“That’s Derek,” Mervyn said, nodding at the ferret. “He’s got a nose for blockages. Also, he likes cheese.”
Defeated, Elara did what any proud homeowner does at the edge of despair. She Googled. The results were a dazzling, terrifying gallery of national chains with sterile logos and 0800 numbers. But at the very bottom of the page, after a review left by “FuriousFred44” (one star: “They quoted me the price of a small car”), she found a single five-star gem.
“Local,” Mervyn explained, wiping his hands on a rag that was mostly grease. “Aggie does the lining. Sid does the jetting. Brenda does the CCTV surveys from her conservatory while watching This Morning . We’re a consortium. The Mapleton Underground Alliance, we call it. The national boys charge you for the van’s fuel. We charge you for knowing the drains.”
He dialled a number on a cracked phone. “Aggie? It’s Merv. Hollyhock Terrace. The old clay pipe’s cracked from the fatberg pressure. Needs re-sleeving. You free Thursday?”
In the crooked, rain-sodden lanes of Mapleton, a village that time had forgotten but damp had perfected, there existed a quiet war. It was not a war of men, but of water—specifically, where water refused to go.
The water ran. The house breathed. And Mapleton remained, for another season, gloriously, stubbornly unflooded.
Within the hour, a battered white van with a hand-painted logo—a smiling cartoon plunger holding a crown—squeaked to a halt outside. Out stepped Mervyn. He was a man built like a retired rugby player, with a head of improbable ginger curls and overalls so stained they told a story of every drain in a ten-mile radius. He carried no sleek tablet or laser measuring tool. He carried a rusty metal rod, a pair of welding goggles, and a small, curious ferret on a leather lead.
