WINTER’S TORRENTIAL RAIN AND THE IDEA OF AN ARK EW Farnsworth

Long before the clouds gathered and the first of the rainstorms appeared, the tabloids had been full of imagery and allusions to prepare the public for the worst case, and sixty thousand pounds had been wagered in the pool—a sizeable amount even in those inflationary times. The purveyors of rain gear had run out of stock. No slickers, rubbers, bumbershoots or hip boots could be purchased for any amount of money.

On the seventh day after the forecast had hit the presses, patrons of the pub wore their raingear like uniforms. Extra clothes trees had to be erected, and the waitresses fetched in towels and blankets, which were piled high around Sheriff Fatty Millstone’s table as a courtesy. Always provident, the sheriff arranged for daily runs to the laundry where wet garments, hand cloths and scarves could be dried and returned to the pub before Closing Time.

Visions of the results of the Great Flood, Second Iteration, were provided by eager cartoonists. Not an issue from the yellow press appeared without a rising ocean of free-range tentacles tangling with corpses of unfortunate masses bobbing on and sinking under the relentless and all-enveloping deep. The respective artists for Straight’s and Crenshaw’s newspapers vied daily to outdo each other with improbable and outrageous features, drawing upon such classic works as The Raft of the Medusa, the oil painting by the French Romantic painter and lithographer Théodore Géricault.

In the frenzy of the time, many citizens speculated about the wisdom of building an Ark before it was too late to consider doing so. The Prime Minister had to answer serious questions about the advisability of shipbuilding in view of the circumstances. The PM did not shirk from his responsibility to calm the frenetic multitudes, so he established a committee to study the matter, funding the group of four men and four women so they could draw up designs for a suitable sailing vessel if insufficient bottoms should be available from Royal Navy vessels.

Every morning Sheriff Millstone walked to the pub through the park, whose greenery was splendid from one of the best autumnal seasons in decades. The dew from the grasses and flowers covered his legs to his thighs, making him glad he had stored dry towels at the Cracked Bell. He made a point of stopping to pay his respects to Dolly the cow, who could usually be found by the oxbow of the creek where the watercress choked the stream and he could make out the shape of the free-range tentacle waving back and forth in the slowly flowing water.

Millstone had discussed the coming flood with his family and friends in the hot tub of the tenement. They entertained the notion of forming a chain of space vehicles to convey as many citizens as possible to a place of safety while the surging waters held sway. The decision about who should be allocated a place on the Ark and who should be left to his own resources, at the mercy of the elements, was to be determined by the PM himself. Sir Douglas Hudibras and Fatty had quietly opted to surrender their seats on the Ark to less fortunate citizens. This was not a popular decision from the point of view of Lady Lucille and Dr Sarah Millstone, but they were overruled by their husbands, who grew in their esteem as a result.

On the ninth day after the forecast, just when doubts began to emerge about the validity of the claims about the inclement weather, the daytime skies were covered with clouds the colour of indigo, highlighted by forks of lightning and crashes of thunder that never seemed to stop. The promised deluge came, drenching the village and park, the waters filling every defile, stranding the livestock, so work crews had to lead the likes of Dolly to increasingly high ground as the water level rose. Naturally, the drains overflowed, but the natural declivity of Picklock Lane kept the way wet though passable.

The rest facilities at the Cracked Bell flooded, so two pumps had to be installed to drain them continuously with conduits aimed out the back entrance and down the adjoining lane. In the earliest days of the rain, Straight, who was the manager of the betting pool, was confident his own wager, which was to bet for forty days and forty nights of rain, would prevail. As the days entered their first and second weeks, the tabloid writer began to have doubts. He noticed that Sheriff Millstone had bet on one hundred days and one hundred nights, and the PM had gone even ten days and nights farther.

While the entire population was embroiled in dealing with the rising water, the mood inside the Cracked Bell was ebullient. The patrons made their way to their normal places daily and remained in that relatively dry and convivial place until closing time. The news outside the pub was regularly the subject of discussion, and the rising tide of misfortunes did nothing to stint the overall joy of being alive with friends as the waters of judgment covered over the sometimes cruel world outside. The sheriff marvelled that patrons who suffered the indignity of falling in the flooded loo managed to emerge laughing at themselves for their clumsiness, glad they had not broken their hip or leg bone because the water had cushioned them from injury.

Crenshaw first raised the issue of the committee for the Ark. The sheriff had to relate the sorry tale—the stumbling block had been the issue of privilege. No one could think of a just and fair way to determine who should go and who should remain behind. The PM foresaw the impasse, and he had let the work of the committee become an archive for future reference.

The newshound seemed gratified by this knowledge. ‘I thought, surely, the PM and the sheriff would be the first to climb aboard the available vessels to survive the debacle. Your not having done so restores my faith in my fellow men. Can you let us know how far the august committee persons got in their deliberations?’ He was holding his notepad with his pen poised over it, ready to take down every word.

