Lorna Firth walks a little unsteadily out onto her deck. She is wearing her old blue tramping parka and gumboots. In her hand is a red shopping bag containing her cell- phone, a small radio, a whistle, a box of tissues and a bar of chocolate. The sky matches her parka and is cloudless from horizon to hills; there’s hardly a ripple on the water. Lorna does not stop to admire the view; she is muttering instructions to herself. Frowning, she places the bag at the foot of the flagpole. The ladder, lying flat on the deck, is her next task. When she has wrestled it upright and placed it against the wall next to the flagpole, she waits a few seconds until her breathing slows. For a moment her old fingers cannot unhook the rope with which, on celebratory days, she raises one of her flags.
‘You are not to panic, Lorna,’ she says out loud. The rope comes free, and she ties it to the handles of the bag.
Now she climbs, steadily, grunting a little, rung by rung. Getting over the top and onto the roof almost defeats her; she suddenly doubts whether she will be able to climb down again. But her plan has worked so far. Lorna allows herself a small smile as, hand over hand, she hauls up the rope until the bag joins her on the almost flat roof of the lean- to.
There is a rumbling aftershock. She wraps her arms around the flagpole until the land settles. Out to sea all is placid. No sign of a tell- tale line approaching. But below on Seaview Road, people are running, car- horns are blaring, whole families on bikes are heading for higher ground.
A child is calling, ‘Dad! Dad!’
That will be young Eru next door. Lorna sees him now, standing on his rickety deck, screaming out to sea. The lad should be running, not shouting for his father. Has no one taught him? Surely at school they drill them with the rules.
‘Dad!’
‘Eru! Run for high ground!’
The boy looks up at her. For a moment he grins — no doubt she is a strange sight in her parka and gumboots — then shakes his head and goes on screaming. ‘Dad!’
Still no sign out to sea. Lorna begins to feel a little foolish. Also, her knees are trembling. A crash below on the deck alerts her to a new problem: Mr Sinclair. Oh, how dreadful. She had forgotten. A year or two ago, when his wife was still alive, Lorna had told them of her plan.
‘It takes me ten minutes — more sometimes — just to get down my path. Let alone run for higher ground,’ she had said. Mrs Sinclair, who was dying of cancer, had suggested that in such an event, Lorna might help her blind husband up onto her roof, their own being too steep. Now here he was, having somehow scrambled over the fence and tripped, it seems, on her deck.
She watches him climb to his feet.
‘Mrs Firth! Are you all right?’
She had forgotten how loud his voice was. Is he concerned for her safety, while she had ignored his?
‘Mrs Firth?’
‘The ladder is about three paces southeast of you. I am on the roof.’
‘Oh, good. I thought the quake may have hurt you.’ He takes three paces.
‘One more. The flagpole is just by your left hand.’
And up he comes, much more steadily than she had. There is a bit of a juggle as they position themselves on each side of the pole. Lorna can’t think of an adequate apology.
He faces the sea, sniffing. ‘They say you can smell it coming. A change in the air. Can you see anything?’
She shakes her head — but of course he can’t see that. ‘Maybe it won’t come. It looks perfectly flat way out.’
They stand there, side by side. ‘No, wait,’ she says, ‘the water’s racing — really racing — away from the shore.’
‘It’s coming, then.’
Eru waves to them. He’s on his own roof now, straddling the ridge. ‘Dad’s out fishing! I can’t see his boat!’
‘Hold tight, lad,’ Mr Sinclair’s voice carries easily.
Eru grabs the ridge, howling.
Lorna is glad of Mr Sinclair’s strong arms wrapping them both to the pole.
‘The sea’, says Mr Sinclair, ‘is something to be reckoned with. I never take it lightly. Are you afraid?’
Lorna hadn’t been; she feels rather exposed if anything. People may be pointing her out and laughing. But now she eyes that long dark line, which is definitely closer, with more respect. Eru has fallen silent next door. The road below is empty apart from one running woman, tugging on the leash of a reluctant dog.
‘Lorna? May I call you Lorna? Would you mind describing what you see? We may both need to brace for when it arrives.’
It seems ridiculous that they have not been on first- name terms. She can’t remember what his wife called him and feels ashamed to ask. ‘I think there may be two lines. The second is still quite distant. Neither seems much more than a small bump.’
