Leaving my car on the driest corner, I start to inch along in my Wellingtons against the walls of the houses. Again, not a soul is outside. When I reach an alley named Church Walk—inappropriately so, since it’s nowhere near the church—my dismay starts to mount. Built along one side of this alley are six former almshouses, inhabited now by the frailest elderly, people one faltering step from Redwood House. Each house has a front step, now perhaps two scant inches above the flood line, and there’s not a sandbag in sight. The water’s got muscle here: it’s making the same wash around my legs as I saw with the willow trees earlier this morning. A nasty sense of humor too. The current lassoes my ankle when I set my foot to the ground, very keen to tip me onto my backside.

A face appears at a downstairs window and I make my cautious way over. It’s a woman, wisps of white hair floating over her scalp, ancient, pendulous earlobes. She chirrups at me, her words muffled by the glass. “I can’t open my door, Vicar. There’s a flood outside.” Her eyes, hooded by wrinkled lids, are cheerful.

“I know. Have you got any sandbags, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Rail. Matilda Rail. Don’t worry, dear. Council are bringing them directly.”

She says this in a bright, fairly forceful tone. As if she’s used to jollying people along, especially those who’ve got no right to be miserable. Grumbling children, or men worriting about sandbags.

“Stay put, Mrs. Rail. I’ll see what I can do.”

“ ’Course I’ll stay put.” She gives me a beaming, slightly exasperated smile. “The lane’s underwater, dear.”

Toiling back toward my car I spot a telephone box on the corner. A search of my pockets produces, glory be, three two-pence coins. The door of the booth swirls the brown water as I open it. I ring the only number I’ve memorized so far.

“This is Upton Hall Lodge.” The information is delivered with great moment, rather as the World Service announces, This is London. “Althea Brock speaking.”

I fill her in on the situation.

“Matilda Rail told you the council had sandbags?” she barks. “She’s behind the times, I’m afraid. We rang them yesterday when the village hall ran out. They’ve got none left.”

I glance down at the slots in the wall of the booth where phone books are supposed to be kept. Both are bare.

“Lady Brock, have you a telephone directory to hand?”

“Oh Lord, I’ll have to fossick around.”

Her fossicking costs me another two pence but she supplies the number I need. I bid her goodbye. “Are you all right at the lodge?”

“Absolutely fine. But the school’s underwater. Huge excitement, fire brigade, the lot. I always said to Michael his bloody house was built in the wrong place.”

—