The Fleethaven Trilogy (142 page)

‘No,’ Ella said firmly. ‘I can’t do with two of you ill,
Aunty Peg. Get yourself better first and then come over if
you can. I’ll ring Rita first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Promise?’

Ella kissed her cheek. ‘I promise. And try not to worry.
I’ll sort Gran out when I get there. I won’t half give her
what-for. How dare she not tell us?’

At this moment, in her determination, Ella prepared
herself to do battle with Esther Godfrey.

Ella caught the six o’clock bus out of Lincoln travelling all
the way to Lynthorpe. Before leaving, she sat down and
scribbled a letter to her employer saying that she would
not be returning to them on Monday. On her way to the
bus stop she dropped it in the letter box.

The journey seemed to be taking for ever. Ella rubbed
the steam from the bus window with her finger-tips and
peered out into the blackness of the evening. It was still
raining; it would be wet and windy walking the coast
road from the bus station in Lynthorpe out to Fleethaven
Point. But she didn’t care. She’d walk anywhere, even if
it took all night, just so long as she was in time. As the
bus rocked and swayed along, Ella stared out into the
black night watching the grey grass verge and hedges
rushing past. The other passengers were chatting, dozing
or reading and taking no notice of the girl huddled in her
seat.

Her eyes glazed, she no longer saw the other people or
heard the prattle around her, or felt the rocking motion
of the bus; instead before her mind’s eye was the kindly
face of her grandpa, in her ears was his deep, gentle voice.
She was remembering so many incidents: his outstretched
arms enfolding her, carrying her to the hayloft and comforting
her tearing grief after the death of her mother;
gently explaining about Lady and the ways of farming life;
his softly spoken words when he thought her gran too hard on her, ‘Oh, let the lass have some fun, Esther.’ And
even, when all the world had seemed against her, when her
grandmother had refused to believe her, even then,
Grandpa had had faith in her.

Oh, please let him be all right, she whispered to herself
and closed her eyes, willing the bus to go faster, faster . . .

‘There’s a flood . . .’ Dimly, she heard the words and
cried out as she lurched forward banging her head. She
heard someone scream, ‘The sea. It’s the sea!’ and realized
the words had come from her own mouth. Visions of huge
waves rolling in, engulfing the land, sweeping away everything
in its path – drowning . . . It couldn’t be happening
again. Was it a punishment for leaving her elderly grandparents
to cope alone with all the heavy farmwork? That
was it; she was going to be drowned too . . .

‘It’s not the sea, lass.’ A calm voice spoke beside her
and she turned frightened eyes towards the man, who
touched her elbow gently and pressed her back into her
seat. ‘It’s only the river flooded the roadway. We saw it
earlier today on our previous trip. Very swollen, it was.
I’m not surprised it’s happened, though how we’re to get
through I don’t know.’ Ella blinked at him foolishly and
looked about her. Then she remembered where she was: in
a bus travelling home to Fleethaven Point, though the
vehicle was now stationary, the passengers worriedly craning
their necks to see out into the darkness.

‘But my grandpa – he’s ill. I have to get to Lynthorpe. I
have to get through.’

‘Well, sit tight. I’m just going to have a word with Ron,
the driver, and see what he reckons.’ The conductor left
her and went back to his platform at the rear of the double-decker
bus. Holding the handrail, he leaned out of the side,
staring ahead into the night.

The passengers clamoured for explanation. ‘What is it?
What’s the matter? What’s happening?’

The conductor raised his voice. ‘Please keep calm, ladies
and gentlemen . . .’

The decision was taken to try to drive through the water
to the market place in the centre of the town. Everyone
peered out of the window as the bus, moving at a steady
rate, drove into the flood, swirling the water aside with its
huge wheels, and sluiced a way through.

Now that common sense had reasserted itself after those
first frightening moments, when all the horror of seven
years earlier had for an instant been so real again, Ella
thought, This is daft. First the ’fifty-three floods, and now
this. There must be something about me and water.

The bus reached the square and came to a stop on an
island of cobbles in the centre of the market place. The
driver jumped down from his cab and he and the conductor
went towards a policeman. After a few moments’ conversation
they came back to the bus.

