Redlegs by Chris Dolan Page A

floating remains of his livelihood , and pulled the door open. The water from outside met the water within and created a little eddy around his bare legs. Looking out the open door, Elspeth saw the full extent of the damage.
    The sea had leapt unaccountably from its bed. The sky had cracked and crumbled, and everything that ever was, was ripped up by its roots. The gods, she thought, are children who leave a shameful guddle behind their pranks and games. How on earth could such a supernatural mess be cleared by mere mortals? The day ahead would be different from the one she had been expecting – the day of her debut, the day she had been working towards and planning for months. She nursed the idea for a moment that things might be put back in order for her recital tonight, and nearly smiled at such a foolish hope.
    Where does one start to tidy a clutter like that? Pick up that tree? Sort out the walls of the house from the roof? See if there is anyone buried under the rubble? Look for things left whole and undestroyed, pile them to one side? Wake up George now, or let him sleep?
    None of these were matters for a woman like Elspeth to decide.Her father had ever railed against her for being “haunless, daft and yissless”. She had claimed, to him and inwardly to herself, that, when a true crisis came, she would rise to the challenge. Her daily ineffectiveness – striking sets and camp, loading carts – would be overcome and she would find within herself an heroic capacity. Well, here was a crisis beyond her worst expectations, and no heroism stirred.
    What they must do, she and George, was find people to help them. Henry was strong, but not strong enough to do the work of twenty, forty men. How many would it take to rebuild this little corner of the world? Henry had his own house to put in order, and then his duty was to his own master at the mansion. His wife and children stared dumbly at him as if at any moment he would turn around and smile, lift all the chaos away with his huge arms, drain the water and clear the mud, turn the day into one like any other. They followed his every move – fishing out a passing joist, plucking it from the water, then throwing it back again. It chilled Elspeth’s heart to think that even a functional and instinctive being like Henry was at a loss.
    She had to get down from this shelf. George had to call on the resources of his father’s house. People, servants, maids, slave-gangs who could get a good day’s work done, construct somewhere for them to be this evening. The first task was to wake him and send him off to muster helpers, bring tea and food, set about putting things in order. She dreeped down from her shelf, slipping into the warm sludge, stretched and took a hold of George’s hand. It was cold from the wet and wind. She looked back out through the door, getting a broader view than from atop the shelf. Her vision was unobstructed for miles. Nothing stood to impede the view. The ground was strewn as far as the eye could see with rafters, planks, tabletops, chair legs – like a Glasgow barroom after a brawl – bricks and stones, blue porch tiles, red roof beams, chimneys, felled palms and grapefruit trees, single plantains and coconuts, everything higgelty-piggelty. Sugar canes, snapped up and thrown from fields miles away, floated past the chattel shack, leaving a tang of sweetness in the air.
    George was huddled into his coat, face towards her, calm andcalming, as he had been throughout the worst of it, protecting his mistress chivalrously throughout the storm, finding this sanctuary for them to survive the night. She shook him.
    “George,” she said, soothingly. “Georgie.”
    His body juddered to her touch instead of rocking or waking. Henry watched her trying to rouse him, and made his way back through the deluge towards her. George slumped forward and she saw the splinter of mahogany protrude from his side.
    “Had that in him last night. Didn’t want to pull it