Page 57 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
The three men looked backwards and forward between each other, weighing up their options.
‘So are we going to do this thing or not?’ asked Sam abruptly. ‘Only time is ticking on.’ He saw the small acknowledgements of the other two. ‘Jesus, Freya is going to kill me,’ he said.
Stephen fished the Landy’s keys out of his pocket. ‘She may not have to,’ he muttered, walking off towards the truck.
Tom put his hand on Sam’s arm. ‘No playing the hero, right. If it isn’t going to work, we back off, agreed?’ He waited until he saw the answer in Sam’s eyes.
Moments later, Stephen had backed the Land Rover a little way down the road, angling the vehicle so that the winch cable would run in a straight line to the tree he was using as a winch block. He worked quickly and methodically, his instructions to Tom and Sam brief, but articulate. Once the cable had been set up around the winch block, it would run out to the fallen tree at a forty-five-degree angle to the first cable. It was the only safe way to ensure that the cable wound without becoming kinked and damaged. Stephen had only seen a steel cable under tension break once in his life and it was not something he wished to repeat.
Down by the riverbank, Sam shivered. He’d been wet through for what seemed like hours, barely noticing the cold, but now the thought of what was ahead loomed large, and he felt the wind keenly. He tried to shut out the roar in his ears as the noise made it hard to focus, but there was nowhere for it to go, and he gritted his teeth, taking deep calming breaths.
A shout further up the bank alerted him to the fact that Tom, his first anchor point, was ready. Shortly after, he felt Stephen guide the harness around his shoulders, and he took hold of the strap that would connect with the cable, testing the weight in his hands. There was only one branch of the tree that he would have any chance of passing the strap over, and his throw would need to be accurate if this was to work at all. He would be leaning as far out over the water as he could, but if he slipped…He focused his vision away from the churning surface of the water, and concentrated on the branch. The boiling mass of debris bouncing around the tree need only be of concern to him if he fell in, and if that happened, his only hope for survival would be if Stephen and Tom managed to haul him out quickly.
He looked back at Stephen to check that he was ready to begin, and slowly made his way further down the bank. His feet sank too quickly into the soft mud at the water’s edge, and he panicked for a moment fearing he would slide even further. Then he realised that it was not traction he needed, but a place where his feet could anchor, where the squelchy surface would suck at his feet and render then immobile. He shifted position slightly, squaring himself to the task, and allowed his weight to sink his feet further into the mud. Behind him he could feel Stephen digging in.
‘Let’s do this now, Sam…I’ve got your back.’
Stephen’s words floated past him for a moment before being lost to the wind, and he took a deep breath. Whatever had happened between them, Stephen was his brother, and would always have his back, he knew that.
He balanced the weighted end of the strap in his hand, narrowing his vision until he saw only the branch in front of him. He leaned forward, feeling the pull as both Stephen and Tom took his weight, and he stretched out, his body following the trajectory of his throw. A singular moment, a deep breath, and he threw, not daring to breathe until he saw the perfect arc of the strap as it dropped. It landed in a tangle of branches, but Sam had watched it clear the main branch and that’s all that counted. He could see the metal shackle hanging clear, and his head sagged in relief. Now all he needed to do was pull the two ends together.
He heard Stephen’s triumphant shout behind him, and knew that he would be trying to pass him the long pole, but his body was angled so far forward that reaching any distance behind him was impossible. He couldn’t see either, and any movement of his head to either side simply blew a torrent of rain into his eyes. He made sure that the shackle on his end of the strap was fastened to his harness and threw his weight backwards; the last thing he needed now was to drop the bloody thing. His feet came free from the mud with a loud squelch and he sprawled on his back, chest heaving amongst the undergrowth.
His hands came into contact with cold metal as Stephen slithered down beside him, placing the pole where he could reach it.
‘You’re doing great, Sam, are you okay?’
‘If I can get up again, yes,’ he replied through gritted teeth, trying to find a place where he could dig his heels in and stand once more. He felt his brother’s body against his back as Stephen tried to provide some leverage, and he pushed off blindly, hearing Stephen’s grunt as he pushed down on his shoulder. Immediately, his feet tried to slide away from him as they found his original footholds, now made bigger by his exit and he sank quickly. Water filled his boots as he realised how much farther down he had slid, or was it that the water level had risen even in that short space of time? He stared out over the river, trying to focus on the tree branch and the strap he had thrown. He could still see the shackle, but it was now only inches above the water’s surface. If he didn’t loop it quickly, it would be underwater and there would be no way he could see it. He shouted back at Stephen, praying that he was ready to take his weight once more. He had no choice but to go for it now.
