He collided with something soft. The relief was immense as he grabbed Olivia and Maggie and pulled them inside. ‘Where have you been?’ he yelled.
Olivia’s voice was whipped away as she yelled back.
Giles shook his head. He could hear nothing but the wind. ‘I’ll be back,’ he mouthed as he wrestled with the door and forced it shut. He leaned against it, and felt the chill of the first drops of driving rain. Pulling his collar to his chin, he bent almost double as he fought his way through the gathering maelstrom. At least Olivia was safe.
*
‘You’d better get back here before she hits,’ said William at the other end of the two–way radio link.
‘I’m not leaving the horses,’ Irene said.
‘They’ll be right,’ retorted William. ‘Get over here, Irene. I don’t want to be responsible for anything happening to you if this storm turns out as bad as they predict.’
‘Shame you didn’t think about that earlier,’ she snapped. ‘You didn’t seem to care about my welfare when you booted me out and left me to fend for myself with no help – not even from Jimmy.’
‘This is different,’ he replied, his voice edgy with impatience.
‘You’re damn right it is,’ she hissed and pulled the plug on the connection. She sat back and eyed the ugly great radio and felt like kicking it. Yet she resisted the temptation. It was her only link to the outside world – she might need it.
Lighting a cigarette she stood and peered out of the window. The sky was dark over to the east and the heat was beginning to wane. They were in for a beaut, and the thought of being here alone was not pleasant. Perhaps she should swallow her pride and go to Deloraine? The house was sturdy and she wouldn’t be alone there. Yet she dismissed the idea almost immediately. Pluperfect and the other horses couldn’t be left, and she’d be damned if she would give William the satisfaction of seeing her in need of his help.
Slamming out of the door, Irene crossed the yard and headed for the stables. She had lined each stall with quilts and blankets and had checked them several times already that morning – but it wouldn’t hurt to do it again. The decision to keep the horses stabled had been a difficult one, for they could be crushed should the building collapse. Yet if she let them free in the paddock, they could be blown to kingdom come or battered to death with flying debris. Neither option was appealing, but she had gone with her first instinct.
The animals were lathered in sweat, ears flat, eyes rolling as the deep rumble of thunder echoed across the empty miles. They stamped and snorted, their flanks twitching as they swayed back and forth in their stalls. Irene tried to soothe them with soft words, but soon realised nothing would calm their fears until the storm was over.
Pluperfect was strangely calm, and Irene stroked his nose, aware of the pent–up fury that could be unleashed as swiftly as the approaching storm. His withers were twitching and a light foam of sweat stained his black neck. Yet his ears were pricked, and unlike the others, he remained still.
‘You be good, my precious boy,’ she murmured as she pushed him back and bolted the top of the stable door. She stood there and listened for a moment. Pluperfect snorted and stamped, but she knew it was only because he hated being enclosed. She ran her hand over the sturdy wood, relieved the stables had been rebuilt, for if Pluperfect decided he really didn’t like it in there, it would take a very strong stall to hold him.
She turned from the stable yard, her boot heels ringing on the cobbles. The thunder grumbled in the distance and the false night was illuminated by a streak of lightning that seared a path through the sky before hitting a remote hillside.
Looking towards the coast, Irene saw the rapidly approaching bank of cloud, the long black fingers of rain and wind spiralling down towards Trinity. The little town was obviously taking a battering. As the first breath of cooling wind ruffled her hair she scented rain in the electric atmosphere. She had done everything she could to protect herself and her horses. Now she just had to sit it out and hope to god they all survived.
*
Olivia collected everyone’s medical supplies and put them together in a large box under the stairs. She raided the linen cupboard for sheets and towels and added them to the stash. As she worked with almost mechanical efficiency, her thoughts were centred on Giles.
Sam had told her where he’d gone and at first she’d been furious with him for putting Giles in danger – then she’d realised he’d needed to feel useful – needed to be a man again, fully in charge of his destiny and still capable of the acts of bravery he’d shown during the war.
