Never Alone by Elizabeth Haynes Page B

with a nod. He is bent at the waist, struggling to lift what looks like a canvas sandbag.
    ‘Here, let me help.’
    ‘No, no, lass, I can manage.’
    He clearly can’t. But this is Yorkshire; you don’t just take over a man’s job.
    ‘Is everything all right? What are you doing?’
    ‘Spring’s burst through. Gone under t’wall. Garden’s flooding.’
    His white hair is blowing all around his face. Sarah finds herself wondering inexplicably if the wind has somehow caused the spring, which flows down the hill all year round, following the ditch by the side of the road, to burst its banks. But she sees quickly that the ditch is clogged with leaves and branches at the sharp bend in the road, and that as a result the water has backed up and flowed through a gap in the dry stone wall.
    With a final heave, Harry manages to lift the sandbag against the dip and the rush of water changes course, channelling everything it’s got down the hill once more, over the blocked gully and out across the road.
    He is in the ditch up to his knees, and, as Sarah stands there on the road, watching helplessly, he loses his balance, wobbles and regains it again. Sarah looks up over the wall to the picture window of Cragside Cottage, where Moira Button is standing watching them both.
    ‘Harry,’ Sarah says, ‘you’d be better sandbagging the other side of the wall. Come out of the ditch, will you? That’ll hold for now. I’ll go and get help.’
    Harry looks confused, but it’s almost with relief that he takes Sarah’s offered hand to help him out of the ditch. At the age of eighty-nine, or whatever he is, he is still a tall man, an upright man. His corduroy trousers are soaked beyond the tops of his wellington boots. He can scarcely lift his feet. He holds her shoulder, lifting his feet out of each boot in turn and draining them of muddy water.
    ‘You must be freezing,’ Sarah says.
    ‘It i’n’t all that bad,’ he says, speaking up against the howl of the wind.
    Sarah looks up at the scudding grey clouds and wonders when it will snow. The ditch that normally has the spring trickling through the bottom of it is a raging torrent that has crested the bank and is now flowing fast down the road.
    ‘Go inside,’ she says. ‘You get dried off. I’ll go and see if my friend’s in.’
    She looks at the garden, which has been terraced and therefore does not properly match the slope of the hill. Despite living in such a challenging place for a keen gardener, he has made it a labour of love. Year-round, the lawn is green and carefully weed-free. From here, it looks like a giant brown puddle.
    ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Sarah. Very grateful to you, for stopping an’ all.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Your garden’s dealt with worse over the years, I’m sure.’
    He walks slowly off up the driveway towards the house and Sarah sees Moira move from her position at the window, heading towards the back door. No doubt to make sure Harry doesn’t enter until he’s stripped off the wet and muddy garments.
    Sarah climbs back into the Land Rover and drives another hundred yards up the lane, pulling in through the gate of Four Winds Farm. She drives into the barn, and then heads straight to the cottage. The car is outside, and in the cottage a light is on even though it’s barely lunchtime. The clouds are coming over, promising more rain at any moment. If it rains, it seems unlikely that Harry’s single sandbag will hold.
    ‘Hi,’ Aiden says, opening the door.
    ‘Aiden,’ Sarah says, the words snatched from her mouth by the wind, ‘do you think you could give me a hand withsomething? You’ll need wellies. And a waterproof. Have you –’
    ‘What’s up?’ he asks, but he’s already pulling on a black ski jacket.
    ‘Have you got boots?’
    ‘No,’ he says.
    ‘Come on, I’ve got a pair of Jim’s still.’
    Without waiting, she heads to her back door. As she opens it the dogs burst out, chasing each other