He fed the long metal pole through his hands, feeding the hooked end out into the wind, trying to counterbalance the movement and sway, which became worse the further out he reached. The muscles in his shoulders and arms began to burn with the effort of keeping the pole aloft, and his arms shook in response. He was now only inches from the dangling strap. He stopped for a moment, letting the pole drop slightly, trying to ease the ferocious ache that was building uncontrollably, and centred his weight over his legs, taking some of the strain through his body. He took a couple of deep breaths and raised the pole again, grunting with the effort. The shackle swayed tantalisingly close, but just as Sam thought he had it, the wind danced it away once more. The pain began to radiate down his back, and he knew he couldn’t maintain this for much longer.
His vision began to blur, either from the rain or exhaustion he couldn’t tell, but as the wind gusted once more, he thrust the pole forward with everything he had left. The hook passed clean through the hole of the shackle, the downward movement of the pole now totally beyond Sam’s control. All he could do was hang on as the pole swung violently, pulling him forward. The last thing he saw before he hit the water was the hook still engaged with the strap.
The cold was absolute, dark and violent as he sank beneath the river, and he knew that the instinctive breath he had taken would not be enough; he hadn’t the strength to hold it. An icy burning began to fill his body before the sudden sharp jolt of his harness bit against the rope that secured him to Stephen. For a moment, he was motionless, but as he felt the pull on his harness, he kicked out with the remaining strength he had. A sharp pain tore across one cheek, but his hands remained gripped to his precious cargo as he felt himself being pulled free of the water. He sucked in a huge breath, coughing, face down in the mud, as his brother hauled him over the tangle of roots at the water’s edge, and he came to rest toppled against him. Stephens’s grip was solid across his shoulders as if he would never let him go.
They lay there panting for a few seconds, hearing Tom’s shouts above them, as he finally let go of the rope that had been holding them both and crashed down the bank to join them.
‘I’m okay,’ spluttered Sam. ‘I’m okay…’ And he held up a hand for them to let him speak. ‘Now for God’s sake get the bloody winch clipped onto this,’ he spluttered, rolling onto his side with a groan so that they could see the pole still pinned under one side of his body, the webbing of the tree strop still miraculously attached to it, and coiled around one of Sam’s legs.
Stephen scrambled up the bank, throwing himself onto the winch cable and pulling it down to clip through the shackle underneath Sam. Only then was Sam finally able to move, suddenly finding a sea of hands above him which reached down to help. He staggered up the bank, still clutching onto Tom; wet, cold, exhausted and muddy, and rather surprised to find his heart still beating.
‘I need you all clear of the winch block,’ shouted Stephen. ‘To the left of it!’
The noise back up on the bridge was almost as loud as that down by the river, as the shouts from the gathered villagers mingled with the noise from the winch and the wind which still hurled rain across the road. Sam had had no idea there was anybody else here, and he was still trying to work out what exactly was going on when a warm body hit his and Freya’s arms pulled him close. He allowed himself to be led clear of the winch cable, where he sat at the side of the road cradled in her lap. Her hair was fragrant against his cheek.
He felt rather than heard the cheer which went up as the tree freed itself from under the bridge and the water surged beneath it, the sudden freedom carrying the swell safely down to the part of the river where the flood plain would gently absorb it. The water level upstream would drop almost instantaneously. The houses were safe. Someone threw a blanket around them both, and Sam wearily closed his eyes.
29
Merry leaped up the minute she heard the car pull up outside. Cora had gone to give Rupert his tea and the last half hour waiting on her own had been almost unbearable. Dusk was falling now and the light from inside made it hard to see, but be it friend or foe, she threw the door open anyway.
‘God in heaven, what on earth has happened to you?’
Freya led the way, her hair still plastered to the side of her face, and one half of her wearing a coating of mud where Sam had leaned up against her. Sam himself trailed behind, finding it hard to walk with no shoes and a pair of trousers that he was struggling to keep up. The woolly fleece that the publican had lent him alongside the trousers was equally roomy, and he looked like a schoolboy in his brother’s hand-me-down clothes.
‘We’re the advance party,’ said Freya, with a grimace. ‘Only because Sam is more in need of hot water than anyone else. A roaring fire and several brandies may have warmed him up a bit, but he could do with a bath, Merry, if that’s all right. He’s filthy and rather whiffy.’
Sam rolled his eyes, although even he could smell the river mud that clung to every part of him.
