The Storm

For once the weather forecast had been correct. A fierce storm was blowing onto the shore, sending trails of spume across the sand dunes and speckling the marram grass with froth.  Behind the dunes lay a low bungalow, surrounded by a garden stunted by the sea laden air. Inside a couple sat on either side of the kitchen table, nervously watching the clock.

“What time is high tide?” he asked.

“Noon. In twenty minutes time,” she replied.

They both stared across the garden towards the shore, searching for any sign that the sea was about to breach the dunes.  If it did, it would only take minutes to cross the short distance to their home, lying only a few feet above the high tide mark.

As a precaution, they had already packed all their most valuable possessions into suitcases and loaded into their cars. Anything else that could be stacked above floor level was in position, just in case.

Their neighbours had left a few hours earlier, saying they were heading to their daughter’s house a few miles inland. They were fortunate, as they had somewhere else to go.

The couple sitting in the bungalow had nowhere else. They would only have each other and the contents of their cars.

Strangely, the ticking of the clock was still audible above the sound of the wind and waves, ominously counting down the last few minutes until the tide reached its highest point.  

She fidgeted anxiously with her car keys, turning them over and over in her hand.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked.

“Are you coming too?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll wait and see what happens.”

She nodded her head in tacit agreement. She would not leave without him.

A loud thud against the kitchen door made him leap from chair to investigate, closely following by his wife. He opened the door gingerly and their dustbin clattered across the threshold, cascading their rubbish across the floor. At any other time, it would have infuriated both of them, but now they burst out laughing, relieved that it was nothing more serious. She hugged him and buried her head on his chest.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Five past twelve,” he replied, glancing at the clock. “The tide will start to turn soon, so we’ll be alright.”

“In that case I’d better start clearing this up,” she said, lifting the bin and standing it upright. “The sooner we get back to normal, the better.”