With no parking allowed on the main street and with no rear access to speak of, Stevie usually parked in the free car park opposite, the one she’d used the very first time she came to Tanglewood.
This afternoon, the view out across the fields and the river from the car park wasn’t as pleasant as it usually was. In fact, it was quite disturbing. Feeling a faint twinge of unease, Stevie got out of the car, pulling her hood over her head. The rain hadn’t eased at all on the journey back from Leanne’s house and was still coming down in buckets.
She peered towards the river and the row of cottages running adjacent to the bank and was surprised to see movement. Lots of movement. At least twenty people were there, carrying what looked like old-fashioned sacks of grain, then her brain caught up with her eyes and she realised what she was looking at were people hauling sandbags. Sandbags meant flood defences, and as she studied the river she realised just how high the water had become. There was almost no space between the arches underneath the quaint humped bridge and the seething dark water.
Stevie, wishing she had something more waterproof in her wardrobe, made her way to the end of the street to offer her help. She wasn’t sure how much use she could be, but she was willing to do anything she could.
As she grew nearer, the force and speed of the water took her breath away. The normally placid river churned and broiled, its usually clear water now a muddy brown, and debris caught in the fast current swept past faster than a human could run. If anyone fell in, they’d not stand a chance.
The banks had already overflowed, and the footpath was completely submerged. Even as she watched, the water crept higher, threatening to overflow onto the narrow, tarmacked road and lap at the front steps of the little row of cute cottages.
‘What can I do?’ she called over the roar of the river.
‘Get in line,’ a man instructed, pointing to a snake of figures which started at a pile of sandbags where the dead-end road in front of the first house joined onto the main street and ended at the doorstep of the cottage furthest away.
Stevie recognised Henry, the ironmonger, and gave him a nod. He nodded back, his expression grim, and made room for her, patting her on the shoulder as she slid into the line of people. She darted a quick look around, recognising quite a few of them. More than a few, actually, and most of them had been in her tea shop at one time or another. She was surprised so many of the villagers had turned out to help – she couldn’t imagine the same thing happening in London. Take the building her old flat had been in for instance – she’d actually had no idea who was living upstairs or what they looked like, and she simply couldn’t imagine calling on them for help if she’d needed it. Hell, her own flatmates would have been reluctant to pitch in.
Seeing so many familiar faces simply getting on with it, despite the torrential rain, gave her a warm, comfortable feeling. And the smiles and nods of acceptance aimed at her, made her finally feel as though she was a part of this little community.
She braced herself for the first sandbag. Crikey, that was heavy, she thought, wincing as it was almost thrown into her waiting arms. Twisting awkwardly and taking care not to slip on the wet, and by now rather muddy road, she heaved the bag at the next person. No sooner had she got rid of her burden than she was given another, and another, until her muscles screamed and her legs trembled, but still the bags kept coming.
In no time, she was soaked through. Even her bra was wet, and cold water trickled nastily down her neck and back. She hadn’t felt her feet for the last ten minutes or so, and was dimly aware they were just as wet from the river water lapping at her toes as from the water pouring from the sky.
At some point, she noticed a lorry delivering another load, and she could have wept. She’d give anything to stop, but the water was now over their ankles and perilously close to the front of the cottages. She couldn’t believe how fast the river was rising.
‘We can’t stop it, can we?’ she gasped to the woman next to her.
‘Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how much higher the river rises. We gotta try though, haven’t we?’
‘But look at all this rain,’ Stevie cried, and Henry said, ‘It’s not this rain we need to worry about. It’s the rain further up the river. This stuff,’ he jerked his head, ‘fell a couple of days ago in the mountains in mid-Wales. And I hear it’s still coming down.’
Stevie heaved a sandbag onto his forearms and swivelled to face the other way, stretching her spine as she watched the progress of the next bag. Any minute now…
She grunted at the weight of it and turned back to Henry, preparing to hoist it at him. Every bag was taking more and more out of her, and she didn’t know how long she was going to be able to keep it up.
A squint through the veil of rain at the cottages gave her new resolution. Those poor people. Imagine if it was her tea shop under threat from flooding? She’d be devastated.
‘Effing hell!’ a voice called. ‘Look at that!’
Stevie and the others in the line stopped for a precious second and what they saw made them all gasp.
