The Flood Read Free

block fell into the room, and water spurted through the hole. Almost before the block had fallen, another started, and the water gushed in.
    They crouched together.
    Charles’s hand was tight upon Rene’s head, he could feel the softness of her body against him.
    He could see the swirling water and the crumbling walls, and the rain.
    “René,” he shouted. “René, René, René!”
    She didn’t answer; she didn’t hear. She was pressing tightly against him, her face still buried, as if to hide from death. Charles felt the water rising fast. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, terrified and yet helpless; despairing. There was nothing they could do to save themselves, there was no hope.
    Then he heard another roaring, rumble of sound.
    He screamed!
    A mass of rock from the cliff fell upon the cottage, and demolished it, and buried the two bodies.

 
2
    “What on earth’s happening over there?” said Bob Woburn, idly. “It looks like a cloudburst the wrong way up.”
    “You get the oddest ideas,” said his sister. “Oh, my goodness, isn’t it hot?” She brushed her fair, fluffy hair back from her forehead, and blew at a few strands; her face was red and shiny. She wore a plastic apron over a gay cotton frock with short sleeves. The kitchen of this farmhouse was large, with a stone floor, and there was a long window, which stood wide open. The check curtains did not flutter. “Just let me pop these tarts in the oven,” she went on, “and I’ll see what nonsense you’re talking about.”
    “Yes, sister,” Woburn said, with mock humility.
    He stood by the window, looking across the surprisingly tidy farmyard, the duck pond, the two hayricks and the old plough with a wheel off, across moorland, two ploughed fields, and then the loch and, not far beyond, the great firth, with its countless islands and its beauty. The loch was visible only in places; the rocky sides guarded it at either end. It had the quietness that only the Western Highlands know and, on this autumn afternoon, the blue tranquillity of the Mediterranean.
    As the crow flies, the Robertson farmhouse was about five miles from the nearest point of the loch – Wolf’s Head Rock. Beyond the rock was the village of Wolf, which stood two thousand feet above sea level, overlooking the loch and the distant firth and, beyond, the fair blue of the sea. Everywhere, above the Wolf’s Head Rock, and the bay, above the place where the village stood and above the stony farmland about it, the sky was a clear, friendly blue, the sun was hot but not hostile. The only living things in sight were sheep, two miles away, and the ‘cloudburst the wrong way up’.
    Jenny Robertson closed the door of the big white Aga cooker with the stealth of a true cook, then straightened up, puffed the strands of hair away again, and crossed to her brother. Woburn was six feet tall, and broad; even standing still, he gave a rare impression of physical fitness and strength; that had something to do with the lift of his head and the sureness of his shoulders. He wore a pair of old flannels and a cellular shirt with short sleeves, his reddish, wiry hair glinted in a reflection of the sun from the window.
    “Bob,” she said abruptly, “I wish you’d get married.”
    “You were born into the wrong family,” he said lightly, “and you set my standards too high. None of the women I meet compare even slightly with you.”
    “Don’t be sae daft. I’m just a simple farmer’s wife, and—”
    “That’s it, I think,” said Woburn. “Simplicity. And honesty, too. Jenny, don’t blame me, you started this. I have a very high opinion of my only sister, even if she is nearly forty and will soon be an old hag.”
    “Brute,” Jenny said, “you’re turned thirty, remember. If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss the boat.”
    “I’m waiting for the age of discretion,” Woburn said. “Also, I’m puzzled about that over there. Look.”
    They stood together, staring across the