Sleeping Tiger by Rosamunde Pilcher Page B

suddenness of an exploding rocket.
    â€œIt hasn’t done for ten years,” he shouted over the din of the car and the rain and the wind. Already they seemed to be up to the hubcaps in water, and Selina’s feet were awash. She wondered if she should start baling.
    â€œWell, what’s the good of a hood if it doesn’t go up?”
    â€œOh, stop bellyaching.”
    â€œI am not bellyaching, but…”
    He accelerated, and her words died in a grasp of fright. They roared down the road, cutting corners with screeching tyres and sending up waves of yellow mud. The sea was the colour of lead, and the gardens of the delectable little villas already devastated by the wind. The air seemed to be filled with flying flotsam—leaves and scraps of straw and pine-needles—and when at last they came over the hill and down the lane towards Casa Barco, the water, penned between high walls, had reached the proportions of a deep stream, and their progress in George’s car was like shooting rapids.
    The bulk of this water, by force of gravity, was diverted down the flight of steps which led to the harbour, but a good deal had invaded the old net-store where he kept his car, and which already appeared to be in a state of flood.
    Despite this, he drove straight into it, stopping a perilous inch from the far wall. He switched off the engine and jumped out, saying, “Come on, get out, and help me to get the doors shut.”
    Selina was too frightened to rebel. She stepped out into four inches of cold, dirty water and went to help him drag shut the sagging doors. They got them closed at last, leaning against them until, by sheer brute force, George was able to jam the primitive bolt into position. This done, he took her by the wrist and ran her into the Casa Barco, as another flash of lightning split the black sky to be followed by a roll of thunder so close that she thought the roof was going to fall in.
    Even in the house, they did not appear to be safe. He went straight out on to the terrace, and began to struggle with the shutters. The wind was so strong that he had to prise them away from the walls of the house. The pots of flowers had already gone, some over the edge of the wall, others on to the terrace, where they lay, a mêlée of broken earthenware and spilt mud. When at last he got the shutters closed, and the inner doors, the house seemed dark and unfamiliar. He tried the light switch, but the electricity had gone off. The rain, coming down the chimney, had put out the fire, and the well was gurgling as though it might at any moment overflow.
    Selina said, “Are we going to be all right?”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t we be all right?”
    â€œI’m frightened of thunder.”
    â€œIt can’t hurt you.”
    â€œLightning can.”
    â€œWell, then, be frightened of lightning.”
    â€œI am. I’m frightened of that, too.”
    She felt that he should apologise, but he merely felt in his pocket and pulled out a soggy packet of cigarettes. He chucked this into the spitting fireplace, and went prowling, searching for more, eventually running a packet to earth in the galley. He took one and lit it, and then, while he was there, poured himself a stiff whisky. He brought the glass to the well, let down the bucket and brought it up brimfull, and, with a dexterity born of long practice, tipped the water from the bucket into the glass without spilling a drop.
    He said, “Do you want a drink?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    He took a mouthful of whisky and stood watching her, and she couldn’t guess if he was laughing or not. They were both of them as wet as if they had fallen into a bath. Selina had shucked off her ruined shoes and now stood in an ever-widening puddle of water with her dress-hem dripping and her hair plastered to her face and neck. Being wet did not appear to bother George Dyer as much as it bothered her. She said, “I suppose you’re