Between the Larch-woods and the WeirKlickmann, Flora
General
Between the Larch-woods and the Weir
Klickmann, Flora
Country life -- England; England -- Social life and customs -- 20th century; Friendship; Household employees
It rained hard all night, and by next morning we had quite a spacious
lake in the front garden. The squad returned to the post of duty, and
once more disposed themselves like guardian angels on its banks. When,
in sheer exasperation, I asked them how long they were going to leave
things like that, and the house without a drop of water, the foreman
replied, politely but non-committally, that he couldn’t exactly say,
but the Boss was coming round to see me shortly.
The builder arrived later, to inform me that this was a most serious
leak; he didn’t know when he had seen one precisely like it before. Of
course, it was partly due to the pipe; how any man could have called
himself a plumber, and put in such a pipe as _that_!—well, words failed
him! He himself was not a man to boast of his own doings, but he didn’t
mind telling me that I could take up any piece of ground I liked, where
he had laid a pipe, and see the sort _he_ put underground.
Then it transpired that the leakage was of such a character that he
dare not proceed an inch farther with it without calling in the water
company’s officials. Did I authorise him to do so? Of course they would
charge special fees for “opening up the ground.” I wondered where else
they would find any to “open up” on my premises, seeing that by this
time the whole estate was a gaping void! As I saw the turncock and
a variety of other gentlemen with gold letters embroidered on their
collars, propping themselves up against my holly hedge, I just said,
“Oh, yes; do anything you please.”
And they did.
Some of the embroidered ones then proceeded to dig up the whole
pavement, and right out into the middle of the road (the leak being
inside the garden, close beside my front door!). It does not take long
to write about it, but I don’t want to mislead you into thinking there
was any feverish haste about their methods. Oh, no! theirs was the calm
un-hurrying work of the true artist; and the builder’s squad stood
round admiringly, most careful not to interfere.
Once again the whole lot came to a standstill, and rested on any
available implement; and they now made a goodly crowd (I had no idea
there were so many non-khaki men still loose), which was further
supplemented by a policeman, one or two aged men who had discarded the
workhouse for the more leisurely life that modern business offers,
and a variety of languid young ladies who had been sent out on urgent
errands from sundry local shops.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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