BooksBarbecue
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

But they couldn’t stop it. The little boat was picked up by the gush of the torrent and pushed up to a bank of something, he didn’t know what. Like a cork bobbing in the sea, round and round it went. Arthur thought they were bound to capsize and he gripped the sides. He braced himself, waiting to be upended into the dark, freezing water. But the boat kept upright and instead was swept up over the mud banks nearer to the beach, beyond the breach.

‘Stop!’ he called to Jack and they used the oars to drag the boat to a halt. He thought they could get out here. It would be safer to wade than to row with the mad uncertainty of the current. With the flood receding, he was afraid of the little boat being taken out to the open water. Arthur stepped over the gunwale. But instantly, sand and grit swirled round his legs and sucked him down. It swooshed over and into his boots and pulled him down. He felt himself falling, dragged down to the bottomless sea. The light of Jack’s torch was in his eyes but he didn’t know if he could reach him. He threw himself at the side of the boat.

‘I’m sinking! Sand’s bloody alive!’

Jack leaned out and grabbed his hand. Arthur felt his boots dragging him back to the water. He held on. A sucking sound and a sensation of release and he was hauled back in. He lay on the bottom of the boat breathing in great heaves.

‘Got to keep rowing,’ he panted. ‘Ground’s not safe.’

He grabbed the oars and pulled as hard as he could, away from the harbour and towards where he thought the farm must be.

7.

Before dawn, Sunday, 1st February

Tide abated
Much of the land still submerged

Soaking wet, and in pain, Verity squeezed her eyes shut and thought of her bed and home and safety. But the pull of the water was away from the farm, towards the pines and the trees. Another neigh from somewhere. To the east? Where was her Gyps? And where was Peter? He must be out here. If he’d got back to the house, he’d be wondering where she was.

In desperation, she swung her torch in an arc around her. There was something there, she could swear it. A dark mass. The figure of a horse above the water on a rise by the woods. It was Gypsy, it must be. Someone must have let him go. It had to be Peter.

‘Gyps!’ she shouted. ‘Gypsy!’ and the horse whinnied. Elation swept over her.