It rains in March

You had been paying an unprecedented amount of attention to the weather recently. I hadn’t been because, in truth, it was the kind of weather you don’t question. After all, this is England, in the middle of March: the middle of spring. Rain is normal. Insistent on flooding farmers crops, on making walks treacherous and hair smelling of damp mould. The rain last week was just that: normal. I walked in thunderous rain to work, the rucksack on my back drenched so sheaths of paper became mushed into a soggy ball, similar to that time you put your jacket in the washing machine with a pocket full of tissues, leaving white specks over every other piece of clothing. I spent the days trying to salvage what was left, ignoring new clients and phone calls.

It’s a different kind of work to what you did. You seemed to think your job was easy in comparison to the masses, but I could never dream of standing in front of cameras and presenting to a nation of viewers. People thought you were just a pretty, airbrushed face. That all you did was read from a cue screen and wave your hands around. You never told me, but I could tell by your silence: the producers didn’t treat you well. You worked random hours, at their beckoned call. You technically knew the future and it was valuable information: our food production relies exclusively on British farmers, who in turn rely on the weather. You were sworn to secrecy, the producers fearing you may leak information to a farmer to allow him to get an advantage over the rest. If I am being honest now, I never really liked the sound of the producers. But despite the perils of the job, seeing you on the television screen always made me feel a sickening mixture of jealousy and pride. I guess, in the end, pride won out, making me ignorant and blindsided.

You presented the weather forecast, everyday at five pm. It was my routine, to arrive home from work and watch you. Not only did the time of day remain the same, but the predicted weather persisted to be unfailingly accurate. You would pronounce rain and rain would follow. You would stand in front of that green screen, delicately pointing to each region with the eyes in the back of your head, forecasting hail in London, thunder in Leeds, ten degrees with wind in Liverpool, and the following day: hail would hit London; thunder would rumble through Leeds; and Liverpool would be blown into a storm. The producers got it right, consistently. I once heard a rumour that the only explanation for their accuracy must be that the producers themselves controlled the weather. I laughed as I told you but only now, looking back on those fonder days, can I see the fear that flitted through your eyes. Your eyes made me smile, grinning the moment I heard your key in the door lock. I would rush to you, wrapping you in my arms, kissing your lips, your nose, your cheeks. Normally, you would return the embrace and we would spend the evenings together, with wine and dinners crafted from fresh produce, followed by strawberries grown by our neighbouring farmer and cream produced from the cows in the field at the back of our garden. Things changed, suddenly.

Only a week ago, I watched you from where I am now, sat at the kitchen table, on our black leather chairs, staring up at the flat screen tv hanging off the wall. I awaited your appearance, watched you pop up on the screen after the four-thirty news update. You smiled; whitened teeth perfectly aligned. You did your elegant dance with gentle arms and relaxed fingers, as light as the ballerinas we saw at the Nutcracker last Christmas. You forecasted sun, told the nation of the United Kingdom to prepare for a shockingly hot March, a week perfect for drying clothes and lounging in gardens. You told us “summer has come early”. You told us to buy sun-cream and to fill up ice-cube trays with water in preparation of dripping sweat and dehydration. You even laughed, effortlessly and carefree. But you came home that day and instead of returning my usual greeting, you pushed me away. You became frantic, darting into the living room to peer out between the shuttered blinds, checking the weather despite having just walked in from the outside. Your hair was wet. Raindrops dripped onto the carpet, off your nose and clinging onto your eyelashes. I was too entranced by your beauty to notice your agitation. Within hours, you developed a fever-like paranoia, installing a metal chain on both the front and back doors. For the next few days, this became our new routine, our new normal. Like the rain, in March.

And while you didn’t talk to me, while you pretended I ceased to exist, the weather forecast, you had presented was proven to be incorrect. Only mildly, to begin with: Monday started with sun and, after work, I laid a towel on the grass in the garden and tanned my skin until it was a dirty brown. The evening remained humid and sticky and the population was in high spirits. Rain is normal in March but that doesn’t mean it is appreciated. The next day, as I opened the curtains before work, I saw tiny droplets of water splattered on the window. “It’s just dew” you said. Your eyes were red and swollen from tears. Tuesday was hotter than Monday. I tried to get to sleep, with the window wide open, listening to foxes rustle amongst the bins. Even with no duvet over us, I sweated, struggling to rest. At three am, I heard a pitter-patter against the windows. I dozed off then, lulled by the droning sound. On Wednesday morning, we awoke to grey clouds, suffocating the blue skies you had promised. The people had never seen an inaccurate weather forecast. I walked to work and saw unsuspecting commuters in shorts and sunglasses, getting spat at by fine rain. On Thursday, the rain didn’t stop. By Friday, the grass in our garden had turned to muddy mush. Saturday, you stopped crying. Sunday a river rolled down our hill. Yesterday, you went to the studio and I watched you, as usual, predicting sunshine and high-pollen counts. Today, I waded to work in wellie boots and overalls. And now I sit, at the kitchen table, staring with disbelief at news reports showing photos of thriving fields with sprouting crops, headlined with ‘UK farms alive with heatwave’.  

And I realise now, that you knew all along what they, the producers, were doing. You knew all along that it would rain and that when it started, it would never stop. You knew that the lakes would over-flow, that the fields would disintegrate, that livestock would drown, that crops would fail and people would starve. You knew March was wet, that in normal circumstances, the weather forecast would indicate rain, not sun. You knew that the predictions you had presented were wrong.

I know you risked everything, to do something about it: to protect the nation. And I know, as I sit at the dining room table, watching the torrent pound against the window, that until the rain stops, you may never return home.