Chapter Twenty-One

It had rained all day and all night. From the moment Carol and I had come out of Silvino’s on Saturday afternoon, and all through Sunday, it hadn’t stopped. It had blown George and Peggy in through the door on Sunday evening, their cheeks glowing, their eyes dancing with excitement. Was it the weather or the honeymoon? I wondered.

‘Can’t stop long, Mum,’ said Peggy, ‘George’s mum will be waiting for us. But I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon, when you’re back from work and tell you all about it. But we’ve had a lovely time. We’ve seen Buckingham Palace and the changing of the guard, and we saw the Houses of Parliament – it’s just like on the sauce bottle!’

Over a quick cup of tea and a slice of the sponge cake Mrs Brown had baked that morning, Peggy handed over a little plate with a picture of Buckingham Palace. ‘Present back, Mum.’

Mrs Brown smiled and put it on the dresser, slap bang in the middle of the shelf. ‘I’ll put it there so people can’t miss it,’ she said proudly, ‘and I can say my daughter and son-in-law brought it back from their honeymoon in London.’

I could see again how the story of the wedding was still being re-written.

After a quick hug for Peggy from her parents, she and George had dodged back into the rain. George with one hand carrying their small case and the other protectively holding Peggy’s arm.

‘I don’t know, it doesn’t seem right her not being here,’ said Mrs Brown, peering out of the sitting-room window trying to watch them going down the street.

‘She’s a married woman, now. Her place is with her husband,’ said Mr Brown.

Mrs Brown fussed around clearing away the cups and plates and taking them out to the kitchen. I could have offered to help but thought that really she would prefer to be on her own.

All night it rained. The wind whipped along the streets and blew the blossom off the trees. The blossom bobbed on the ripples whipped up on the puddles. As I sat eating my breakfast porridge, glad of its stodgy comfort, the rain slashed angrily against the kitchen window, making the old frame rattle and turning the outside world into a cold wet blur.

‘More like blooming winter than nearly summer. I hope Peggy wraps up well when she comes around,’ said Mrs Brown, tugging on a pair of rubber boots and tying a scarf firmly around her head. ‘No point in taking a brolly today. It’ll be blown inside out before I’m across the doorstep.’

‘When you get your new car you’ll be able to have a lift to work, or drive yourself,’ I said.

Mrs Brown stopped, her hands in midair where she’d been tugging at her scarf. ‘Ooh, I couldn’t do that. We couldn’t use the car for that. Though Frank might. No, I’ll be back to Shanks’s blooming pony. Anyway, I’m off now. Make sure the door’s shut really tight when you go out, won’t you? Otherwise we’ll come back and find the wind’s whipped it right off.’

I finished my breakfast, washed the dishes and did my make-up in the kitchen mirror – powder, lipstick and a quick spit on the mascara. Then, wrapped up nearly as securely as Mrs Brown, I tugged open the front door and launched myself into the storm.

Ouch! The rain slapped me in the face, blew my skirts up and tugged through my hair. It was a battle to get over the doorstep, never mind down the street. How I missed my car, my nice, warm, safe, dry little car … I would have caught a bus, but there was no direct route between the house and The News. I would have caught a cab if I could have found such a thing. Come to that, if I’d spotted the milkman and his horse I’d have hitched a lift on that. As it was, I had to walk, hands in pockets, head bent against the wind and the rain that was stinging my face.

By the time I got to work I was soaked. My feet squelched in my sensible shoes, I had mud splashes all up the back of my legs and the rain had even started to come through the shoulders of my sensible mac.

‘Lovely weather for ducks,’ said the receptionist cheerfully as I squelched into The News, water dripping off the end of my scarf.

The office smelt of wet clothes and wet shoes, horribly reminiscent of wet dog. It mingled with the smell of musty newspapers and all the cigarette smoke. It made me long to get out again, but one look at the smeary, rain-spattered windows, the panes rattling in their frames, made me equally desperate to stay inside, smell of wet dog or not.