Olivia finished storing away the precious medical supplies and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the enormous urn Maggie had set up on the floor, well away from the mattresses. It was hot and strong and very nearly soothed her, yet she couldn’t help remembering their conversation the night before and the unsatisfactory conclusion. If only she had said something profound or sensible, perhaps Giles wouldn’t have felt the need to be the hero. If only she could have told him how much he meant to her, he would still be here in the relative safety of this Victorian hotel.
She finished the coffee and listened to the gathering force outside. The wind was howling now, buffeting the building, tearing around it like a dervish, plucking at anything that hadn’t been nailed down. The rain thundered on the roof and lashed the boarded windows, and somewhere upstairs she could hear the banging of a loosened screen.
‘He’ll be right,’ said Sam as he put his arm around her shoulders.
Olivia shrugged him off. ‘You don’t know that,’ she snapped. ‘How can you know that?’
Sam shrugged. ‘He’s not a fool,’ he said. ‘He’ll go to ground with old man Gallagher.’
Olivia’s nerves were shot as she thought of Giles struggling against the elements. ‘He should be here,’ she shouted above the banshee roar of the wind and the thunder of the rain.
Sam grabbed her shoulders in his large hands and made her look at him. ‘He’s his own man,’ he said flatly. ‘Giles wanted to go, insisted upon it. Give him some slack, Olivia.’
She eyed him with furious intensity and realised there was nothing she could do about Giles anyway. He was on his own, just as he had been during the war – but she prayed he’d come back safe, and wouldn’t do anything too foolish to put himself into danger.
‘Sit down over there and calm down,’ yelled Sam as something crashed to the floor upstairs. ‘I might need you later on and you’ll be no bloody use if you’re hysterical.’
Olivia plumped down on a mattress, and eyed him crossly as he turned and walked away. How dare he accuse her of being hysterical? She was a nursing sister who’d driven an ambulance around bombed out London, for goodness sake. What was a bit of wind compared to doodlebugs and the blood chilling wail of the air–raid sirens?
‘Don’t mind him, luv,’ said the young woman beside her. ‘He’s as crook as we all are – just his nerves talking.’
Olivia found she’d been holding her breath. She let it out in a long sigh and then smiled. The young couple were cosied up on the next mattress, their small boy playing at their sides. ‘I reckon we should all take a lesson from him,’ she shouted in the girl’s ear.
The little boy was about eighteen months old. He was absorbed in a pile of wooden bricks, his chubby hands curled around each one as he studiously tried to pile them high. Olivia placed two bricks for him and the child looked at her with solemn eyes. She smiled and was rewarded with a cheeky grin that revealed two darling dimples in those chubby cheeks.
Olivia felt the tug of longing as she picked him up and put him on her lap. She had always adored babies, but this was the first time she’d experienced such a surge of need. The first time she’d really noticed how lovely they smelled and how soft they were. She glanced across at the young couple, noticed how his arm was protectively around his wife, how they fitted
so well together. Another surge of something akin to jealousy tore through her and she looked away. Her time would come.
*
The thick blanket of black cloud crept ever closer to the shore as Hurricane Mary built up her fury. She had started life as a tropical storm – a high, light wind over the warm tropical waters east of New Guinea. The combination of low pressure, light wind and warm water had intensified the dangerous weather conditions, and now the tropical storm had taken on a new menace. With winds of over seventy–five miles per hour Hurricane Mary was almost a thousand miles wide and bearing down, fully fledged, on the northern coast of Australia.
The sea was the colour of slate beneath the rolling, black swirl of cloud. It rose in oily, spiteful waves, which thundered up the sand and boomed against the rocks with a great explosion of surf before it drew back with a hiss of menace. Palm trees thrashed as the wind slammed across the beach and spun the sand into a thousand whirling dervishes. Rain hammered on corrugated iron roofs as the wind plucked at loose planks and tore verandah posts from the beach houses. Gum trees swayed, bending almost to the point of breaking as their leaves were ripped away by the coils of dark, deadly spirals that devoured everything in its path.
