SHORT STORIES: The Movement at Broadmelton

It had long been assumed by Thorpe that – contrary to popular opinion among many in the reservoir industry – water can travel uphill. He’d seen it happen in fact. Witnessed it in the wild. He wished he hadn’t, but there it was.

Being one half of a dam operating partnership for Beckstrath Reservoir Group, he spent most of his time ‘in the field’ checking the level of reservoirs. This had afforded him interludes to study the chemical which he had almost always suspected to be a liar. His suspicions were confirmed late one Tuesday afternoon while inspecting the level of the Upper Clathorn Reservoir – known to those in the trade as The Flask due to the disturbing regularity of its water temperature. While calculating what volume of liquid needed to be leaked off into the spillway – based on the projected volume of rainfall expected for the back end of the week – he caught sight of a breakaway group of water droplets climbing the embankment. Confident to the point of defiance, they scaled face of the hillock and made good their escape before he could react. Far from surprised, Thorpe’s main concern was the potential frequency at which this might be occurring. While it may only be a couple of deserters at this particular spillway, multiplied by the rest of the country it could constitute a national crisis. He said as much at Beckstrath Reservoir Group’s annual conference in a short lecture entitled: Water Resource Management – an Uphill Struggle.

Needless to say, his thinking was considered somewhat experimental by many of the attendees to the point where Crank – the group’s vice-chairman – had called for his instantaneous suspension. The main thrust of Thorpe’s lecture concentrated on man’s subservience to water, arguing that while it was quite capable of making its own way up valleys, over dales, and above moorland, it had taken to running one way due to a human insistence on building it trenches, spillways, viaducts and resting places. “We don’t assist it into the skies so why help it into the reservoirs?” was the conclusive line of attack. Following a hearing, it was eventually decided that rather than suspend Thorpe, he and his partner Boyle would be relocated to the north east.

Despite a diploma in resource management, much of Boyle’s education on the practicalities had come from Thorpe. Within the storage pond business the north east was considered to contain the most problematic and complex reservoir systems with largely the most delicate temperaments. Boyle wore this as a badge of honour, preferring to view their tour of duty as symptomatic of their excellence in water management rather than as a punishment for a psychedelic address at an industry conference. Besides, Thorpe had been around water all of his life. During his first day on the job he’d enlightened Boyle as to his great granddad’s part in the invention of the bell-mouth spillway; a revered overflow channel designed as an inverted bell. In effect it was an industrial plug hole hidden on the outer edge of a reservoir. It had caught the water off guard, and for years later it was observed that the chemical was more compliant. Humbled even.

“We’ve raised a generation who pretend to believe in the process of science but in actuality don’t honour its principals” Thorpe was driving a company-provided van at warp speed over the single-lane back roads of Pulvershot, the countryside smashing against the windows. “I don’t claim to be a man of science myself, but I fully understand that the premise is to question everything.”

Boyle had heard the mad captain deliver this speech before and time squared as Thorpe threaded the van round a blind corner and onto the upper road.

“The so-called ‘laws’ of science have created a new form of blind faith. A new religion. A mirage of constants.”
Climbing the gradient of the valley, the men became one with their bench seat. Grasped by gravity they felt the full tilt; the landmass wanting to curl the van back on itself.

“It was just a conference. You need to let it slide.”

“How many forms does water take? Liquid, gas, solid; if anything else was going about its business shape shifting at will you’d be suspicious.”

“I’m not sure it has a will as such. Its form is dictated by the weather. Like the elderly.”

Thorpe ignored Boyle’s last comment.

“It uses the weather as a cloak. It reacts accordingly. Follows certain behavioural patterns depending on the temperature so that we assume it is victim to the seasons.”

“For arguments sake, let’s assume it does. Let’s assume that water is hiding something from all of mankind.

Why?”

“It all goes back to ancient Sri Lanka.”

“I had a feeling it might.”

“Are you genuinely interested or just intent on being sarcastic?”

Thorpe geared down and the van grunted into the road. The cockpit fell voiceless, and for a few moments the two Beckstrath employees rode out the silence. The day was drawing in and Pulvershot surrendered to sleet. A black cloudburst of grit-slush. Thorpe hit the headlamps and the windscreen wipers chopped on their electric motor.

“We need to check the level of Broadmelton” stated Boyle “Then we’re done for the day.”

“Do you know the story behind Broadmelton reservoir?”

“I read something; didn’t they have to flood a village that sat in the valley?”

“Four villages. On the eve of the flooding a dance was held to commemorate the occasion. At midnight Auld Lang Syne was sung. By 12.01am the villages no longer existed. Not legally. They were immediately looted. The whole thing was chalked up to administrative oversight.”

Chairman Peach and vice-chairman Crank had built Beckstrath Reservoir Group’s reputation on the management of underground reservoir systems. Brick lined and Victorian, they required a level of maintenance that made many other firms nervous, and ultimately unwilling to invest.

