“Experts!” said Sam. He and Jonas were sitting in front of a roaring fire in the office. “If they’re all that expert, why didn’t they tell us this was coming?”
“I’m not complaining,” said Jonas. He added a generous tot of whisky to each of their glasses. “I don’t mind if it keeps it up for a day or so. Makes a nice break.”
Next morning it was still snowing, but spasmodically. When it stopped and the wind from the south-west parted the clouds, a sky of the palest blue showed for a few moments. Then the clouds closed in again.
Jonas spent the day in his office catching up with some neglected paperwork. Sam cooked lunch for both of them and retired to his quarters for his afternoon nap. Jonas worked on steadily until the premature twilight forced him to switch on his table lamp.
At that moment the telephone rang. It was Claire. She said, “I thought you might like to know that I’ve heard from Wroke. He rang me from a callbox. He’s moved his caravan up out of the Dingle. It took some doing. Luckily he got some help from a farmer with a tractor.”
“What about the others? Are they moving out?”
“Don’t sound so hopeful,” said Claire. “No. Philip says they’re staying put. Actually they’re pretty well protected by the banks on either side.”
“As long as they’ve got enough to eat.”
“Oh, they’re well provisioned. And used to looking after themselves. More so than most people.”
Jonas thought she was probably right about that.
At eleven o’clock that night he was having his evening nightcap in front of the fire with Sam when the front door bell rang. Sam ambled out into the hall and came back with Francis Delamere. The old man was wearing a cloak and hood. As Sam helped him out of them Jonas noticed, with some surprise, that although they were wet through there was no sign of snow on them.
“Do I gather,” he said, “that it’s stopped snowing?”
“The snow stopped at dusk. The thermometer’s five degrees above zero already and going up. And it’s been raining for the last three hours. You see the importance of that.”
“I can see that it must
be
important,” said Jonas, “or you wouldn’t have come all this way on a night like this to discuss it.” He had a suspicion that the events of the last few days might have affected the old man’s mind. He added, “Wouldn’t it have been simpler if you’d telephoned? Whatever the problem, there’s nothing much anyone can do about it at this time of night.”
“When you talk like that,” said Delamere and there was the snap in his voice of a teacher addressing a backward class, “it’s clear that you have no idea at all of what we’re facing.”
“Which is—”
“Disaster. Unless we can clear them out tonight, when the sun gets up tomorrow it’s more than likely that there won’t be a man, woman or child alive in that camp.”
Jonas stared at him. If the man was mad, it was a very convincing sort of madness. He said, “I suppose you know what you’re talking about. I haven’t got your expertise in these matters. Could you please explain what you’re afraid of.”
Delamere took a deep breath. He said, “Do you remember what happened at Lynmouth?”
“Lynmouth. That’s on the north coast of Devon, isn’t it? I do remember they had a sort of flood.”
“A sort of flood! It destroyed a complete village. The conditions were similar. First two weeks of rain which waterlogged the Exmoor peat. Then a flash storm. Nine inches of rain. The water took the shortest route to the sea. It went down the Lyn River like a tidal wave. Now do you see?”
Jonas was a cautious man, who disliked jumping to conclusions. He started to say, “There’s no real certainty about any of this—” when, to his surprise, Sam interrupted him.
He said, in the voice of one who at last sees the answer to a puzzle, “Tilshead.”
“That’s right,” said Delamere. “The Tilshead disaster of 1897. You remember that.”
“I can’t say I remember it personally,” said Sam. “But when I was doing my National Service in the Gunners, we was up at Larkhill and I saw that memorial thing. When I read what was on it I couldn’t hardly credit it. The Till’s a tiny little stream, normally, that is – sort of thing you could walk across without getting the water over your boots – but one night, it seems, it came roaring down the main street. They show the tide mark twelve feet above the street level. A lot of the cottages had to be rebuilt. They had a public subscription. That’s what this memorial’s about.”
Whilst Sam had been speaking, Jonas had been making up his mind. He said, “Very well. I’m prepared to agree that there’s a chance that you’re right. The difficulty is what we’re going to do about it. If you or I go along to the camp and tell them they’ve got to clear out before morning, you can guess what they’ll say. ‘You’re just trying to do what they did at Portree. Turn us out and keep us out.’”
