by James Erith
In Old Man Wood’s room, near to where the water had spilled over from the fireplace, she noticed five rectangular rugs that sat on the floor, each the size of a hearth rug. She folded them up and took them to the back door to give them a bit of shake under the wide roof trusses. As she did, plumes of dust flew in every direction.
How revolting, she thought. How vile. She’d give the old man a good talking to when he returned – if he returned. They were caked, like knotted dreadlocks, their colour a blend of silvery-brown and dark green, and the patterns submerged beneath years of dirt. As the rain belted down upon them, a black sludge dribbled out, like slurry. Mrs Pye left the rugs in the deluge for a few moments and then decided to bring them in, draping them over a wooden clothes horse under the rickety old porch. If she left them outside, she thought, Lord only knew where they might end up.
Night fell and, to her great relief, the deluge subsided. She mopped the remaining water from the fireplaces and laid a fire in both the kitchen and the sitting room, which she lit. Covering herself in a blanket, and quite overwhelmed with tiredness and worry, she nodded off in the rocking chair in the kitchen, next to the warm metal range beneath the thick oak beams.
Hours later, she woke suddenly and for a moment wondered where she was. She yawned and for a second thought she could hear tiny, shrill voices. She looked around. No, there was nothing there. Just imaginary things, like the noise of a football being kicked in the courtyard.
The house was as black as night, so she opened a box of matches and struck one. The flame briefly shone, the bright light extending its reach into the large room before dying back. Mrs Pye felt a chill. The fire was on its last embers. She added a handful of kindling and placed two dry logs on top, stood up and stretched out, feeling the stabbing pain in her shoulder that had been with her all her life.
She took the candle and trundled to the door, made her way to the sitting room, added several logs into the large, ashen grate and sank down onto the sofa. She sighed. Where were they? What had become of them? She played with various scenarios. Maybe they were at school and playing with their friends, Archie with his black hair and cheeky look, the freckles around his nose that made him look naughtier than he really was and his dark lively eyes. She’d get him a whole new uniform when their parents returned. She’d insist on it. No more patched-up clothes – he was too old for that.
Then she thought of Isabella. Isabella so upright and straightforward, so bright and busy. Her straight brown hair that fell over her face when she was embarrassed, just like her mother. Her straight pointy nose and thin lips. Her alertness and confidence. Oh, and her temper!
And then there was Daisy. Funny, pretty Daisy with her blonde wavy hair and red cheeks, her keen eyes and her warm smile. Why, they all had warm smiles, she thought. Nice teeth and warm smiles. Decent, well mannered kids, too. She let a tear roll down her cheek.
Where were they?
Had they been caught in the storm trying to head home? She shivered and pulled her woollen blanket tight. Wasn’t there anything she could do?
Mrs Pye had no idea how long she’d been asleep, but she woke suddenly to find a dim light filtering in through the windows and the fire smouldering in front of her. She checked her watch and, with a groan, pulled herself up. The house was as quiet as she could remember and she wore her sense of loss like a ball and chain.
In the kitchen, she put the kettle on the stove and stared out of the windows as morning light rose over the Vale below her. She gasped. My goodness me, she thought. A lake – or was it sea that filled the valley below?
Nearer, trees lay prostrate in a wretched jumble. Her heart sank.
She hobbled about, wondering if she should go outside and call out for them. But what if they returned only to find an empty home? That wouldn’t be right and, in any case, the old man would bring them back, wouldn’t he? He had a knack of doing that. After all, he’d found her all those years ago, barely alive, so they said, deep in the forest at the bottom of a gorge. He’d carried her home, apparently – for many miles. He’d do the same with the children. She felt it in the marrow of her bones. There was something right about this feeling, something special about the old man that she couldn’t quite lay a finger on.
If he couldn’t do it, who else could?
She continued with her chores; she made bread and finished off the washing. She added more logs to the old iron stove to bring it up to heat, and then shuffled out of the back door where she moved the wooden clothes horse and gathered up the five rugs which, to her great surprise were, mildly damp and not at all saturated with water.
Strange little things, she thought. Like hearth rugs but lighter and, as she realised when she gripped the fabric, far stronger. She knew Old Man Wood didn’t like her in his room, and duly stayed away, but why hadn’t these been washed before? She had a good mind to either throw them in the rubbish bin or pop them in the washing machine. She tutted. Without any power they would have to wait. No, she’d let them finish drying and pop them back in Old Man Wood’s room, dirty though they were, and give them a proper clean when the power came back on.
WITH HER JOBS done and the house as spick and span as she could remember, the sweet aroma of fresh bread filling the kitchen and the dry, though filthy, rugs replaced on the floor of Old Man Wood’s room, Mrs Pye sat down in her rocking chair with a mug of hot water containing a sprig of mint. She swayed, backwards and forwards, for a minute or two, lost in her own world as she hummed Old Man Wood’s peculiar song. Then her eyes began to close and she slept.
For some strange reason, she thought she heard Old Man Wood’s deep tone.
