Therapy Bits

This is flash fiction, not a true story!

😊

On the 15th of October 1987, the worst storm in many years hit England. The winds were howling at 100 miles per hour, bringing devastation. Garden fences and brick walls blew down, gutters worked loose, and roof tiles were lost. Fifteen million trees were brought down, causing chaos everywhere. Many of them blocked roads, resulting in numerous accidents. Eighteen people were killed. It was a very frightening and alarming time.

In Sylvie’s area, the electricity supply was cut off; trees had fallen on the power lines. The locals had been told to expect the power to be off for quite some time.

Snuggled up in layers of clothes and blankets, Sylvie and her young family sat by candlelight. The children had strict instructions not to go near the lit candles. Shadows flickered around the almost darkened room. There was no heating, television or radio, and reading was out of the question without decent lighting. They tried their best to play noughts and crosses, and I spy in the dim light. The phone lines were out, and very few people had mobile phones. At least Sylvie could cook on her gas cooker by candlelight, so they had hot food. Many of her neighbours only had electricity, so weren’t so lucky.

As the storm abated, Sylvie wondered how the other residents on the road were managing, so, she and the children, wrapped up in their warmest coats, hats and scarves, went out to knock on a few doors. They were greeted warmly as Sylvie asked how they were coping. There were lots of young children living in the cul-de-sac, and they all needed to be kept amused and fed. Sylvie offered to make them hot drinks using her gas kettle and, for the eldery couple two doors away, a hot meal cooked in her oven. A couple more neighbours came out to see what was happening too.

Soon, nearly everyone had ventured out of their houses and began chatting. One neighbour, Neil, briefly popped back indoors and returned with a couple of large bottles of white wine and two multipacks of cheese and onion crisps. Others emerged with snacks and soft drinks, while others still pulled out garden chairs and set them up in the centre of the cul-de-sac. More neighbours followed suit. Sylvie made more coffee while Neil dished out paper cups and wine. This was just what they all needed on such a cold evening. As it got darker, no one seemed concerned; the little ones were tucked up in bed, but the older children were allowed to stay up late. Everyone sat chatting, wishing that the power cut would soon be over.

Three days later, they were still without power, and although it was easier to manage during the daylight hours, the evening ritual continued. Neighbours struck up close relationships with those they had rarely spoken to. Despite the dire situation, people laughed and joked, and the wine flowed liberally, keeping everyone’s spirits up. The older members of this little community remarked how like the wartime spirit it was. At half past ten, a loud buzzing sound was heard, and the streetlights suddenly lit up. Cheers erupted. Power was restored. Garden chairs were packed up, and people gradually returned to their homes.

The next day nobody came out in the evening, and the cul-de-sac remained deserted, apart from the occasional car driving up. Polite, reserved neighbourly conversations were had, but the wartime spirit seemed to have evaporated. After the children had gone to bed, Sylvie sat alone in her house, feeling sad. She shook her head and sighed, “Why does it have to take a crisis to bring everyone together?” If it hadn’t been for all the damage done and the inconvenience, she almost wished another power cut would strike the country, or at least her area. “I shouldn’t tempt fate,” she muttered.