CLOUD OVER CORATON.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 65, Issue 192, 28 May 1945, Page 6

CLOUD OVER CORATON.

Serial Story.

(Copyright).

Wartime Rural England.

BY T. C. BRIDGES.

CHAPTER II CLOUD BURST. “Cloud is sitting right down on it, Derek. Does that mean one of your moor fogs?” Derek shook his head. “It means thunder, Peter. We’d better shove along if we want to cross the water-splash. These moor streams come down bank high if you get a real storm.” He drove on a little way and turned into a by-road. This was not tarred and the surface was bad. He had to slow down for the sake of his tyres. For a couple of miles the road wound between two tors, then suddenly dropped steeply into a wide and open valley. “That’s the Clint below us,” Derek said, “and there”—he pointed—“Coraton’s over there. But you can’t see the house because the trees hide it.” Peter gazed for a moment then turned to his companion. “If I can’t see your house there’s one thing I can see. And that’s one outsize storm. Look at it coming over the High Moor!” Derek looked and pursed his lips. “Gosh, you’re right! It looks like a cloud burst. I’ll have to drive like sin to cross the water-splash.” “Is that the only way to get to your place?” “There’s a bridge, but it means a three mile round. And I get only seven gallons of juice a month.” “Better be slow than sorry. You’ll only bust your axle on a road like this.” Derek did his best, but you can’t drive fast on a narrow track that curves steeply down a long hill. Like a vast curtain the storm-cloud rose out of the north-west. It was blue-black, rimmed with rolling white vapour. Its deep heart was seamed with veinings of electric fire and the mutter of thunder became continuous. Not a breath stirred and, even up at this height nearly a thousand feet above the sea level, the air had become heavy and stifling. Peter did not speak, for Derek needed all his energies to steer the car around the hairpin bends. The cloud covered the sun and a heavy shadow cut all colour from the wide view. A jagged flash leaped across the sky, and the thunder clap echoed and crashed from tor to tor. “She’s coming,” Peter said. “But the stream hasn’t begun to rise yet.” They were on lower ground, the road running just above the Clint. It was a pretty stream with long stickles and deep pools. “Must be lovely with the sun on it,” Peter thought. “There’s old Prance fishing,” Derek said: “He’s in for a ducking.” A very old man was walking slowly down the opposite bank casting as he went. His rod looked as ancient as himself, and his creel was a black wooden box strapped across his bent back, “He’s deaf as a post,” Derek continued. “Spends all his time fishing, and it’s wonderful the quantity of trout he gets. He knows every rock in the river.” “There won’t be many rocks visible in a very few minutes,” Peter told him. “It’s a cloud-burst right enough. No water-splash for us to-day, old son.” Derek slowed and glanced back. “You’re right. It’s going; to be a snorter.” Then he pulled up short. “Look at old Prance! He’s going to try the stepping stones. If the flood comes down he won’t have a hope. Wait here, Peter, while I run down and 'warn him.” From road to river was a couple of hundred yards, steep, rough, boulder- 1 strewn ground, with thick clumps of ancient gorse. And, though Derek got along quickly, he certainly could not run. Peter, who had got out of the car, lighted a cigarette and watched. It was no use shouting to the old man. Prance was too deaf to hear, and there he was actually on the first stepping stone. . The stream here was thirty yards wide, perhaps not more than two feet deep. The stones were huge granite blocks sets fairly close together, thenupper parts smooth by the feet of men who had used them for centuries. In ordinary times even old Prance could cross with perfect safety. A blaze of lightning, a crash of thunder, that sounded like a bomb, made Peter start. He looked back up stream and saw a wall of water with a front a yard high racing round a bend no more than three hundred yards away. “Derek!” he yelled. “It’s coming—get back.” Derek had reached the river bank. He heard and looked. He shouted to Prance. By this time the old man was half way across. He too, saw the flood wave and put his best foot forward. But he was nearly eighty and stiff with rheumatism. Peter saw Derek go out on to the stones. He himself had already started down the slope. Throwing his doctor’s advice to the winds, he ran.

The brown wave, crested with yellow foam, was coming down at the speed of a galloping horse'. It reached the top of the. long pool at the same moment that Derek reached Prance. Derek got behind him and helped him along.

They were only three stones from the near bank when it happened. Poor old Prance stumbled and fell off into the water on the down stream side. He fell sideways and went right under. Derek was after him at once, but it was too late. He got him to his feet just as the wave struck the stones with a mighty splash. But for Peter, Prance’s fall would have spelt finish both for Prance and Derek. Peter was singularly coolheaded, one of those people who does not lose his head in an emergency. Most men, in his position, would have plunged in and then there would have been three drowned instead of two. Always at these stepping stones on the Moor streams there is a stout pole about eight feet long for use when the water is high. Often there is one on both sides. There was one here. Peter spotted it instantly, and snatched it up. An eddy had flung Derek and Prance towards the near bank and Peter thrust out the pole just in time for Derek to grasp it. Peter, knee deep in water, walked backwards, and in a matter of moments Derek and Prance were safe on the bank. Derek stood up and shook himself like a wet dog. He looked at the brown, foam-

flecked flood sweeping past, then turned to Peter. “You all right?” he asked with a touch of anxiety. “Fine! Lucky about the pole. How’s Prance?” “I be all right,” said the old chap slowly, “but I lost my fishing rod.” “There’s an old one up at the house, you can have,” Derek said. “Be you Mr Martyn?’ Prance asked. “I’m Derek Martyn and this is Mr Plews. But come on up to the car and we’ll drop you at your house.” As they started the rain hit them and Peter was as wet as the others before they reached the road. They dropped Prance at the bare, little, slated cottage where he lived alone, and pushed on to the bridge. “Not very grateful,” said Peter. “Oh, but. he was. I Avas on the Moor a lot Avlien I Avas a kid and I know these Moor folk. Not their Avay to render thanks. Incidentally, I haven’t thanked you, Peter.” “Oh, forget it!” retorted Peter. “Is this your house?” X.To Be Continued;.