‘The complete story must come from the PM himself. But I can give a few details. One vessel was deemed insufficient, so a “Dunkirk” solution was recommended—a flotilla of small vessels which would range around four of our largest cargo vessels, which would hold the victuals and fresh water for all.’

‘Was there a place for Dolly the cow and Ferdinand the bull?’ This facetious comment brought gales of laughter from the other patrons who had assembled.

‘In fact, all the “two-by-two fauna” had places allocated on huge cargo vessels refitted as livestock carriers. When the committee canvassed the farmers, though, they could not choose which animals should be accommodated. Everyone wanted his neighbours’ animals to go aboard despite the fact that their own would perish as a result.’

Crenshaw said, ‘May I quote you on that, Sheriff? This is sensational news. I would have bet against our citizens showing such self-abnegation.’

The sheriff said, ‘Speaking of bets, haven’t we passed the 40/40 test, Mr Straight?’

‘Yes, Sheriff, we have—and the rain is continuing strong with fierce thunderstorms followed by torrents. Our PM and you are the only bettors whose wagers extend beyond the biblical numbers.’

‘We only selected our numbers because we thought we had no chance of winning. It is clear we are not going to have a globe-swallowing event because our drainage is able to handle the run-off. What are the weathermen saying about how long the storms will last?’

Crenshaw laughed out loud. ‘Of course, the meteorologists are celebrating their success. But they admit there is no way to predict when the end will occur. The long bets are as good as the forecasts now. My cartoonist has done a sketch wherein you and the PM are rowing neck-and-neck to the finish, to the last island in the Flood where Dolly and Ferdinand are basking in the moonlight.’

‘I do like that image. To make it complete, you might allude in your news copy to the Spanish folksong about the bull who fell in love with the moon after seeing its reflection in the water.’

‘I think I know the song you mean. Thanks for the reminder.’

The next morning, Crenshaw dropped a copy of his tabloid in front of the sheriff. An image oof the moon almost filled the front page, with the silhouettes of Dolly and Ferdinand appearing against the moon and its reflection. ‘I remind you, Sheriff, the rain still comes down. My readers are getting upset because they sense there will be no end to it.’

Straight said, ‘Maybe we should speculate about what you or the PM will do with the money you will win from the pool?’

‘Now, there is a constructive idea. Why don’t you put your readers to work? They can suggest projects for which the money should be earmarked. After you get a good set of candidates, your general readership can vote on the list. The PM or I will then be directed by your readers.’

Rarely did Straight and Crenshaw agree about anything, but the sheriff’s suggestion struck a sympathetic chord in both men. For the next two weeks, the tabloid readership brooded on Millstone’s idea. By the end of that time, they had narrowed their ideas to ten, which would be voted on to determine the winner.

The rain began to slacken on the hundredth day, and it finally ceased on the very day the PM had selected. Both tabloids announced these happy events, together with the public project the people had voted for—the refurbishment of Lady Lucille’s Butterfly Paradise, which had been ruined in the flood.

Sheriff Millstone informed the PM and his Lady Lucille that they should appear at the Cracked Bell pub to receive their respective honours—his award for placing the winning bet and her reward as the patroness of people’s choice for spending the money.

On the day of the award ceremony, the sun was shining, and the pub was full of patrons. Straight, the keeper of the bets, stood ready to present the cheque to the PM, so he could endorse it over to his spouse for the Butterfly Paradise. The great man and his lady entered the Cracked Bell as the hour for the presentation struck. The newshound gave a speech before he presented the cheque, and everyone applauded. Then the PM took the pen Millstone gave him to endorse the cheque in favour of his wife. The Lady Lucille accepted the check with appropriate blushes and a short statement that she would restore the public garden in the spring. Then, the sheriff ordered drinks for everyone on the house.

When all the pints of bitter had been filled, the PM raised a toast to ‘All the unsung free-range tentacles, the real heroes of the Flood,’ and he advised the tabloid reporters to make a special effort to record the exploits of the many tentacles who emerged from nowhere to save a child or an elder person from drowning. The newshounds took their notes and nodded that they would comply.

As if on cue, Dolly the cow came in the front entrance to receive universal acclaim for having graced the covers of the tabloids with her bull. The sheriff took her entrance as his cue to grasp her halter and lead her back into the sunshine, through the back door and into the park. The cow was used to the sheriff’s gentle handling. She trotted along beside him across the greensward and over the hill to her farm. When he had restored her to her stall in her barn, Millstone returned to the park to cast an eye on the Butterfly Paradise, usually one of his favourite places to visit, now gone to ruin.

The sheriff was not dismayed by what the garden had become. The Lady Lucille would use the money her husband had won to restore the place to its former glory. The sunshine and the rich, black English soil would bring the image of heaven back into trim. He consulted his watch and continued back towards the Cracked Bell pub. He had time to advise the newshounds about how to compose their stories about the free-range tentacles. He knew the PM intended to use those true stories to bolster his plan to integrate the neglected free-range tentacles into the national fabric by including them in the national health plan at the next election.