Chapter 1
When first our family arrived to begin a new life on this hilltop in Wiltshire, leagues from the city and the sea, cows would pack the barn at night, huddling and sighing in the dark within the crooked building’s grey stone walls and timbers. But bales now stand in their place, stacked as high as the rafters, and there is barely room to shelter beneath its corrugated roof, which resounds loudly with the constant clang of heavy raindrops.
I stand by the side of the ancient building with my son in the crook of my arm as the wind and rain ravage the hilltop around us. Beyond the yard before us stands the old farmhouse that has recently become our home. Elijah’s mother, Abbie, is away at work and, since our lad rose from his nap, I’ve spent the hours with him racing toy cars and rolling around on the floor of his playroom, awaiting her return. The barn’s thick stone walls mostly keep out the wind, despite the harsh weather beyond the thin glass of its windows, and I’ve carefully maintained a roaring log fire since before he rose this morning. Nevertheless, the house is large enough to feel empty on a solemn Tuesday afternoon such as this, particularly with just two of us there to fill it. So when we spotted Norman, the farmer, at work by the barn’s wooden doors a few moments ago, we agreed to brave the wind and rain to come out and see him, glad of a chance to take a brief break from each other’s company during another long, wet, housebound afternoon.
Norman and I stand close by each other, facing out with our backs pressed up against the barn door, avoiding the swirling torrent as best we can.
‘How’s Mary, Norman?’ I ask of his wife. The couple are our landlords, having occupied the house themselves until their own children left for the cities a decade ago, untempted by the hard, working life that would have been their inheritance. Norman and Mary had moved to a smaller cottage down the hill, and begun to rent out the huge farmhouse that recently became our own home.
‘Yeah she’s alright. Bit sick of this weather.’ Norman is waiting for the rain to die down a little before making the long, steep walk back to his own house where Mary, as ever, awaits him. But in the meantime, he’s always been a real talker, and I’m delighted to be able to indulge in a few minutes of conversation with him, particularly as it helps us form a connection with the people and places around us.
‘How’s Abbie? Off working again?’ My own partner works as a nurse, most often at hospitals in distant towns, and often spends a day at a time away from our home while we wait for her return. We are the most recent in a succession of temporary residents on the hilltop, it having been just six months since we moved here from our tiny flat in London; abandoning the same kind of frenetic, urban lives that Norman’s sons had been so desperate to pursue.
’Yeah, ‘til tomorrow.’
Norman leans back over the barn door to escape further from the rain. I can see his thick grey hair is beginning to saturate, and he wipes away a drop as it rolls down his temple with the sleeve of his blue butcher’s coat. ‘Well you need anything you let Mary and me know.’
‘I will Thanks, Norman.’
My neighbour smiles as we briefly make eye contact, before we both look back up at the skies. ‘Not known anything like this before,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘How many days now?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. A lot, that’s for sure.’
‘A hundred days in a row, Mary reckons, next week, it’ll be.’
‘That must be some kind of record.’
‘Last record was 40, so we’re well beyond that.’
’We must be. 40’s enough. How long ago was that?’
‘Turn of the millennium. 2000. Remember it well. Really poured, it did.’ Norman farms half the land around our home. The other half belongs to his brother, Eddie. Fifty years ago they occupied the house themselves, both growing up members of a huge family that had filled the old place and worked the land together. When their parents had died the two brothers had jointly inherited the farmhouse and the land around it.
He pats the barn door with the palm of his hand. ‘Cost a fortune in damage.’
I notice the ache in my right arm, and shift Elijah into my left. ‘I don’t remember it.’
Norman smiles amiably. ‘Guess you’re less likely to in the city.’
‘No. No you don’t generally. Unless they close a tube station. 100 days, eh? May it is like the Old Testament. Maybe God’s cross with us.’
