STORIES FROM THE STORM - The Stories

The Evacuation

By Anne Frost

When I was a teenager I traveled the Buckets way everyday from my home at Stroud to Raymond Terrace to attend high school. Although it was only 35 miles (in the old money) or a 45-minute drive in the family’s Morris 1800 it took the bus 2 hours every morning and afternoon. As a result I got very good at reading and writing in a moving vehicle and staring out the window dreaming and plotting my escape from my dull hometown to the exciting halls of academia in Newcastle.

The trip was long because not only did we change buses at Booral but we also detoured around to Seaham to pick up the kids who lived in a town even worse off than Stroud. It didn’t even have a shop! It wasn’t really a town just a collection of farms scattered on sprawling flood plains with half a dozen kids waiting patiently by their letter boxes. I resented the extra half an hour these 6 kids cost me on each leg of my journey and the assault to my olfactory senses, as there was always a whiff of stagnation. Every time we had a flood (which seemed far more often back then) the river flats would fill with water and become huge lakes, which were fascinating for a day or two, but after a week became putrid pools of ‘poo’ according to the boisterous kids on the bus who would run around slamming the windows shut with gusto.

I on the other hand would quietly slide mine shut and think that Seaham would have to be the worst place on earth to live. By a strange twist of fate I would spend 28 years of my adult life living there. However it did eventually get a shop and levy banks so the quality of life was much improved.

In the recent Newcastle flood I was reminded of my over long bus ride as we endeavored for 45 minutes to travel 100 yds (there’s the old money again) to rescue our daughter Veronica and her 10 week old baby Jude from their flat in Bluegum Rd. She lives next to a storm water drain and when the fence surrounding that gave way the water entered like a mini tsunami.

As the phone lines were out and I stupidly was not listening to the radio I was unaware of her predicament. When the penny finally dropped the water had risen so far we couldn’t get through in the car as the Jesmond roundabout was submerged and grid locked with abandoned cars.

It is an understatement to say I was ‘beside myself’. The thought of my daughter and my precious grandchild alone and in danger short-circuited my decision-making brain cells and I was on for wading through to get to her. Fortunately her father Robert is blessed with a very calm and sensible nature and had reasoned responses to all my hysterical “what if’ questions. He was able to convince me that wading through swiftly moving flood waters would be extremely dangerous and so may have prevented me becoming a statistic in my mad guilt ridden need to get to my babies.

Instead we persevered in the car but at the height of the storm it seemed that everyone in Newcastle who owned a car was out there driving around trying to get somewhere else. I am ashamed to say I was very cross with them. Didn’t they know how far more important our task was than anything else they could possibly want or need to do! We had a daughter and grandchild to rescue for ‘goodness’ sake. (Expletives toned down for sensitive readers). Fortunately reliable, sensible Robert was at the wheel so we finally found a way through Wallsend and approached her flat from the other side.

The oasis that is ‘Hungry Jacks’ loomed like an island in a stormy sea as we pulled into their car park and waded up Veronica’s driveway through waist deep, freezing, filthy water to find her ankle deep in her lounge room calm, composed and prepared. The baby was perched on the lounge, warm and dry in a lovely little suit looking as if he was off for a spot of shopping rather than an emergency evacuation.

My daughter hugged her hysterical mother and calmly said ‘I knew you’d come’. Truly her father’s child.

She then wrapped her precious bundle up in a patchwork rug, made with love by her grandmother for her great grandson and stepped into the freezing flood waters up to her waist with Jude peeping over her shoulder not even slightly inconvenienced by the whole drama.

When we got home via Wallsend I flew into washing drying providing hot food mode, trying to reclaim my ‘good mother’ status. I could see the headlines now. A young woman and her baby were washed away a block from her mother’s home. (Lady Macbeth dashing her baby’s brains out would garner more sympathy).

Two days later we went to inspect the damage and the smell (yes there it is folks the link to the Seaham bus ride) that issued forth from the front door was unforgettable in its lip curling putridity. I drew back with Jude in my arms convinced that if even a whiff of that hideous smell entered my angel’s nostrils he would contract some dreadful ‘flood’ disease so we left very smartly indeed.

As we have only one bedroom in our little bungalow and with the immediate arrival of our son Ben from Sydney, once he heard of our dilemma, our home was rather like a dormitory.

A week later and we have not been back. The real estate are taking their time which is fine with me as the flat will have to pass the ‘Nanny sniff’ test before I allow my progeny to reinhabit their little abode.

This experience has made me appreciate the important things in life – family, sunshine and dry flooring!

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