The Wave. Virginia Moffatt
the example of Cumbre Vieja to illustrate his point, providing graphic detail of how monitoring seismic activity could prepare us for its possible collapse enabling us to evacuate. His projections even identified Cornwall as a high risk area.But Andrew was equally persuasive the other way,arguing that we couldn’t afford the luxury of spending money worrying about things that might never come to pass. Now it seems that that David was right: the decision we made was the worst of all and I am caught in the middle of it. Shocked, I drop the iron on my favourite shirt. It sizzles, marking the material with a permanent burn as I pull it away. I curse and then it occurs to me that a ruined shirt might be the least of my worries.
The funny thing is that, once I’ve convinced myself that the choice we made eight years ago has nothing to do with what is happening now, my first thought isn’t escape, or whether I might drown. It isn’t even Hellie. My first thought is that I should ring Kath. Ring Kath? That’s a joke. We haven’t spoken for years. She’d hardly appreciate a phone call from me now and where would I start? I switch the iron off, put the shirt to one side and sit down by the window, considering my options. The sun is high in the sky, its beams glinting on the blue water in the bay in front of me. It doesn’t seem possible that this time tomorrow it will be gone. I stand there for far too long, pondering what to do: a balance between driving long distance with my dodgy knees or scrambling for a place on the train. Even getting to the station will take some effort. Hellie always said I’d regret living this far out of town but up until now I’ve always told her she worries too much, citing the freedom of walking into open countryside from my front door. Today, for the first time I have to admit maybe she was right.
Hellie … Thinking of Hellie makes up my mind. I have to get to her as quickly as I can, and judging by the pictures on my TV screen I’ll have no chance of making my way through the crowds at the station. Knees or no knees it looks like the car is my only option. I send her a reassuring text and begin to get ready to leave. Despite the urgency, once I’ve made the decision, I just cannot make myself hurry. A sense of disbelief washes over me. I still can’t quite take in the thought that I am leaving my home for good, that by this time tomorrow the house will be gone and with it all the possessions I can’t take with me. I find myself paralysed with indecision about what to take and what leave behind. Some things are obvious: Grandma’s recipe book, my wedding photos and Hellie’s baby pictures. Others less so. I want to bring the painting of Venice that hangs in the living room. Richard and I bought it on honeymoon – it’s had pride of place in all our houses since – but it’s heavy and takes up a lot of space. I’d love to keep the family Bible. It’s been with us since 1842, with every generation meticulously recorded since then. With regret, I decide to leave it: it is just too bulky. I spend far too long trying to choose what stays and what comes with me. In the end, I store the Bible, the painting and a couple of other precious items in a cupboard upstairs, wrapped in plastic, in the vain hope that this will protect them from the sea. It seems criminal to leave such things behind, but I just can’t manage them. It’s going to be hard enough that I’m going to have to camp in Hellie’s tiny flat for a while without me filling it with clutter. So, in addition to the personal items, I just take a couple of suitcases of clothes, a handful of my favourite novels, and a few CDs.
I am just about to leave when I remember Minnie, my nearest neighbour. She has no family and I can’t imagine the carer has been in today. Who’s going to look after her? I’ll have to bring her with me. I drive along the lane, park in the drive by her cottage and walk up the garden path. There is no answer to my knock, which is not unusual. Minnie often naps during the day, leaving a spare key under the mat for the rare visitor. I have been telling her for ages it’s not sensible in this day and age, but today I am glad she does so.
I call out a greeting as I enter. There is an answering shout from the back room where I find Minnie sitting in a chair, looking out to sea. The TV is on low and there is a remote control on her lap.
‘Is it true?’ she says. ‘What they’re saying on the news?’
‘Yes, I’m just about to leave.’
‘I thought it might be a hoax – like Orson Welles, perhaps.’
‘Sadly not ‘ I sit next to her and take her hand. ‘Come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘We have to get to higher ground. We have to go now if we’re to have a chance.’
‘I don’t know, dear.’ Minnie shakes her head. ‘I don’t think I can leave this house.’ Her clock strikes one o’clock. I try to ignore the panic that it invokes and concentrate all my efforts on her.
‘You’ll drown if you stay here.’
‘But this is my home, dear. I have nowhere else I could go.’
‘You could stay with me and Hellie.’
‘Your daughter? She won’t want an old woman like me around. She’s got a little one to look after.’
‘We’d manage.’
‘I think I’d prefer to stay here. In my own bed. With any luck I’ll sleep right through it.’
Why does she have to be so stubborn? I blank out the ticking clock and offer to make her a cup of tea, hoping that perhaps she just needs a little more time. Hellie calls while I am in the kitchen. ‘Mum, where are you? Are you on the road yet?’
‘At Minnie’s. I’m trying to persuade her to leave.’
‘You need to get going; they say the roads are jammed already.’
‘I will.’
‘Please get out of there.’
‘As soon as I can.’ There is a wail from the end of line.
‘I must go. Toby needs me. Call me when you’re on the road.’ She hangs up.
With renewed urgency, I return to the sitting room, only to find that Minnie has fallen asleep. Her mouth is open, her head droops forward on her lap. She often does this, drifting in and out of wakefulness for short intervals. I have to leave, but I can’t just abandon her. I put the cup on the coffee table and wait, watching the rise and fall of her chest. It is just like sitting with Grandma, in the days before her final illness. I was in my twenties, then, a time when old age seemed remote and unreal. Forty years have passed since and though I still have the energy and health of the well-off retiree, a life like Minnie’s can’t be too far away. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps it would be best to sit and wait for the wave to take us away rather than escape to battle through years that will only weaken my body into helplessness. I shake my head. What am I thinking? I’ve only been retired a couple of years. There is so much I want to do still.
‘Margaret? Are you still here?’ Minnie suddenly raises her head, ‘You must be going, dear.’
‘Not without you.’
‘It’s all right, dear. I’m too old to start a new life. I’d rather stay here.’
‘But …’
‘I’ll be asleep, anyway. I never get up before eight. Much the best way.’ She waves away further protest. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve got Misty to look after me.’ Right on cue, the grey cat enters the room, meanders across towards his mistress and sits on her lap, purring contentedly. ‘You see? I have everything I need right here. You have a daughter and grandchild to live for. Go.’
I hate to do it, but Minnie is insistent, and she’s right – I do have more to live for. I head out to the car, drive off down the lane and onto the road to Penzance. At first all is well. I speed along, hopeful that the reports of traffic jams were exaggerated. Even so, the sight of the vivid green grass, the bright blue sky and the sea sparkling in the distance is filled with menace. As if, underneath the surface of the water, there is a malevolent being that will bring the sea to life and destroy me. I feel sick and anxious, a mood not improved when I hit a queue of cars four miles from Penzance.
The traffic moves slowly. I inch forward and now the traffic reports are of solid jams further