by Cesca Major
She had been so proud, remembering where the recipe was written, dragging a chair over to the dresser, turning the hob on so she was ready. She stood on the chair to search the cupboard. She needed plain flour, not self-raising. Then her mum had called her from the hallway. She was going to take her to pick up Dad’s surprise and when Irina heard those words, everything else went out of her head. She loved surprises. So she left the kitchen, forgetting everything.
If she had just turned it off, if she had just remembered.
‘The smoke alarm didn’t go off, I don’t know why it didn’t go off, they would have woken,’ Irina said, clutching her sides, trying to squeeze herself into a smaller space, disappear.
Her mother sat back down, slowly, one arm reaching behind her for the chair, stumbling briefly. She bent forward, taking a breath. ‘I’d taken the batteries out.’
Irina wiped her face with the back of her hand, wondering if she had correctly heard the words her mother had whispered.
There seemed to be a pause then, only the hum of traffic, the screech of a seagull.
‘The week before. I’d forgotten, your father always hated the sound, and I’d burnt bacon, pulled out the batteries. I meant to put them back, but I hadn’t…’
Irina’s mind was a roar of noise, memories, but her mother’s words were filtering through it all. The alarm, the batteries.
‘Dad was sleeping, you know how he could sleep. They found them…’ Her mother swallowed. ‘They found them both, they hadn’t woken. They told me they died from smoke inhalation.’
‘I thought… I never knew.’ Irina stumbled, her tongue suddenly too big for her mouth, her mother not meeting her eyes.
‘I should have told you. We should have talked years ago. I never wanted to, I didn’t want you to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘That it was my fault. I didn’t want you to hate me.’
Irina started at her comment, confused as to what would come next. Her head was spinning with the revelations, the bitter joy of being able to talk about her brother and her dad, to feel them standing some way off as she and her mother finally spoke about their deaths.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve blamed myself for years. For how I behaved, for not stopping you, not protecting you. I couldn’t help them. But you, I could have saved you.’
Irina held her breath, too shocked to cry.
‘For years I’ve had to think about you racing towards the flames, screaming for Joshua and Dad, rushing straight into the fire; you were so determined, fearless. Even when the heat got too much, you were adamant you could rescue them. And all that time, when you were running at the house, I was standing there, watching, afraid, stuck to the ground while everyone else did something.’
As her mother finally spoke about that day, Irina sat listening. The fire that had torn through their house, the sirens that swept past them, the fire trucks at strange angles on the pavements in their street, the people rushing back and forth, the heat.
She remembered them arriving back from the bakery, her dad’s cake in the boot; she’d been so excited to see his face. Then her mother braking hard, Irina lurching forward in the car. Their house hadn’t looked right. There was smoke belching out of the windows at the top, both windows, puffing out in huge clouds because the house couldn’t contain it.
Her mother had got out of the car. She didn’t say anything, just got out, walked into the middle of the road and stared. She was wearing a skirt and a pink cardigan and she looked so small. Irina had undone her seatbelt, clambered out after her.
She only paused for a second before racing towards the side gate. It was hot, sizzling hot, but she had to find Joshua and it was Dad’s birthday and they hadn’t been gone long. And it was all her fault. She ran down the path by the side so she could get in through the kitchen then up the stairs. She dodged round a man, he shouted at her, people called out, but she was quick, they’d said so at school, and she could reach him; he was small, he’d be scared.
She thought of Joshua’s face, all pale, his floppy hair in his eyes, surrounded by the black smoke, and she reached up to the door handle of the kitchen. Beyond the door were noises, things falling, something bursting, the sound like a wine glass on the floor but ten times louder. She tugged on the side door, pulled it open. She felt the whole house suck in a breath, and then, in a roar, it spat her straight back out onto the side path. The last thought she had before she felt someone drag her backwards was that the house had eaten Joshua.
‘They pulled you out, you were so… Your face…’ Her mother had started to cry now, bigger sobs that left her shaking. ‘And I hadn’t even taken a step forward to try. I’d let you go, too afraid to try myself. I should have been with you, I should have stopped you going. Every time I see it, I’m reminded,’ her mother said, reaching out to draw a line down her face. ‘My brave, brave Irina.’
RICHARD
He hadn’t been able to stay in the cottage that afternoon. The drumming of the rain against the windows, a saucepan on the kitchen floor catching a new leak he needed to fix. His father sitting reading, Mary insisting on making supper in the kitchen, rolling out pastry, her forearms covered in flour. She was wearing the apron his mother used to wear, it was smaller on her, the yellow flowers so familiar he wanted to reach out and touch it. He hadn’t told her he’d seen Abigail, that he knew she was leaving.
The thought shrouded him; a bleak, heavy realization that she would be gone and he would be left there. He felt the urge to get out, to head back into the village, up the river, to walk somewhere. He left quickly, pulling on the galoshes that stank of fish, oil-stained, his coat smelling of salt and guts. He rested a hand on his father’s shoulder, felt it covered momentarily.