Despite the damp and the smell, I went up the stairs with that small sense of excitement, that fluttering in your insides that comes from fancying someone you work with. Only this was much more than simply fancying. I squelched up the stairs with a spring in my soggy step.

‘Bit damp are you there, kid?’ asked Billy as I dripped past him, my face bright red with the rain and the wind. I grinned – if he’d called me ‘kid’ back at home in our own real time, I would probably have hated it, but here it was great, a sign of comradeliness, affection almost … I shook my head so the drops flew off and spattered all over the newsdesk diary, and then ran quickly as he shook his fist in mock horror.

‘Just for that,’ he said sternly, ‘I think I will send you on a nice little door-stepping exercise …’

My face must have fallen because he laughed.

‘No, you’re OK, I wouldn’t send a dog out today, though,’ with a grin over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to send Alan. No, Marje is off today, so could you do the women’s page please, Rosie? Oh yes, and we need Kiddies’ Corner too.’

I groaned. But at least it kept me out of the rain, which got no better as the morning went on. At lunch time I was still bashing away at my typewriter when Alan came back in. Rain was dripping off the rim of his hat and he looked soaked to the skin.

‘The river’s very high,’ he said, peeling off his sodden raincoat and draping it over the back of a chair. ‘Sergeant Foster was down there, looking worried. Apparently the Civil Defence are on standby. They’re filling sandbags. It looks as though they’ll be needed. It’s getting serious out there.’

He looked at Billy. ‘I don’t know if you want to go and check on your house …’

But Billy was already pulling on his raincoat.

‘Alan, can you run the desk for a while? I must check on Carol and the kids. If the river’s running high, it could be well up towards the house.’

‘Glad to,’ said Alan. But Billy was already gone. I could hear him dashing down the stairs two at a time to get to Carol. So much for that small show of affection for me. So much for my anticipation, the fluttering insides, my eager-ness to get into the office to see him. He was well and truly spoken for, and by someone who could get him leaping downstairs two at a time, a wife and family he had to look after and protect.

‘Are you making the tea then, Rosie?’ asked Alan as he shook his hair dry and looked at the work left on Billy’s desk. I turned, deflated, to get the kettle. I knew my place.

The rain didn’t let up. I ate my sandwiches at my desk and was finishing the women’s page (‘Meals in a hurry for busy mothers’), and Kiddies’ Corner (this week’s competition is how many words can you make from ‘Thunder and Lightning’?) when the electricity went off. It was so dark that we’d had the lights on even though it was early afternoon.

Alan cursed, lit a cigarette and then went groping around in the back of a cupboard from which he produced a paraffin lamp. He cleared a space for it in the middle of all the clutter and lit it. After a few failed and smoky efforts it finally got going and cast a cosy glow over the office, though God knew what would happen if anyone knocked it over in all those heaps of paper …

By now phones were ringing from reporters in other offices and members of the public wanting to know what was happening. Alan was already talking on two phones at once when the third rang and I answered it. It was Billy.

‘Is your house OK?’ I asked.

‘Probably not for much longer. But we’ve moved all we can upstairs and Carol and Libby have gone to her mother’s. There’s nothing more we can do.’

That little house already smelt of damp. How much more so now?

‘Look Rosie, can you get Alan? We need to be out and about. The river’s burst its banks and people are going to have to be rescued. There are great stories. I’ve seen George and Charlie, but we need another reporter out.’

‘I’ll come!’ I said.

There was a crackly silence on the other end and hope in my heart. ‘Alan has only just dried out, and he can run the desk better than I can,’ I said. I let the thought hang in the air.

At the end of the phone line I could hear the wind and rain – and almost hear Billy thinking. It took a second for him to make the decision.

‘OK. I’m down by the old quay, so get yourself to Watergate and see what’s happening there. But for goodness’ sake be careful! Now put me on to Alan.’

I interrupted Alan’s two phone calls, handed him the receiver and fled.

Floods! A real story! Worth getting wet for! And Billy had told me to be careful. Maybe he did care about me after all. Adrenalin and happiness were surging around my system.