“They might listen to you.”
“Not in a hundred years. Lipsett knows exactly what I think of him. No. There’s only one chance. If we can convince Wroke, he might convince them. Claire told me that he’s moved his caravan. I’ll try to find out where he’s put it—” He was dialling a number as he spoke. There was a long pause at the other end. “I expect she’s in bed and asleep by now—”
It was a woman’s voice, not Claire’s, that answered. The landlady, Jonas guessed. She said, “Yes. Who is it?” Her voice sounded more anxious than irritated.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” said Jonas. “But I must have a word with Miss Easterbrook.”
“Oh dear. Are you the police?”
“No. I’m her employer. Mr Pickett.”
“I’ve been so worried. She went out hours ago and she hasn’t come back.”
“I think I know where she’s gone,” said Jonas. “Leave it to me.” He rang off before the landlady could say anything else. “Ten to one she’s with Wroke now. I wish we knew where he’s parked his caravan.”
“I fancy I saw it as I came past,” said Delamere. “There’s a lay-by where the path from the Dingle comes out on to the main road.”
“Right,” said Jonas. “You drive, Sam.”
Philip Wroke said, “Yes” and “I see” as Delamere repeated his story. “It did occur to me that there might be danger and Claire and I were sitting up in case any salvage was called for. I must say, we didn’t anticipate the sort of disaster you’re talking about. We saw the level of the Shackle stream might rise rather sharply, that’s all.”
“I think,” said Jonas, “that we’ve got to rely on Mr Delamere’s expertise. Could you have a word with Lipsett?”
They had found Wroke’s caravan without difficulty and were sitting in front of a glowing stove.
Claire said, “He’d listen to you, Philip.”
“He might.”
“We’ve got to try, anyway.”
“Yes,” said Wroke, getting up with a sigh. “I suppose we’d better all go down to lend a hand in case he does agree to evacuate the camp, but to start with I think you’d better keep in the background and let me do the talking.”
When he and Claire had put on heavy duty anoraks, they started together down the slippery path that ran beside the stream. Claire and Wroke linked arms. Jonas and Delamere anchored themselves to Sam. They found the entrance blocked with a tangled lump of barbed wire, but no guards. Sam heaved the barricade aside and they went in.
It was now nearly two o’clock, but there were lights showing in one or two of the tents. Outside one of them a man was digging a trench to lead the melted snow and rainwater away from his shack. He looked up at them as they passed, but said nothing.
There was a light in Lipsett’s caravan. When he answered Wroke’s knock they saw that he was fully dressed. He saw Claire standing behind Wroke and said, genially, “Come in both of you. You look like drowned kittens.” Then he spotted the other three and said, in a very different tone of voice, “What is this? A deputation.”
“Sort of,” said Wroke. “If you let us in we’ll explain.”
After hesitating for a moment, Lipsett said, “There’s not a lot of room. But all right. Squeeze in if you must. But if you’ve got anything to say, please say it quickly. I’ve been spending the early part of the night helping people dig ditches and I wouldn’t mind getting a few hours’ sleep.”
The caravan was smaller than Wroke’s and it was a tight squeeze. Wroke said, “I’m afraid we’ve got to evacuate the camp, Raymond.”
“I guessed it would be something like that. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me why we should do any such thing.”
“Mr Delamere is the expert. I’d rather you heard it from him direct.”
For the third time that night the old man spoke. Possibly because he had said it all twice before, or possibly because he was tired, it struck Jonas as less convincing. Lipsett listened with offensive patience and said at the end, “Is that all?”
“Enough surely for precautionary measures,” said Wroke. But he seemed less certain than he had been.
“Such as clearing everyone out of the camp,” said Lipsett with a smile.
