Alastair Macleod 
Flood 

‘She knew him vaguely. He lived up the valley on a small hill farm which he worked with his dad. Sheep mostly. “We’ve lost a few lambs in the wet, ” he said, his voice warm and steady. Things had been that bad with prices recently he’d taken a job with the NFU as part time insurance agent.

Chris, like many single handed full time farmers didn’t have much time for socialising, so she hadn’t really had occasion to talk to him before.

He was a little taller than her, brown hair, a strong jaw line, hazel eyes and a friendly smile. He stood next to her in the line when they resumed the class. She was conscious of the dark fuzz on his strongly muscled forearm as he drew the bow. The instructor had called him Will, Will Hutton.

By the end of the night her drawstring fingers were sore and her arm ached a little.

Outside it was still teeming down. Everyone dashed for their cars and was off, including Will in his blue Toyota pickup.

Chris climbed into the Landrover. Even with wipers on at full it was difficult to see. Spray was being thrown up by small rivers of water running at intervals across the road. Huge puddles had collected on either side. She slowed down.

As she drove off the main road to the farm, she could see in the moonlight the river had come over into the lower meadow field. Nothing strange in that – it happened nearly every year, but it had spread a little further up than usual.’