Tea-time In Drought

Tea-Time in Drought

August 2032, Stockton-on-Tees, England

weeeeehhhhHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYY….

           I race into the kitchen and grab the kettle off the hob.

           “Oww!”

            It clatters to the floor and bounces once, twice, three times. Steam hisses out. But no water. It’s empty of water. I dart out of the way, my arm outstretched, hand open.

           What the hell? I’ve got to get to cold water before the pain starts.

           I turn to the tap, but stop. Stupid. I know that the mains water supply to the house is turned off. This is the thirteen day we’ve been without tap water, eleven weeks without rain. The bowl of water in the sink is slick with grease from the morning’s dishes. I can’t put my hand in there.

           “Abigail,” I shout. My hand throbs.

           No answer.

           “Abigail,” louder.

           I race up the single flight of stairs. Her room is on one side of the landing, mine the other, the bathroom between. The bathroom we can’t use because the water is turned OFF. The throb ratchets up to pain. Hot pain. The bucket by the toilet is empty. The toilet bowl is yellow with unflushed pee.

           “Abigail!”

           Her door is open, her back to me, black curls bobbing to a soundless beat. She’s in her standard hot weather gear, racer-back T-shirt and leopard print shorts, phone in hand, dance-moves on, deaf to my words. I make two steps into the room and touch her left shoulder with my good hand.

           She jumps and turns.

           I rip out her right earbud along with a clump of her hair.  

           “You’ve boiled the kettle dry. I’ve burnt myself.”

           Her hand goes to her mouth. “Mum! I forgot… I wanted to surprise you. Make you some tea…” Her eyes are wide, lashes already wet. “I’m so sorry. Let me see…”

           I am not going to uncurl my palm. It hurts too much.

           “Go get fresh water. The bucket’s empty.”

           “OK.” She darts from the bedroom like a startled gazelle.

           I sink down onto her dark-stained desk chair to wait in the hot, airless room. We keep the windows shut up here to keep the heat out, and her floor fan died a week ago. The front door bangs closed.

           This could take a while. On my way home, I’d seen the line of neighbors waiting with their empty buckets for their evening fill-up. Our standpipe, the standpipe that everyone in Craythorne Close has to share, sits in the middle of the parched earth that used to be the community’s central green. Maybe they’ll let Abigail jump the queue?

           I rest my upturned palm on the top of my thigh and survey the damage. A thick red line runs across from my index finger to my little finger side where my life-line crease should be. I cannot clench or unclench my fingers. I’m not even going to try. My face feels clammy. It’s different from the sweat that’s everywhere else on my body. I tap my foot to jiggle my knee. Anything to distract me. I take a deep breath and get to my feet. Movement is good, the hand less excruciating, more a dull ache. I make my way downstairs. I’m pretty sure it’s already too late for cold water treatment. But we’re going to need the bucket filled anyway, even if it’s just for that cup of tea.

           In the kitchen, the electric ring on the hob glows red.

           “Oh God!” I am truly as bad as my daughter. I could have burned the house down. And this dump of a two-up-two downer is the best rental we’ve ever had.

           I run to the oven and switch off the ring. The kettle, now cool, lies where it came to rest on its side by the waste bin. As I retrieve it, I spot the two mugs on the counter, our favorite yellow-smiley-faced ones, each with its single teabag of PG tips waiting for water, courtesy of Abigail. They bring a smile to my face. My hand throbs less.

           I walk round the stairwell to the living room and switch on the TV. The plumy voice of the BBC weather-lady greets me. She’s wearing a tight-fitting two-piece suit in hospital white. I might have looked good in that get-up, maybe fifteen years ago, before my boobs expanded to feed my baby and never remembered to shrink. I sit on the arm of the sofa, too hot, too uncomfortable to relax. 6.10pm. Time for the nightly weather report. Surely the drought’s got to break soon?

           A map of the British Isles is on the screen behind her, complete with the familiar scene of yellow suns and HIGH PRESSURE signs and temperatures of 35°C. But there, over Ireland… YES!! I see cartoons of rain clouds and high winds. I fumble with the sound button on the TV remote. I’ve never been good with my left hand.

           “This cold front is heading towards Wales and the west coast of England, tomorrow morning…” The meteorologist pauses… “It is on a collision course with this high-pressure area.” She points over central England. “The good news is that this signifies that the end of the great drought is near. But…” Another pause. “We predict thunderstorms and torrential rain over western and central England and Wales tomorrow, reaching the north and east of the country by late afternoon. Be prepared for gale force winds and flash flooding, particularly in low-lying areas.

           “And how precisely do we prepare for that,” I say to the lady on the screen. No-one is providing sandbags or boats here in Stockton-on-Tees. I wish we lived further from the river. But I’ll take rain, I think. JUST LET IT RAIN.

           The door rattles its opening and Abigail steps through. She has not one, but two buckets. She dumps them down on the doormat and water sloshes onto her flip-flops.

           “You wouldn’t believe it Mom. The standpipe was LEAKING. Here we are all dying for water and it was dripping away all the time I waited.”

           “I know my love. It’s enough to make you weep. But where did you get that?” I point to the extra bucket.

           “Mrs Johnson lent me it. She’s going up to Scotland.”

           “But we’re not supposed to take more than our share.”

           “I said that to her, but she said she was going away and she didn’t need it. And we do need extra for the loo and the washing and anyway, how’s your hand?”

           “I’ll live. It’s too late to cool it down anyway.”

           I hold it out like a claw and we both survey the raw, blistered surface.  

           “Owww. That must hurt. I’m sorry I took so long. There were three families of four ahead of me so they each got two buckets. I’ll look for some ointment…”

           “Abi, you’re great. Calm down.” She always talks a lot when she’s wound up. ”Honestly, it doesn’t hurt too much and anyway there’s good news.” I stand up and point to the TV screen. “I just heard the weather forecast and I can’t believe it, they’re predicting RAIN tomorrow.”

           I see light dance in her eyes. “Yeahhh!” Her hands go to her face, then down to the bucket, then back to her face, twice, three times. Water drips down from her cheeks to her chin to the floor.

           “Ali,” I laugh. “Stop.”

           “Tomorrow I am going to go out and lie in it,” she says.

           “According to the weather lady, you might be swimming in it. Now about that tea…”