quickly down to the sea. Therefore, the high rainfall falling in such a short time could not be absorbed into the ground and a surge of water through the village of Boscastle estimated to have been in excess of 100 square metres per second created a 10–15 ft (3–4.5 m) high flood traveling up to 40 mph (65 km/h).
Boscastle Flood Special Issue,
Journal of Meteorology 29, no. 293
thirteen
On Sunday morning, Andrew was awakened by a peculiar, episodic crackling noise. In his dream, it was the sparking of a campfire beside which he was sleeping in a clearing in the woods near the meandering Charles River, in the gentle countryside upriver of Boston—but a Boston of a century or two ago. As he climbed up out of the dream, he understood gradually that the sound was more a rattle than a crackle. He opened his eyes, got his bearings, and saw the morning was already well advanced.
The rattle ceased, then began again, like hail against a roof. No, like gravel against a window. His kitchen window. He pulled on a pair of jeans, stumbled to the kitchen, and peered out. Sure enough, there was Lee, sitting on the stone wall. Also Nicola. Both of them were grinning.
He shook his head, as if doing so would make the apparition disperse, but it didn't change. They were still there, rocking their legs back and forth in unison and chucking gravel at the cottage. He sighed, put water in the kettle, turned it on, and opened the door.
“Ladies!” he barked. “It is barely daylight!”
“Uh-uh!” said Lee.
“Uh-uh!” said Nicola.
They seemed immensely pleased with themselves. He wandered back inside, desperate for tea. The girl and the woman skipped in behind him as if they belonged there.
“We thought you were gonna sleep forever, like Sleeping Beauty!” Lee chided as she hopped up to sit on the counter by the sink.
“So how come I got gravel instead of a magic kiss?” Andrew grumped.
“We couldn't find any handsome princes,” Nicola said, clamping her hand over her mouth, her shoulders bouncing with suppressed laughter, in which Lee, naturally, joined, though she didn't understand the joke.
“Why aren't you getting ready for church?” Andrew asked the girl.
“Nicki and me are going to a different church, a really old one!”
“Older than St. Symphorian's or Minster?”
“Uh-huh,” Lee said, casting a quick glance at Nicola for support. Nicola nodded.
“What's your mother think of this arrangement?” he asked. The kettle clicked off and he poured the steaming water into a teapot.
“Mum's poorly,” Lee said. “Says she has a summer cold or something. She said it was fine.”
“And you two needed to inform me of your devotional plans”—he glanced at the clock—“at this ungodly hour because …?”
“’Cause you're meant to come with us! Right, Nicki?”
“If you'd like,” Nicola said looking at him, her eyes soft, her voice signaling a kind of apology.
“I need some breakfast,” Andrew groused, now playing up the role of the put-upon victim.
Nicola came over to the counter, used her hip to push him gently aside, cut a thick hunk of crusty bread from the loaf Andrew kept under a kitchen towel, slathered it with butter, and then drizzled it with honey from the crock on the windowsill.
“Petit déjeuner, monsieur,” she said, handing it to him on a paper napkin, privately admiring the thicket of curly, graying hairs that furred Andrew's chest. “Come on, you'll like it,” she added, her French failing her.
Andrew slumped his shoulders in resignation and shuffled off to the bedroom to look for a shirt. Then he came back out and asked, “What's the appropriate dress for this church?”
“Oh, it's quite casual,” Nicola said lightly, flashing a quick wink at Lee. “And it's a bit of a hike to get there.”
Lee was wearing her usual faded khaki shorts, T-shirt, and wellies. Nicola had on hiking sandals with lugged soles, a flatteringly snug pair of black capri pants, a tailored white cotton broadcloth shirt with the collar turned up in the back, and a black-and-white-striped silk scarf tied around her forehead, Indian style, its tails trailing down to her left shoulder. Once again, he marveled at how lovely she was with so little artifice. He retreated to his room again and put on a faded blue chambray shirt, socks, and his boots. In the kitchen, he grabbed his honeyed bread, filled a lidded traveler's mug with milky tea, and followed the ladies out to Nicola's car, which turned out to be a farm vehicle: a rugged old olive-green four-wheel Land Rover Defender.