Her eyes opened. She’d imagined it – must have – or she’d been dreaming. She closed her eyes, and as she did, she heard it again. But this time there was another voice, higher in pitch. She stood up straight away, conscious of the blood rushing into her heart. Could it be possible? Had he returned with the children?
By the time she reached the huge, studded door her pulse was racing. She withdrew the large, black iron bolt and yanked on the brass knob. The door yawned open. There, in front of her, stood the old man with the three children. One was draped over his shoulder, covered in blood and littered with an assortment of cuts and bruises. The others were hanging on to his coat, shivering, almost naked, their remaining clothes hanging off them, torn to shreds. One had strange spikes on his head and the other had hair matted to her face.
‘It’s a miracle, it’s a damned, ruddy miracle,’ she cried as she opened her arms, her voice cracking with emotion. Daisy and Archie folded into her large midriff, tears falling freely down their cheeks. ‘Oh my poor, dear children,’ she cried. ‘You’re safe. Safe now.’
Mrs Pye ushered them in and, while making a terrible fuss, sat them down in front of the fire and produced a basket crammed with soft, downy blankets and pillows. Shortly after that a saucepan full of thick, milky chocolate appeared. She returned with homemade flapjacks and sandwiches bulging with butter and raspberry jam. Archie and Daisy tucked in, but Isabella was too sick, too broken by the looks of things, to eat. Old Man Wood was seeing to her next door.
Mrs Pye talked and cried in equal measure as she went. ‘Do you have any ideas what a terrible, terrible time I’ve had?’ she said repeatedly. ‘Do you have any ideas how it’s been for me, huh? Watching the storm out there and worrying meself sick,’ she complained. ‘And do you have any ideas how difficult it is being alone in the house with no one here?’ At this point, she turned on Old Man Wood. ‘What were you playing at – leaving without telling?!’ she shouted through to the next room. ‘Left me on my own to worry – and worry I did, every minute of every night and every second of the day.’
And then she exploded into tears and told them all how much she loved them and how she would never let it happen again – over her dead body – and that she knew they’d be alright and she knew they’d come back.
Mrs Pye was normally a woman of few words so this tirade was borne out o
f complete and utter love, and the children knew it.
Archie and Daisy exchanged smiles as if to say, “If she really knew what had happened … what then?”
FIFTY-TWO
SUE REMEMBERS HER PHONE
It was all very well catching the fish, but another matter altogether gutting it and cutting it up.
The meat came away from the bones with a lot of fiddling and a great deal of mess. Sue thought it might be a sea bass whereas Gus was convinced it was cod. It wasn’t that delicious – too salty and slimy – and they joked that it would have been miles better deep fried in batter with chips, but it filled the cavernous hole in their hungry tummies. They washed it down with an additional ration of water using one of the empty baked bean tins as a cup.
As night began to fall, the rain beat a little heavier and it reminded Gus to set up his upside down umbrella rain catcher. He’d discovered Sue’s umbrella on the bottom of the boat, opened it out and punctured two holes right in the centre where it met the stick. Then, he’d twisted the lid off the water container and aimed the upside down umbrella’s spike at it and pushed it fully inside. Then he tied the handle to each side support. When this was secure, he laid the wooden planks down the middle of the boat and they clambered on top, the rain tapping gently on the canopy above.
Doing nothing on the boat was exhausting.
‘Pity we haven’t got a camera,’ Sue said. ‘This should be recorded for historical purposes.’
‘The intrepid adventures of Gus and Sue,’ he replied. ‘Survivors of the Great Yorkshire Storm.’
Sue laughed, before sitting bolt upright, her head missing the crossbeam by millimetres. Then she slapped her hands together. ‘Of course! I’ve been incredibly dumb – I do have a camera. On my phone.’
‘You forgot you had a phone,’ Gus said. ‘How?’
‘Well, I only use it in emergencies.’ She shrugged and began rummaging in her coat pockets. She pulled it out, kissed it and held it in the air as if she’d won the World Cup.
‘I’ll call someone – let them know we’re here, wherever here is,’ she said.
She pressed the power button. The lights flashed and the start up mechanism buzzed into action. They stared at it for a while. ‘Oh. No reception,’ she said quietly, her mood deflating.
She groaned and lay back, the presence of the phone giving her a reality check. ‘I wonder if Isabella made it back – they were still playing the football match when we went past with the shopping. They had a fight on the pitch, Archie slugging away – can you believe it?’
‘Archie?’
‘Yeah. And Isabella doing her mad referee-bashing thing.’
Gus laughed.
‘Do you think they had time to get over the bridge and up the lane to their cottage?’ For the first time, Sue’s heart filled with a sense of loss. Before she knew it, tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she cried, wiping them away. ‘It’s just bloody awful, isn’t it?’
Gus put a reassuring arm around her. ‘I don’t know.’ From the extraordinary volume of water he knew it would have been a tall order to survive. ‘I’m sure loads of people are perfectly fine,’ he lied. ‘And more than likely Isabella’s tucked up in bed with a hot chocolate having stories told to her by that very old man who lives with them.’
Sue smiled. She knew he was being nice. As she searched the depths of her soul, it didn’t feel as if she had lost her friend. ‘Do you think anyone survived?’