Consequently, Beckstrath quickly established itself as the apex predators of the underground water management scene. Regarded by many in the industry as ‘ones to watch’ their initial move into the management of bank-side reservoirs was observed with interest. Peach had been particularly keen given that bank sides are bodies of water openly available to walkers, day trippers, fishermen, cyclists, sailing clubs, bird watchers, school trips, guide book writers, industry award panels, and of course, community grants. Every bit the glamour industry, Peach viewed bank sides as the Page 3 of water management. Softcore irrigation. The group’s aggressive expansion tactics had earned them the industry nickname of The Met Office, due to their painstakingly underhand practice of phoning in false weather reports to unsuspecting competitors.

This forced their rivals to drain off large volumes of water into their spillways in anticipation of storm-like conditions. Impersonating a concerned member of the public, Crank or Peach – usually Peach as he had a wider range of accents at his disposal – would put a call in to the industry regulator. Always dialed in from a payphone, the conversation would run thusly; I am calling today to express my concern with regards to the low levels of drinking water available to my community in reservoir ‘X’. Please send someone out immediately to assess the situation. While I hesitate to cause panic, at this rate only babies on the breast will be quaffing fluids. The whole ritual was generally punctuated back at the office with a ceremonial coffee and Blue Riband combination. More often than not, a regulatory investigation would follow and Beckstrath would submit designs on any possibility of the contract coming up for review. In this way they had built their management portfolio. In truth, Thorpe’s lecture on backwards running water had initially intrigued Peach. Assuming the theory was correct there was certainly new ground to gain. New applications to be trialled. Money would unquestionably be spun. It was the science or the fiction that he couldn’t get past. He wasn’t sure which. Besides, the R&D budget couldn’t justify such wayward experimentation. In the end Crack convinced Peach that a period of exile to the north east was the best course of action until they could decide what was to be done. Suspecting an underlying sympathy towards Thorpe’s views, The Met Office banished Boyle also.

On the banks of Broadmelton, Thrope and Boyle were still under attack. The region’s water had mounted a full-scale airstrike and was halfway-housing as sleet; overweight snow, overambitious rain. Neither wanted to emerge from the relative safety of the van and its carbon dioxide warmth. The condensation cocoon. Therefore, it was decided that if only to protect the log book from the sleet, the men would sit it out until the worst had passed. Boyle still had a buttered teacake wrapped in foil from breakfast and deemed this the acceptable point in time to consume it. Offering half to Thorpe he began flicking through the log book, swotting up on previous level readings.

“According to this, water levels have been kept fairly consistent but the flow balance is under strain.”

“In what way?” enquired Thorpe through a mouth tightly packed with teacake.

“It’s all overestimated. The volume of water predicted to flow from the source is down here in black and white but not all of it is showing up in the reservoir. It’s subtle but it’s there.”

“Perhaps we have a blockage?” questioned Thorpe, relocating the bready blockage in his own mouth from throat to stomach.

“That’s a bit basic for you. Are you sure that the water hasn’t gone on strike? Is refusing to come down from the hill until its demands are met? Maybe it’s holding a ballot up there?”

Thorpe didn’t reply and Boyle wondered if he was seriously considering a conspiracy of industrial action. Boyle broke the silence.

“What was it you were saying before about ancient China?”

“Sri Lanka”

“Yeah. What’s it got to do with water keeping secrets?”

“They developed some of the most complex irrigation systems in the ancient world; dams, canals, artificial lakes, you name it. For the most part the water cooperated. The king was understandably proud and in an address to his people declared that not a drop of water was to make it to the ocean unless it first benefited mankind. Word got round and the water took great offence. Since that day it has refused to collaborate.”

“You mean it won’t run backwards?”

“It won’t run uphill.”

There was a pause.

“This sleet has settled in for the night.”

“Let’s make our move then.”

The sleet had created its own unique climate and a low-visibility mist flooded the post-van world. Hiking towards the source, Thorpe and Boyle were battered by semi-frozen sky-slop. A quick inspection of the depth post had shown Boyle’s assertion to be correct however; not all the water from the source was arriving in the reservoir. Running on teacake, they pressed on with the wind licking their ears. Complaints of ice-cream headaches were carried back through the valley and conditions underfoot grew increasingly gripless when they abandoned the footpath for the hill. Behind them Pulvershot was flash lit by the headlamps of essential journeys. Upon approaching the source the scouting party found a fallen tree lay across the stream. Not ready to call it a day, the tree had seemingly found new employment as a gutter. Thorpe climbed up and stood on the trunk – partly to make an assessment of the blockage and partly because it was the only object in the brave new world of sleet offering up any form of friction. Joined by Boyle, Thorpe stood stock-still using the log book as shelter. That’s when he saw it. Plain as day. Any water that wasn’t burying a way under the tree was running the length of the trunk and quite obviously flowing up the hill.

“Disgraceful! The audacity!”

“It’s a miracle.” Exulted Boyle.