Norman’s smile remains, but is joined by a disapproving frown. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. But it certainly is wet.’ He’s not a man to humour hyperbole, and I might have known he would be unwilling to endorse a faintly blasphemous sentiment, but his rejection is entirely affable: a tone I have grown to enjoy whenever we trade anecdotes or share opinions with the rural community that we have recently joined, its members spread out thinly across the miles of farmland that surround the hill. Our impractical nature amuses them. They cannot fathom our lack of understanding of tradition, and they find my profession as an artist — and resulting status as a kept man — emasculating and hopeless. But they have welcomed us as friends. They seem flattered by our curiosity into the life of the countryside, and find stories of our reckless former existence in London entertaining. Above all, our young son acts as an emblem of our essentially reconcilable human nature; our willingness to nurture him, and our boastful pride in describing every action since they last saw him, far more important than our status as urbane and alien usurpers.
Norman grins down at Eli, grabbing his foot and waggling it playfully. Eli smiles too and, as Norman releases, holds his foot back out towards him, wanting to play more, but not breaking his gaze upon the road. For him, seeing the farmer often means seeing the tractor, and he stares intently and expectantly towards the crest of the hill where the road meets the plateau at our summit, hoping for a glimpse of his favourite machine.
I look back into the dark stillness of the barn, and remember Abbie had asked me to find out why its contents had changed. ‘What happened to the cows, Norman? What’s with all the hay?’ I know the bales are hay, not straw, having recently learned the difference, and was hoping my ability to distinguish would impress my neighbour, but he doesn’t acknowledge the tiny improvement in my understanding of his trade.
‘Difficult to farm anything when it’s this wet for this long. I didn’t make much from the cattle last year, so didn’t think there was much chance now with so little land they could graze. Plus no one else can keep their places dry, so I thought I’d try storing hay up here and selling it on. Make the most of the hill. Not sure I’ll make much money from this either, to be honest. But there you go.’
We both turn to look out at the farmland that fills the valley in either direction. The tops of the hills across from us are crowned by thick woodland. It is as beautiful a view as I have seen on these shores; the kind you can stare at for hours without detecting the passing of time, even since the clouds became a permanent fixture and the sun’s passage from east to west across the vale each day became undetectable beyond the dull haze and thick rain that fill the skies and valley. Below us, by the river in the middle of the valley, stands the bungalow where Eddie lives alone. Save for its own large barn and a few outhouses, it’s the only building visible from our house. Norman and Mary had got custody of the farmhouse: having had children, they needed the space most. But, as Abbie had recently gleaned from Mary over a glass of wine one evening, by the time they had split the farmland between them, the brothers hadn’t spoken a kind word to each other in years.
I realise my eyes have lingered on Eddie’s home, and look back up the hill, guiltily. Norman’s gaze follows, and I broaden our subject to the northern towns that had been evacuated over the weekend in an attempt to save their citizenry from the floods that had begun to subsume their suburbs.
‘Did you see about York, Norman?’
‘Dreadful.’
‘I know. Those poor people. Might never see their homes again.’
‘But how has it got this bad in the first place? That’s what I want to know.’ Norman’s tone has become anxious; angry even. ‘Why didn’t they do something sooner?’
‘What is there to do, though? With this much rain, and for so long…’
‘So why aren’t there defences in place? Where’s all the money been spent? Every year they tell us it’ll be sorted. And yet here we are.’ Norman gesticulates up at the clouds before running his fingers through his hair and wiping his hand on his lapels. His momentary anger has given way to an air of despair and, as ever when a conversation departs from formulating territory, I’m not quite sure what to say.
‘I know. It’s very sad. Very sad indeed’
‘Devastating. That’s what it is,’ Norman slaps down on the barn door. ‘Devastating. Did you listen to the Queen yesterday?’ I hadn’t, although it had made the news too. For the first time in 18 years she had addressed the nation directly on a day other that Christmas, appealing to the nation for ‘charity and calm’.
‘I didn’t, Norman, but I saw a clip.’
‘No well you wouldn’t have.’ I’ve never voiced my vague republicanism openly to my neighbour and landlord, but my lack of enthusiasm for whichever milestone her reign recently passed had not gone undetected. ‘What’s The Green Party doing to help then? Your man Corbyn? Organising another riot?’
