Flood Warning

by Martin Devlin

'Your turn, Clare,' they chorus. 'It's the middle of the night, the flood waters are rising and you have only seconds to escape. No time to think. What would you save?'

'She doesn't need to think about it,' objects Tim. He's already had his go and is still smarting after his teasing as a pumped-up pedal pusher, addicted to skintight Lycra, and most wounding of all, predictable. Just because he opted for his racing bike. 'It's a foregone conclusion in Clare's case, everybody knows that.''She has to decide for herself,' insists Nicola, who is orchestrating the game. She always takes charge in these situations.

Clare envies Nicola her demeanour of serene command. She sits there, pearl-pink manicured nails glinting against the bulbous body of her wine glass, looking as though she has life on a plate. A Wedgewood one with eleven other matching place settings. Furtively, Clare examines her own nails, always splintering no matter how often she paints strengthening products on them.

Nicola is watching Ross out of the corner of eyes enhanced with three blended eye-shadows and finished off with liquid liner. Which she never smudges. He pretends to be unconscious of her scrutiny, although she knows him well enough after four years of marriage to realise his air of only marginal attention to the proceedings is a façade. Nothing escapes his notice, despite his apparent sloth. Ross is sprawled in an armchair, eyelids at half-mast and bare feet crossed at the ankle on the coffee table, but a few moments ago he noticed Jo coughing and fetched her a tumbler of water.

Nicola has engineered this game for the sole purpose of hearing what Ross would rescue from a flood. Which memento from their life together would he count irreplaceable? She's hoping he'll plump for their silver-framed wedding photograph, which catches him forever frozen in an attitude of worship. As though Sarah Lynch could never supplant her.

Nicola allows her gaze to drift over the group of friends gathered in the sitting room of the home she shares with Ross, its tasteful elegance glimmering through the morass of cups and glasses. She unleashes her cosmetically whitened smile on Clare. 'Take your time,' she encourages her.

But Clare needs none. 'I'd grab a rug and scoop my collection of teapots into it.' 'You'd never fit all of them, you must have sixty or seventy by now.' Ross smiles his secretive grin, activated by some internal source of amusement.

They all find Clare's devotion to her teapots endearing - and a little pathetic. She chatters away to them as though they're human and uses each teapot in strict rotation. Transferral of affections, classic sign of spinsterhood, they agree. When she's out of earshot.

Clare savages her lip, fingering wispy black shoulder-length hair which never manages to either curl or hang straight. 'Maybe I could persuade a fireman to go back inside for the rest - I can explain how important my teapots are, I've been collecting them since my ninth birthday when my aunt gave me the ballerina one.' 'You can only save as much as you're able to carry.' Nicola is crisp now, impatient to move on to the next candidate. Moving closer along the chain to Ross. 'Anyway it's a fire officer, not a fireman.' 'Sorry.' Clare lowers her button eyes, outwardly meek, although she bridles at Nicola's correction. She's always so precise. You daren't say euros instead of euro, or even attempt to pronounce a French word in front of her. Nicola always makes her feel as though she's a failure, just because she's a gift shop manager. But she doesn't want to be a high flier like Nicola; high fliers can singe their wings.

Tim nudges Clare. 'You could always start a new collection with the insurance money,' he teases. 'Toby jugs, maybe, or snuff boxes.' Aghast, Clare is beyond answering; her teapots are irreplaceable. Straight after breakfast tomorrow she'll store her most precious ones in watertight metal boxes in the attic, safe from rising flood waters.

Good-natured Jo intervenes, to spare Clare's feelings. 'I'll go next, Nicola. Since my nearest and dearest' - she pulls a face at Tim, with whom she's been living for eight years - 'was so romantic as to grab his racing bike, presumably leaving me behind to sink or swim, I won't rescue him either. I'll save my teddy bear.' The others regard her with uniform consternation. Sensible maths teacher Jo, with her low maintenance cropped hairstyle and her livery of canvas jeans and desert boots, isn't the cuddly toy sort. She's interested in tennis, science fiction and chess - they didn't even know she had a teddy bear. Only Tim is unmoved.