“It’s bloody disrespectful and that’s ALL it is.”

Back in the van Thorpe hit the hairpin from the upper road into Pulvershot so hard that time cubed in the cab. Peeling off before the point of time travel he pulled into the car park of The Spit and launched himself through the doors.

“I need to use your phone.”

With professional darts player accuracy the landlord dummy threw his finger in the direction of the phone with his whole elbow. Under the gaze of this bogus arrow slinger, Thorpe dialled the operator and requested a reverse charge call be put in to Beckstrath Reservoir Group. Head office. Connecting him, the operator asked for his name and together they waited for one of The Met Office to pick up the call.

“Hello?”

“I have a call here from a gentleman named Thorpe; he has requested that the charges be reversed. Do you accept the call?”

“No.”

The line went dead.

“50p if you want to dial out, son” said the landlord.

As he’d silently expected a grand total of 180p, this seemed reasonable to Thorpe and he produced the amount in three raids on the same pocket. He coded the number into the key pad and waited.

“Hello?”

“Crank. Listen, it’s Thorpe. We’ve just come down from the source at Broadmelton. There’s a blockage. A tree. To cut to the chase, some of the water is redirecting itself.”

“Lovely to hear from you, Thorpe. It really is. How are you liking the north east my good fellow?”

“It’s flowing uphill you berk!”

“Of course it is. Why do you think I sent you up there in the first place? Now if you don’t mind I have to get on.”

“You knew about this?”

“Yes I knew. Peach doesn’t know and I’d rather it stayed that way. I’d rather no one knew truth be told. Do I make myself clear?”

The landlord collected a handful of glasses from the side of the bar closest to the phone.

“Are you in the pub, Thorpe?! Outrageous.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m in the pub, but I’m not IN the pub. Just needed to use the phone”

“What’s wrong with the payphone in the village?”

“It’s in the village. Another five minutes drive. I needed to speak with you right away.”

“Well you’ve got me now, how can I help you?”

“I want an explanation”

“So do I, Thorpe, so do I. You’re seemingly the leading authority. You lecture on the subject.”

“I merely acknowledged the problem. I’m not sure how we fix it though?”

“We’re not going to. Here’s how this is going to work.”

Fifteen miles from Pulvershot sat the coastal town of Ballowhope. It was here that Thorpe had driven Boyle for a team meeting. Yesterday’s sleet storm had retreated; staggered back to its bedsit in the early hours to sleep it off, and the two colleagues were at Roy’s Pavilion queuing for the ghost train. It seemed to Boyle that since his conversation with Crank, Thorpe had become somewhat guarded and clandestine. Boyle had received strict instructions to give his Beckstrath overalls the day off and dress like a civilian and now found himself undercover at a fairground mid-morning on a Wednesday. The pair shared the pavilion with a family holidaying out of season and Roy himself, who stalked both parties through his assortment of rides until they showed a preference for one or another. As Roy was otherwise occupied churning a child inside a waltzer, Thorpe and Boyle were stuck in a queue of their own making. Sensing an opportunity for refreshment Thorpe instructed Boyle to hold their place while he made an excursion to the other side of the pavilion for tea. Returning with two polystyrene steamers, he forewarned Boyle of the perilously high level of liquid in the receptacle. No mention was made however of the tea-to-sugar ratio, which Boyle soon discovered was 50:50. Supping on the savoury syrup they watched the empty cars ride the haunted attraction, empty vessels plotting a course through predetermined horror. Three quarters of a tea’s worth of time past before Roy was ready to supervise their paranormal round table.

“No heavy petting.” He said as they jerked into the plastic flaps that hung between Ballowhope and Roy’s fortress of terror.

Once within, they were immediately accosted by an iron spider which sprayed them with an industrial jet of sticky string and Thorpe called the meeting to order. They were briefly interrupted by a hangman’s noose drooping from the roof before Thorpe began his piece.

“You’re probably aware that yesterday I had a meeting with Crank. It may shock you to learn that some time ago now he established a separate company to Beckstrath and has been buying up the land above all of our reservoirs. The land is deemed commercially useless and he’s therefore managed to acquire most of it at a very reasonable rate.”

“He’s going it alone? The sly so and so.”

“Quite. When scouting for Beckstrath he noticed the phenomenon we witnessed yesterday at Broadmelton. It wasn’t as pronounced but nevertheless it was clear that the water’s behaviour had changed.”

A skull on a broom handle shot from the wall.

“Having sat through my lecture he had us sent up here to work out why the water is running up hill and how we can encourage it.”

“But why?”

“Because we’re going to move Broadmelton. The entire reservoir. From right under Peach’s nose.”

In a series of jolts Dracula rose from a coffin and decompressed back to the structure that bore him. The car rounded a chubby bend and climbed into a vortex before emerging on the upper level exterior of the ghost house. Thorpe signalled to Roy that they wished to go round again at the next pass and faces were once again rawed by a set of plastic flaps as the re-entered the world of the damned.