Hurricane Mary had only just begun to flex her muscles – there was much more to come.
*
Giles staggered up the neglected garden path and sought shelter in the lee of the ramshackle house. He was out of breath and soaked to the skin, but the sheer exhilaration of fighting the elements, of reaching his destination without mishap, made him want to laugh.
He flattened himself against the wall as the wind picked up an empty oil drum and threw it down the path, where it crashed into the fence. A sheet of corrugated iron was ripped from the roof and he ducked as it flew like a discus across the front yard and slammed into the house on the other side of the street. Leaning back against the wall of the dilapidated house, he tried to catch his breath as he surveyed his surroundings.
The rain was hammering on the tin roofs, bouncing off the impacted earth, running in swiftly flowing rivulets down the street, banking up in the gutters and deep potholes where it spread into miniature lakes. It was a grey curtain falling over the town and visibility in the false twilight was almost down to zero. Giles found he was shivering from the cold and from the excitement of the moment. He felt bruised and battered as he clung to the side of the house, but elated, nevertheless.
The windows of Gallagher’s place had been taped, just like the ones in London during the blitz, and he could see the old boy peering at him through the murky glass.
‘Let me in,’ he yelled above the scream of the wind. ‘Open the bloody door.’
He heard the faint scrape of a bolt being drawn and put his shoulder to the door. Slamming it behind him, he flinched as he was assailed by the most dreadful stench. ‘We’ve got to leave now,’ he shouted.
The eyes were gimlet in the leathery face, the mouth turned down and mean, the nose a broad, reddened hook. ‘I ain’t going.’ The voice was a rasp, the tone determined.
‘You can’t stay here,’ yelled Giles as he grabbed a greasy coat from a chair and thrust it into the old man’s arms. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘I been here all me bloody life,’ came the sour response as the old man sat down in the empty chair and dropped the coat on the floor. ‘Ain’t fallen down yet.’
Giles’s eyes were watering as he looked at him in despair. Stinking or not, if he’d had two arms, he’d have scooped him up and carried him out of here – the old chap couldn’t have weighed more than six or seven stones – but, in his present circumstances, that was not an option.
‘I haven’t got time to argue with you,’ he yelled above the roar and hammer of the storm. ‘We’ve got to go. Now.’ He grabbed Gallagher’s arm and tugged him from the chair.
He was surprisingly strong and managed to wrest from Giles’ grip. ‘Get yer ‘ands off me, yer bludger,’ he shouted. ‘I ain’t lettin’ no pommy bastard tell me what to do.’
The wind shook the foundations and buffeted the walls. The rain beat hammer blows on the iron roof so it was almost impossible to think, let alone hear anything. Giles ran his hand through his hair as he looked out of the window. He could see nothing, for the rain had drawn a dark curtain over Trinity, but he could hear things being tossed about and the crash and splinter of collisions – and could only guess at the chaos outside.
He turned from the window and glared down at Gallagher and wished he could leave him here. But that was no longer an option, and his sense of duty wouldn’t have let him leave anyway. He and this stinking old fool were stuck with one another.
Deciding he wouldn’t stand for any more insults, he bore down on Gallagher and grabbed him by the scruff of his filthy neck. Shoving the table against the wall, he pushed Gallagher beneath it. It was the only piece of sturdy furniture in the place, and he’d been in enough air raids to know it might save them from flying, falling debris if the house did fall down around their ears.
‘Stay there,’ he ordered.
Gallagher’s ratty face peered out from the gloom as he watched Giles run around the shack grabbing what he could. ‘You got no bloody right coming in here touching my things,’ he yelled.
Giles wished he didn’t have to. He had an armful of blankets and old clothes which stank to high heaven and were probably infested with fleas. He threw them at Gallagher and then wrestled with the filthy, stained mattress and propped it against the table. It was all he could do, and he hoped it was enough.