‘Ha!’ I laugh genuinely at his colossal and deliberate conflation of everything I have futilely articulated during our occasional debates over current affairs, and Norman taps the top of my arm, his anguish dissipated, pleased to have made me laugh. Elijah laughs too, happy to be part of the conversation, which makes Norman and me laugh some more, for a second forgetting the chaos that has descended upon our compatriots up north and further west in Somerset, and the deluge that maintains its constant assault on our hill.
Norman pulls up his collar. ‘Right young man. I reckon it’s time your daddy took you back in the warm. I could be waiting for days before this dies down. I’m going to dash, Jax.’
‘Ok Norm. Take care of yourself. Best to Mary.’
‘Likewise Abbie.’ He makes off up the driveway in a half-run, his wellingtons clomping against the wet concrete, and then disappears down the road westwards. I redouble my hold on Elijah, jog across the drive to our unlocked backdoor, and get us out of the rain.
Although our fire had heated much of the ground floor throughout the day, the house is so large that it is hard to keep warm, and the price of the oil that fuels our heating has more than trebled over the last month as a result of the flooding. As a result, we use it sparingly, and leaving the door to the yard open for even a few minutes has meant that the warmth has almost entirely dissipated. An urgent iciness permeates my skin, and I notice Eli’s clothes have become a little sodden. We glance at each other, agreeing silently to act, and head up the stairs to find new layers of clothing.
In his room I find a dry jumper for Eli and dress him, then make a big song and dance about him helping don mine next door. We stare into the dressing table mirror, and say our names. ‘‘lijah!’ ‘Daddy!’ We say them ever faster and louder, and laugh. We jump on the bed for five minutes or so, and he does his balancing act on my stomach, although soon ends up with his feet on my head, having become sufficiently excited to court a reprimand. I adopt a slightly stern tone and ask him to say sorry.
‘Woreora’ he says, a distant imitation of the word he means to say, although there’s no doubting his sincerity. I throw him above me a couple of times and we both howl with laughter again. We head downstairs to the playroom.I turn on the TV for background noise, and take out some toys from the basket. The news is still about the floods, and I see Wiltshire’s name, but the engulfed houses and residents weeping in blankets are no viewing for my boy. As I reach for the remote, I see flames too on the surface of some large expanse of water flickering aggressively into the sky, but the boy’s banging of toy against toy requires instant attention. I flick to the channel with the brightest cartoons and lie down besides him. Eli opts for the cars and tractors from his toy chest, so we push them around in circles for a few minutes, before he decides we must stop instantly — No, Dada! — and he must place them in a near-on perfect straight line.
I find another couple of vehicles to add to his convoy.
‘Ohitsacar!’ Eli says approvingly. Pushing carefully from the back, he propels the entire line forwards until the fire engine that leads the pack disappears beneath the fabric that covers the front of the sofa. That was actually pretty clever, I think, and rub his hair in affection. ‘Neenaw. Sgone.’ Eli says, looking slightly glum.
‘Oh no!’ I reply, imitating his intonation, as I so often do. He leans down, reaches in, retrieves the tiny vehicle and hands it to me, beaming.
‘Neenaw!’ I can’t remember being more grateful to receive anything in my whole life.
We play for a while longer. Once I am satisfied he is sufficiently engrossed in his toys, I begin to think about what my next set of duties will entail. Abbie is away until tomorrow morning at work. I need to feed him, bathe him and put him to bed. I need to wake whenever he does and settle him back down. There are details within these headings emerging too. Brushing his teeth. Applying some cream. Yes, making some milk. Finishing this sequence at about 7pm. Switching on his nightlight. Carrying the baby monitor with me for the rest of the night. I’m sure there is more. I decide to phone Abbie to talk it through, and remember I owe her call anyway, having been unable to answer earlier, when Eli was mid-cry.
I scratch around for my phone. It’s in the kitchen by my house keys. I have six missed calls. All are from Abbie. I have three texts. Two are from Abbie.
‘Call me pls. X’
‘Jax call me straight away. It’s urgent.’
The other tells me I have five voicemail messages.
