The Blockage by Harcourt Tendhall
11 October 2022 { Historical Fiction }
We had no idea what were waiting for us that day, but I’ll never forget it. Just another plumbing job, we thought, a simple one: clear the blockage, the gaffer said. We took the hand cart with all the tools on from the yard and made our way down Hillgate to the Underbanks.
We arrived at the pub and asked for the landlord.
‘Thanks for coming so quick. We need that well, not just for the pub, there’s other folk round here rely on it. Sort this out, lads, and there’ll be a pint waiting for you on the bar when you come back up.’
We grinned at each other and I volunteered to go down the well. He’d already lifted the hatch, so Jack and his lad tied a rope round me chest and lowered me down the shaft of the old well.
It’s in the pub’s cellar and goes back to the days when they brewed their own beer. This well were their source of good clean water. Nowadays, this place is another one of Robbie’s pubs. Robinsons Brewery, that is, if you’re not from round here.
Anyway, when I reached the bottom, minding the hand pumps, I freed meself from the rope and tugged. I watched me lifeline disappear back up to the surface. It returned a couple of minutes later with a shovel and another Davey lamp.
I crawled along the tunnel, through the puddles, getting wetter as I went, and the reason for the well drying up loomed before me. It were obvious what it were, but I could smell it before I saw it. It were certainly dead and after a few tries, I knew there were no way I could shift it. Not with just a shovel anyway. The big question were how the hell did it get there? And why?
I made my way back to the shaft and sent the Davey lamp and shovel up first, then tied the rope around me chest and tugged. Slowly, with groans coming from above, I rose up the shaft.
‘Put your backs into it, lads, I’m not that heavy!’ I shouted.
I emerged into the cellar and hauled meself upright.
‘Well?’ asked Jack.
‘Grand, thanks.’ I grinned, removing the rope.
‘Not you, silly sod. What’s the problem?’
‘We need a butcher.’
‘You what? Did you say a butcher?’
His lad started giggling.
‘Aye, Jack, that’s reet.’
‘What the ‘ell do we want with a bloody butcher?’
‘To cut up the horse.’
‘What?’
‘You heard, to cut up the horse.’
‘What the ‘ell’s an horse doing down there?’
‘Rotting by the smell of it. Haven’t you noticed?’
His lad were still giggling.
‘It’s a bit swollen too. Completely blocking the passage.’
‘Ruddy Nora.’
‘Y’see, back in the day, Tin Brook ran down the Underbanks, fed into the Mersey. Then it all got built over, but that brook still feeds these wells. I’m not sure where it goes underground, but I reckon some fella’s horse died upstream and he couldn’t be bothered taking it to the knacker’s yard, so he rolled it into the brook and watched it sail away. Trouble is, it’s stuck down there now, so we need a butcher.’
‘Landlord won’t be pleased. It’ll cost him for the butcher as well as us. We can kiss our free beer goodbye.’
‘Maybe, but you’ve nowt to cry about. Me kecks are sopping!’
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