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Back The Night of the Flood
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Contents
  6. 1954
  7. PART 1
  8. 1.
  9. 2.
  10. 3.
  11. 4.
  12. 5.
  13. 6.
  14. 7.
  15. 8.
  16. 9.
  17. PART 2
  18. 1.
  19. 2.
  20. 3.
  21. 4.
  22. 5.
  23. 6.
  24. 7.
  25. 8.
  26. 9.
  27. 10.
  28. PART 3
  29. 1.
  30. 2.
  31. 3.
  32. 4.
  33. 5.
  34. 6.
  35. 7.
  36. PART 4
  37. 1.
  38. 2.
  39. 3.
  40. 4.
  41. 5.
  42. 6.
  43. 7.
  44. 8.
  45. 9.
  46. 10.
  47. 11.
  48. 1954
  49. Acknowledgements
  50. About the author
  51. An Invitation from the Publisher

He stroked her hair, at a loss for what to say. It was not how it should have been. What he’d done in Yorkshire had tainted it.

‘I’d better go,’ she said, ‘it’s a filthy day.’ She squeezed his hand and smiled faintly. Her eyelids looked red and sore.

‘Shall I walk you home?’

‘No, no, you go. I’ll be fine.’ She brushed her skirt down, stood up and waited for him to stand. As he straightened himself he realised tears stood in the corners of her eyes.

‘What is it? What have I done?’ He had no idea what to do. A ripple of anger ran through him. With himself and with her, for ruining it. In dismay, he realised he must have hurt her. But what he could do about it now, he didn’t know.

She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Being stupid, that’s all.’

In relief, he tried to take her face again, to kiss her mouth, the wetness on her cheeks, to kiss away the confusion, but she moved her head and pecked him on the forehead instead.

‘I’ll make it better,’ he said, hardly knowing what he was saying. ‘When we’re together. It’ll be better next time.’ He wanted to make it true, to bring it into being by her acknowledgement that this is what would happen. But instead, she spoke matter-of-factly.

‘It’s fine, Arty, really. Sorry. Got to dash though.’ She squeezed his hand again and walked away from him, but stopped and turned back. ‘Are you – going to the winter dance tonight? It’s at the village hall.’

‘I can’t. Deliveries. See you next week?’ His breathing was loud.

She didn’t answer. Instead she said, ‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes,’ he called back. ‘Always.’ The wind took the words and whipped them away before he could unsay them. He didn’t know what it meant but he had been saying it to himself for so long it was the only answer. She gave him a small, sad smile and walked off in the direction of the farm.

When she was gone, he became aware of the rain falling heavier now, dripping even through the thick canopy of pines and the wind howling out at sea. He realised he hadn’t asked her if she loved him back.

3.

Gales officially forecast in nearly all districts of the British Isles