The darkness came as a surprise, the sky swelling with heavy clouds, the rain blurring the scenery, the river higher, sweeping past the house with energy, the road pockmarked with huge puddles. He walked up the path, into the trees, heading up, the ground slick with mud that clung to his boots and splattered up the side of his trousers. He felt his muscles burn with the effort, breathing in the smell of rain, the forest, the soaked soil, losing the village behind him, toy houses somewhere below. He wished his brother was still alive, that they could be off on the moors, on the beach with a football. He kicked at the ground, seeing his future uncertain and empty.
The rain was falling hard now and on the moors the peaty soil was saturated, the spongy heather heavy with water. The clouds were dark and threatening, a purple tinge along the underside, layer on layer of cloud and rain so that he could barely make out what was ahead of him. He knew he should get back, alarmed at the wind that battered him, the storm clashing overhead, lighting up the moor in a ghostly scene. For a second he imagined he saw cattle bloated and lowing for help, a moaning wind; he blinked.
When he arrived back, the fire had been lit, the cottage full of the smell of wood smoke, and he removed his sopping layers in a puddle inside the front door, hanging them on a row of hooks to dry. He moved through to the kitchen in his socks, leaving damp patches on the flagstones, putting the saucepan on to boil. Mary’s pie was sitting finished on the side, the counter spotless, wiped down, pans washed and put away. The sight lifted him; he brightened as he returned to the front room, the scene in front of the fire, her shy smile as he asked if she wanted a pot of tea.
‘I should do that,’ she protested, half-rising out of the armchair.
‘Stay put, I’m up. Dad?’
‘Have you ever known me to say no?’
Richard switched on the side lamp and stoked the fire before returning with the tea things, wheeling over the trolley. There was a momentary flash from outside and it seemed the rain became thicker still, impossible already to see out into the front garden, some blurred lights of the houses and hotels opposite. Richard imagined the holiday
makers, here for the sand and the ice-cream, looking out miserably at the weather.
He’d barely sat down, the lamps turned on as if it were a winter’s evening, when someone was hammering on the cottage door. He lifted himself out of his armchair, moving in his socks to open it.
Bill stood there, the rain flecking his glasses, lost in a long cagoule, a hood obscuring his hair. ‘They’re saying the bridge is awash up near Ilkerton Hill. Some of the lads are up there, thought we could be helpful.’
Richard was pulling on his boots as Bill spoke, the sky black and grey behind him, the rain pelting the pathway, bouncing off the surface. He poked his head back around the sitting-room door, Mary already on her feet, wringing her hands. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘No, I won’t be long. Will you both be OK?’ He looked with concern at his father, who waved him off. Richard was glad Mary was there.
‘We can wait to eat,’ she said, hovering in the doorway to the sitting room as Richard finished tugging on his boots.
‘Thanks.’
‘Rich, I might drown waiting for you,’ Bill said, stamping his feet. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I’m coming.’
He swept out of the door, into the weather, surprised by the height of the rivers, which had risen rapidly in the last couple of hours.
‘If we head out towards Barbrook we might be able to get up on the road there and see what’s happening…’
Richard called back a reply, head down as the rain battered them from all sides. It was as if they were on their boat in a storm.
They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards when they heard an almighty crash further up in the valley. A sudden darkness descended as all the lights went out in the village.
‘What the…?’ Bill swore as he fumbled in his pockets, pulling out a box of matches that became sodden and useless in seconds.
‘Brilliant!’ Richard laughed, stuck on a piece of road, disorientated and soaking. ‘We better head back,’ he called.
They crept back down slowly, surprised at the rising water, linking arms as they crossed the road, back along the side of the village, the water already ankle-deep in places, washing around their calves. They made their way round the back of the high street, Richard keen to get back and check the cottage. They’d been gone for an age and had barely got anywhere. Candles flickered in the windows of The Rising Sun, the noise so loud now, they had to cup a hand next to each other’s ears and shout to be heard. Bill motioned to the pub, Richard only able to nod in reply.
The room was steaming as they piled in, filled with people, the light low, candles flickering on every table, in windows, along the mantelpiece, bodies clustered in groups, talking in murmurs, the rain ever present as it lashed outside. He started as he made out Abigail’s sister, huddled in a corner, her ringlets sticking to her neck, thinner than when he’d seen her last in the village all those weeks ago, an untouched drink in front of her. He couldn’t see Abigail, scanned the room quickly for glossy brown hair, the flash of her teeth.
He shouldered his way over to the table. ‘Where’s Abigail?’ he asked, aware of his dripping clothes, the goosebumps on his skin.
The woman looked up, pale, a man’s coat draped over her shoulders, still shaking in spite of it, hair plastered to her skin. ‘So it’s you.’ He didn’t know what to say to that. The woman shot a look over at the bar before leaning forward, saying the words quickly, in a half-whisper. ‘She left,’ she said, returning to stare at her drink. ‘I wondered.’
A man with narrow shoulders and a receding hairline turned away from the bar and a semi-circle of men. ‘And who are you?’ He stepped forward, one eyebrow raised. Richard felt foolish in his muddy, wet clothes, shivering a little underneath the layers. The man looked at Abigail’s sister; Richard flinched.