“Well—”
“Then let me tell you a few facts. We have not neglected the possibility of a flood. The level of the stream has been monitored every few hours. Possibly as a result of the surface ice melting, the level has risen by two feet. But when it was inspected an hour ago the level was actually down—”
Wroke said, “But don’t you see, Raymond, it’s not the stream itself—”
Lipsett disregarded the interruption. He said, “Also we have listened to the weather reports. They were encouraging. A warm front is predicted and by tomorrow evening most of the snow will be gone. So now, if you don’t mind—”
Delamere then managed to surprise them. He did not attempt debate. He said, “I have some fifty yards of very good rope. It can be attached to something on each side. Have you any objection if we run it through the camp?”
The stark practicality of this suggestion seemed to affect Lipsett more than any argument. For a moment he hesitated, then he said, “Very well, but no tricks.”
It took some time to thread the rope under the barbed wire on each side and attach it. They had anchored it to a tree on the west side and on the other side to one of the council benches which was firmly set in a concrete base. After that Wroke and Claire went back to Wroke’s caravan and the other three climbed the steps to Delamere’s cottage, where they dozed away the remaining hours of the night in chairs in front of the fire.
Jonas was the first up. He came out of the house as a rim of the sun was showing over the roofs of the town. The warmth of the air had already acted on the sodden ground and the whole of the Dingle was filled with a white mist, through which a row of tent poles poked out like the masts of a sunken ship. Looking across the top of the mist bank he could see Wroke and Claire sitting together on the bench by the far end of the rope. He heard Claire laughing at something Wroke had said.
It was a cheerful and a reassuring scene. The hermit’s fears had turned out to be nothing but fantasies. Nevertheless, what they had tried to do was sensible.
Delamere and Sam had joined him and they were standing together when they heard it. It was a rumbling, grumbling sound, like the opening notes of an avalanche as it breaks free and gathers speed. Then a series of sharp cracks, like the opening of an artillery barrage. One or two of the campers just below them looked out of their tents. A woman screamed. Then it hit them.
It was not a flood, it was a tidal wave, ten feet high, frothing grey on the top, brown underneath. It picked up one of the caravans and smashed it into the wire at the bottom, carrying a section of the fence away with it. As the wave subsided for a moment their horrified eyes could see heads bobbing in the water, tangles of grey hair, men and women encumbered by the flapping canvas, trying to claw their way up to the safety of the banks.
Sam had launched himself down the rope. He had already dragged two men clear and had grabbed a girl who was crawling under the wire when the second wave hit them. It was higher than the first and more terrible as it carried a flotsam of broken stuff. A hen coop, half a telegraph pole, the roof of a shed, and bodies. Animals floating on their backs and bundles of rags and human clothing at which Jonas dared not look.
The second wave uprooted what was left of the fence and swung it like a deadly flail across the camp. Frightful though the result of this was, it did at least clear an obstruction from the sides. Sam, at times up to his neck in the water, at times completely submerged, had grabbed two more men and one woman with a child in her arms.
Then the third wave was on them. Higher than the last and awesome in its power, it swept through the little valley like a scythe through corn, carrying everything in its path as it raced to the sea.
As Jonas stood, aghast and helpless, he heard, seeming to come from under the grey waters of the Channel, the sound of a bell. A single piercing note which went on for some seconds as the water level in the Dingle slowly sank.
“There’s a lot to do,” said the Admiral. He spoke in a brisk and businesslike way, but the horror of what they had seen was still at the back of all their minds, though it was four weeks in the past. He added, “Thank God we’ve got a council that can tackle it.”
It was the last week in April. The elections had brought few surprises. Rattray and Benson, Jonas and the Admiral, Greenaway and Forbes formed an impregnable centre block, able and willing to undertake the work of reconstruction.
Nine of the campers had been dragged from the flood, six of them by Sam. Three more, strong swimmers, had kept their heads. Allowing themselves to be carried out to sea, they had struggled to land a mile down the coast. Seventy, including Lipsett, had died in the flood. To this total had to be added two men, two women and four children from the farms which had been swept away higher up the valley.
A relief fund had been started and the public response, as so often in such cases, was overwhelming.
“Wroke’s a good man,” said the Admiral. “Though he didn’t win a seat on the council he’s agreed to head our Appeal Committee. Do I gather, by the way, that he and Miss Easterbrook are engaged?”
“It’s high time they announced it,” said Jonas. “They’ve been living together in that caravan for the last month.”