The Daily Telegraph Short Story Competition
The Daily Telegraph , February 2011
His feet felt wet. The water was warm though; ironically the sun had been beating down on it all morning. It wasn’t deep enough to cover his toes yet but it would come quickly. The carpet in the bedroom made a squelching sound, like a wet wool jumper pulled from the machine, as he made his way towards the bed.
The room was nearly empty. All the photo frames were gone and the draws were bare. He’d wanted to take the bed but there wasn’t enough room in the damn truck. He could have strapped it to the roof if someone would have helped him but he couldn’t be that selfish, his neighbors were busy with their own belongings. Besides, they wouldn’t understand. To them it was just a bed but to him, it was their bed. It was the last place he’d slept next to her, the place he felt closest to her.
A car started up outside. The low rumble made the window sill rattle and he could hear her voice say ‘if you’re not going to fix it, at least shove some paper down the side to stop that bloody racket.’ It’s funny the things that reminded him of her. Everything in the house had some small memory of the way she was.
He was suddenly gripped with fear. What if he couldn’t remember those little things after the house was gone? What if those moments, those memories, were lost forever in the rising floodwaters? He knew that wouldn’t happen but he couldn’t help himself having one more look around the place, just to make sure he remembered it all.
“Brendan! You coming mate?” Chris Rogers, his next-door neighbor, called out through the front door.
They had spent the day together sandbagging their houses and moving as much as they could. Sweat poured down their foreheads and dripped onto the dry asphalt as they loaded everything from pots and pans to clothes and towels into their boots.
Chris’s wife, Cathy, had left with their two kids last night, not wanting to stay longer than the police had recommended. The 3 year-old twin girls had cried out as they drove away from their father. Cathy had been kind enough to take Brendan’s own little girl as well. She had just sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.
Chris worked at the local mechanics, one of only two in the small town. He always wore a white singlet even though it was stained with smears of grease. Around sunset each day, when the wives were cooking their meals, the two men use to sit on Brendan’s front porch and drink a few cans together. It was on one of these nights Brendan had told him about his wife’s illness.
“In a bit mate. Just… got to grab a few more things,” Brendan called out. “Alright, but don’t take two long, coppas said it’s coming fast,” Chris said. Brendan heard the sound of a crackling radio as Chris opened his car door and jumped in…widespread.. almost three quarters of the state has been inundated… expected to peak around midnight tonight… official death toll rises.. worst natural disaster in the states history…
He walked into the living room. The muddy water was beginning to lap up around his ankles. A brown line crept up the white walls, staining the paint. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror nailed to the wall above where the couch used to be. ‘It’s official’, he thought, ‘the big Aussie beer belly’. He patted him stomach a few times and sighed. It had been three years since her death and he noticed a few extra empty cans in the garbage each week.
He’d had a lot of support from his neighbors. Everyone in the town knew Brendan, the manager of the best pub for miles. For the first few months he didn’t have to cook a single meal and there was always someone willing to look after baby beth-he could be thankful for one thing, she was too young at the time to realise she’d lost her mum. Every day at work he’d get a pat on the back from the blokes and knowing smiles from the women and eventually, he joined Chris back out on the porch again. Chris had always kept a cold beer waiting for him.
Brendan was determined to be strong for Beth; she was his saving grace. The kindest little girl you could imagine. She wouldn’t even let her daddy squish an ant if it got in the house.
“Ants are people too!” she’d say, pouting. He never once corrected her.
He looked around the living room and smiled when his eyes rested on the huge dent in the wall by the kitchen door. Beth was taking her first steps right there in the living room when she lost control of her feet. They got tangled up underneath her and she stumbled forwards, running straight for the wall. He dove like a batter reaching for home base and caught his daughter’s fragile little body just in time while a huge thud made him see stars. His head almost went straight through that wall, he thought. His wife had laughed like crazy. She had the loudest laugh, bellowing and un-ladylike. He had loved it.
It wasn’t until he felt a sharp pain in his knee that he was brought back to reality. The bottom draw of the cheap Ikea bookshelf had floated over and the sharp corner had caught him just below his shorts. He glanced out through the back doors and saw the swings on his daughters swing set floating, their chains pulled tight as they tried to escape downstream. He was shocked at how quickly the water had risen- the sand bags must have failed. It was colder now and flowing around his legs in miniature whirl pools. A few leaves and small branches were drifting in through the open front door.
He waded through the living room and out the door. He had forgotten the power and weight of knee-deep water and struggled to move fast at all. What an incredible sight. A great, dirty river was running down his road. The water was moving faster out here and he had only seconds to dodge a pushbike as it silently sailed past. Fear gripped the pit of his belly when he looked down and saw that knee deep was fast becoming thigh deep.
‘Time to go!’ Brendan thought to himself.
He waded over to his truck, which had been packed with the final few things he’d wanted to take with him; some of Beth’s school work, a much loved painting of an emu his wife had bought from a local gallery.
Another missile raced past now, this time part of a wire fence, narrowly missing his tire. This flood was becoming dangerous. As he reached the truck door he took the keys out of his now wet pocket. His hand shook as he fumbled for the right one and time slowed down as they slipped from his fingers and fell into the murky water below.
“SHIT!” he yelled.
Brendan splashed down to his hands and knees, frantic. His nails scrapped along the driveway as he swept his fingers in circles. The current was powerful, almost knocking him right over. The dirty water lapped into his mouth as he reached further and deeper. His keys were gone, swallowed by the torrent. He stood up and looked desperately around.
“HELP!” he cried, but there was no one there to hear him.
He looked back at his house. No way up onto the roof on this side. There was a huge tree out the back but there was no chance he’d have time to get around there now. He thought about getting into his car but couldn’t deal with the idea of being trapped, door held shut by the power of the water. He scrambled onto the bonnet of the black truck, then onto the roof.
The beast groaned as the water level reached the rear vision mirrors. It was all happening so quickly. A branch the size of a beach umbrella collided with the truck, a mighty crunch. His safety raft lifted from the driveway and was sucked into the street. One tire burst with a tremendous noise as they were scraped along the cement. The truck twisted and spun as the water turned to rapids. Brendan clung desperately on to the sides as he flowed with the river down the middle of his street and towards the centre of town. It was a terrifying feeling. As he floated past houses he thought he could see faces or hear yelling but he was moving too fast to be sure.
Suddenly, the truck came to a wrenching halt as it slammed into a gum tree and became trapped in its branches. The force of the impact nearly launched Brendan off the roof but he held on, thanking god he had been stopped by something before the car inevitably flipped over.
He clung to the branches and waited, thinking of Beth. For what felt like an hour, the water kept rushing by, bringing everything from clothes to desks with it, pulling at his tiring body.
Then, he heard a strange noise over the racing torrent. The roar became louder and louder, like approaching thunder. Oh god, was it more water? He prayed that it wasn’t. He didn’t know how long he could hold on for.
Brendan could hardly open his eyes in the face of the ferocious wind and spray of water coming at him. He held up his hand to shield his face and saw it. It was a red and yellow helicopter. From it dangled a thick black rope and a man, reaching out his hand.
To help those affected by the Queensland flood disaster log on to http://www.qld.gov.au/floods/donate.html Or call 1800 289 028