‘I’m… no one. I just… wondered…’
The man had already turned away from him, was continuing his conversation. ‘Bloody girl ran off. We had to come back, wait for her here. Ridicu—’
Richard was moving away before the man had finished his sentence, knowing where Abigail would have been headed, scared now he knew she might be out there.
He paused momentarily in the doorway of the pub. Bill called to him from the bar, his eyebrows drawn together, a question on his lips, rubbing at his glasses. Richard looked back at him, then out at the rain, plunged back into the dark chaos of the high street. He had to find her.
His eyes couldn’t adjust, his limbs numb now; the water seemed to be inside every layer, weighing down each step, his hair matted, water dripping into his eyes, from his nose, and each footfall accompanied by new sounds, terrifying sounds. Flashes of lightning showed the river, impossibly wide, carving its way through the village; trees, rocks, masonry, cars, jumbled and stacked high in those flashes. Then the darkness, so he could almost convince himself nothing had changed.
Boats smashed against each other in the harbour somewhere below as he stepped back onto the road, voices in the darkness behind, shouts; the tear and rumble seemed to encircle him. He was disorientated, the water pushing round him, relentless, forcing him to grab onto railings, windowsills, anything, always rising. He prayed she was somewhere safe, needed to get back to the cottage.
He passed the fruit shop, pausing as he heard cries, the sound of breaking glass. Peering into the dark, wiping at his eyes, he called out. ‘Hello, who’s there?’ The cries continued and he moved across to the building, clutching the walls as the water grew in strength. Climbing up, he could make out a skylight, an arm poking out and a voice shouting something. There was barking as he clambered over the flat roof to peer down into the square of glass.
An older man looked up. ‘My dog,’ he said, lifting the terrier up towards the gap.
Richard lay on the roof to reach down, the tiny body wriggling in protest as he clamped both hands around it. He could feel its heartbeat through the fur; he pulled it out and sat it on the top. ‘Stay!’ he ordered, the dog leaning his head to one side, his fur matted immediately by the rain.
‘Come on,’ Richard called, reaching down to pull the man up, grunting with the effort. He heaved him up and out and they lay momentarily, chests heaving, on the roof.
The man struggled to his feet. ‘We need to get higher,’ he gestured.
Richard shook his head. ‘I need to go on,’ he called back, pointing further up the valley.
The man clasped his shoulder with one hand before he left. ‘Good luck,’ he called, heading down and across the back of the building to a bank higher up, clutching his dog in both hands.
Richard lost sight of him almost immediately, scared now by the darkness all around him, making the crashing noises even more terrifying.
He dropped back onto the road, the water everywhere, swirling around his calves as he moved forward. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, his whole body shaking with the cold, the wet as he grabbed at buildings, lampposts, his progress impossibly slow. The bridge over to the cottages was out and he felt marooned, unable to get back, to check on his dad and Mary, too far on now to turn away, his breathing quickening as the water rose over his knees, the air filled with unfamiliar sounds. He needed to find somewhere safe, somewhere on high ground.
Then, up ahead, where two roads normally met, he could make out a shape, near the bank; a flash of lightning and he realized it was her. He pulled himself through the water, shouting her name, telling her to hold on.
‘I’m coming. I’m coming.’ The words were whisked away before they could be heard, his voice hoarse, lips numb.
She was sobbing when he found her, her tears mingling with the rain. She was clinging to a railing as the water whirled and sucked and rushed past her. ‘Hold on!’ he shouted, looking for something he could use that she might hang on to.
‘The woman…’ She was crying, pointing down towards the
harbour. ‘She was… I could have…’
He couldn’t hear what she was saying, just shouted again, ‘Hold on, Abigail.’
She had lost her footing, both hands now gripping the railing. He turned this way and that, seeing nothing in the inky black. He had lost his bearings; things he would have recognized in daylight had morphed into something else. Roads he walked every day had become unknown streams, the rivers weighted with tree roots, debris and boulders, a roaring, terrifying beast moving down the valley, no longer the gentle rivers he had splashed in as a boy, fished in, idling on the banks in a deckchair as fish nibbled on his rod, no longer the rivers whose banks he’d walked along with her, the insistent burble of it an accompaniment to their chatter. Not this, not this thing that was screaming over the top of everything else, screaming inside his head, threatening to destroy the village he loved.
‘I can’t…’ She was mouthing things he couldn’t hear, not able to look up at him. She was an indistinct form in the shadows; he could make out the cream of her dress, then she was lit up like a black and white picture, comical almost, sideways. He shook his head, wondering what he’d seen. There was a rumble further along, something giving way and he knew he had to get to her.
He clambered down, one hand over the other, moving along the railing, his fingers slipping on the cold metal. When he reached her, he had to lean forward, shift his weight. His feet were sliding as if he were standing on ice, the water nudging at him, moving around his feet and calves, cold, so cold. An enormous sound above them forced him to lurch forward; grabbing at her arm, he shouted at her to let go of the railing. Hauling her to him, they fell back up the bank, on top of each other, and his mouth was in the water and his hair and everything was in his eyes, but her body was with him. She was there, lying on top of him, shouting words which were lost as something crashed past them, another tearing sound, wrenching metal and when they looked back the railing had gone, swept down the river.