The tree was huge. Torn up by its roots, it bobbed in the centre of the river. A pale circle of bare wood, bigger than the front of a lorry, bore down on the bridge, its roots like skeleton’s fingers, some of them submerged, others waving in the air, with smaller debris caught in their grasp.
Stevie dropped her sandbag and, with mouth and eyes wide open, watched as the river’s momentum carried the tree past the row of cottages and on towards the little bridge.
‘God help us, it’ll take the bridge out,’ someone cried.
The tree slammed into the old stones with a grinding, roaring thump and Stevie swore she felt the ground shake beneath her feet. There wasn’t enough of a gap between the water and the arch for the tree to slide underneath, and even if there had been, Stevie suspected the spread of roots at the one end and branches at the other, was too wide to let it through.
With one of the three arches securely blocked and more water-borne debris piling up behind it, there was only one way for the water to go – outwards. Even during the minute or so the workers watched, the water level rose rapidly. Sandbags would be useless against this flood and everyone knew it.
‘Get anyone left in those houses out,’ a familiar voice shouted and Stevie pushed her sodden hood back off her face to catch a glimpse of the speaker.
Nick, water dripping down his face, banged on the door of the cottage furthest away from the main road. His expression was grim.
‘It’s empty,’ someone called. ‘They use it as a holiday home. The owners live down south.’
Nick, without preamble, moved on to the next one.
People darted everywhere. The front doors of the other three were wide open, and Stevie could see shapes moving inside. Shouts of, “turn it on its end”, and “I’ll take the weight, you steer it”, indicated that the helpers were desperately trying to move anything they could possibly salvage to the upper floors. A man (she could have sworn it was Saul) leaned over the stacked sandbags protecting one house and lifted a woman into his arms. Stevie watched as he sloshed through the encroaching water until he deposited the woman safely on the street. Someone else was close on Saul’s heels. His arms were full of a squirming toddler, and he was quickly followed by another person clutching a cat carrier.
Stevie stood there, helplessly, wondering what she could do. Shivering and soaked to her skin, now that she’d finally stopped throwing bags of sand around, the chill was settling into her bones.
‘You can’t stay here!’ Nick was shouting up at a first-floor window, where a pale face peered out from behind a curtain. He turned to the nearest helper. ‘Who lives here?’
The face at the window tugged at the curtain, shoving it aside for a better look, and Stevie recognised it.
‘It’s Betty,’ she said, wading closer to Betty’s front door. The water was now mid-shin and was starting to lap eagerly at the bottom of the stacked bags.
They were running out of time; those bags couldn’t keep the swirling waters out for much longer.
‘Come on, Betty, open the door and let’s get you out of there,’ Nick called.
Betty shook her head.
‘She’s going to be marooned up there, if she’s not careful. If she won’t come down, we’re going to have to force the door,’ he said.
‘Let me have a go,’ Stevie suggested. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
Nick stepped to the side. ‘She’s all yours but make it quick.’
‘Betty, you have to leave,’ Stevie shouted up. ‘You can’t stay here.’
Betty, with much shoving and banging, managed to heave the old sash window up. ‘I can stay and I will. This is my home.’
Stevie’s heart went out to her. The old lady sounded determined and pitiful at the same time.
‘But it’s dangerous,’ Stevie argued, ignoring Nick’s hurry-up gesture. ‘The water will flood the house soon.’
‘It’ll have to be bloody deep to reach this floor,’ Betty said. ‘And if it gets that high, you’ll have more than my old carcass to worry about – the whole village will be flooded.’
‘I’m going in,’ Nick said. ‘Someone’s got to make her see sense.’ And with that, he took a couple of steps back and launched himself at the door. His shoulder slammed into the wood with a resounding thud but the door held and Nick bounced back off it, almost landing on his backside.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Stevie had to bite back a laugh.
Rubbing his arm, Nick squared up to have another go.
‘Oi, what’s that young man doing to my front door?’ Betty yelled, leaning so far out of the window, Stevie feared the old woman would topple through it.
‘Come down and open it,’ Stevie pleaded, ‘before he breaks it down.’
‘I’ll break his head, in a minute,’ Betty yelled, and when the old lady’s face disappeared from the window, Stevie prayed she was on her way downstairs.