‘It can be very deceptive. I have seen— Is Eru still on his roof? I think he may be in danger.’
‘He’s still there.’
‘Eru!’ Mr Sinclair’s booming would reach half the neighbourhood. ‘Eru! Get down and run like hell up Ruru Road! Go now!’
Eru glances over at them from his much lower roof but doesn’t move. ‘He’s not moving,’ says Lorna.
Mr Sinclair shifts his hands a little; she feels his grip on her tighten and wonders — surely not! — whether he might be taking advantage.
‘It’s closer now. There are definitely two waves. The sand is bare for a long way out. It’s very strange.’
She feels him nod, his big bald head smelling of aftershave. ‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘our shore is shallow. There may be a deep wave below the surface, which will rear up suddenly when it hits the shelf and then break.’
‘It’s rising. Oh, it’s rising! Very high!’ her voice trembles.
‘Hold tight. Tell me when I should take a breath. Take some deep breaths now to be ready.’
The rearing wave is terrifying — glassy and dark — already higher than the seawall, the road, her garage. It changes shape, curling tendrils of foam reaching forward. The tendrils become long grasping licks. The wave, almost at eye level, towering over the road, breaks with a grinding roar.
‘Big breath!’ His shout is tinny against the immense whirlwind of salt- laden air, followed by a Crump! as the wall of water — a whole ocean of it — falls, rears, slews sideways, falls again, searching for new pathways: a driveway, a hollowed garden, a sunken garage. A hidden force drives it on and on and on. Where is it all going? Lorna can’t angle her head to look behind her. Perhaps it has found a way into the gully behind her garden. She thinks of the low- lying properties along the beach: no doubt all drowned.
The pull of the ocean drags the dregs back out, across what is left of the road, over the broken seawall; the water filthy with debris.
Her garage has been deposited, crushed and teetering, on the wall. Yellow and red and green wastebins bob in a colourful flock out to sea. Today was rubbish day.
She and Mr Sinclair are soaked with spray but safe. Lorna can’t see if the front of the house is damaged.
‘Tell me, Lorna, tell me.’
She can hardly begin. ‘My garage is destroyed. The road in front of your place is piled with trees and . . . I don’t know what. Your house seems fine from what I can see.
‘Eru?’
She tries to swivel around, but they are both locked tightly to the flagpole, facing
out to sea, his chest against her back, his sodden arms
encircling her and his hands gripping the bright red pole just above hers. Like lovers. And still she can’t remember his name.
He relaxes his grip a little. ‘Lorna. Eru? And the next wave?’
She’s still shaking from the first. Perhaps, please god, the second will be smaller.
‘Oh dear. Eru is not there. His roof has gone and the deck in front, it was always dangerously rickety. I had suggested to his dad . . .’ she realises she’s babbling. ‘I can’t see Eru. I think the wave might have completely engulfed . . . Oh dear.’
‘Lorna, please stay calm. I can hear the next wave. You mustn’t let go of the pole.’
He edges her back and again they face out to sea, his wet body like a salty carapace protecting hers. It would be better to face away from the sea, but the flagpole has no foothold on the seaward side.
Again, the roaring, tearing wall of seawater — not so high this time but more lethal. It strikes like a battering ram; branches, roofing iron, the returning wastebins, seaweed and even fish churning in the grubby foam. Something is flung high by the bouncing after- waves — a branch, perhaps, or part of a house. Lorna sees it coming but cannot ward it off. It slaps painfully across her face and his, then falls away into her garden.
Behind Eru’s house a lake has formed: black and still heaving. The land there is below sea level. Lorna imagines Eru’s scrawny body lying under the muck. She wills him to emerge. But he would have drowned long ago.
The sudden silence is unnerving. Mr Sinclair releases one hand. She does the same.
‘I’m afraid I can’t see Eru. The sea is trapped behind his house. And there’s another problem.’
He nods, his face grim. ‘I know. The ladder. I heard it go. We will have to wait for help.’ He clears his throat. ‘By the way, my name is Toswell, but people call me Toddy. Meantime, I simply must pass water. If you stay facing out to sea, I will face the other way. I imagine you feel the same. Do what you like. I’m sure you realise nothing you do will . . . be obvious . . . to me.’
Lorna doesn’t tell him that she ‘passed water’, as he calls it, when the first wave hit.
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