Flood!

FLOOD!

By: Joyce Hicks

LIZZIE had seen it all before. At least she thought she had, until now.
It just wasn't possible to live on the East Coast and not know
something about high spring tides, storm surges, hurricane-force winds,
and devastating floods. When you were as old as Lizzie you didn't just
know about it, either. You had lived through it, and survived if you
were lucky. Her earliest memories of such conditions went way back to
1897. The latest occurred in 1949. Barely four years later here it was,
happening all over again. This time, though, it seemed worse. Much
worse. Never in her entire life had she experienced anything as
terrifying as
this.

At eighty years of age she knew she had had a pretty good innings and
that no one lived for ever, but this was not exactly the way she had
planned on departing this life.

It had to be around midnight, and she couldn't see a thing now because
the lights had failed some time earlier, but the noise was deafening.
Throughout her long life Lizzie had experienced strong, even
hurricane-force winds, but this one was in a class of its own. With
each almighty gust the little wooden bungalow groaned and shuddered,
trying valiantly to resist but growing weaker and less resilient with
each new onslaught. Only a matter of time now before it finally
conceded defeat. It was no match for the raging elements outside. No,
they weren't just outside now; they had forced their way in. She was
completely surrounded by water.

Even in these dire circumstances, the irony of her present situation
did not escape her. Albert, her late husband, had been a trawlerman,
and the risk of perishing at sea went with the job. Besides, like many
fishermen he couldn't even
swim. 'Water is for fishes. . . That's what boats are for, to keep men
out of the water!' he'd chant, whenever the subject was raised. 'And
anyway, if the boat goes down in a storm and we're miles out to sea,
swimmin' won't save you. Couldn't
swim back from that distance.'

Lizzie would always get angry, would tell him to stop talking such
rubbish because it frightened her, but Albert was forever
philosophical. 'I've been plundering the sea all me life, Lizzie,' he
would shrug, 'and one day the sea'll want some repayment, I expect.
That's often the way of it, lass.'

Dear Albert. . . The sea had claimed him in the end, had finally
demanded that repayment - with a hefty interest, or so Lizzie had
wailed at the time. At the age of fifty Albert, and the entire crew,
went down with their trawler just as he had often predicted they might
- in a violent storm, and miles out to sea. He had been right, after
all. . . The ability to swim would have served no purpose
whatsoever.

As for Lizzie, the irony was that the closest she ever got to water was
her weekly bath, yet the way things were going, it looked as though she
was about to suffer precisely the same fate as Albert. Except that she
wasn't at sea. She was at home, perched uncomfortably on top of her
kitchen table, and already the swirling water was covering its surface.
She was soaked through and frozen to the bone. The water, an inch or
two above the top of the table now, was ice cold.

Lizzie hadn't needed to go to sea. The sea had come to Lizzie.

She wondered how the rest of the town was getting on. From past
experience she well knew there would be considerable damage, and there
would certainly be casualties. For a start there would be many
fishermen's wives who would be
widows before the morning came.

Here on Beach Road Lizzie knew she stood little chance. The only thing
that stood between here and the raging North Sea were the sand dunes,
and they had probably been swept away hours ago. Beach Road - or what
was left of it - was now in the North Sea. What chance did the
rescuers, if there were any, have of getting anywhere near?

The bungalow shook again as a vicious gust of wind caught it broadside
on, and above the ear-splitting roar came the sound of yet more
shattering glass. Whether it was one of her own windows, or that of a
neighbouring bungalow, was almost impossible to tell. Lizzie knew that
several of the nearby properties had gone already, reduced to mere
matchwood by the fury of the elements, and hers was no stronger than
the others had been.

Fortunately many of them now were holiday homes, and as such would be
empty at this time of the year. Only the hardiest of souls came to East
Anglia in January. But several properties, Lizzie's included, were
permanent homes.