'He's called Bear,' she continues, enjoying her friends' flabbergasted reaction. 'You never even mentioned him before,' complains Nicola. 'Why don't you keep him somewhere visible if he means so much to you?' queries Clare. Jo shakes her head. 'Not at all, I couldn't take the risk of something happening to my Bear. Sure he's precious. Priceless, in fact.' Even Ross is curious now, no longer peeling the label from a wine bottle on the pretext of disassociating himself from this after-dinner game Nicola is bent on playing. Her determination needles him: she applies it to every aspect of life instead of using it selectively. Jo obliges her audience with further information. 'I've had Bear since the day I was born. My father brought him to the hospital when he came to see my mother and I. Mum says he lifted my dimpled wee arm and slid the bear in alongside me, then he kissed the tip of his fingers and touched me on the forehead.' Tim stretches out a hand and strokes hers. 'Aye, he did, he kissed his fingers to me,' she adds softly.

Everyone falls silent. Each of them is familiar with the story of how Jo's father was killed by a bomb returning home from hospital on the day of her birth. No warning was given and the security forces didn't have a chance to seal off the area. He was unlucky enough to be driving past the pub just as it was detonated - his dental records helped identify him. Jo has no memories of him and only a couple of photographs. Her mother's second husband adopted Jo and is an affectionate parent; she calls him Dad and loves him in return.

Jo threads fingers through her sandy hair, spiking it. 'I have a keepsake box under the bed with some of my father's belongings. Bear lives there, in a nest made from an old scarf. He's a bit battered, his eyes had to be sewn back in and there's a patch over one of his paws where the stuffing fell out. So I slapped a conservation order on him. I take him out sometimes and hug him - he's all I have that my father gave directly to me.' She laughs, to defuse the sombre mood. 'Unless you count his genes, of course. My mother says he loved chess and science fiction too. But not tennis, that comes from her.'

Three sets of eyes swivel towards Tim. 'Did you know about Bear?' Nicola interrogates him. 'Of course,' he shrugs, 'I sleep above him every night. He's been in the wars but he's a distinguished old fellow. Am I allowed to change my mind about what I rescue from the flood?' 'No,' snaps Nicola, setting her jet earrings dancing. They were an anniversary present from Ross and she's wearing them as a reminder of the bond between them. 'First choices only. The beauty of this game is it's supposed to be kneejerk and therefore more illuminating.' She realises her tone sounds arbitrary and adopts a more conciliatory approach. 'Don't you want your ninety-six-gear racing bike with go faster mirrors any more?' Tim drains his glass of water. He's in training and switched to non-sparkling Ballygowan after two glasses of red wine. 'I'd prefer my Ulster Road Race trophy instead.' 'Hearing my teddy bear story has turned Tim all sentimental,' Jo interprets. She plants an indulgent kiss on the bony bridge of his nose. Tim scratches it, in the damp aftermath. 'Actually, I've just remembered the bike's on the insurance so I could always buy another and they've modified the pedals on the latest version - I'm sure I could shave a couple of seconds off my time. The thing is I'm not getting any younger, I might never win another trophy.' He's thirty-one and convinced his physical powers are on the wane, although he goes for punishing fifteen km cycle rides - with the stopwatch ticking - before and after work every day. Jo polishes Tim's trophy once a week. 'Excellent choice,' she smiles at him. 'It'll be an heirloom one day.'

'Sarah's late,' remarks Clare. 'Wasn't she supposed to join us after work for dessert and coffee?' Nicola's slate blue eyes graze Ross and just as swiftly dart away. 'I reminded her this morning we were all meeting up. She promised faithfully she'd be here - it's been almost a year since the six of us were together under one roof. And yet we lived in each other's pockets at Queen's, it seems a lifetime ago now. I told her she couldn't be the only renegade not to show up. "We'll gossip about you in your absence," I warned her. That did the trick. She said she was going to grab a sandwich at her desk and work on but she'd be with us later. I've saved her some dinner, just in case she didn't bother eating. You know Sarah, skinny as a rake, she forgets to eat. She'd forget to breathe if her lungs didn't do it for her.' 'I wouldn't call Sarah skinny.' Ross's low voice strikes an indolent note after Nicola's helter-skelter chatter. 'What would you call her?' Nicola challenges him. 'Fragile.' Ross tilts his head to one side, an appealing gesture that's his trademark. 'A piece of porcelain. But she's strong - not easily broken.' Nicola is a tall, handsome blonde with a rangy build and clearly defined bone structure. However she's hyper-conscious of her size and Ross's words jibe; her hands ball into fists and her breath pants in shallow gasps.

