Frank nodded. He’d heard that story a hundred times. The unsung heroes of Wakefield, the Harolds with their makeshift rods and their stubborn pride, keeping the roots at bay. Now it was his job.
“It’s the downstairs loo,” she said, leading him through a cluttered living room. “Gurgles something awful. My Harold used to sort it, but… well. He’s two years gone now.” drain root cutting wakefield
He thought about Wakefield while he worked. The old mining towns, the mills converted into flats, the bypass they’d built twenty years ago that had somehow made the traffic worse. Beneath it all, the same network of drains, most of them laid when Victoria was Queen. Every house, every street, was connected by these subterranean rivers of waste. And every spring, the roots came back. Frank nodded
The address was a small terraced house, the kind with a yard no bigger than a postage stamp. The woman who answered, Mrs. Hartley, was in her seventies, with worried eyes and a floral apron. Now it was his job
“Right, Mrs. Hartley,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “Time to give this drain a haircut.”
He fed the electric eel into the pipe. The machine hummed, then growled as the blades bit into the root mass. He felt the vibration through the rubber grips—a juddering, tearing sensation as the cutter spun at high speed. Grrrnd-chunk, grrrnd-chunk. It was an ugly sound, the noise of violent surgery. Shredded root fragments, looking like shredded coconut, began to flush back past the manhole. He worked methodically, pushing the cable further, clearing a path inch by inch. The pipe was old, fragile. If he pushed too hard, he could shatter the clay and create a bigger problem. Too gentle, and the roots would regrow in a month.
“Frank, got a blocked drain over on Denby Dale Road. Customer says the toilet’s backing up. Sounds like roots.”