“Morning, love,” he said, pulling on a pair of industrial gloves that looked like they’d survived a war. “What’s the story?”
“Number 14, Princes Road,” she murmured, dialling the number on a damp card she’d kept under the fridge magnet for ten years. “Drain Unblocking Wirral – 24/7.” unblocking drains wirral
Edith led him to the back garden. The manhole cover was weeping. A slick, grey film of fat and despair had bubbled up around the edges, mixing with fallen sycamore leaves. “Morning, love,” he said, pulling on a pair
For the next three hours, Edith watched from her kitchen window as Kev became part archaeologist, part surgeon. He dug a pit in her prized dahlias without complaint. He uncoiled a high-pressure jetter that screamed like a jet engine, blasting away the calcified fat and the writhing, pale root hairs that had snaked through the crack like fingers reaching for a meal. The manhole cover was weeping
Kev didn’t use a fancy electric eel first. He used his eyes. He lay on his belly in the wet moss, a torch clamped between his teeth, and traced the line of the clay pipe with his fingers. “Collapsed joint,” he announced finally. “About four foot down. The roots have got in. Sycamore. Nasty buggers.”
Edith felt a blush of shame. “I do scrape the plates.”
The rain over the Wirral hadn’t stopped for a week. It fell in a tired, relentless drizzle, turning the sandstone walls of the old cottages the colour of weak tea. For Edith, the trouble started not with a bang, but with a gurgle.