Tristan understood that was it. It was all I needed and all I could muster. ‘Right!’ I exclaimed, when Billy returned with a box of powder. ‘Sprinkle it into the water and swish it around.’
But Esther was not keen to have Billy help with the washing, terrified that, if he touched the river soaked clothes and protective gear, he would definitely be infected.
‘We’re all wearing rubber gloves!’ I cried with impatience, resisting the temptation to point out he’d already had a good soaking in the road, but she insisted her son withdraw.
‘I want him to rest now, he’s been through enough,’ she said, coming as close to the bathroom as her fear would allow.
The comment caught in my throat – did she truly believe that this was the real tragedy of late? But I repelled the urge to react.
‘As you like cleaning so much, Esther,’ Tristan suggested, unable to hold his own tongue, ‘maybe you’d like to take Billy’s place? It was him I took all those risks for, after all.’
If Esther’s comment caught in my throat, Tristan’s caught my breath. He was obviously more angered by Esther’s words than I imagined, as it was out of character for him to be quite so blunt. My sister wasn’t quite sure how to react, but his words definitely made her think.
‘I’ll just look after my son, if that’s ok,’ she said, her officious tone retreating. ‘I do appreciate it, Tristan. Come on, Billy. Is it alright if he rests in Elinor’s room?’
Yes, I nodded, feeling a little sorry for her.
Tristan went to apologise to me for his outburst, but I rubbed his arm affectionately, another sign he understood: there is no need, it told him.
We finished off the job in hand in almost silence. Whilst involving Billy had added a touch of fun to the proceedings – and allowed my nephew to contribute to the clean-up of the drama he’d started – his absence didn’t slow us down, and my sister’s domestic expertise wasn’t required, either. The cleaning aspect was easy – we swished the snakes of fabric and rubber arms and legs around in the soapy bath water until we were satisfied they were clean, drained the small pool and filled it up again with clear, warm water, repeating the swishing.
‘That will have to do,’ I told Tristan, pulling the plug a second time.
The water had discoloured, suggesting we could do with another rinse, but clean water wasn’t something to be wasted. Whilst we were surrounded by floods, very little of it was purified and pumped into our homes. What we did receive was somehow rationed; don’t ask me how – Tristan could probably tell you. But shortly after the Great Drowning, the authorities had set to work, re-engineering our city to cope with the water, to control the damage. Yet, damage wasn’t the only thing they set out to control and clean water, like electricity, like media, like food, remained limited to us everyday people. It had been this way with most things, even in the years before the flood. As a child, I remember everything being in short-supply and tightly regulated.
I’d never got to the point where I’d used too much of it, but Esther had. Just the once, and she didn’t have a supply for three days.
She must have done her nut, Tristan had laughed, wickedly, when I’d told him.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, as grimy water swirled away, gurgled down the pipes of our plumbing system. ‘So, next job – finding a place where all this can dry.’
That wasn’t quite so easy. Tristan rung it all out by hand and I took his and Billy’s clothes from him, placing them all on an airer I kept folded-up in the kitchen. But the protective gear that Billy had been wearing was rubber based and therefore difficult – impossible – to ring out. Eventually, Tristan hauled it over the pole that held the shower curtain over the bath, and let it drip. He kept vigil, mopping up the wet that gathered on the bathroom floor.
‘I’ll be alright with this,’ he told me. ‘Why
But Esther was not keen to have Billy help with the washing, terrified that, if he touched the river soaked clothes and protective gear, he would definitely be infected.
‘We’re all wearing rubber gloves!’ I cried with impatience, resisting the temptation to point out he’d already had a good soaking in the road, but she insisted her son withdraw.
‘I want him to rest now, he’s been through enough,’ she said, coming as close to the bathroom as her fear would allow.
The comment caught in my throat – did she truly believe that this was the real tragedy of late? But I repelled the urge to react.
‘As you like cleaning so much, Esther,’ Tristan suggested, unable to hold his own tongue, ‘maybe you’d like to take Billy’s place? It was him I took all those risks for, after all.’
If Esther’s comment caught in my throat, Tristan’s caught my breath. He was obviously more angered by Esther’s words than I imagined, as it was out of character for him to be quite so blunt. My sister wasn’t quite sure how to react, but his words definitely made her think.
‘I’ll just look after my son, if that’s ok,’ she said, her officious tone retreating. ‘I do appreciate it, Tristan. Come on, Billy. Is it alright if he rests in Elinor’s room?’
Yes, I nodded, feeling a little sorry for her.
Tristan went to apologise to me for his outburst, but I rubbed his arm affectionately, another sign he understood: there is no need, it told him.
We finished off the job in hand in almost silence. Whilst involving Billy had added a touch of fun to the proceedings – and allowed my nephew to contribute to the clean-up of the drama he’d started – his absence didn’t slow us down, and my sister’s domestic expertise wasn’t required, either. The cleaning aspect was easy – we swished the snakes of fabric and rubber arms and legs around in the soapy bath water until we were satisfied they were clean, drained the small pool and filled it up again with clear, warm water, repeating the swishing.
‘That will have to do,’ I told Tristan, pulling the plug a second time.
The water had discoloured, suggesting we could do with another rinse, but clean water wasn’t something to be wasted. Whilst we were surrounded by floods, very little of it was purified and pumped into our homes. What we did receive was somehow rationed; don’t ask me how – Tristan could probably tell you. But shortly after the Great Drowning, the authorities had set to work, re-engineering our city to cope with the water, to control the damage. Yet, damage wasn’t the only thing they set out to control and clean water, like electricity, like media, like food, remained limited to us everyday people. It had been this way with most things, even in the years before the flood. As a child, I remember everything being in short-supply and tightly regulated.
I’d never got to the point where I’d used too much of it, but Esther had. Just the once, and she didn’t have a supply for three days.
She must have done her nut, Tristan had laughed, wickedly, when I’d told him.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, as grimy water swirled away, gurgled down the pipes of our plumbing system. ‘So, next job – finding a place where all this can dry.’
That wasn’t quite so easy. Tristan rung it all out by hand and I took his and Billy’s clothes from him, placing them all on an airer I kept folded-up in the kitchen. But the protective gear that Billy had been wearing was rubber based and therefore difficult – impossible – to ring out. Eventually, Tristan hauled it over the pole that held the shower curtain over the bath, and let it drip. He kept vigil, mopping up the wet that gathered on the bathroom floor.
‘I’ll be alright with this,’ he told me. ‘Why
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