The others are agape as the tension mounts. Surely Nicola and Ross aren't about to have a row in front of them? Their marriage is flawless, as perfect as the life they've constructed for themselves. The others envy them their Victorian house in the Malone Road, their partnerships in a law firm, their matching blue-eyed blond perfection, their aura of having everything sorted. Right down to which neighbour's daughter they'll employ as a babysitter when the time is right for them to start a family. Together they are one plus one equals six of the best. Gilded coupledom stooping to conquer.

'Nicola, you haven't had your turn.' It's Jo again, defusing the atmosphere. Everyone glares at her. Tim and Clare because they want to see what might happen, Nicola and Ross because it interferes with their personal vendetta. 'What would you save if the flood waters were lapping at your door?' Jo continues, affecting not to notice how she's become the focus of general resentment. She lifts one of the Butler's chocolates Nicola has arranged in a bonbon dish by the coffee pot and bites in. She'll give it ten minutes after Sarah's arrival and then she's signalling home time to Tim. Tonight definitely isn't the easygoing catch-up session Nicola flagged. 'Strictly speaking they belong to Ross, he keeps them in his half of the study.' Nicola is contemplative. 'But I'd choose the wooden giraffe bookends I brought him back as a souvenir from Kenya. It was our first separation - I missed him every minute of every day.' Her gaze pinions her husband and her tone shifts. 'Do you remember how one of the giraffes lost an ear, sweetheart?' She masticates the endearment. 'It happened after you collected me from the arrivals lounge in Aldergrove and drove me back to my apartment.' Tim winks at Clare; in the early days the rest of them lived in bedsits, flats if they were lucky, but Nicola always rented an apartment. Or at least referred to her rooms as such. Nicola twirls her glass by the stem. 'I was hardly in the door with my suitcases before you pulled me onto the floor and we sent the bookends tumbling. Later I scrabbled around to find the broken ear and you said "let's not glue it back on, let's keep it as a reminder of how love and passion can fuse". I knew you were the man for me when I heard that, I thought it only happened once in a lifetime - if you were lucky. Little did I know that love and passion can fuse at the drop of a hat for Ross Davies.' 'You're embarrassing our guests, Nicola.' Ross's tone is mild; if it weren't for the trapped nerve twitching in his cheek there'd be no visible sign of uneasiness. 'Really? I thought I was riveting them.' Nicola scatters a disdainful glance around the room. 'And now, Ross, I'd like to hear what you'd play saviour to as the monsoon pelted down.'

The door bell rings but nobody moves. It sounds again. The shrilling seems pre-determined, as though woven by design through this tense exchange, an integral facet of the drama. Someone taps a key against one of the stained glass door panels and it demands a response. 'I'll go.' Clare's offer is reluctant. Nobody breathe a word in my absence, is the implicit admonition. She patters down the mosaic-tiled hallway, a dumpy figure in an angora jumper that has already shed onto everyone else's clothes. Cold air as the front door opens gusts towards the sitting room and a candle splutters.

Sarah Lynch has arrived.

Sarah is smiling as she enters the sitting room; almost instantly, however, the smile withers as she senses a disturbance in the atmosphere.

Nicola rises, towering over Sarah by seven inches. 'Angel,' she purrs, 'you look frozen. See how pinched and pink her wee nose is, everybody. I want you to sit here beside Clare while I heat you some goulash. You're not nervous about eating meat, are you, Sarah? Of course not, a feisty criminal barrister like yourself. I hear all the rapists in town want you to represent them. Sweetheart' - this is directed at Ross and oozes from her in twin elongated syllables - 'pour Sarah a drink while I take care of the food. Would anyone like some more tarte citron while I'm in the kitchen? I'm sure you could manage another slice, Tim, you simply burn energy on that bike of yours.'

In Nicola's absence, the group shifts warily and sends covert glances in one another's direction. Jo towards Tim in case he's distressed - she knows how sensitive he is, even if the others think him a cycling-obsessed bore; Tim towards his former flatmate Ross, who is coming in for a pummelling - although he's holding his own, not betraying any agitation; Clare towards Jo, for one of those eyebrows raised dialogues; Sarah towards each of them in turn, hoping for some clue about the turbulence detected by her antennae.

