The Storm

Norbert

Chapter 46

The Storm

The wind picks up around midnight, lashing the seafront with twenty-foot waves, which boom over the sea defences and swamp the promenade. The force of this wall of salty spume is enough to sweep a fifteen stone man off his feet, toss him into the side of a beach hut and snap his collarbone. I know this because Nunky and I are listening to the local radio station and these are the words of the roving reporter describing what has just happened to him. ‘You can shove your (bleep) job up your (bleep bleep) and go (bleep) yourself. I quit,’ he ends with. You can hear the noise from our house, half a mile inland (of the sea, not the reporter).

The broadcaster says that a flood warning has been posted for the Macarbrough River, known locally as Old Sludgy. People are advised to stay indoors and only travel if absolutely necessary. The left-handed grannytickler adds, cryptically, that “absolutely necessary” refers to people like health workers. Guess who is on the early shift.

On the radio, the storm continues to be the only topic of news. A wide swathe of the coast has been unmercifully battered throughout the night. Seafront homes are flooded in most resorts, parked cars swept away in the deluge, trees blown down, roofs ripped off, drain covers lifted and sewage released into streets and homes. Thankfully, because of the timing, no serious casualties have been reported, but with the coming of day, people are again warned not to travel unless absolutely necessary. I am waiting for him to say: “That means you, Norbert. Put on your water wings and swim to work, like a good little minionshit.”

Weggie wanders downstairs and stands by the front door, giving me his “I really need a crap” face.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me?’

He scrunches his eyes and whines.

I open the door. He goes and stands by the gate in the pouring rain.

‘Do it in the garden and come back inside. I’ll let you off this once.’

The stubborn fool ignores me.

‘Please yourself.’

I struggle into my cagoule and overtrousers and put on my Wellington boots.

We live on a slight hill. Water is racing down the gutters, over the flooded manholes and down to the junction with the main road at the bottom, where it pools. There is an abandoned car smack in the middle, turned sideways, water nearly up to the door sill. Needless to say, there is no other traffic. I turn uphill, which is also the way to work.

Weggie appears to be in no hurry to do his business. I expected him to squat on the nearest verge, cock his leg a couple of times and hurry back home, but the remains of his mangled ears are cocked and his tail is wagging, flicking off drops of water. He turns the corner and patters merrily on his way. I splash along behind, already too wet to care.

We have been out for about ten minutes, navigating the driest route possible – that is walking where I can still see the pavement. I haven’t seen a soul, until we turn a corner and find an elderly couple arguing on their front doorstep.

‘I’ve got to get it in’t post today,’ the man shouts.

‘Look at it, yer big lummox, there wain’t be a collection today,’ she shouts back.

Northerners. That explains it.

‘If I don’t get me pools in’t post today, I wain’t win the jackpot, will I?’

‘Apart from four aways in 1984 tha’s never won a farthing,’ she rants back at him.

‘Which is why it’s vital I get this coupon in’t post. I’ve gorra feelin’ in me watter.’

‘I’ve got a feeling in my watter,’ I say, pausing outside their front gate. ‘In fact, the watter is the only thing I can feel.’

‘See, lass, even this kiddie is bravin’ the storm to post his daddy’s coupon.’

‘Nobody in their right mind would venture out on a day like this,’ I say.

‘You have,’ the man says.

‘I’m with someone who needs a poo.’

‘See,’ says the woman. ‘He in’t a kiddie, he’s a lunatic.’

‘I’m ruddy well gooin’,’ he says, and walks down the path to join me. He is, at least, wearing an anorak and a sou’wester. ‘Postbox is only in’t next street.’

‘Give it to me,’ I say. ‘I’ll post it for you.’

‘You think I’m stupid enough to trust a lunatic wi’ a letter that might be worth thousands?’

‘Suit yourself, it’s no raindrop off my nose.’

‘Wait on, young man,’ the woman says. ‘If you are passing, would you mind posting me a letter?’

‘If your husband insists on posting his coupon, why can’t he do it?’

‘Cos I haven’t written it yet. I’ll only be twenty minutes or so.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to get to work. I work at the hospital and the man on the radio says I’m absolutely necessary.’

The man opens the gate and sets off in the direction I am heading. I shrug at the woman and follow. Weggie is happily splashing around in a big pool that is normally a mini roundabout.

Turning the corner, I see the postbox is half submerged in fast flowing water, surging out of the side street opposite. I expect the man to turn round, but he actually removes his shoes and socks and rolls up his sodden trousers. What an idiot! Stoically, he continues on his mission.

I pause at the edge of the torrent, the water almost topping my wellies. ‘Come back, mister,’ I shout. ‘It’s dangerous. You might fall and get swept away.’

He turns and waves the sodden envelope at me, and carries on regardless, the water churning round his waist.

He reaches it and clings to the pillar box, but in so doing loses hold of the envelope. The wind catches it and plumes it into the air. I hear him say “Cock” and set off in pursuit.

He immediately loses his footing and goes under.

‘I was in the cubs. I know how to save lives,’ I shout, but then remember. ‘Sorry,’ I yell, ‘I failed my swimming badge.’

Weggie sees the floating body and charges into the torrent. ‘Good boy. Fetch.’

‘Try and pretend you’re an oar,’ I shout to the man.

He is thrashing weakly, trying to keep his head above the water. The current carries him round a corner out of sight, Weggie in hot pursuit.