Taking a deep breath, Giles crawled into the small space and huddled beside Gallagher. The old man’s aversion to soap and water manifested itself in a ripe, putrid wave as he raised his arms and shifted to a more comfortable position. It was like sharing a cell with a rotting corpse.
*
The utility bounced and swayed as Smokey rammed his tin foot hard on the accelerator. The wind was strong enough to force the ageing vehicle off course and he was having the devil’s own job to keep it on the track.
‘Pull over,’ shouted Hopalong, who was clinging to the door in an effort not to be thrown through the windscreen.
‘Not bloody likely,’ yelled Smokey. ‘We’re nearly there.’
Hurricane Mary gathered all her strength and tore down the track in a fury of swirling earth and debris. She scooped up the utility and flung it aside before carving a ragged, angry path through the surrounding trees.
Both men screamed as they were tossed skyward. Earth and sky became one in the dizzying, blinding, disorientating whirlwind of pain and terror. Heads thudded against roof and door. Limbs jarred against handbrake and steering wheel. Ribs cracked and glass shattered as the utility rolled determinedly on.
The tree was tall and thousands of years old. It had withstood just about everything the elements could throw at it despite the cavities within its vast trunk that had been bored by generations of termites. But the wind and rain had finally loosened the great, twisting roots – had finally weakened the hollow trunk.
The utility rolled out of control down the embankment and smashed with a tortured screech of metal against the ancient bark.
A judder ran through the giant trunk. For a breathless moment in that maelstrom of fury it held tall and straight. Then slowly, inexorably, it began to tilt.
Smokey was reluctant to open his eyes. The rain was like needles on his face, the wind tearing at his clothes, threatening to carry him off. He hurt all over, but that was all right, for he wasn’t being thrown about any more – in fact he was lying on something soft.
Memory returned and his eyes snapped open. He’d been thrown clear, but where was his mate? ‘Hopalong,’ he yelled. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m stuck.’ The voice sounded so small in the howling wind. ‘Get me outta here.’
Smokey grimaced with pain as he crawled through the mud t
owards the ute. There was something very wrong with his left arm and the rain was blinding him. But he had to reach Hopalong before it was too late. He could smell petrol.
He reached for the utility door. The broken bones in his arm ground against one another and he collapsed back in the mud with a cry of agony.
‘Smokey! Smokey, I can smell petrol. Get me out, get me out!’
‘Coming, mate,’ gasped Smokey, as he dragged himself up again and reached for the door. There was little likelihood of the ute blowing up with all the rain, but there was no guarantee.
The door was buckled and Smokey sweated as he wrestled with the handle. Now he understood how frustrating Giles must find life with only one arm. The door finally swung back and the wind snatched it from him, knocking him back in the mud again. He smeared rain and mud from his eyes and realised his hand was trembling. Pulse hammering, fear gnawing away at him, he almost bit through his bottom lip in an attempt to vanquish the pain in his arm.
He reached for his mate – then realised they were in bigger trouble than he’d thought.
Hopalong was trapped upside down, his wooden leg jammed between the pedals and crushed metal. There was a lot of blood and he could see the glimmer of bone through the gash in his good leg. Hopalong’s face was ashen, his eyes unfocussed as he hung there.
‘Hold on, mate,’ Smokey rasped. ‘I’ve gotta get yer leg off first.’
Hopalong screamed as Smokey jarred his dislocated shoulder and pushed against his broken thigh.
Smokey’s fingers were numb with cold and slick with rain and blood as he struggled to untie the straps that bound the wooden leg to Hopalong’s stump. He was about to unbuckle the last strap when he heard the ominous tearing creak overhead. Looking up he saw the giant tree loom with menacing determination to crush them both.
Hopalong screamed as Smokey grabbed him around the waist and pulled as hard as he could.
The tree screamed as its roots were torn from the mud and its branches were snapped in its headlong rush down to earth.
Undercurrents Page 26
