Guilt

PROLOGUE The river, the mysterious peat-brown being that descended from the high moors was, from the earliest times, a powerful presence in the valley. Before the Romans came the Celtic tribes of the north considered its waters to be sacred. So it was for later settlers who understood its many moods. They thought of the river as a living creature to be respected, not to be abused or taken for granted. Over the centuries this awareness was not entirely lost. There were still a few who kept in touch with the spirit of the river. They read the signs and watched for the warnings when the water began to flex its muscles and rip bankside trees from their moorings. These were the folk who knew when disaster might happen… No one could ignore the river for long. There were times when it ran, tranquil and slow, through the town that lay in the bottom of the valley. At such times it receded into the backs of people's minds. But no one could quite forget it. Shopkeepers and housewives, who rarely went far from their businesses and doorsteps in the early 1960s, found themselves thinking about the river as soon as storm clouds appeared on the surrounding moorland skylines. "Eyup, Tommy." Ralph Parnaby, the newsagent, greeted one of his regulars - the legendary Tommy Page, master pike fisherman. "Gonna be a spot of rain. Best keep an eye on the river." "Right enough." Tommy paid for his paper. "Land's that wet already more rain'll run straight off." "And that means floods, Tommy." "I'll take a look tonight. Fish'll tell us, for sure." The river was never far from anyone's thoughts. In times of storm it became an obsession. At such periods the river was transformed from a benign and soothing presence to a mythical monster. Anxious eyes would glance skywards. "Here it comes!" The housewives nodded to each other in the corner shops. "They'll be sandbagging down at Wade's." "That Noah – you know, that old fella from Genesis – happen he were born at bottom of Water Lane!" Old photographs testified that in past generations it was common for small groups of onlookers to gather on the town's bridge to watch the river. These groups were mainly composed of retired locals and laid-off seasonal labourers. Books on local history stated that the younger men deferred to the wisdom of their elders, who would duly pronounce on the rising waters: if it would be a short-lived affair, or something potentially serious. Many times the river had flooded the works' yards at the bottom of the valley: the bone mill, the slaughterhouse, the local brewery. Employees kept a spare pair of wellington boots in the staff changing rooms to avoid being caught out. Occasionally the town's bridge would become impassable to all but council trucks and tractors. The river would rage like a demented thing against the bridge piers, carrying a battering ram of swirling liquid down from the storm-swept moors. As well as uprooted trees, drowned cattle and sheep - and, in winter, large blocks of discoloured ice - would be swept along in the churning current. No one could remember anything like the floods of 1962. Half a century later aging locals looked back on that year with awe. The sudden inundations of April and July were quite simply apocalyptic. Those who remembered the year's events would say – to anyone with a long enough attention span to listen – that they even had the potential to change lives. It had snowed heavily in January and February, then the torrential rains in March and early April had set off a rapid thaw. The melted snow had poured down from the hills in one big rush – and the river had been transformed. Thunder had clattered and rumbled ominously for days. The steep grassy slopes of the valley sides were shimmering sheets of water. Streams overspilled their banks to become instant torrents which poured headlong into the river. By dawn the river had darkened to the colour of bog oak and the town bridge was ankle deep in scummy peat-thickened liquid. The booming voice of the waters mingled with the thunder and observers had to shout to make themselves heard. Goat willows and hazels on the banks thrashed like crazed things in the violent wind. Chimney stacks and roof slates succumbed to the storm, littering the town's streets with debris. Early risers drew back their curtains to see sheets of rain obliterating the valley slopes. Even the younger working men and women knew this was a big one. To the older generations it was nothing short of cataclysmic. A sense of unease gripped the town. And still it went on raining. Michael Shackleton, the local gamekeeper, set up his summer camp on rising ground in the woods as usual. Each day he watched the water level rise, until he wondered if his camp might be cut off, an event that had never happened before. But the floods would put a stop to poaching, unless the more enterprising local rogues decided to come by canoe. When a worried farmer asked his opinion of the weather the gamekeeper enquired if he cared more for the earth than he did for money. The farmer said yes, of course. "Then you've no need to ask me," the gamekeeper smiled shrewdly. "The earth has all the answers you need." Florrie Gaunt, the mysterious old woman who some called a witch, predicted doom and disaster for all who wouldn't take heed. When clients called for a Tarot reading she would tell them to pay attention. They shook their heads in puzzlement. Attention to what? If you don't pay attention you'll never know, was her cryptic reply. When Tommy Page went down to the rising river to consult with the fish he got the shock of his life. His friends asked him what he'd found out, but he stared at them like a madman. "No fish," he said, in a voice hushed with awe. "No fish?" the enquirers echoed. "They're all on the bottom hiding in the mud." The flood of April 1962 affected much of northern England and was the worst the town had experienced. But the one in the following July was, some said, even bigger. To many they seemed like warnings, but of what the townsfolk were unsure. Was it their greed and pettiness? Was this punishment for serious moral flaws? Self-examination continued until the floods receded and normality lulled them back to sleep. To a few unsuspecting souls they were more than warnings: the floods of that year were like lessons carved in stone.