Now I know journalists are always said to like bad news, but the truth is that they are the dramatic stories. It’s when you feel part of the action. You spend so much time doing routine stuff – those worthwhile things about concerts and councils – that you long for something different. It’s exciting, an adventure, and also you feel useful and part of the community at the same time. So it wins on all fronts – and you know that lots of people will buy the paper the next day.

As long as The News’ generator worked of course …

The receptionist on the front desk looked horrified as I clattered down the stairs. ‘You’re not going out in this are you?’ she said, and when she saw that obviously I was, she said, ‘Well at least get yourself something sensible for your feet. Haven’t you got any wellies?’

‘No. Where’s the nearest place to get some?’

‘Woolies, of course.’

It was only across the road. I dashed in and found some wellies, the last pair in my size said the assistant, and some woolly socks. I went back to The News to change and left my soggy shoes in reception. Certainly, as I strode down to Watergate my feet felt warm and dry, about the only bit that did. I slipped my bag across me, like old ladies do, and marched out into the storm.

Down at Watergate it was chaos. The river was already over its banks and the road was disappearing. A stream ran down into the river under a low old bridge. The water was already up to the arch of the bridge and was roaring through in a torrent, bringing branches and debris down with it. It looked as though it would start backing up soon.

I splashed along on what had been a pavement but was now about a foot deep in water. It was already lapping near the top of my wellies and rising fast. I moved away, up higher towards the Market Place and the water seemed to follow me.

A policeman in fisherman’s waders was standing in the middle of the road directing traffic, up to his knees in water. A tractor and trailer were ploughing through the water sending up huge waves, but people were wading across to get into the trailer, bringing babies and possessions. A little short fat man came waddling out nearly bent double under the weight of a huge cardboard box full of papers. I was sure the rain would make the box collapse and the wind whip all the papers away before he got to the trailer, but he made it. Just. Then he dumped the box and went waddling back to his office for more.

You could see the water rising as you looked. A lorry load of volunteers arrived with sandbags and a fireman sent them elsewhere. He was shouting into the wind and rain, but his voice was whipped away.

Normally on occasions like this I dart in and out talking to people, grabbing a chance and a quote where I can. But it’s tricky to dart when you’re wading in water in wellies. It was hard going. Police and firemen were too busy to talk, but generous enough to throw remarks out into the wind and rain. I guess they were pretty excited by it all too. Someone was waving out of a bedroom window. A fire engine arrived and the firemen put a ladder up to the window. It looked very puny in such weather.

But a fireman – in a huge and heavy uniform, made even heavier by the weight of the rain – climbed up and took a bundle from the woman at the window. The bundle shrieked. It was a baby. The fireman in his yellow helmet took the baby down the ladder and it was handed from arm to arm to the safety of a lorry parked in the shallower water. Then there was a slightly larger bundle, a little girl of about two.

At that point, hooray! George arrived. He got some good pictures and I paddled through the water to the trailer and got the names of the mother and children.

I tried to write them down in my notebook but it was hopeless. I struggled into a covered alleyway that led around the back of some derelict-looking houses. Quickly I scribbled down the names of the people I’d talked to, ripped the already wet pages out of my notebook and stuck them deep down in the pocket of my bag where there was a chance they might not get any wetter.

The alleyway was damp, but at least the rain wasn’t as heavy there. It was quiet too. I hadn’t realised how noisy it was outside. I leant against the wall and took a breather. There was a strange whispery noise …

A rat. It sleeked past my toes and down the alley. I yelped and went back into the rain.

The little fat man with the cardboard boxes was shouting at the policeman, who didn’t want him to put any more on the trailer as it was fully loaded and starting to go. ‘But my businesses! My papers!’ the fat man was shouting.

He would have gone on like this for some hours, I’m sure, only his cardboard box really did start to collapse and he ran, cradling it like a baby to scrape into one of the lorries.

By now I’d had to retreat. What had been the road was just part of the river which was growing wider every second. A group of lads, about fourteen or fifteen years old, appeared. They had their shoes tied around their necks and their trousers rolled up.