Ross alone appears at ease as he hands Sarah a brimming glass. 'You might need this,' he cautions.

Nicola bustles back in with tart for Tim, cutlery and another bottle of wine. Sarah is still wearing her barrister's tailored black suit and she shrinks inside it as Nicola clatters everything onto the coffee table, making more noise than seems strictly necessary. 'We're playing such an amusing game, Sarah.' Nicola's voice is louder than usual too. 'Everybody has to choose one object to save if a flood was threatening their home. We're still waiting to hear Ross's answer and of course you must have a turn too. I can't begin to imagine what you'd take, although it's always more fun taking what doesn't belong to you, isn't it?' She wheels around and returns to the kitchen, kitten heels punishing the floorboards where the rug doesn't stretch. 'Party games.' Sarah is subdued. 'It's been a long day, I don't know if I have the energy for them.' 'It's only a bit of fun,' Tim consoles her. He tests a palm against his ergonomically shaven scalp. 'It was Nicola's idea, you know what she's like, you may as well try to stop water running downhill. Sure just make it up, a book of poetry or anything.' 'I knew there was something missing, something odd about our choices,' interjects Jo. 'Nobody rescued any books and yet we all claim to love reading. Especially you, Tim, you're supposed to be a librarian.' 'I'm a cybrarian, I do it on the web,' he corrects her, lifting his third helping of pudding. 'Anyway I don't have any first edition books worth saving, they're all paperbacks.'

Ross hefts Sarah's briefcase, a battered leather bag so heavy it amazes the others she can hold it let alone carry it everywhere, and smiles into her eyes. She relaxes visibly. 'You look a little tired, Sarah, I'm afraid of you tripping over this. I'll just move it out to the hall.' There's an intimacy about the exchange that does not go undetected by their onlookers. 'You work too hard, you should have a lie-in tomorrow, Sarah,' advises Jo. 'I love Saturday mornings. Tim goes for a mammoth cycle ride and I loll in bed with the newspapers and a pot of coffee. Then he arrives back, a whirlwind of ravenous energy, and we amble out for brunch.' Sarah sips her wine, a furrow indenting on her forehead. Nicola is back with enough food on a tray to give everyone in the room a portion. 'I really only wanted a snack,' protests Sarah. Nicola slices across her. 'Nonsense, you eat like a bird, you'll end up with brittle bones in your old age. Ross loves to see a woman with a hearty appetite, don't you Ross? I remember when we first started courting he was always cooking me steaks to build me up. Steak and salad followed by crème brulée and chocolate-sprinkled cappuccinos, that was your seduction speciality, wasn't it Ross? I wonder if he's changed it to keep pace with the times. Do you have any insights you could share with us, Sarah?' 'I have absolutely no idea.' Sarah pushes away the tray of food. Her narrow face with its cap of auburn curls radiates defiance. 'You obviously have an axe to grind, Nicola, but I don't appreciate your using me as a whetstone. I came here tonight at your invitation, your insistent invitation, to meet some old friends. If you're determined to be tiresome I'm going home.' 'Don't go.' Ross crosses the room in a few strides and hunkers beside her. 'This is all my fault. Here,' he lifts a forkful of goulash and coaxes it to her lips, 'try eating a little. Nicola is a superb cook - she excels at everything she sets her mind to do. And you know, you do live on ham sandwiches and packets of Maltesers. I bet there's a half-eaten packet in that briefcase I left out in the hall.' Against her will, Sarah smiles. 'There might be,' she confesses, then she parts her lips for the food. Nicola's face is an obelisk as she watches them, the candlelight haloed around her neck-length blonde bob. Jo decides she's had enough of intruding on another couple's death throes and drags a mesmerised Tim to his feet. 'We have to be going, everyone, the week is catching up on me. I can't-' Nicola disregards Jo. 'Ready to play our flood game, Sarah? Clare's rescuing an apron full of teapots, Jo's bringing her teddy bear, Tim wants the only trophy he's ever won and I'm taking some broken book ends. What would you clutch to your breast as you waded from your doll's house of a home?' Sarah looks at Ross who nods, fringe flopping into his eyes. He brushes it away, tilting his head as he returns Sarah's gaze; humour her, he appears to urge. She sighs and trails the cool glass of wine she's holding across an aching temple. 'Granny's watch,' murmurs Sarah. 'It doesn't keep accurate time but I love it for her sake. She's been dead almost a decade but she taught me something I'll never forget - that love must be unconditional or it's not worth having.' She closes her eyelids, the lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. 'Well said, Sarah.' Ross lays a hand on her head, in benediction, it strikes the others, then stands to face his wife. 'Nicola, this charade has lasted long enough. I'm leaving now and I'm taking what I choose to salvage from the deluge with me.' He extends his hand towards Sarah. 'Are you sure you want to do this? It means giving up a lot.' Sarah bites her lip and nods. She slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out a dog leash, reaching it to Ross. 'I'm positive,' she says. 'It's selfish of me to keep Elliot, I can't spare him enough time. He'll have a better quality of life with you.'

