Cross

The summer city riots had spread to the rural north. The news eventually filtered through to the isolated mining village of Brookover. Its pit had long been closed, a sportswear assembly unit squatting on its corpse. It was the main employer for miles, the owners having brought in scores of Eastern Europeans on the minimum wage to toil there.

            The presence of the ‘foreigners’ was a grievance: Polish shops, strange languages in the market square. Their healthy diet marked out the incomers too. They were thin and fit, not paunchy and panting like some locals.

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And there came upon the land a great flood…

Sam wondered where Rosie, his home help was, she wasn’t usually late.  He hoped she hadn’t had an accident.  Slowly swinging his legs over to the side of the bed and with the aid of his crutches, he managed to get to the stair lift. He made some breakfast and wrote a list of food items that he needed, that Rosie could get later.

Through the window, he could see the palm tree waving in the strong wind.  Quite a storm we had last night he thought, he was glad the tree had survived.  It had always been a bit of a joke between his wife Maureen, and himself, a reminder of good times together in sunnier climes.  It was only then he noticed that the garden bench wasn’t in it’s usual spot.  It was bobbing up and down in water near the hedge.  He looked towards the road hoping to see Rosie, but only saw a swift flowing muddy river that seemed to be surrounding his home. 

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