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Authors: Maggie Makepeace
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gusty force of the wind was causing the Jeep to tremble like a jelly and veer unexpectedly. The rain was a horizontal monsoon, hitting the road in front of her like smoke, with volleys of drops as large as five pence coins gleaming in the beams of her headlights. She was relieved to get safely back to her flat, and closed the door thankfully behind her. As parties go, it hadn’t been such a bad one, but it wasn’t especially good either. Jess sighed and got ready for bed.
Two hours later the telephone shrilled, waking her from a deep sleep. It was Nigel, her News Editor.
‘Sorry Jess,’ he said. ‘Bad timing I know, but there’s some fairly dramatic flooding going on – great stuff!’
‘Uhhh… where?’
‘South of Woodspring. Apart from all the rain, we’ve apparently got an extra-high spring tide with half a hurricane behind it, and it’s smashed through the coastal defences. People are having to be rescued by boats and God knows what else!’
‘Right.’ Jess struggled upright. ‘I’m there.’ She reached for her glasses.
‘So, d’you have any idea where Hector is? I can’t raise him. He’s not at home and his car phone isn’t answering; not like him at all.’
‘I hope he’s OK,’ Jess said, stretching for her clothes with one hand.
‘Oh he’ll be fine. You know Hector. It’s just that it’s a bloody good story and I need you both there.’
‘I could go via his flat, just in case?’ Jess volunteered.
‘Great. Thanks.’ He gave her the location details ending with, ‘Don’t forget your wellies!’ and rang off.
Jess yawned widely, took off her glasses in order to rub her eyelids with her knuckles and then put them on again, before starting to dress.
When she arrived at Hector’s flat it was in darkness, but she could see by the street lights that none of the curtains were drawn. He can’t be there, she thought. Where on earth is he? She tried ringing the bell but to no avail, so, after a few minutes she went without him.
It was impossible to get down to the breached sea wall that night, and anyway there was little point in the dark. Jess went instead to the edge of an inland village which was still accessible by road, and where the largest of the
ad hoc
shelters had been set up. This was in the village hall, on higher ground which had so far escaped the inundation. Half of the rest of the place was under three feet of fast flowing water, and by the time Jess had arrived the evacuation of the inhabitants was almost over. It was pitch black but for the emergency lighting, still teeming with rain and about as unpromising for photography as could be. She got a fireman who was taking a short break to hold a brolly for her so that she could attempt a few flash photos of the arrival on dry land of the last boat. Then she followed the trail of resigned old people, harassed parents and excited children clutching pets, up to their temporary refuge.
Once inside, she dried her specs with a tissue and her camera lens with its special cloth, pushed the wet hair out of her eyes, and then took a few more shots as the refugees began to bed down for the remainder of the night in borrowed blankets in uncomfortable heaps on the floor. The pictures would be graphic enough, Jess thought, but they wouldn’t be able to capture the real drama of the event; the noise of the storm and the roaring water, and the vibration of the ground shaking underfoot as the roadway nearby was undermined by the flood and great chunks of tarmac were swept away. But above everything there was the
smell
of it all. Few people in the village hall were entirely dry, and their dampness was caused not simply by rainwater, but by saturated peat and mud and the contents of a large number of backed-up sewers and septic tanks. The authorities had brought in portable gas fires, andpeople were huddling in front of them with their clothes steaming, rendering the entire atmosphere of the room redolent of old wet dog, and
Two hours later the telephone shrilled, waking her from a deep sleep. It was Nigel, her News Editor.
‘Sorry Jess,’ he said. ‘Bad timing I know, but there’s some fairly dramatic flooding going on – great stuff!’
‘Uhhh… where?’
‘South of Woodspring. Apart from all the rain, we’ve apparently got an extra-high spring tide with half a hurricane behind it, and it’s smashed through the coastal defences. People are having to be rescued by boats and God knows what else!’
‘Right.’ Jess struggled upright. ‘I’m there.’ She reached for her glasses.
‘So, d’you have any idea where Hector is? I can’t raise him. He’s not at home and his car phone isn’t answering; not like him at all.’
‘I hope he’s OK,’ Jess said, stretching for her clothes with one hand.
‘Oh he’ll be fine. You know Hector. It’s just that it’s a bloody good story and I need you both there.’
‘I could go via his flat, just in case?’ Jess volunteered.
‘Great. Thanks.’ He gave her the location details ending with, ‘Don’t forget your wellies!’ and rang off.
Jess yawned widely, took off her glasses in order to rub her eyelids with her knuckles and then put them on again, before starting to dress.
When she arrived at Hector’s flat it was in darkness, but she could see by the street lights that none of the curtains were drawn. He can’t be there, she thought. Where on earth is he? She tried ringing the bell but to no avail, so, after a few minutes she went without him.
It was impossible to get down to the breached sea wall that night, and anyway there was little point in the dark. Jess went instead to the edge of an inland village which was still accessible by road, and where the largest of the
ad hoc
shelters had been set up. This was in the village hall, on higher ground which had so far escaped the inundation. Half of the rest of the place was under three feet of fast flowing water, and by the time Jess had arrived the evacuation of the inhabitants was almost over. It was pitch black but for the emergency lighting, still teeming with rain and about as unpromising for photography as could be. She got a fireman who was taking a short break to hold a brolly for her so that she could attempt a few flash photos of the arrival on dry land of the last boat. Then she followed the trail of resigned old people, harassed parents and excited children clutching pets, up to their temporary refuge.
Once inside, she dried her specs with a tissue and her camera lens with its special cloth, pushed the wet hair out of her eyes, and then took a few more shots as the refugees began to bed down for the remainder of the night in borrowed blankets in uncomfortable heaps on the floor. The pictures would be graphic enough, Jess thought, but they wouldn’t be able to capture the real drama of the event; the noise of the storm and the roaring water, and the vibration of the ground shaking underfoot as the roadway nearby was undermined by the flood and great chunks of tarmac were swept away. But above everything there was the
smell
of it all. Few people in the village hall were entirely dry, and their dampness was caused not simply by rainwater, but by saturated peat and mud and the contents of a large number of backed-up sewers and septic tanks. The authorities had brought in portable gas fires, andpeople were huddling in front of them with their clothes steaming, rendering the entire atmosphere of the room redolent of old wet dog, and
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