Hard Times

In the past week I have made several failed attempts to read Charles Dickens’ novel, Hard Times. Due to lack of concentration I had got no further than Thomas Gradgrind’s opening speeches in which he reminds the schoolmaster that the children in his school are to be taught nothing but Facts.

“You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of service to them. Stick to Facts!”

There were certain facts, and reasons, behind why my reading lapsed. The first fact was that starting my new book coincided with a serious weather event on the east coast of the North Island. The second fact is that I live in near isolation deep in a beautiful valley some thirty-five kilometres from my place of work in the city. Worst of all were the facts that I chose to ignore which nearly cost me my life and several other inconveniences.

It began raining steadily at Friday lunchtime, a southerly. That night I slipped into bed eagerly anticipating the beginning of Dickens’ shortest novel. The rain hadn’t stopped and pounded in windblown sheets on the tin roof of the house, loud enough to drown the ticking of my old-fashioned bedside clock. As someone who needs silence when reading, I put the book aside and tried to sleep. Waking the next morning I realised for one blissful moment that it was Saturday, no work. But my euphoria was short-lived. Through the gap in the curtains I saw an inky black sky and the rain, now arriving from the east, was lashing the window with the power of a car wash. I calculated that it had been raining for twenty hours.

After breakfast I braved the elements and went to feed the chooks. There had been no let up during the night. Taking two steps forward and one step back I scrambled up the slope to their enclosure. For once the chooks didn’t appear from their dry shelter, preferring hunger to risking life and limb.

In the afternoon, with little else I could usefully do, I picked up Hard Times, and with the cat purring happily on my lap, we both decided to sit out the storm. However, before I got to the end of the first chapter the wind velocity had stepped up to howling point. Looking outside I saw that trees were bending almost double in surrender and those close to the house were banging ominously on the roof. I threw down the book in frustration, how could I possibly concentrate on Gradgrind’s theories of education in weather like this? I decided to do nothing and lay on the sofa listening to my house being beaten to a pulp and thinking miserably that I was on the road to perdition.

Early evening, as darkness fell, the electricity began to flicker then died altogether. My all electric kitchen had been rendered useless and I was hungry. Thank goodness for the barbeque out on the covered veranda. I left it for as long as my rumbling stomach allowed, waiting for the rain and wind to ease. It didn’t and so I climbed into waterproofs and went outside to cook. Waiting for the pots to boil I picked up Hard Times yet again. Gradgrind was still extolling the virtue of cramming young minds with Facts. But it was no good; his words blew away in the storm. I was having hard times all of my own.

On Sunday I awoke with a pounding headache, the result of a fitful sleep listening to the racket caused by endless wind and rain hammering on the bedroom window. I needed to get outside and clear my head. How long was it now, forty-four hours? An hour later I took the plunge and went outside. Broken branches lay everywhere, the garden looked like a battleground. The roses that a few days ago were smiling happily had turned to brown mush, a bit like life itself.

Monday morning dawned, a work day. The wind had abated but the rain persisted. Driving to the city I was greeted by shallow floods from over spilled culverts and water racing across the roads. In places fallen branches and thick mud slowed my progress but eventually I made it to my place of work. It was a relief to be there and to think about something other than foul weather.

It rained lightly but steadily all morning but I ignored it and concentrated on my work. The events of the ghastly weekend were behind me. At noon I received a phone call from a neighbour in my valley. She gave me some facts. The rain had been exceptionally heavy this morning, she said, and the valley was turning into one vast lake. Roads have completely disappeared under water; conditions are treacherous and getting worse. Your house is in danger of flooding; you must come home now before it’s too late.

I ignored her warning. I looked outside and saw a patch of blue sky over the city. The rain was moving on; it’ll be fine in the valley. So at lunchtime I opened Hard Times once more and put my feet up. And with my mind free of worry, began reading where I’d left off.

My neighbour phoned again at four-thirty. Hadn’t I left yet, she asked, her voice almost a scream, didn’t I understand the danger? My pulse began to race, perhaps she really was telling me something, some cold facts that I should act upon. I yelled to my boss that I was off and jumped in the car.

Twenty kilometres from the city I hit flood water that deepened quickly. First it reached the hub caps, then submerged the wheels and finally washed over the bonnet. The engine spluttered and coughed. I had another fifteen kilometres to go. Around me the highway, ditches and paddocks had merged into one vast lake as far as I could see. Ahead, even fences had vanished beneath the water. Broken posts, tree branches and rubbish rushed past on an angry tide of destruction. I was alone, there was no other traffic in sight and that added to my growing sense of danger.

There was no way forward, only a hasty retreat would save me. Cautiously I turned the car around knowing that on both sides of the road, somewhere invisibly close by, were deep culverts. Had I driven into one, the car and I would have disappeared. Out of the worst, and driving back to the city with the engine stuttering and backfiring, I cursed my stupidity at not heeding the warnings.

By the time I arrived it was getting late. I purchased a pair of underpants, a shirt and toothbrush and, not wanting to trouble friends and colleagues at this hour, booked into a motel, at a cost that exceeded my day’s wages. During the night the rain stopped. After work the next day I telephoned my neighbour in the valley for a report on the state of the road. It was okay with caution, she said.

Arriving home Tuesday evening I popped a package meal in the microwave and flopped into an armchair with Hard Times. The weather was calm and the relief I felt was palpable, even to the cat. The house had escaped the worst of the flooding and I had escaped with my life. This time I had been lucky. Mr Gradgrind was right, Facts are important. I should have listened to the Facts as told to me by my neighbour and come home earlier. They were a warning and as a reasoning animal I should have reasoned better.

John Darkin

This is an expanded version of a Gisborne Herald article from 2005.