‘We can’t get any further at present,’ the conductor
informed his passengers. ‘The bridge we normally use has
been washed away and the river is still flooding.’

There were cries of disbelief and anxious enquiries. The
man spread his hands apologetically. ‘I am sorry, ladies
and gentlemen. All I can suggest is that you go across to
that café over there to wait. The police will let us know . . .’

The market place was busy with people; stranded
motorists and rescue services were using the higher ground
as a meeting point. Inside the café, Ella perched herself
miserably on a stool and sat watching the figures rushing
to and fro outside.

‘Here, love, have a cup of tea.’ She looked up to see a
young man holding out a cup towards her.

‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks,’ she said, and suddenly
realized how dry her mouth was.

‘Looks like we might be stuck here for a while,’ the
young man said, quite cheerfully, sitting down beside
her.

‘I hope not,’ Ella said anxiously. ‘I’m trying to get home
to Fleethaven Point. My grandpa’s ill.’

‘Oh, that’s tough luck. Will they be expecting you?’

Ella shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, and her voice was
only a whisper. ‘They don’t know I’m coming.’

‘Oh well, at least they won’t be worried about you.’

No, she thought sadly, they won’t be worried at all. Her
gran hadn’t even bothered to let her know her grandpa
was ill. They didn’t know – none of them would know –
that she was caught in the floods, just like her mother all
those years ago. She gazed out of the café window into the
night, watching the black water lapping at the cobbles of
the market place, shining wet in the lights streaming from
the café window.

‘I’ll put the wireless on,’ the café owner said in a loud,
hearty voice. ‘Cheer us all up a bit, eh?’

He twiddled the knobs on a brown bakelite radio on a
shelf behind the service counter and the deep tones of a
male singer softly bade her to hurry home to his waiting
arms, aching to hold her . . .

Ella groaned inwardly and closed her eyes against the
tears that suddenly threatened.

Two hours later, a policeman in wellingtons came into the
café. ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll be pleased to
know we’ve got a single-decker bus that’s going to take
you out by another route . . .’ Voices clamoured and, once
everyone had decided whether to board the bus or not, they set off. Steadily the driver inched the vehicle through
the water and, taking a left-hand turn instead of right over
the bridge, they left the market town and drove up out of
the flood and into the countryside.

‘Do you know where we are?’ Ella asked peering out.
All she could see were hedgerows, the rain still slashing
against the window. Completely lost and utterly dependent
upon the man at the wheel, Ella stared forlornly into the
black void.

‘Haven’t a clue,’ the young man said airily, his nose
now buried in a book. ‘Long as he gets us to Lynthorpe
this side of tomorrow morning, I don’t much care.’

The bus must have doubled back and joined its normal
route, for they came to a stop Ella recognized and three
passengers alighted, calling out a cheery ‘goodnight’ to
those left on board. Eventually, after what seemed a
lifetime of anxiety, the driver called out, ‘Next stop Lynthorpe,’
and Ella sent up a silent prayer of thankfulness.

It was well after midnight when Ella alighted at the bus
station and by now she knew everyone would be in bed
and asleep at Rookery Farm. It wouldn’t be fair to phone
Uncle Danny and ask him to come and pick her up at this
time of night. Hitching her rucksack into a more comfortable
position on her shoulders, she set off to walk to
Fleethaven Point.

With every step of the way along the road running
beside the sand-dunes, the wind whipping across the flat
fields and clouds scudding across the moon, the words
were running through her mind.

I’m coming, Grandpa. Hold on, I’m coming home.

She found she was holding her breath as she tiptoed into
the farmyard. Somewhere an owl hooted and the barn door creaked to and fro, swinging in the wind on rusty
hinges. The house, as she had expected, was in darkness.

She heard a soft ‘miaow’ and, straining her eyes through
the blackness, saw a dark shape walking towards her and
felt it rubbing against her legs. She reached down and
touched the soft fur. ‘Tibby, oh, Tibby.’

She picked him up. He seemed lighter and, as her hands
felt him, thinner than she remembered, but he rubbed his
face against her chin and purred as ecstatically as always,
digging his claws into her shoulder.

