“It’s not just you, love. It’s the whole row. Victorian pipes. They were built for horse manure and rainwater, not for fairy liquid and flash frying.”
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 of industrial gloves that looked like they’d survived a war. “What’s the story?” unblocking drains wirral
He drove away in his yellow van. The drains ran clear. And for the first time in a week, Edith ran a bath without fear.
“And the soldier?” Edith asked.
It came from the kitchen sink as she washed her single dinner plate. A low, gluttonous glug-glug-glug , like something swallowing the wrong way. By morning, the water in the toilet rose and fell with the rhythm of the tide, and the shower tray had become a stagnant pond.
“It’s the fat,” Kev said, not as an accusation, but as a eulogy. “People think it goes away. It doesn’t. It hardens. Turns into a concrete artery clog in the soil pipe.” He knelt, heaved the cover off with a grunt, and peered into the abyss. The smell that rose was ancient – a mix of detergent, decay, and the ghost of a thousand Sunday roasts. “It’s not just you, love
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.”