by Vance Huxley
Chapter 3:
Getting Medieval
Emmy kept on worrying about fertiliser, though Harold didn’t realise how much until he found a small deputation waiting after the next mart trip, a week later. “Sorry, no fertiliser Emmy.” Harold looked at the half dozen gardeners behind her and frowned. “What’s with the hats?”
“We are the garden gnomes, gnomes are traditional in England.” The young man smiled, adjusting the floppy cone-shaped hat so that Harold could read the lettering.
“Gnome, Gnome on the Range? Are you serious?” The big smiles said no, but as each one adjusted their hat Harold could see ‘Give a Gnome an ‘ome’ and ‘Omeless Gnome-lass’ among a selection of similar gnome phrases. Harold turned to Emmy.
“Not my fault, I promise. I’ve come because if you’ve not brought fertiliser we’ll need composting toilets. The gardeners need more compost to fertilise the plants and there’s oodles, but it’s all going down the drains. All we get is the odd bowl of mucky water when someone washes pots or peels spuds and chucks it on a garden, that sort of thing.” Emmy managed her own version of a glower. “We need a proper supply for the big plots outside.”
“But you’ve got all those plastic tubs we dragged in from various gardens out there. The ones full of stinky water because all those leaves are supposed to be good for plants. There’s oodles of those.” Harold stopped. “Who started the oodles?”
“Liz started the cripes. Maybe all and any gods are responsible, though Patty says it’s an infection because all the new refugees catch the cripes really quickly. Now what about my fertiliser, or rather my toilets?”
“They’ll stink. You can have the bathwater though it’ll be a bitch to bucket it out and carry it downstairs.” Harold grinned. “Though if you do it still wrapped in your towel there’ll be volunteers.”
“Behave. I can’t help the effect I have on the bad boys.” Emmy smiled. “You’re wrong though, we don’t have to bucket anything. We, me and Curtis, worked it all out.” She brought out a drawing, on paper this time. “We’ll need Rob to do magical piping things, and buckets for the downstairs sinks, but this will catch even shower water. Before you ask, as long as nobody gets bleach in the water the soap doesn’t matter. The toilets won’t stink.”
“Even if that lot works, where do we keep it all?” Harold watched her big beaming smile and it didn’t falter. “More big tubs from the gardens in the ruins?” Emmy nodded but Harold now looked puzzled, because that didn’t add up. “I know I get a bit grubby, but I can’t see there being enough muck in my shower water to provide a meal for a baby lettuce. So are you after something to fertilise the plants, or the water?”
“Yes. The plants need the dirtiest water possible, but more than that they need water. Curtis complained last year that we couldn’t get the best results because the rain stopped over summer. Well, it didn’t stop but there wasn’t enough.” She smiled happily, flourishing the paper. “We can throw leaves and peelings in the water or put them all on compost heaps but either way we need this, Harold. The difference between a small potato and a big potato is how much it drinks. Composting toilets will mean using less leaves and stinky water and grow even better everything.”
Harold thought about it, but not for long. “You win but we won’t find enough containers to store the rainwater and the bathwater as well. No to the toilets because they will stink. Probably yes to that drawing after a sanity check from Rob, or you’ll cry until I give in.”
“OK.” Emmy turned and left, talking quickly and quietly to her gnomes. Harold looked at the drawing, briefly before taking it to an expert. Though as he walked to Rob’s house Harold worried about why Emmy had given up on the toilets so easily.
* * *
Harold sat drinking weak tea without sugar while Rob looked at the drawings and notes, and scribbled on a slate with a piece of chalk. Paper cost coupons, whereas slate from a roof and the right bit of stone from a garden path did the same job for temporary scribblings. Daisy often drew on slate, or on the backs of labels taken from cans or food packets, though she still had some colouring books that weren’t finished. Eventually Rob sat back with a sigh.