Ross is almost at the front door before Nicola springs to life. 'You're leaving me for a dog,' she wails at his retreating back, her complexion blooming crimson. 'I'll be a laughing stock.' 'Call it puppy love,' Ross advises. Then he's gone.

In the aftershock, the friends wrestle with their reactions. Tim reflects that he'd never walk out on a looker like Nicola - although she can be a bit of a madam, no two ways about it. Jo withdraws her gaze from Nicola's stricken face and plans to take off a few days from work and spend them with her devastated friend. Clare alternates between feeling sorry for Nicola and relishing the novelty of the emotion. As for Sarah, she cracks her knuckles and wonders how everyone could have been so blind. It was obvious Nicola and Ross's relationship was shipwrecked, it was only a matter of time before it sank without a trace. Of course, she did have inside information.

'I was convinced he was seeing you,' Nicola mumbles at Sarah. 'He was always singing your praises.' Her poise has deserted her, she seems almost human as she slumps there. Even her linen dress is creased, a condition that affects others' clothes but never Nicola's. Sarah is brisk. 'The hours I work don't allow me time to take a holiday, let alone find the energy for an affair.' She lays a tentative hand on Nicola's shoulder. 'But it's true I had the odd coffee with Ross, he was unhappy and confided in me. Then he started taking my dog Elliot for walks, sure the poor old boy was cooped up at home and getting no exercise at all.' She turns to the others. 'Ross told me about wanting a dog, he always had one as a boy. He said he pleaded with Nicola but she shuddered at the thought of hairs on the furniture and half-chewed bones in the garden. So he used to borrow mine.' Sarah folds her arms around her thin body and sighs. 'We shared Elliot for a time until finally I realised it was wrong of me to have a pet and give him virtually none of my attention - my free time is all gobbled up by work. I told Ross I was trying to find Elliot another home and he lit up like a child on Christmas morning. "I'll take him, please let me have him," he insisted. You see, he found he wanted to be with Elliot more than with you, Nicola. I'm sorry, but that's the truth.' 'I suppose that explains the hairs on his jacket - I thought they were yours,' admits Nicola. She pours herself a glass of wine and drinks it in a single gulp. A dribble glistens on her chin.

In the car on the way home, Clare leans forward from the back seat towards Jo. 'It could have been worse, Ross could have gone off with Sarah. There'd have been outright war and Nicola would have forced us all to take sides.' 'Yes, it could have been a lot more unpleasant,' agrees Jo. But after dropping off their friend, Jo purses her lips. 'I know Ross went off with Sarah's red setter and not Sarah but I wouldn't be surprised if they end up together.' Tim scrapes his thumbnail against the steering wheel, baffled. 'Can't imagine how you arrived at that conclusion, Jo.' 'Haven't you ever wondered why she called her dog Elliot? It hit me like a ton of bricks the first time she mentioned it. Surely that's all the proof you could ever need.' Tim's jaw opens slackly. 'I'm still not following you, Jo.' 'Ross's initials are R E D. You must remember how we used to tease him at college that it meant his parents had latent Communist sympathies. He'd turn all defensive and say his father was a capitalist factory owner.' Tim shifts in his seat, memory struggling to surface. 'Ross,' he mumbles. 'Ross Edward?' Jo hits him playfully on the knee. 'Ninny,' she remonstrates. 'His middle name is Elliot.'

Ends

:: Flood Warning was first published in Stories For Jamie, a charity collection in aid of the La Pilar organisation. It is published by Blackwater Press.

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