The Flood. Rachel Bennett
Years Later
It took Daniela three hours to wade into Stonecrop, and, by then, her temper was as bleak as the weather. She’d almost turned back when she’d reached the bridge on the Hackett road and found it already awash. Below the bridge, the River Bade was still rising, surging up to the metal arches, muddy brown, swollen, tangled with branches that shot past at worrying speed. Gathering her nerve, Daniela had edged across the bridge. The force of the water made the metal handrail thrum beneath her fingers. Off to her left, a few hundred yards downstream, she could see what was left of the old fishing platform she and her sisters used to play on as kids. Only the necks of its stubby supports remained sticking out of the mud. The ancient, upside-down rowboat was still there, a moss-coloured hillock pulled up away from the bank.
Once past the bridge, the going didn’t improve. In places, the road was flooded so deep she had to clamber along the muddy verges, clinging to branches in the hedgerow. Her jacket wasn’t nearly as waterproof as she’d been led to believe, and the chill dampness that’d started at her collar and sleeves had seeped through to her skin. Water had overflowed her boots. Her socks squelched with every step. And she still had another two miles of flooded roads to slog through before she reached her home village.
Daniela was sure there must’ve been dry, sunny days during her childhood, but in her memory, Stonecrop was always wet, always overcast, always unwelcoming. And now it was partially underwater too.
Late winter rains had swelled the rivers on either since of the village to twice their usual sizes, burst their banks, and turned Stonecrop into a giant boating lake. At least now the rain had subsided to a sullen drizzle.
Daniela paused at the top of the high street – the only street, really – to light a cigarette. It took her three attempts to spark her lighter.
Television footage of flooded towns always looked surreal. Water lapping at sandbagged doors. Residents in wellies. Cars submerged to their wheel-arches. Hanging baskets dangling serenely from lamp-posts like botanical lifeboats. It was so unreal to Daniela, to return to a place she knew so well, and find it like this. A kind of jarring nostalgia.
Her eyes sought out the details that’d changed. A plastic sign had replaced the metal one above the Corner Shoppe; the estate agent’s had been torn down to leave a gaping hole, and the antiques emporium that her dad had once co-owned was abandoned, its windows filmed with dust. Out of three businesses in the village, only one had survived.
But beneath the surface, the heart of the village was unaltered. Stonecrop maintained that quaint, chocolate-box appearance, like it was illustrating a magazine article about house prices in the rural midlands. The ruddy brickwork exteriors had seen few renovations. It was as if a lid had come down on Stonecrop when Daniela left, sealing everything in stasis. She wondered what she’d hoped to find. An untouched childhood memory? The entire village razed in an unreported hurricane?
Most of the community had been evacuated, but a few stubborn residents remained. Halfway along the street, where a natural dip caused a deep pool, a group of people were shoring up a garden wall. Two men in fishermen’s waders judiciously applied sandbags. A middle-aged woman – Margaret McKearney, Daniela recognised with a jolt, who owned the Shoppe and was apparently impervious to ageing – stood with her skirts hiked up to show off her flowery wellies, while she distributed cups of tea from a thermos.
And at the far edge of the pool, supervising the work while eating a chocolate digestive, was Sergeant Stephanie Cain.
She too had changed little in the seven years since Daniela had left. Maybe a touch heavier around the middle and below the eyes, a bit older and more tired, with the weight of the extra years on her shoulders. She’d always been big and broad, like their father. The police vest made her look dumpy. Daniela’s eyes flicked to the kit on the vest – handcuffs, incapacitant spray, torch, extendable baton. Prepared for everything.
Stephanie Cain was comfy in her role of village police officer, up to her shins in floodwater, with her police-issue waders and her chocolate biscuit. She’d found her place. Daniela felt a pang of jealousy.
Steeling herself, she waded towards the group.
Stephanie spotted her. Daniela watched the play of emotions across the officer’s face: polite alertness until she recognised Daniela, then surprise, disbelief … ah, and anger. That came an instant before the sergeant’s expression closed up like a door slamming.
At least now Daniela didn’t have to wonder if Stephanie was still upset.
Daniela stopped and waited. She didn’t want to interact with anyone other than her sister.
Stephanie took a circuitous route around the flooded dip in the road. Daniela discarded the butt of her cigarette into the water, and the sergeant’s eyes flicked to it. Her annoyance gave Daniela a petty satisfaction. In a perverse way, Daniela was looking forward to this fight.
Stephanie halted ten feet away. Like she didn’t trust herself to get too close.
‘This road’s closed,’ Stephanie said.
Despite everything, Daniela laughed. ‘Is that how you’ll greet me? You’ve got a million things you’d rather say.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘See, that’s what I’d expect. Want to maybe say I’ve got some nerve coming back home?’
Sergeant Cain’s mouth drew into a thin, angry line. The tips of her ears reddened.
‘Come on,’ Daniela said, still smiling. ‘Let’s sit down and talk, yeah?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Too busy for family? That’s a shocking state of affairs, Steph.’
Stephanie swore under her breath. She glanced at the other villagers, who’d noticed Daniela’s arrival and were peering over. The two men were whispering. Margaret looked like she’d seen a ghost.
‘All right,’ Stephanie said. ‘We can talk. Quickly. I’ve got work to do.’
‘The water can supervise itself for ten minutes, Steph.’ Daniela cast a long look around the flooded village, then smiled at her big sister. ‘So, how about the pub? Is it still open, or have the ducks taken over?’
The Crossed Swords stood at the junction between the high street and Winterbridge Farm Road. The land there was slightly higher, leaving the pub currently marooned on a tiny island some hundred yards wide. But it hadn’t escaped unscathed. The basement was flooded, and water lapped the back door. A defensive barrier of sandbags blocked the entrance to the car park. The building looked like a castle with an unruly moat.
Daniela stepped over the sandbags ungainly in her wellies and damp jeans. A welcome light burned in the windows of the Crossed Swords. Daniela was more than ready to be inside in the warm.
‘Does Chris Roberts still own this place?’ Daniela asked.
‘Yes.’
That was all the conversation Daniela had coaxed out of Stephanie so far. To be fair, Daniela hadn’t said much either. Everything she had to say needed careful wording. Otherwise she could ruin everything. Again.
Above the door, trailing wisteria partially obscured the sign depicting two painted swords on a black background. Fat green leaves dripped water onto the flagstones. Pockets of flood debris dirtied the corners of the doorway.
It felt strange to walk on dry ground after so long wading. Daniela felt lighter, less tired. The door opened with a wash of warm air. Daniela wondered whether to take her boots off, but, judging by the carpet, the other patrons hadn’t bothered.
A few things had changed since Daniela’s last visit. A partition wall had been knocked through from the main lounge into the gentleman’s bar at the back. Plasma screens hung in pride of place. But the décor, a combination of muted browns and vibrant oranges, looked so much like home that a lump formed in Daniela’s throat.
A familiar face was behind the bar as well.