“We can do it, or most of it. This will cost some serious scavenging and a lot of work, but if we really need the waste water then we can capture it.” He tapped the drawing. “This won’t all work as drawn, but there’s ways.” He smiled. “If Emmy wasn’t pregnant I’d wonder what they did for fun because this took a hell of a lot of dedicated working out.”
“How much will we catch? Will there be enough tubs to capture enough?” Harold frowned. “Some of the metal containers out there have already rusted through.”
“With a bit of judicious redirection we can get some of this water into the unused sewers outside the walls. I’ll seal those off so they don’t drain away any more, which makes them into an underground tank. The gardeners can bucket it back out of a manhole as required.” Rob frowned. “Get me enough down-spouting and we can pipe everything from the perimeter houses out across the fields. We’ll have to line some holes to hold it where the drains are knackered.”
“There’s garden ponds here and there in the ruins that still hold water. A good few will be those fibreglass things which we can dig up.” Harold frowned. “We can use old baths as well though we’ll have to sink them into the ground so they don’t provide cover for scroats. How far can you get the waste water to run?”
“Starting from upstairs? As far as the fields go I reckon. We can use the whole sewer system under those six houses out there as a reservoir since we don’t use the houses to live in.” Rob looked at his slate. “I don’t know where those drains run to. I’ll have to find a good spot to break in and seal that main.”
“Don’t do that. I had a discussion a bit back about one day needing them for people to live in.” Harold grinned. “There again, they can use composting toilets. It’ll make Emmy happy and we won’t smell them here.”
“Whew, I hope not.” Susan looked over Rob’s shoulder. “That looks like one of those Monty Python things where the pipes grew and grew, or was it a kid’s game? Mousetrap?” She cocked her head one way and then the other, peering at it. “Definitely a Heath Robinson contraption.”
“Nope, a Curtis contraption which means Emmy will personally build it then cry if it doesn’t work, unless I fix this so it does.” Rob smiled. “Which means everyone else will cry as they stagger round the ruins removing plumbing of all sizes and types, with great care.” He glanced at Harold. “I’ll start a list if we are really going for it?”
Harold sighed in resignation. “I can’t get fertiliser anywhere. This will allegedly deliver our dirty water to thirsty plants. It will stave off demands for composting toilets because Emmy can throw leaves and peelings in the water, if we’ve gathered enough. I think, because I’m not exactly Monty Don.”
“The alternative is composting toilets? I’m sold on this idea.” Susan kissed Rob. “So is he.”
Harold looked at the drawing, then gave up trying to work it out. “Is there any way you can keep the rainwater separated, and clean. We still get water through our taps, but it just crossed my mind how much trouble we’d be in if that stopped during a dry spell.”
Susan and Rob stared aghast, until Rob found his voice. “Cripes Harold, I really wish you hadn’t shared that little gem.” He hugged Susan. “Don’t worry, love, now Mr. Doom and Gloom has mentioned it I’ll fix it.” He turned back to Harold. “I’ll make sure the rainwater goes into lovely clean containers. The header tanks in the lofts will be ideal, but we’ll need a lot.”
“I’m not really happy I suddenly thought about the water being cut off, but I feel a bit better now.” Harold walked home wondering about electricity, but decided he’d been paranoid enough over water. There’d never been a problem with either except a few surges in the electricity, and a couple of power cuts after storms.
* * *
Over the following two days everyone agreed that gath
ering plumbing supplies, plastic tubs and garden ponds beat the hell out of composting toilets in their houses. Harold had a shock when his workforce assembled because over eighty people gathered with determined faces and any tools they could come up with. The workforce included the teenage schoolchildren, because they were allegedly having a plumbing and scavenging lesson. Harold would have worried about the safety of Orchard Close but the guardhouses were manned with plenty of spare weaponry and ammunition and very little tolerance today.
“Anyone coming is a threat, right? I sent the spies home to tell Caddi we’re shut for a week and bloody touchy about it. Messages have gone back to the Geeks, GOFS and Barbies with any of their people who were visiting over the last three days. Nobody else should be arriving.”
