The Water Clock(84)

‘Danger signal number four. The current gale is forecast to reach storm force 8 by dusk. It could hold that speed for twenty-four hours. The wind direction – north-north-east – is precisely that which we would wish to avoid at this stage. It is blowing directly behind the tide, pushing the seawater towards the land and effectively damming the rainwater into the rivers. It is also driving more rainclouds towards us from the Arctic. Normally this would be good news – as it would bring a drop in temperature and freeze the water. But, as we have seen, the cyclone over the North Sea is dragging its air from the south of Ireland, where it has been warmed by the Gulf Stream, and turning it in a vast circle north of Scotland and out towards the pole before bringing it south. So, we have warm air from the north.’

The weatherman sat down abruptly with a self-satisfied smile.

Dryden got the first question in before the TV reporter had a chance. ‘Sir John said there was an even chance the banks would hold… what do you think?’

The weatherman had a degree in meteorology and a doctorate in natural hazards – but no idea about public relations, which is why Dryden had asked the question.

He considered it. ‘Oh. Er. Frankly, I don’t think there’s any chance at all, the question is where the banks will fail.’

Several of the print journalists started making mobile telephone calls. The cameras closed in on Sir John, who was now running a beautifully manicured hand through his silver hair. The smile was beginning to slide to one side.

The TV reporter recovered quickly. ‘The last floods in 1977 covered sixty thousand acres of agricultural land – how could this compare?’

Sir John cut the weatherman dead. ‘I think that’s a question for John Thoday – chairman of the joint county councils’ civil planning unit. John…’

John looked like he’d just been offered a plateful of shite pie. The sheen of sweat on his forehead indicated that he was well out of his depth, a dangerous inadequacy in the circumstances.

‘We already have some ten thousand acres under fresh water flooding in southern Cambridgeshire,’ he said. ‘That’s due to the dykes and drains being unable to take the melt water – the river banks are holding but we must prepare for the worst.’

At which point he tried a smile of reassurance. A big mistake which would get a prime spot on that night’s local TV news.

‘We can expect, I think, a hundred thousand acres to flood over the next forty-eight hours. Possibly half a million. None of you are old enough to remember but in 1947, three million acres went under. It was a national disaster.’

The BBC’s East of England correspondent got to his feet. ‘Is that possible this time?’

Thoday avoided the question: ‘The banks of the main rivers are under great pressure here, south of the Isle of Ely. But that’s not really the problem we face. It’s sea water that is the greatest threat. The bottling up of the rivers just south of Lynn could breach the sea walls, then salt water could flow back across the already flooded fields; that would be an environmental disaster and could ruin the fertility of the fields for years. That’s why we are taking the measures we are today…’ Thoday sat, having effectively passed the pie back to Sir John.

The chairman tried to say thank you but it stuck in his throat. ‘Today I’ve asked the Department of the Environment to enact emergency legislation by statutory order to allow the armed forces to assist us in reinforcing the sea defences on the upper Ouse and in ferrying livestock and people from the inland areas threatened with flooding. Just prior to this press conference I received notification that a state of emergency has been declared for the region. These are draconian measures but I, and the other representatives of the emergency services, feel they are entirely justified.’

One of the Fleet Street tabloid boys was first in with the boot. ‘Could the privatized water authority not have spent more money on flood defences rather than paying its executives so-called “fat cat” salaries?’

There was a brief flap as various press relations officers indulged in a frenzy of semaphore messages to their respective bosses.

‘Perhaps I can help with that question,’ said a silky voice from the back of the room. There was a collective groan from the print journalists who began to talk among themselves, while the camera team eagerly rearranged itself to light a man in a steel-grey suit and fake tan. This was the water authority chief PR, Christopher Slater-Thompson, known without a trace of affection as ‘Mr Flannel’.

Dryden slipped out on to the quayside to a concrete and glass shelter with its back to the wind. Seagulls blew past, screeching, and heading inland.