Chapter 47: Foreign Shores

Molly & Mark

2072

It had taken a long time for Mark and Molly to get used to living in Dagenham. It was a definite climbdown from North West London and it still wasn't a change in circumstances they were comfortable with. However, at least they'd both found jobs: not particularly good ones compared to what they had before but the compensation was they didn't have to squeeze themselves together all day long into the cramped space of a studio flat. The novelty and delight of spending every moment of their waking life together would most definitely have palled by now.

Mark was working in a second-hand car emporium where his experience at Tata Benz came in very useful not so much in the day-to-day business of selling rusty old cars but in getting the job in the first place. The price of second-hand cars was continuing to fall as the cost of fuel became increasingly prohibitive. Many old cars were now having their engines refitted for chemical batteries or hydrogen power.

Molly was now working evenings and sometimes nights in a synthetic fish bar, where her vegetarian tendencies were partly assuaged by the knowledge that the fish fillets she was frying had never once been part of an animal that had swum the open seas. Or ever swum anywhere at all.

Both Mark and Molly were close enough to where they worked to walk there which probably took them less time than if they chose to use one of London's rusting buses that weaved through the congestion of cycle rickshaws and horse-drawn carriages.

The difficulties of getting to work on a normal day were nothing compared to what it was like when London flooded. And this was something that was happening increasingly often. What was once described as a once-in-a-lifetime event had become just another routine hazard of urban life. Dagenham's flood defences weren't as resilient or as elevated as those in Docklands, Westminster or the City. It didn't take much rainfall to sink the borough beneath half a metre or so of water. On one memorable occasion it was almost waist-height, which made it impossible for either Molly or Mark to get to work. Fortunately, as it was similarly bad for everyone else in East London, it was only their wages they lost rather than their jobs.

When this memorable occasion was repeated, what before had been almost exciting was now greeted with world-weary resignation. The roads and pavements were sunk below dark muddy water that had risen steadily over the day and through the night. Heavy rain in the West of England combined with another surge in sea level resulted in yet another once-in-a-lifetime deluge.

Fortunately, Mark and Molly lived two floors up in what had once been a grand block of flats so, although the water caused an interruption to their water and electricity supplies, it didn't flood the apartment. The couple were high and dry although neither they nor little Monica could venture out onto the flooded streets below.

There was some compensation in the novelty of being able to look out the window at a familiar environment now radically transformed. There were rivers and streams where traffic normally flowed. Those vehicles that hadn't taken heed of the flood warnings were submerged in murky water on which floated dead rats, the detritus of household waste, and a traffic bollard. Not only was the water wet, it was filthy and disease-ridden.

Small boats and inflatable dinghies floated by, but as Mark overheard from the yelled conversation their task was only to ferry emergency workers such as nurses and doctors. They were not for other people unless they were seriously ill or dying. They were most certainly not provided for the benefit of those who just wanted to get to work. In any case, the barriers that enclosed the financial districts would keep all foreign transport from entering West London. The entrances to underground stations would be sealed to keep water from flooding into the tunnels below.

Mark and Molly had resigned themselves to having to settle down to a day besieged by the sluggish waters in the company of a wind-up computer, when there came a sharp rapping on the apartment door.

"Who is it, Mummy?" asked Monica.

"I don't know, dear," said Molly.

"Should I find out how who it is?" volunteered Mark.

"Do we really want to?" wondered Molly.

"I'll check through the eyehole," said Mark. "Keep quiet just in case they're crack dealers or muggers. I don't know whether there are any police about."

"Almost certainly even fewer than usual," said Molly. "What with the floods, they'll have more than enough on their hands today."

Mark tiptoed into the small hallway and peeked through the eyehole just as the rapping was renewed. He tiptoed back to the bedroom/lounge.

"It's that black girl from downstairs," he said. "The one who looks ill and is always coughing."

"Downstairs is a squat," said Molly. "It can't be rented out because of the damp and the disconnected mains supplies. No downstairs flats are habitable in East London anymore."

"So she's a squatter..."

"Evidently," said Molly. "She lives in a squat. She must be a squatter."

"Why's she so ill?"

"Wouldn't you be if you lived somewhere as damp as that?" said Molly. "She's probably an illegal. She's not English. She's got a foreign accent. Probably African. Illegals often carry diseases and things."

"Why's that, Mummy?" asked Monica.

"Probably because if they went to hospital for treatment although they might get cured of whatever they're suffering from they'd also get deported back to where they came from," said Molly, hardly caring whether her daughter could really understand her.

"Are we going to let her in, Mummy?" asked Monica when the rapping at the door began again.

"I think we should," said Mark. "She can't very well sleep in her squat."