‘Right you lot!’ bellowed the policeman in waders. ‘Make yourselves useful and get along to those houses at the end. See if anyone needs help getting their stuff shifted upstairs. If they want to leave their houses then wave something out of the window so we know. And be bloody careful!’

The boys splashed off up the waterway, full of excitement and adventure and ready to help.

My sense of adventure was definitely beginning to pall. I was soaked and getting cold. It had been a long day, and I had been walking back and forth in the deep water for a long time. My leg muscles were killing me. My feet were wet now and I was probably getting blisters. Time, I thought, to get back to the office. The policeman was shouting at me to get out of the way, when suddenly I saw a rowing boat coming up what had been the street, but was now under about four foot of water.

It was a bright red little boat with the number forty-two painted cheerily on its side. Despite the wind and rain and current, the man rowing it was doing so competently and confidently, regular easy strokes as he guided the little craft around the lamppost and past a telephone box.

‘Want a lift?’ he yelled across at me. It was Billy.

He brought the boat as close as he could to me and I waded across and climbed in. The boat rocked terrify-ingly, but Billy got it steady as he helped me in. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked, grinning. ‘I requisitioned it from the boating lake.’

‘Brilliant!’

‘Yes, the bloke wanted five bob – five bob! – for the hire charge, but I told him it was a national emergency and as a member of Her Majesty’s Press I demanded the use of it and he couldn’t countermand my air of authority. Mind you, I did promise to look after it carefully and bring it back when the floods have gone down.’

I clung to his arm for maybe a fraction longer than necessary and then settled down opposite him. It was a very small boat and our knees were touching.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Have you got some decent stuff from here?’

‘Oh yes, babies being rescued, businessmen complaining, boys helping, old ladies hugging policemen. Everything.’

‘Great stuff. So have I. But I thought we’d have another look around, see what’s going on.’ He grinned at me and suddenly I didn’t feel cold any more …

It was really weird rowing around the streets. The water had spread all through the town. I thought that the Browns’ house would be all right because it was quite high above the river, but I imagined the cellars were well and truly flooded.

The water was running fast, and every now and then a particularly fierce current would catch us and the boat would swoop and dip before Billy could steady it. We were on the main road between the Market Place and Watergate when a sudden torrent came. Billy tried to keep the boat on course but in the end it was easier to let the current send us down a narrow pathway, one of many that led through Watergate down to the river.

The buildings were grim. Suddenly I could see why Mr Brown thought the whole lot would be better off demolished. They were narrow, dark and virtually derelict -certainly the flood would finish most of them off. There were no lights anywhere and although it was still only late afternoon, it was dark.

‘All right?’ asked Billy as I clung to the sides.

‘Never been better!’ I yelled back up at him.

And as I did, I spotted a face at a window above him.

The window was broken and part of it was stuffed with old material, but there was a woman looking out, clearly terrified. ‘Help me! Please help!’ she shouted.

Billy managed to pull the boat around and tie the rope around the spear-shaped top of a railing – all that showed above the water.

‘We need the fire brigade!’ I said to Billy. ‘We can’t get her out of there.’

‘And I can’t see how the fire brigade would get down here – even if we could get to them in time,’ said Billy.

By now he was out of the boat – rocking it hard in the process – and had pulled himself up onto the railings, one hand holding on to an old light bracket that can’t have held a working light for decades.

‘Pass me an oar up, Rosie,’ he shouted.

I did and, telling the woman to step back, he smashed the window. Not that it took much doing. The frame was rotten. He took the bit of blanket that had been stuffing one of the missing panes and laid it across the windowsill to protect her from the splinters of glass.

‘Now what I want you to do,’ he said to the old woman, ‘is to sit on the windowsill with your legs outside.’

‘I can’t! I can’t!’ yelled the woman who seemed to be wearing a heap of raggedy clothes, her hair escaping from a greasy, untidy bun.

‘Yes you can, of course you can,’ said Billy soothingly. Even though he had to shout over the noise of the wind and rain and roaring water, his voice was kind and gentle. And, still perfectly balanced, he caught hold of the woman in her ragged clothes and battered shoes and guided her down.