‘Well, at least someone’s pleased to see me,’ she murmured
into his pointed ear. She glanced again at the house:
there was no sign of anyone being awake. She would not
startle them by knocking on the door now; she would wait
until morning. Feeling her way into the barn, she climbed
carefully up the ladder and into the hayloft, remembering
wryly the last time she had been up here with Rob.

Nestling into the dry hay with Tibby snuggled up to
her, Ella dozed fitfully, for cold and fear of what she would
find in the morning made restful sleep elusive.

‘Oh, please let him be alive . . .’

A door banged and Ella jumped awake. ‘Gran . . .’ she said
aloud and scrambled to her feet, shaking off bits of hay as
she climbed stiffly down the ladder and pulled open the
barn door.

She gasped in surprise at the sight before her.

The yard was littered with hay and straw; she had never
seen it so untidy. The tractor, parked near the barn, was
not sheeted down properly and had only a piece of old
sacking slung over its engine. The cockerel, about to open
its beak to herald the morning, stood on the seat of the
tractor. Scrawny-looking hens wandered freely around,
scratching and complaining. Bewildered, Ella stepped out
into the yard. There was no clattering of churns, no sound
at all of the early-morning work under way. She went
towards the cowshed and peered in. The floor was filthy,
and in the far corner the milking machine looked dusty
and unused; indeed, there was no sign that it was in daily
use for milking at all now.

Brumbys’ Farm? This was not Brumbys’ Farm; at least
not how she knew it, not how she remembered it. Souters’,
yes, but not the farm belonging to Esther Godfrey!

Frowning, Ella turned away. She went to the pump
in the middle of the yard. The handle squeaked protestingly
as she worked it up and down, but clear water
gushed out and she bent and sluiced the tiredness from
her eyes. She heard a noise and slowly straightened up to see a figure standing in the open doorway of the
farmhouse.

The water still dripping from her face, Ella stared, her
mouth hanging open.

An old woman stood there: her white hair stuck out in
unkempt wisps, her blouse was dirty grey and her black
skirt was stained and torn at the hem. Shocked, Ella moved
forward.

‘Gran?’ The word was a horrified whisper; a disbelieving
question. Surely, surely this was not her gran? This
haggard old witch was not, could not possibly be, Esther
Godfrey. As she drew closer, she could see that even the
green eyes were dull, almost lifeless.

‘Be off with ya.’ The voice was cracked, feeble and
querulous.

‘Gran, it’s me. Ella . . .’

The eyes squinted and stared. Then the woman sniffed.
‘Go away. Go back where ya came from. I don’t need you.
I can manage.’

Stung to retort, Ella said, ‘Aye, an’ it looks like it an’
all.’ She swept her arm behind her to encompass the untidy
yard, the neglected machinery, the empty cowshed. Her
heart contracted now in fear. ‘Grandpa?’ she began.

‘We don’t need you. We don’t need anyone. As long as
we’ve got each other . . .’

Hope soared. Then he wasn’t dead. Not unless . . .

But the woman standing before her was so altered, so
changed, almost as if she had lost her reason, her will to
live. Then was he . . .?

Ella took a deep breath. With her feet, dusty from the
night’s walk, planted firmly apart and hands on hips, she
faced the old woman. ‘Well, Gran. I’m here and I’m
staying, whether you like it or not.’

For a brief instant the old eyes flickered. For a fleeting moment the fire sparked. ‘Huh, what d’you think you can
do, eh? A townie! It’s a strong farmer’s lad I need. Not a
townie – and a girl!’ She sniffed and turned away, back
into the kitchen.

Ella stepped into the house. In the scullery, the draining
board was littered with dirty pots, the sink stained brown.
In the kitchen, no fire burned in the grate and there was no
sign of food on the table.

Her grandmother shuffled towards the wooden Windsor
chair by the cold range and sat down. Closer now, Ella
could see that the skin on her hands was wrinkled and
mottled, her nails cracked and broken. She was thinner
and her shoulders sagged dejectedly.

For a moment Ella gaped in horror at her grandmother,
the sight of the pathetic old woman tearing at her conscience.
‘Oh, Gran. If only I’d known. I should never have
gone. I should never have left you . . .’