Too late now, but she should have done the sensible thing and got out
sooner, because this had been coming all day. On the wireless earlier
there had been reports that a trawler and her fifteen-man crew had sunk
without trace in the Hebrides. Wind speeds of up to 125 miles an hour
were mentioned. A British Rail car ferry had also gone down on its run
from Scotland to Northern Ireland with a huge loss of life, many of
them women and children. The gales had driven south, funnelling down
the North Sea and whipping it into a boiling frenzy. The entire East
Coast was now being battered into terrifying submission.

And to think, only this morning she had swept this very kitchen floor
and had shaken out the little mat. On top of that she had gone around
the house with a duster, before finally sitting down to rest with a cup
of tea. All a bit pointless now, she thought ruefully. While she was
busy sweeping and dusting, the elements - laughing themselves silly,
probably - had all been lining up to smash her house to
smithereens.

There was one consolation, at least. She had had the foresight to grab
the gin bottle before clambering up onto the table. She had bought it
just a month earlier as a special treat for Christmas, for no other
reason than that Albert had always insisted on buying a bottle at
Christmas, and Lizzie saw no point in breaking with tradition. Until
today she had allowed herself only two drinks from it, but over the
last couple of hours she had taken a few hefty swigs. And despite her
current dire predicament she pondered on the wisdom of this. If she was
about to meet her Maker, what on earth would He think if she arrived
feeling much the worse
for gin? Hopefully He would understand, and if not, Lizzie would just
have to explain that the circumstances had been somewhat
exceptional.

Hanging grimly onto the side of the table with one hand, she raised the
gin bottle and took another generous gulp. It wasn't really warming
her, as brandy would have done, but it was certainly making her feel a
whole lot better. With any luck she would be too drunk to care when the
water finally grew too deep to resist, or the house simply collapsed
all around her. At the very least it should ease her final journey into
Paradise.

The water was getting deeper by the minute. She had always loved this
little bungalow, but if only it had been a house - solid brick,
perhaps. She could then have gone upstairs, perhaps even clambered out
somehow, onto the roof. At least then she would have had a fighting
chance of survival.

Still clutching the bottle, she hugged her thin arms around her slight
frame in a futile attempt to keep warm. Even if the bungalow, by some
miracle, survived this onslaught, she knew the piercing cold would
finish her off quite soon. She started to hum a tune, a melody from her
youth which she hadn't remembered in years. She was still humming when
a sound - so faint it was barely discernible from the crescendo of
noise all around her - caused her to stop and listen. There was a pause
that seemed to go on forever, until Lizzie felt she must have imagined
it, but then it came again. It was slightly louder this time, only now
she recognised it above the din as a voice. Incredibly, there was
someone close by.

Relief paralyzed her for a moment. Then she cried out in response, her
voice sounding so feeble and small that it shocked her. She shouted
again, with a consciously greater effort this time. There was the sound
of more breaking glass, except that this time it was instantly followed
by a flash of light. The light suddenly grew, came further into the
house, and finally the man holding the torch called again.

'The kitchen!' Lizzie shouted. 'I'm in the kitchen!'

A figure appeared in the doorway, drenched through to the skin, and
holding the torch aloft he half swam, half waded towards her.

'What on earth kept you?' Lizzie demanded.

Even in the feeble light she could see he was very young, and his face
was deathly white with fatigue and with cold. His clothing, or what
Lizzie could see of it above the water, told her he was a policeman.
Clearly he had risked his life to save her, and she felt immediately
ashamed of her mild rebuke.

From behind her back, where she had guiltily hidden it, she held out
the gin bottle.

'Here. . . You look like you could do with a drink, constable,' she
smiled.

From the meagre light of the torch she registered the look of amazement
on his young face. 'What, now?' he gasped.

'Can you think of a better time, young man, than now?' she asked.

He paused, but only for a moment. 'No, Madam, I don't think I can,' he
answered, before taking the bottle from her outstretched hand.