No such luck. Betty reappeared at the window. The old woman leaned out just in time to see Nick rebound off the surprisingly solid door again and promptly threw a bucket of water over him.
To be fair to Nick, he didn’t bat an eyelid, and Stevie wondered if he’d even noticed – he was as wet as she was, despite his waterproof Barbour jacket.
‘It’s not like this in the movies,’ he grumbled, wincing. ‘I’m going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow. ‘I’ll have to break a window.’
‘Betty’s going to love that,’ Stevie thought, then she had an idea. ‘Betty?’ she bellowed over the roar of the water. ‘I need your help. How do you fancy a job?’
‘What sort of a job?’ the old woman shrieked back. ‘If this is a trick to get me out…’ she warned.
‘No trick, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ Stevie dutifully crossed her heart.
‘What do you want me to do?’ the old lady demanded, squinting at Stevie out of narrowed eyes.
‘I need someone to help me make hot drinks for this lot, before they all keel over from hypothermia, and I’ll make some soup too. But I can’t do it all on my own.’
Betty peered down at her, and for a second Stevie thought she was going to refuse. ‘What will happen to my house?’ the old woman asked, after a brief silence. ‘If I can’t come back here, where am I to go?’
Ah, bless her! So that’s what was really worrying her, Stevie realised. Betty was scared that if she left her home, she’d be on the streets. As if anyone would let that happen!
‘You can stay with me,’ Stevie said. ‘I’ve got a spare room. Pack a bag, just in case, but don’t take too long, eh?’
‘Right, that’s settled, then,’ Nick said. ‘Let’s get to it!’
And get to it, he did. Leaning over the sandbags he took hold of the old lady’s bag and thrust it at Stevie. Then he bent forwards, wrapped his arms around Betty and scooped her into his arms. Betty grabbed hold of the back of his neck and held on with worried determination.
He won’t drop her, Stevie knew inside, and for a second she had a feeling of déjà vu – she could almost imagine it was her own body being held in those strong arms and not the elderly lady’s. From out of nowhere, she had a scent-memory of spicy, citrusy aftershave, leather and yummy man, all mixed into one delectable smell.
‘Am I taking her to your place, or was that really a ruse to get her to unlock the door?’ Nick asked.
Betty’s head shot up from where it had been snuggling into his neck and she gave Stevie an alarmed look. Stevie had a brief flash of envy, as she wished it was her who Nick was carrying, before saying indignantly, ‘Of course it wasn’t a ruse. Betty is to stay with me. In fact,’ she raised her voice even further and bellowed at anyone still in earshot. ‘Everyone back to Peggy’s. I’ll stick the kettle on. It’s on the house.’
A cheer went up and the bedraggled rescuers followed her to the tea shop.
Once inside, Stevie flicked the switch on Bert, called to everyone to give her a minute for the machine to warm up, then dashed upstairs to change into dry clothes. There was no way she could serve cake in this state – unless people liked it soggy –because she was dripping everywhere.
She shot Nick a narrow-eyed look as he followed her upstairs, still carrying the old lady, who seemed rather content to continue to be held by him, even though his soaked clothing must be seeping into her relatively dry coat. Betty wore a smug, self-satisfied expression as Nick bumped open the door to Stevie’s spare room with his hip, and gently placed her on her feet. She tottered for a second, then caught her balance.
‘I enjoyed that, young man. I’ll let you carry me again,’ she announced, and Stevie slammed her own bedroom door shut so he didn’t see her amusement. Her laughter quickly died as she realised Nick had seemed to know exactly which room was the spare bedroom and she blushed as she stripped off, remembering he was no stranger to her bedroom, either.
Dry clothes on, a brief rub of a towel over her drenched locks, and Stevie was good to go. She wished she had more time to dry her hair properly, and to put a smidgen of make-up on (the rain had done a good job of washing her mascara off, leaving black smudges around her eyes where she’d rubbed the water out of them), but she had a shop full of cold, wet people downstairs who needed to be fed and watered.
Most of them had shed their steaming coats and the garments hung in a sodden mound on the old-fashioned hat stand near the door, dripping water in a steady, indoor version of what was falling from the sky outside. Stevie shrugged. There was nothing to be done about it and she had all evening to mop up. Right now, she had beverages to serve and cake to slice.