‘Pull as hard as you can on that rope, Rosie! Right,’ he said to the woman, ‘can you just jump into the boat? It’s not far. Just a step really.’

‘No I can’t! I can’t!’ yelled the woman, clinging harder to Billy. Quick as a flash Billy bundled her into the boat. They landed with a thud and a scream and the boat rocked wildly. I was sure it was going to capsize and flung myself to one side to try to balance the weight. It sort of worked. The boat rocked a bit more, and the woman lay in the middle of it whimpering, but at least she had the sense to stay fairly still.

‘Are you all right there, love?’ asked Billy.

‘Been a bloody sight better,’ muttered the woman, so we knew she was all right really.

The little red boat was not designed for an adult lying across its middle seat. It meant Billy and I were forced to either end. The boat wasn’t very deep and was filling quickly with water.

‘Come on!’ yelled Billy, passing me an oar and untying the rope. ‘Let’s paddle.’

Once loose, the boat swirled out into the water and, with Billy kneeling at the front and me perched on the little seat at the back, we paddled through the streets, our oars working together in perfect rhythm as we raced for dry land. Under the heavy clouds, it was already getting dark, and it was wet, cold and a bit frightening, but it was also exhilarating. There I was with Billy, working together as a real team. I paddled faster, Billy adjusted his rhythm to match mine, and our heavily laden little pleasure craft seemed to sing over the water.

The raggedy woman stopped whimpering and looked up warily at us.

‘Blimey,’ she said, ‘I’ve been rescued by a pair of blooming Red Indians.’

Billy and I laughed out loud in shared pleasure.

Soon we came to higher ground and the boat started bumping along the pavement. There was a lorry with a couple of civil defence volunteers in it.

‘Where are you taking people to?’ Billy yelled across to them.

‘Church hall,’ one of them shouted back. ‘They’re doing soup and sandwiches for them.’

‘Ooh,’ said our raggedy woman sitting up, and looking quite bright, ‘I could just do with a drop of soup.’

‘Hop aboard then!’ shouted the civil defence man. The woman bundled up her raggedy clothes around her knees and waded out towards him.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said to us and then turned conspiratorially to me.

‘You hang on to him, love. He’s a bit of all right. Wouldn’t mind jumping into his arms again.’

And off she went while Billy and I laughed, with only a little embarrassment. Then we splashed along the road, pulling the little red boat behind us.

‘Well kid,’ said Billy, ‘we certainly have some adventures, you and me, don’t we?’

My heart did somersaults. ‘We certainly do. And it’s a lot more interesting than writing Meal Ideas for Busy Housewives. Thinking of which, we’d better get back to the office. I’ve got a lot of stuff to write up.’

‘What time is it?’

I pushed my soggy sleeve back up to see my watch.

‘Five to six.’

‘In that case, I’ve got a better idea. I’ll just make a phone call first.’

He disappeared into a phone box while I stood outside hanging on to the rope of the little red boat. I couldn’t hear what Billy was saying but he was obviously telling someone how to do something, his hands and arms talked for him. Just like Will. Caz always said that if Will broke his arms he’d be speechless.

‘Right,’ he said, emerging from the phone box and taking the boat rope from my hand. ‘Follow me.’

We splashed along for a little way until we came to the steep steps that led up to the old town wall. There was a tapas bar up there in my day, I remembered. Will and I had been there once or twice. But right now on this stormy rainy night, it was a pub. Billy tied the boat to a lamppost.

‘Don’t let me forget it. I did promise to take it back. Come on, up the steps.’

The steps were narrow and crumbling. There was no light anywhere, just a dim glow from the window of the pub. With the town wall stretching out in the gloom, it was almost medieval.

‘Jolly good, Bert has got the fire lit,’ said Billy.

The tiny bar was lit by candles and the glow of a coal fire. I went straight towards it and within seconds there was steam coming up from my soggy coat.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said a voice from somewhere in the gloom behind the bar. ‘I might have known it would have to be some daft beggar out in weather like this. Even the dog’s got more sense.’

