Wirral: Unblocking Drains

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.

“You know,” Kev said, pausing at the gate. “Unblocking drains on the Wirral... it’s not a job. It’s a geography lesson. Every pipe tells you who lived here. The grease from the chip shops. The hair from the girls getting ready for the Pyramids Centre. The lost rings.” 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. Edith led him to the back garden

“Right,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag that was more stain than fabric. “That’ll be eighty-five quid.” “You know,” Kev said, pausing at the gate

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.