My mobile rings. It’s my mother, of all people. How can I keep my cool? I swallow hard and wipe the tears from under my eyes. ‘M-Mum…?’
‘Rosie, are you and Danny okay? We heard about the floods.’
‘I’m on the road to Truro.’ I don’t want to alarm her by asking her to call me back if Danny shows. The anguish would kill her. ‘I have to go, but I’ll call you back,’ I say and hang up. I’m trembling and feel like throwing up. I’ve never been so cold in my whole life.
Mitchell reaches over and touches my forehead. His hand is warm and I want to lean into it for the rest of my life. If this brief contact can do this to me, imagine how different my life would be if he was still in it.
And that’s when, up ahead, we become aware of a river of mud gushing down through the side streets, blocking us from progressing any further.
‘We need to stop for a moment,’ Mitchell says, pulling into a safe parking lot and turning off the ignition.
‘No, Mitchell, please, we can’t stop!’
He turns in his seat and takes me by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me, Rosie. We are going to find him. But right now, we need to make a plan here rather than running around like headless chickens. We need to think. And we need to get out of the storm. If we get caught in the mud, we won’t be able to keep looking. Right?’
I close my mouth. He’s right. With a car stuck in the mud we’d be absolutely useless to Danny. Reluctantly, I nod.
‘Good girl.’
He gets out into the rain, rounds the jeep and helps me down, holding his jacket over my head against the rain, his arm still around me as he closes the door, which is a good thing, because my legs are so weak I can barely stand.
It takes us a good two minutes to dodge the traffic as the river has now burst its banks, but we finally do make it across the road to a pub. It’s pouring down so badly I can’t even see what the sign says.
Inside, he sits me down and soon a mug of coffee is slid in front of me as I realise my feet are soaked inside my ankle boots. Mitchell sits opposite me and takes my hand, watching me like a hawk.
I look up, my eyes misty, but I refuse to cry. I need to be strong. ‘He might try to go to my parents’ place in Birmingham,’ I offer. ‘But if he doesn’t…? Where can he be…?’
His jaw tightens in thought as he looks out the window, fumbling for an answer, and then his eyes widen in astonishment. ‘Bloody hell!’ he cries as he shoots to his feet and out the door.
I turn my head to look out the window and freeze. As I watch, the tarpaulin off the back of Mitchell’s jeep is pushed aside, and a little head emerges, followed by a small body and a pair of little legs, testing the ground for purchase.
‘Danny!’ I cry, jumping to my wobbly legs and dashing out the door to the road, which is now knee-high in a raging river of mud.
‘Danny!’ Mitchell echoes me, pushing his hands out before him in a ‘Stop’ command. ‘Don’t cross the road, stay where you are!’
The patrons inside the pub rush to the windows to see what’s going on. Mitchell is now wading across the river of mud, now mid-thigh-deep. If he loses his footling and slips, he’ll be washed away.
Danny, who can’t hear him over the sound of the raging, muddy waters, thinks it’s a lot of fun and, smiling, waves back, looking left and right before he crosses the road, just like his mummy taught him. But now, of course, there are no cars to stop him.
‘Danny!’ Mitchell and I cry in unison. ‘Stay where you are!’
Danny looks around him, surrounded by the fast-moving river of mud and his face now crumples in fear.
And then a loud roar to our left makes my head turn. A wall enclosing an adjacent field collapses under the weight of the mud rushing downhill, the boulders scattering before our feet, mixing with the mud that has risen to just below window level.
‘Danny!’ I cry, throwing myself out the door, people following me.
Mitchell has reached him and hefted him onto his hip, my little boy hanging on to him for dear life.
The pub, which is higher than the road, is the only safe place, but there is no way they can make it back as the mud is almost at Mitchell’s waist now. The rush of mud is too forceful, even for him. Behind them, parked cars are bobbing like dinghies, being taken downstream. Any second Mitchell and Danny will be washed away.
‘Stay there, Rosie!’ Mitchell shouts as I’m trying to figure out a way to help them.
Behind me, the patrons of the pub are locking into a double human chain, from the front door, down the few steps and across the flooded road, where Mitchell is slowly but surely advancing on his own. He gets halfway across before he is met by the end of the chain. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he consigns Danny to the men reaching out to him. He shouts something, and they nod, but it’s too noisy for me to hear.
My son is passed from man to man, until he reaches my arms. I’m shaking so badly I’m afraid I’ll drop him, but, supported by two men at my elbow, I carry him through the door.
Inside the pub, it’s pandemonium. A large spot has been cleared just inside the door, and coats are thrown over Mitchell and Danny. I clutch at them, smothering my son with kisses.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. Don’t cry, Mum. I’m okay, see?’
‘What were you thinking?’ I bawl. ‘Why did you run away?’
‘I didn’t. I just wanted to ask Mitchell to convince you to stay here.’
‘Oh, sweetie,’ I bawl again, grabbing him and holding him tight to my chest.
Mitchell, whose hair is plastered to his head, wraps his arms around us as the crowd claps and cheers.