’s used up eight.’

  ‘He’s probably staying at John Hewitt’s.’ Martin took a long swig of brandy, then started out on the journey back. There was no sign of anyone on or near the train, and on the dry road beyond it a police car that had come out to rescue an elderly couple in a flooded bungalow stopped beside him. The driver offered him a lift: Martin, who was now beginning to feel very tired, accepted gratefully. The malibu had to be left in the bungalow as there was no room for it in the car. He explained what he had been doing, and was listened to with great interest; this was the first news the police had had of conditions on Fl
atsea from someone who had been on the island, and it was immediately relayed over the radio to headquarters.

  ‘We’ll get a team of men over there at breakfast time,’ said the policeman. ‘I think we may have to evacuate everyone until the walls are repaired.’

  That may take weeks!'

  ‘Yes. Oh, they’ll be all right; we’re opening up several rescue centres. They’ll be well looked after. The main problem at the moment is a shortage of blankets, but there should be a lorry-load from Cambridge during the morning.’

  ‘My brother’s not going to like that!’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said the old man, who was sitting in the back. It was the first time he had spoken since leaving his home. His wife stared ahead, a glazed frightened expression on her face. She could not stop shivering.

  ‘What’s happened to the passengers on the train?’ Martin asked.

  They’ve been rescued. But there are several missing or dead.’

  ‘My brother Ron may well have been on that train.’

  ‘You ought to stay the rest of the night at the school. Your brother will be there. That's where I'm taking these two. Balaclava Street is still flooded; the railway embankment's holding the water in.’

  ‘I must get back to my girlfriend. She’ll be terrified out of her mind.’

  ‘Love is stronger than water, is it?’

  ‘Neither can the floods drown it,’ Martin said, and laughed. ‘So the Bible tells us.’

  ‘It ain't necessarily so,’ said the policeman, turning the car into Pretoria Street.

  At about two o’clock in the morning Grandma announced that she was going downstairs to cook breakfast.

  ‘At this hour of the night!’ exclaimed Fred. ‘What’s got into you, girl?’

  ‘I’m hungry.’ She started to dress. ‘Give me your matches.’

  He stared at her in amazement, and slowly shook his head. ‘After all these years not a day passes without you causing miracles. You be careful with that there gas. If the water’s in it it might be dangerous.’