“I’ve got it Harold. I’d come with you but the Coven won’t let me.” Emmy stroked her baby-bump. “I’m definitely short-tempered, and junior won’t stop me shooting.” She flashed a brilliant smile. “Thank you Harold. I promise oodles of good stuff on the tables in return?”
“You and your gnomes?” Harold nodded cheerio to the other guards up at the guardhouse windows and waved the crowd to follow him. The scavengers looked like an army crossing the cultivated area. What followed definitely resembled looting and pillaging.
The sheer volume of plastic guttering and piping coming off houses and the number of plastic tubs of all sizes being uncovered in gardens, sheds and lofts overwhelmed them in the end. The amount of baths, header tanks, boiler tanks, copper tube and fittings coming out of the houses didn’t take up quite as much room but needed gentler treatment. Harold finally agreed to use precious diesel as well as the failing petrol vehicles to collect everything. Stacks of plastic and copper built up outside the main gates of Orchard Close, with more piles in the group of six houses
As the line of pillagers moved across the ruined and abandoned housing, they started to look more like locusts. The damaged or partly overgrown houses and garages looked bare without their guttering and exterior piping, as did gardens after machetes and feet flattened the new growth. A strange, almost party atmosphere developed in spite of those at the edges of the group being armed and watchful, and guards with binoculars watching from roofs or upstairs windows. Everyone brought sandwiches or snacks and bottles of water so they could have a sort of picnic at lunchtime. For the first time in at least two years and probably longer jokes and laughter rang out amid the desolation.
“I should get out more.” Liz waved her machete. “I can use this as long as nothing bleeds.” She stopped, staring at a tree stump or what had been one the last time anyone had really paid attention. “Cripes Harold, look how far this has grown. What sort of tree is it?”
“Pass.” Harold looked round. “Did anyone find Rachel de Thame hiding in a house here? I need a tree identified.”
“Trust you to look for a woman. What about Monty Don, you can find him by following the wheelchair tracks.” Liz waved her machete at the clump of thin shoots that towered above her head. “I want to know because look how it’s grown. What’s the thinnest branch I can make decent charcoal with?”
Harold sniggered. “I never ever expected to ever say this.” He raised his voice. “Help, I’m gnomeless. Can someone find me a gnome?”
The young woman with a floppy hat who turned up looked suspicious, probably because Liz and Harold were having to hold each other up. Harold took a deep breath and tried to wipe away the smile. “Hi, er, Gnome-lass?”
“Hah, hah. Tilly. Did you just want to take the piss?”
“No, Liz wants to know what this tree is? She has designs on it and probably any children if we find them.” Harold pointed at the stump in question.
“That’s a willow. There’s a couple more over there. Is that it?”
“No because seriously, this is important. Liz is wondering about growing for charcoal.” Harold saw Tilly’s eyes sharpen with interest. “She wants to know which trees will grow quickest, especially if they’ll make good charcoal. How long will it be before the new branches are big enough?”
“Willow is probably the fastest growing but I can’t be certain, or how good it will be for charcoal. They like water so if we plant them in a marshy bit where the water pipes or drains are jiggered they’ll grow faster.” Tilly eyed up the tree in question. “There might be a way of pruning to make them grow better for what you want.”
“Plant them? Curtis said seven years from seed for fruit trees so how long for willow?” Liz frowned. “I can’t wait seven years for charcoal.”
Tilly took three steps to slash off a shoot, then lopped off about three feet and drove it deep into an overgrown lawn. “Planted. That’ll be the size of the original shoot in a year or two.” She slashed again, making the remainder into two more lengths. “These will grow but might take longer or need protection from rabbits?”
Liz beamed. “How old is this stump? When did we lumberjack here, Harold?”
“A year ago? Less than eighteen months.” Harold looked at the piece driven into the ground and then the shoots going up above his head. “Cripes, we could grow our own forest.” He frowned. “We’ll have to watch out for rustlers.”
“First we ought to check the lumberjack sites.” Liz looked around.