I decide to skip the voicemails and phone Abbie directly. The first call is answered immediately ‘Hi! It’s Abbie. Please leave a message...’ I hang up and try again, but am returned straight to her answer machine.. On my third try, though, we connect. There are three or so seconds of fuzzy silence before I hear Abbie’s voice.
‘Jax?’ It is a relief to hear her, despite her hesitancy and tone of confusion.
‘Abbie? You ok?’
‘Jax are you two ok?’ It jars, after the urgency of her messages, that she starts with that question, rather than answering mine.
‘Yes we’re fine. What about you? What’s the problem?’
‘The house is ok? Eli, he’s with you?’
‘Yes. Where else is he going to be? We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Abbie answer me though. Are you ok? I had missed calls from you. What’s going on?’
‘I can’t get to work.’ This in itself is not bad news to me. So long as she’s safe. And she’ll still get paid, of course.
‘Really?’
‘I haven’t even got past Reading. It’s the floods. London’s cut off. All the roads are cut off.’
‘What?’
‘I’m just stuck here on the tarmac. There’s just a solid queue ahead of me, and behind. Nothing coming past the other way. I’ve been here...what time did I set out?’
‘About...one?’
‘So I’ve been here four hours, about,’ I glance at the clock on the wall. She’s about right.
‘How do you know you can’t go on? Maybe it’ll clear?’
‘A police van came back down the hard shoulder. It had a loud hailer. It said stay where we are, inside our cars. More news would come. The radio just makes it sound like chaos. People...Jax, people have started walking.’
‘What? What about their cars?’
‘Just leaving them. Most are coming back past me, but some have gone over the embankment. A man said I should come with him.’
‘What?’ The severity of the scene suddenly becomes clear to me.
‘He said the traffic was never going to move. He’d heard the water was coming in this direction.’
‘Abbie, Jesus. Ok. Where are you exactly?’
‘I’m, God, I’m between...I passed junction 11. Jax I could see the water by the road a few miles back. It was lapping across as far as the slow lane. I can’t get anything through on my phone; maps aren’t working, there’s no travel news other than saying it’s chaos. Can you find the map we used to have in the car?’
‘Ok wait, Yes. I’m going to find it.’ I rush through to the room off the living room at the back of the house and dig out an old road atlas. ‘Got it, just hold tight two seconds.’
‘Wait, here comes another police car. Jax wait a second...it’s travelling so fast....’
All I can hear is a siren growing louder and three thick blasts from its horn before the pitch softens as it passes Abbie at speed. Two more sirens follow soon behind, then another.
‘Jax, they’re all driving back.’ I can hear shouting around her too. From somewhere nearby I hear the crash of metal against metal and the smash of glass.
I have found her on the map. She is on a length that means she must be a short walk from Reading. Beyond her the motorway crosses the River Loddon. The Thames passes to the north of Reading, skirting a solid blue mass of lakes to the town’s north east. Back beyond the last junction of the motorway is another great expanse of blue, threatening the motorways path even before the flooding began.
‘I’ve found you, Abbie. You must be near Reading.’
‘Which direction?’
‘South east.’
‘Reading’s south east or I’m south east?’
‘You are. No! Wait. South west. Well more like south south west. Or South west west, I can’t remember which one is which.’
‘Jax! I need you to get this right.’
‘Yes sorry. If you walk north east you would get to Reading. But are you sure that’s what you want to do?’ Eli has stopped playing and is looking up at me anxiously.
‘I don’t know. But…Jesus. Jesus Jax. Look I’m going to climb the embankment. I can’t…oh god. God I can’t walk back down the road.’
‘Abbie! What’s going on? What’s the matter?’
‘Everyone’s going...wait. Jax wait!...No! Get off her! Get OFF!’ There is muffled screaming and I can hear a thud against flesh.
‘Abbie!’ Eli has begun to cry. ‘Abbie get out of there!’
‘Jax! Shit Jax it’s all going...Jax I’m heading north west. Can you hear me! I’m going to run. Stay there! Stay at home, I’ll come to you. I’ll call you. I’ll call soon. Jax I love you both.’
The phone bleeps three times. She has gone. Eli has stopped crying and is perfectly still. I look back at him. Neither of us has any idea what to do.