As if to prove it, a small terrier uncurled itself from a chair and came to sniff at my wellies.

‘And a good evening to you too, Bert,’ said Billy. ‘A pint and a half of bitter please. And can we take a couple of these candles over to the table? We’ve got work to do.’

‘Help yourself,’ said Bert. ‘Give us a shout when you want another drink or if any more daft beggars come in. I’ll be out the back.’

‘Right,’ said Billy. ‘They’re managing fine at the office. Phil’s in with Alan and the others are back. So I thought we might as well write our stuff up here and then we can phone it through. Much nicer, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I would. I most definitely would.’

So we sat on either side of the table, working by the fire in the glow of the flames and the candlelight. Just us in this strange little world at the end of a strange little day. It twisted my heart to watch Billy working because, of course it was Will’s way. He flipped through his notebook, marking something here, underlining something there. I just wanted to watch him, that little frown of concentration as he thought, the way his eyes lit up when he spotted something worth using, the quick, confident notes.

‘Right, that’s me done,’ he said.

‘But you haven’t written anything!’

‘Yes I have. Well, I’ve got the intro and a few bits. The rest I’ll just do on the phone.’

‘Oh.’

I really admired the way some people could just write a story off the top of their heads, especially dictating it to someone else. I was carefully – but quickly – writing out my whole story. I wanted to be sure I’d got what I wanted, where I wanted it. When Billy disappeared outside to the phone, I concentrated harder. There were so many different stories, all good. In the end I wrote them up as separate pieces, ready to slot anywhere on the page. I scribbled quickly.

‘OK, your turn with the phone. The copytaker’s waiting for you,’ said Billy, clearly not even considering the possibility that I couldn’t be ready. Which was a sort of compliment I suppose.

‘Don’t forget this.’

I looked. It was a torch, well a bike lamp really.

‘You’ve got to be able to read what you’ve written.’

Now that’s what I call being prepared …

I wriggled back into my sodden mac and out into the rain and to the phone box at the bottom of the steps, and started the long process of dictating the stories to the girl at the end of the line.

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘It’s all really exciting, isn’t it?’

When I walked back into the pub, Billy was getting us some drinks.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any food, is there?’ I asked. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Can do you crisps,’ said Bert.

‘Oh right, um, anything else?’

‘Pickled eggs.’

‘Pickled eggs? Well thank you, but I think I’ll pass on that.’

‘Go on,’ said Billy, ‘local delicacy you can’t miss out on. Two bags of crisps and two eggs please, Bert. My treat.’

‘Thank you. I think,’ I said.

Bert took two packets of crisps and opened them. Then he unscrewed an evil-looking jar on the counter. Using his fingers – his fingers! – he reached in and pulled out an egg and placed it on top of the crisps in the open bag.

‘There you are, kid,’ said Billy, handing the crisps and egg to me. ‘Bon appetit, as they say in France. Or, get stuck in, as we say here.’

I have to say that a pickled egg is not my idea of a delicacy. In fact it was pretty gross, and it made the crisps soggy. I wasn’t a great fan of beer either, but it seemed the right thing to drink somehow. I ate and drank and steamed gently by the fire and just counted my blessings for being here alone with Billy.

I remembered in those first days how I’d been desperate to be alone with him, convinced this was all a reality game that we had to win. But now I knew that this was no TV show. Today’s rain, for instance, couldn’t have been a studio stunt. Not even Cecil B. DeMille could have organised that lot.

When you eliminate everything else, what’s left must be the truth … Dwellers all in time and space …

Somehow I wasn’t so bothered about it any more. Well, maybe at three o’clock in the morning I was, but the rest of the time I was getting used to the 1950s. Take each day as it comes and enjoy the moment, Phil had said. He was right. And I was certainly enjoying being alone in this snug little room with Will …

‘You’ve done a good job today,’ he said, ‘as good as many of the men could have done.’

He meant it as a compliment. I tried not to feel patronised. Or want to hit him. He was laughing now. ‘That old dear was right. You were paddling like a Red Indian. A very wet Red Indian.’

‘Was that old woman living there?’

