‘Why ever not?’ Then her grandmother chuckled at the sight of Ella’s mortified face. ‘I’m only teasing you, Missy. You bring ya things out of there and snuggle in with Grandma Eland. It’ll be warmer for you in the big bedroom anyway.’

Ella, suddenly sober again, said, ‘Gran, what do you think will have happened to Mum?’

Gently, Esther said, ‘Ya grandpa thinks she’ll have stayed in the town – in Lynthorpe – that she’ll be quite safe.’

‘But what if the town’s flooded too?’ the girl asked.

‘Oh, there’ll be no floods there, Missy,’ her grandmother said confidently. ‘It’ll only be us got a surge come up the river ’cos of the high tides at this time of the year and with the wind to drive it . . .’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I am. Ya Grandpa ses so.’

Comforted now by the confidence in her grandmother’s voice and trusting her grandpa’s knowledge, she tried to bury the worry about her mother and concentrate on heaving and pushing the huge pink sow up the staircase of Brumbys’ Farm.

What Ella did not, at that moment, know – what none of them knew – was that, far from being the only place affected by the floods, Fleethaven Point had in fact suffered very little in comparison with the tragedy the long night was bringing to others. Unknown to the small community at the Point, struggling in the stormy night with their own problems, all down the east coast of Lincolnshire, and even further south, the sea had ravaged the land in the worst flooding within living memory. A north-westerly gale, with gusts approaching hurricane proportions, had swelled the southward flow of the flood tide down the east coast; crashing through promenades, bearing aloft huge tons of concrete like bits of flotsam; ripping gaps hundreds of yards long through the sea defences; tearing aside the dunes, dredging up tons of sand and spewing it into towns and villages; flinging chalets and caravans into heaps of splintered matchwood; rending whole roofs from bungalows and floating them away; rushing into homes, engulfing families caught unawares; without warning and without mercy.

And somewhere, out there, was Kate Hilton.

Seven

‘Gran, there’s a boat coming. Someone’s coming in a boat.’

She rushed downstairs, praying fervently to herself as she went. ‘Oh, let it be Mum. Oh, please let it be Mum!’

Snuggled up to the comforting bulk of Grandma Eland during the night, Ella had slept fitfully, waking every so often from a nightmare of crashing waves battering against the house. Each time, she lay listening to Grandma Eland’s gentle snoring beside her, while outside the storm still raged. Once she tiptoed out on to the landing to peer down the stairs, irrationally afraid that the water might be rising steadily to engulf them all. Sometimes when she woke, Grandma Eland was awake too and they whispered together.