‘We’ll only know if we get home, I suppose.’ Then he had an idea. ‘Sue can I have a look at your phone.’ She handed it to him. He stared at the screen for a while. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘better if you do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Find an app with a compass. So we can start figuring out which way we’re going.’
Sue started going through the various menus. ‘Here, is this what you’re after?’ She handed it back to him.
Gus stared at it as if it were gold. ‘Mega-tastic.’ His big smile radiated back at her. He twisted the phone in his hands and the compass point moved.
‘What does it say?’
Gus beamed back. ‘We’re heading south.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Good, I suppose – better than heading north. Ideally, we want to head west.’
‘How do we do that?’ Sue said.
Gus grinned. ‘A rudder for steering would help and we need to change the position of the sail.’ He shifted his position and untied the sail rope before moving it into a new position on the other side of the boat. The Joan Of altered course slightly.
‘Turn your phone off for now. We may need it later.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I’m going to make a rudder with one of the planks. Can you dig out the tools?’
While Sue rummaged around at the bottom of the boat placing the tools on the seat, Gus began mapping it out. ‘I’ll attach a small section of plank to a longer section of 2 by 4. Then at the bow I need to hook it over the end so it stays in place and then lever this side so that moves it one way or the other.’
Sue looked confused.
Gus smiled back. ‘Just pass me things and tell me about that dream you had while I figure this out.’
As Gus set to work, Sue told him about her premonition. How she’d woken up and written down as much of her dream as possible and then studied it, altering it where she might have got it wrong. And although it made little sense, the nightmare scared her so much that she confided to Isabella. And then Isabella went berserk trying to prove it was actually going to happen. Which it did.
‘And the thing is,’ she said, ‘Isabella had a dream about it too.’ She strummed her fingers on the seat. ‘Isn’t that freaky?’
She paused as Gus bashed in a couple of nails and then continued. ‘Most of this nightmare centred on the de Lowes and what really got me most was just how incredibly real the images appeared. It was like watching TV.’
‘Give me an example,’ Gus said.
‘Where do I begin?’ she said. ‘OK, the coming of the storm, the lightning, oh, and here’s one which I didn’t think much of, but it felt important at the time, that they had to stay alive till sunset.’
Gus looked up. ‘Well, the storm certainly happened,’ he said. ‘Did you tell them about the other bit?’
‘About the sunset?’
‘Yes. Pass me the saw.’
Sue reached into the box and handed it over. ‘Yeah, but only right at the end before I ran off the pitch. I don’t know why I put it off for so long. I wasn’t sure I believed the nightmare would come true. It seemed too mad. And there was also another part …’
‘Go on,’ Gus encouraged. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘They had to find some clues to find three tablets or something in that old house of theirs. It was about as much as I could remember at the time.’
Gus began sawing the plank, the noise drowning out the conversation. It gave Sue time to think. ‘Thing is, by the time I told them, the de Lowes were either fighting, being kicked or being hauled off the pitch.’
She ducked as Gus turned the rudder around. ‘What do you make of it – do you think I’m crazy?’
Gus picked up the rudder and studied his handiwork. ‘Who knows, there might be something in it. I mean you were spectacularly right about the storm, and if you remember, when nightfall came, the deluge gave way to spitting. So if they did survive, then maybe what you saw really was a premonition of some kind. Spooky, huh?’
Sue looked at Gus quizzically. For a boy he was an amazingly good listener. But she needed to get one more thing off her chest. ‘Thing is, Gus, why did I have a dream about another family? And why did it feel so heart wrenchingly real?’
Gus relaxed, put his tools down, and faced her. ‘Maybe you’re related to them,’ he said.
Sue guffawed.
‘No, listen,’ Gus continued. ‘Don’t get me wrong, but you’re incredibly similar to Isabella. You’re the same he
ight, you have the same hair. You both like the same stuff. You’re as clever as each other and both of you are terrible at sport. You’re just prettier.’ The moment he said it, he blushed.
‘Oh, that’s so sweet, but I don’t know about that,’ she said, noting Gus’ discomfort. ‘She’s way smarter than me with a vicious temper.’
Gus smiled broadly. Isabella’s sharp tongue was legendary at Upsall school and he’d been on the receiving end a couple of times. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘Twins aren’t always exactly the same—’
‘Twins?’
‘Yes. Maybe you’re Isabella’s twin. You know, separated at birth. Stranger things have happened.’
Sue had heard this theory before. ‘No, I don’t believe that. Loads of people look the same and act the same.’
‘No one looks like me,’ Gus said.
‘Well, you’re one of a kind,’ she said, punching him playfully.
He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Why don’t you text Bells and remind her of all those things you said? If we get in range and they’re alive, you never know, it might help. There’s nothing to lose apart from a bit of battery power. More than anything, she’ll be overjoyed to hear from you.’
‘For a boy,’ Sue began, ‘you’re quite clever.’ Sue ran her fingers over the keypad while she punched in the texts. ‘Tell you what, I’ll send three. The first to say that we’re OK, the second with all the things I’ve told you, and a third to my dear old mum.’