‘Yes, there’s all sorts of people living in there. It’s a warren, and probably not safe really. But it’s a roof, so I suppose it’s better than nothing.’

We leant back on the bench, cherished the warmth of the fire and talked about the day’s work – and the hope our hard-won words would get a decent show in the next day’s paper. And I watched the way the firelight showed up his cheekbones and the hollows and shadows of his face.

He told me what he knew about the floods elsewhere in the region – bad everywhere, but we had had by far the worst. And I looked at his hands curling around his beer glass. Working hands, callused hands, but with neat and tidy nails. Billy might not have the same shelf full of beauty products that Will had, but he had the same pride in keeping himself well groomed.

We talked of the rain and whether it would last, of the tidying-up operation, of the people in the church hall. And I watched the way his hair went into small curls at the nape of his neck as it dried.

We had another beer. And possibly another.

We talked of Gordon and when he might be back, of Alan and what a decent bloke he was. And even in the candlelight I could still see his long eyelashes and his deep brown eyes.

We talked of the plans for tomorrow, the way the story would develop. And I gazed at the outline of his broad shoulders reflected in shadows on the opposite wall. And I wanted to bury myself in his arms, and I wondered what would happen if I did. Just the two of us in this strange small room with the warm smell of beer and the glow of the fire and the candlelight. Just me and Will, his eyes never leaving mine, his body getting closer …

‘Right you two! Ain’t you got no homes to go to?’ Bert was doing things to the fire, closing down at the end of the night sort of things. He took our empty glasses and one of the candles back to the bar.

‘OK Bert, we can take a hint,’ said Billy. ‘I’ve left a boat tied up at the bottom of your steps. I’ll be back for it later.’

‘Boats on my steps. What next?’ muttered Bert, wiping down the bar.

We went out by the light of the bike lamp. I went to go back down the steps, but Billy stopped me. ‘Let’s walk along the walls for a way. It’s probably quicker, and certainly a drier way home for you.’

The rain had stopped and the wind had died down. It was actually a mild spring night.

‘But doesn’t everything look weird?’

Being up on the town walls was a bit like being in the middle of a lake. Vast stretches of water now reflected back the moonlight. There was a fire engine at the edge of the water, and far below us a few uniformed men gathered in a little group, but there was no real activity. Everywhere was very still but for the sound of water lapping halfway up shop doorways, across roads and over windowsills.

‘This is the highest flood since 1888,’ said Billy. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever see it like this again. If you could forget about the damage it caused, it’s beautiful in its way. Careful …’ He grabbed my arm as a pothole suddenly appeared in the path along the walls. In my day it was all smoothed and tarmacked, with a safety rail, but now it was uneven and rubbly with weeds growing in sudden holes and a sheer drop to the water below.

He didn’t let go of my arm. Instead he pulled me around to face him.

‘You were a lovely little Red Indian today,’ he said. ‘I’ll never forget you. You were so wet, rain was streaming down your hair but you were paddling away. You looked so determined. So …’ he hesitated, ‘ … so beautiful.’

I knew what was coming next and I did nothing to stop it. He took me in his arms, brought his head down to mine and kissed me, a long lingering kiss that tasted slightly of beer and crisps and rain, and was utterly wonderful.

Oh the joy of it! To be wrapped in Will’s arms again, to feel his arms around me, to put my head on his chest and be cocooned in that little world.

We kissed again. And again. Each kiss fiercer than the last. It was strange, the clothes were unfamiliar, the scent of his skin was not what I knew, but yet it was still Will, still the man I loved, the man I’d missed so dreadfully. And now here I was wrapped up in him again. I was in Will’s arms. I was home. I wanted to burrow inside his soggy mac and jacket, feel his skin against mine …

We disentangled ourselves and I looked up at him. He was smiling down at me and his eyes were Will’s eyes, laughing and loving. He started to say something and stopped.

‘I—’ I started, but he put his finger gently on my lips to silence me and I fitted myself back under the curve of his shoulder with his arm around me, holding me tightly against him. We ambled along the top of the town wall, with just an old bike lamp against the dark and the only sound was the lapping of the flood water and the flump flump flump of our wellies.