“We’ll take note as we finish this job, a few days won’t matter.” Harold looked around. “Then Tilly gnome-lass gets all the info. After that we plant some trees, but we make damn sure they’re where we can keep an eye on them.”
“I’ll ask the rest. Some of them really were garden gnomes in training before the crash, amateur gardeners or just interested.” Tilly frowned. “I’ll check with Emmy and then try the library. I’ll bet there’s something on types of trees used for coppicing.” Tilly pointed at the stump. “That used to be done deliberately for eco-fuel which is how I know about willow.”
“Sorted.” Liz waved her machete. “Now I suppose we’d better get on with the piping or you’ll be reporting us. Then Emmy will make us mulch as a penance.”
Tilly looked at the two smiling faces. “Do you even know what mulching is?”
“No but it sounds disgusting.” Tilly shook her head at the two of them and went back to work.
Five days later Rob reckoned he’d got more than enough pipe. The next two days were spent carrying everything inside the gates or stacking the plastic gutter and piping neatly among the six big empty houses. Meanwhile a team started on digging up garden ponds, though putting them back into the ground posed a real problem. A problem that needed a shopping trip to the Geeks.
* * *
Two days after the end of the great pipe hunt Harold sat in ‘his’ diesel pickup, with the petrol one parked just behind. “Remember, everyone be good. I haven’t beaten on a Geek for ages so they’ve no gripe with us just now.”
“Hah, they’ve got a permanent gripe on.” Alfie leant forward. “Here they come.” Three Geeks walked to the wrecked Burger King sat in the middle of the cleared area. Harold walked to meet them with Casper and Alfie as bodyguards.
“Soldier Boy, what a pleasure.” Darwin’s curled lip didn’t even pretend to mean it. “We’ve arranged another demonstration for you, since it seems Caddi wasn’t over-paranoid about snipers. There’s a gang leader north of the M6 with a fatal headache, one that arrived from over half a mile away.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you been spreading the happiness?”
“Not at all.” Though Harold did wonder who was, since Caddi had mentioned something like it a while back. “Sounds like an Army sniper.” Or another rifle club man, or possibly a hunter though they weren’t common in England.
“Exactly. We took down a few more buildings, but Wellington said an Army sniper might shoot further than that. He also said the bastard might shoot the crew on our trebuchet because they’re out in the open so we came up with something else.” Darwin looked at his watch and pointed. “Watch over there.”
Harold did as asked. A couple of minutes later he heard a tremendous clang from the directi
on of the Geek HQ and a line of smoke curved down into sight, landing nearly five hundred yards from the compound. Moments later the missile exploded but with more smoke than flame and noise. Harold laughed. “Have you upgraded the thrower?”
“That’s a steel catapult using springs from a duff Luton van to throw a pipe bomb. A demo as you put it, because I don’t like dodging shrapnel either. It’s really called an onager according to Galileo and Tell. It will also throw a lot of bombs but not as far.” Darwin smirked. “Any bloody sniper will be blinded by a smokescreen or mincemeat if he’s close enough and the crew are out of sight behind a thick brick wall.”
“Only if Mr. Sniper is stupid enough to be where that’s pointing or lets you see him, otherwise you’ll just be using up ammo. Still, it should slow up an actual attack.” Harold grinned. “Why isn’t it the other side of your patch where you might get one of those?”
The Geek scowled. “Smartarse. Anyway, we haven’t got a lot of strife just now, not northwards. The General tried to take the gangs that way but he’s fucked because the mart and Army post are near them. He can’t use that shitload of automatics near either. The three gangs around the mart have allied to stop him taking over with machetes.” Darwin’s face split in a smile as he waved towards the dissipating smoke. “If the General fancies coming across the railway cutting, the big crossbow and this thrower will sort the bastard out.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke, especially if you blow up those Bloodsuckers.” Harold smiled a little. “Well, fun though this is, I didn’t come to talk about your new toys.”
“Why are you here, especially with two trucks?”