‘Thanks, love,’ Mr Evans said, as Stevie handed him a hot cup of tea. ‘I can’t feel my fingers. It’s nice of you to invite everyone in.’
‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said, ‘what with all the help they’ve given. I like to do my bit.’
He patted her on the arm. ‘You are, love, you are,’ and he gave her such a smile Stevie felt like she truly belonged. There was nothing like a catastrophe to bring people together, and this awful flooding had certainly brought out the best in all of them. Her heart swelled with pride as she saw everyone tucking into her cakes and pastries and she didn’t begrudge any of them a single mouthful.
At some point during the pouring of endless cups of tea, Stevie became aware of Nick’s eyes on her, but whenever she glanced at him, he quickly looked away. A little while later, another pair of hands appeared alongside her own, hands with soft wrinkles and an age spot or two, and Stevie smiled at Betty, who was getting stuck in like she’d been behind a tea shop counter all her life.
Gradually, the crush of people thinned as coats were put back on and goodbyes were said, until only a handful of die-hards remained. There were still some pastries left, so maybe they were hoping for another bite to eat before they went. Stevie realised she would have to do a considerable amount of baking tonight, if she intended to replace what had been devoured today. The empty plates and dishes looked as though a plague of locusts had paid her a visit, but Stevie didn’t mind, even though all her profit for the month had probably gone down the plughole. The way everyone had simply stopped what they were doing to come to help those poor people in the riverside cottages, had really impressed her.
Stevie left Betty to see to any remaining requests, while she began Operation Clean-up, ferrying all the used dishes and cutlery out to the kitchen and stacking what she could into the dishwasher. As she closed the door and turned the dial, she sensed she wasn’t alone.
Expecting to see either Betty or (hopefully) Nick, Stevie straightened up and was confronted by a widely smiling Saul.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said, wondering what he wanted; she wasn’t particularly keen on the public coming into the private parts of the café.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he offered. ‘Everyone’s more or less gone, but we’ve left you with a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.’
They certainly had, Stevie saw, as she returned to front of house to assess the damage. With the café nearly empty the true extent of it became clear. The floor was awash with muddy, grey water, splashes of it had managed to find themselves onto the walls and windows, and there were dirty great footprints everywhere. Not only that, but the cushions on the chairs held the imprint of wet, grubby bottoms, so they would need to be washed, and the formerly pristine tablecloths were smeared in mud, and covered in damp crumbs and tea or coffee stains.
Saul had followed her out of the kitchen and he stood next to her with a mop in his hand, as she surveyed the tea shop.
‘We’ve not left you anything to sell, either,’ he said, apologetically, gesturing towards the empty cake stands. He really did look very sorry.
Nick, on the other hand, didn’t look sorry at all. He simply glowered and Stevie wondered what he was still doing there.
So, apparently, did Saul. ‘Nick, mate, are you still here?’
Nick scowled. He really was in a foul mood, Stevie thought, wondering what had caused it. Even Betty, who had the most reason out of the four of them to be unhappy, didn’t appear to be as miserable as Nick.
‘Are you staying to help Stevie clean up?’ Saul continued, seemingly oblivious to Nick’s surly attitude. He turned back to Stevie. ‘Bet you didn’t think you’d see me again so soon, did you?’
‘See you again?’ Nick finally spoke, and from the way he said it, Stevie wished he hadn’t bothered.
‘She had lunch with us,’ Saul said.
‘Us?’ Nick’s eyes glinted.
‘The family, although I’ll be pleased to get her on my own later this week. I thought we’d try a little place called The Griffin. Have you been there before?’ This last part was aimed at Stevie, but she was too busy wondering what had yanked Nick’s chain to answer straight away. Crikey, but this Nick guy was one moody git. If she was asked to describe him, she’d say Heathcliff with a touch of Mr Darcy thrown in. If he was like this at home, no wonder his sister wanted to move out!
‘Stevie?’
‘Eh?’ She glanced at Saul. ‘Er, yes, I mean no, I haven’t been there.’
‘Great!’ His smile was warm and wide, but Stevie wasn’t basking in the glow of it. She was too busy wondering what she’d done to annoy Nick and why he had pushed his chair back with more force than necessary when he got up to leave.