That Frank Sinatra song drifted back into my mind. They cant take that away from me. I knew I would have this memory for ever.

We came down from the town wall about fifty yards from the Browns’ house. In the darkness of the steps once again we wrapped ourselves around each other and kissed long and hard, not saying a word, just trying to get so much of each other …

Billy finally pulled away and said, ‘It’s all different since you arrived. I don’t know what it is, but you make life exciting. You’re different, you think differently.’

He buried his face in my hair, then kissed my neck, my throat … ‘Oh God, you don’t belong here. It’s as if you come from another world, not another country. All I know is,’ and he took my face and held it gently in his hands so I was looking up at him, ‘all I know is that I think a tremendous lot about you, Rosie. I didn’t mean to, and I don’t want to, but I have. You really are very special. I could love you, I really could. In fact …’ he stopped and looked at me helplessly, hopelessly, ‘I already do.’

It was what I had longed to hear all the weeks I’d been there. I closed my eyes and reached hungrily to kiss him again.

But something had happened.

I could feel his hands holding mine. He was taking my hands and removing them from around his neck. I could feel the strength in his wrists as he pushed my hands away. I tried to push against him, but it was no good. He was holding my arms down by my sides and holding me away from him. ‘It’s no good, Rosie,’ he said, and his face looked desperately sad. ‘I am married. I have a wife and three children. I can’t hurt them. They have done nothing wrong. Don’t you see? They are my responsibility. I can’t let them down, not even … not even for you.’

I stared at him, not believing what I was hearing. Had I won him only to lose him just a few heartbeats later? One look at the pain on his face told me the answer.

‘Carol is a good wife and a brilliant mother. She works hard and we’re happy. We were happy, until you came along. And we will be again. I think you’re wonderful, magical, different from any girl I’ve ever known. I would love to leave everything and be with you, but I can’t. It can’t happen. I must stay here with my family and you must go back to where you came from. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have said what I said.’

‘But you did!’

I was so angry. So hurt. This was what I had wanted ever since I had first set eyes on him in the newsroom. And now he was saying it was over before it had begun?

‘No! You can’t say that! That can’t be the end. We’re meant to be together, you and I. You’re the only one. There’s no one else.’

Billy put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me gently, sadly. ‘I can’t let Carol down. I can’t. It’s not fair, not right.’

And it wasn’t. He was right. Oh I knew that really, deep down. ‘Then why did you tell me you love me? Just so you can snatch it away! That’s not fair, Billy! That’s not fair!’

‘I’m sorry, Rosie,’ said Billy, brushing some of my tears gently away, ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to hold you in my arms. I wanted to know what it would be like. I thought I could just … but I can’t. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry. This has been a magical night and I wish, I really do wish … But it can’t happen. Pretend it hasn’t happened. Wrong time, wrong place.’

Wrong time. Wrong place. And how.

But he was right. How could I blow in and wreck his marriage, his children’s lives? Wrong time. Wrong place.

If Billy and I were meant to be together, it wasn’t in the 1950s. I made myself stop crying. I tried to act casual. It took a few goes to get my breathing under control before I could speak, but I did it. Made a decent fist of it. ‘Well, it was only a kiss. What’s a kiss between friends?’ I said, though my tough-girl attitude didn’t quite work between sniffs. ‘It’s been a funny old day, funny old night. We’ll blame it on the weather, shall we? Here’s another friendly kiss.’

And I reached up and kissed him gently on the cheek.

He bent down and kissed me in return, the same gentle way. I could feel his eyelashes brush my face. I swallowed hard.

‘OK, I’m nearly home now. Goodnight, Billy. See you tomorrow.’

He was still holding my hand. As he let go, he rubbed his thumb over mine the way Will always did. That nearly finished me off. I broke free of him and ran the few yards to the house.

‘Rosie!’ I heard Billy shout. And it echoed strangely over the lake of moonlit water. ‘Rosie!’ as if it were coming from a very long way away. Another time. Another place.