Open Writing

February 2nd 1953

By Monday, the water had more or less drained from the main roads, but the job of restoring the houses was going to take a very long time. Everything was covered with a thick layer of mud. Those with an upper floor, like that of Martin and Mary, more or less continued to live on the upstairs floor while making their houses fully liveable in again.

For Mary, the kitchen had to come first. The Rayburn burned wood and coal, and once it dried out, they managed to make it work again. The place smelled of rot, which got worse every day, despite getting rid of the organic waste first thing. Martin, of course, had to go to school each day, but when he returned home he helped with the scrubbing and cleaning.

Ladies from the Red Cross and other organisations arrived on Tuesday morning, ready to do their bit. Some shovelled out muck or washed down the surfaces of the furniture, while others scrubbed walls. Not a single house on High Street or Holt Road, or the Green itself was untouched by the flood. Those those slightly uphill from the main coast road had perhaps 4 feet of flood water while the worst hit had 9 feet.

The degree of anticipation and organisation varied greatly. Some had expected a storm and had put their spare door wood in place, sealing it in with clay. Some made no prpearations, not even moving furniture and good upstairs. The majority, including Martin, had done all they could in the time available, so had nothing to feel guilty about.

When things were getting back to normal Martin reminded Mary "You said you would tell me what happened to you on the night of the flood.''

“You won’t believe me,” said Mary.

“Of course I will, love. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. Was it so awful that you don’t want to talk about it? Were people unkind to you?”

“Of no, they were lovely to me. They gave me food and drink, clothing and a beautiful warm bed in a room with a fire. I couldn’t have been looked after better.”

“Who did you say these people were?”

“I didn’t say. You wouldn’t know them.”

“Well, where exactly did they live?”

“At Heron House.”
“Oh, we know them, don’t we?”

“No, not them It wasn’t them.”

“But it was somebody staying at their house?”

“No, not exactly. Well...sort of. Yes, they were staying at their house.”

"Did the owners know you were there?“

“No, they didn’t know about it. They were away, being good Samaritans at the church.”

“So they found out the next day about how their friends had rescued you?”

“Well, no, I didn’t say anything.”

“Don’t you want to thank them for their hospitality? Even if they weren’t there, it was their roof and their food you were eating.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What was the name of these people who helped you?”

“Mrs. Rebecca Jackson and her servant Polly.”

“I don’t think I have ever heard of her. Is she a relative of theirs?”

“I don’t know. Probably she might be. A very distant cousin or something like that.”

“Well, I would like to meet her and thank her for rescuing you. You say you had a bump on the head and if she hadn’t taken you in, you might have died on the road from exposure. It was a cold frosty night. Some of the locals who were out in it nearly did die.”

“I don’t think you can thank her personally because she isn’t there anymore.”

“Did she rush off? The roads are all blocked along the coast still. Where was she going to?”

“I don’t know exactly, Martin. Can we leave it there?” asked Mary, starting to feel pressured by his unrelenting questioning.

“Well, I have heard that they are going to give awards for those who did rescue work during the flood. I think we should put her name forward. I will tell Mr. Bishop about it.''

“Oh, please don’t, Martin. She wouldn’t want anyone to know. She would be so upset if we made a big thing out of it. She is a very quiet woman, very shy and retiring.''

“And yet she put herself out to save your life. I do wish we could do something for her privately, if not publicly, just to show how much we appreciate all she did.”

“It gets me upset thinking about it, love. Can’t we just leave it for now? We still have so much work to do. Did I tell you that Betty Day was with the Red Cross workers who came to help today? You know Betty. Her husband Jan is the housemaster for Kenwyn. Of course, you know her, what am I thinking of. Anyway, it was her oldest boy, Philip who rescued me and brought me here. Her younger sons, Chrif and Nick were in the play you produced last year. You remember how much we laughed at Chrif. Anyway, Betty was a great help. She doesn’t mind doing a bit of hard work when she has to. She was in charge of the group and she made sure the other ladies did their share too.”

“I’m sure she did, and I am sure they did, in order to avoid her sharp tongue.”

“She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, nor slackers, not that there were any of those around here today.”

Mary sighed with relief that the questioning about her night away was finally over. She knew she should tell somebody. She wanted to tell Martin, but she thought he would think she had dreamt it all, or that she was mad. She sometimes thought herself that she must have dreamt it, but pictures kept reappearing in her mind. The house with its strange furnishings, the layout of the street, the ships in the harbour, the things Rebecca had said about the village. How could she have dreamt all those things?

Most of all there was the feeling that this strange woman, Rebecca, was important in her life. Over the past week she had several times walked past Heron House and remembered in great detail all that had transpired, but it was all still a great mystery. Best to forget it for now and get on with the cleaning.

By the end of the week, the house was almost back to normal. Some furniture had to be thrown out, along with the soft furnishings. but Mary consoled herself with the thought that they had replacements. The living room now seemed bigger, less cluttered. She missed the knickknacks which had been either smashed by the storm or just floated away. But they still had a good wooden table and four stout chairs.

Of course the storm was the talking point for days afterwards. People shared stories of their own experiences. Questions were asked. Why had it happened? Why was there no warning? Could it happen again?

The Eastern Daily Press ran flood stories for days, Martin brought a copy of the paper home each evening. They gradually began to piece together what had happned.

There had been an exceptionally high tide which was at its highest at 7 pm. This was accompanied by a gale-force wind. Some put the wind speed at 100 miles and hour, others at 120. Unable to withstand wind and tide, the sea defences broke.

There had been other flood in Cley, in 1947, 1893 and 1853, the Daily Press reported.

“I know about the 1853 flood,'' Mary mused, giving no voice to her thoughts.

Stories told of the extent of the disaster which had just struck Cley and the surrounding area. Two people had died in neighbouring villages. A woman in Salthouse had broken a leg at the onset of the flood. Her husband had placed her on a dining room table. The force of the rising waters washed the table and the window out of the house, and she drowned.

A considerable length of England's east coast had been badly affected. The total death toll in the country that night was 307. In the county of Norfolk 5,000 homes were destroyed or badly damaged, 40,000 acres of farmland were flooded and sea defences were breached in hundreds of places.

There had been an 8 foot surge of water on top of a high Spring tide. Heavy rain had aggravated the situation. The force of the wind had held up the normal ebb of the tide.

Mary clipped and filed the newspaper, thinking in years to come her children would want to read them. She was now fully aware of the horror and drama of the disaster, though, because of the strange situation in which she found herself, she had felt no fear when the waters came rolling in.