The Water Bowser (2)

Standing immediately before it, the four boys stared up at the cylindrical tank. It dwarfed them, even Dob. Bum set off round the contraption, reappearing moments later from behind one of the four wheels that were set one at each corner. The wheel alone was only slightly shorter than Bum himself.

‘Tyres are OK,’ he grinned, ‘slightly soft, but apart from this one,’ he put his hand on the offending rubber, ‘should be alright for moving.’

Dob inspected the tyre carefully, ‘It’s not completely flat … if we can get some air in it.’

‘Got a foot pump at home in the garage … can bring that tomorrow.’

‘Let’s give it a push … see if we can move it.’

The boys crowded round one end – the back end – and there followed a lot of pushing.

‘C’mon … we can ….do … better …. Aggh!… than … this.’

More pushing and now straining, breaths began to quicken. With a big, concerted heave on the count of three they did manage to rock it forward fractionally, but its dead weight brought it back down to its resting place despite all they could do to stop it.

Eventually even Dob gave up – it was hopeless, they hadn’t moved the tank an inch.

‘Too heavy.’

‘Yep … and all rusted up … we’re never going to move that.’

Disappointed, but in all truth hardly surprised, the boys flopped down on an old pile of sand which had been colonised by scrubby weeds and, as they soon found out, ants – red ants.

No one spoke as they stared now rather contemptuously at the tank, although it could hardly be held responsible for their returning predicament – the real subject of their irritation. No one wanted to start that conversation again, it had already wasted a morning.

Bum got up and wandered back over to the tank.

‘Well, we won’t move it like that.’

‘How else we supposed to move it? We haven’t got a truck to hitch on to.’

Bum laughed, ‘no … but we were trying to push it up hill and,’ he took a couple of quick paces over to the front of the tank, ‘all we did was push this tow bracket into the earth.’

It is astonishing how quickly hope and motivation can return to a band of dis-spirits. Banished were thoughts of days upon days (well five anyway) of ennui as they clustered around the triangular metal frame that had a tow cup on its apex which was, as Bum had indicated, half buried in the ground. The base of the triangle was connected to the front axle, which looked as though it pivoted at the centre.

‘That’s for hooking on to a lorry or something,’ said Eb, ‘let’s get it out of the ground.’

Despite another rush of ‘best efforts’, the triangular frame proved immovable. But this time they held their resolve.

‘If we push it the other way this’ll just drag along the ground behind it …. Lucky the front axle is pretty much in line with the back wheels.’

‘Might act as a bit of a brake going down that hill.’

‘Down the hill!’ J, who had been quiet since they entered the building site and had tried hard not to let his mis-givings dampen the mood of the group, just couldn’t help himself.

‘That was the plan,’ Dob was exuberant, ‘don’t you remember …. down into the valley, then up the other side and over to the gates.’ He gestured with his hand a route that followed the slight ridge that they were on then joined a track that went down a slope between two rows of partially constructed houses, across some foundation trenches then up a track on the other side to a pair of large gates that marked the official entrance to the site.

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Bum, ‘you lot have wizard ideas.’

‘But … how we going to steer it round that corner …. and that bend … and how we going to get it up that hill?’

‘Don’t worry about any of that now J, let’s just get it moving.’

Inevitably they found that even pushing away from the embedded tow bar made little difference – but they were committed now, no-one, not even J wanted to countenance failure and they began to talk about how rather than if.

Eb found a short piece of scaffolding pole with a helpfully flattened end which he shoved under one of the wheels. He explained that he’d seen empty railway trucks moved in a martialling yard near his Nan’s in Swansea by men pushing long poles under their wheels and levering them along. First attempts were unsuccessful as the soft tyre just absorbed any force they could muster, but when the pole was repositioned under the front axle their day, their week even, was transformed. Using the axle as a fulcrum they all pushed up on the bar and, amazingly, the tank lurched away from them.

And so they set to, prising out obstacles with their new ‘universal tool’, the scaffolding pole, and filling in craters with sand from the red ants’ heap – partially, it has to be said, in retribution.

Bum returned to a close examination of the tank, eventually climbing up to sit astride its top. He found an inspection hatch near the front which he managed to work loose and then, trying not too lose all the light in the shadow of his head, peered in.

‘Hey! It’s half full of water,’ he shouted, his echoey voice booming from the tank.

The others returned from their road construction.

‘We’ll have to get that out ….. this must be the drain.’ Dob grabbed a lever underneath the tank mid-way between the two axles and pulled. After a good five minutes of finding different ways to brace himself and ways to pull (and push) he signalled his exasperation by kicking a tyre as he walked away.

‘The pole!’ cried Eb, who was very pleased with his universal tool, ‘look, this end is round, it’ll fit over the lever ….. if we all pull at this end … OK, just you Dob, everyone else stand back ….. Oh shit!’

J managed to stifle a protest as the lever, now under considerable force, moved very easily – too easily. It sheared off from its nut on the outside of the valve and fell with a clank onto the ground.

‘Not even a dribble,’ muttered Bum who was quick to inspect the underside of the tank.  He stood up and faced them, ‘It’s going to have to come out through the top … I’ll go and look for a container of some sort.’

The others returned, slightly discouraged to their track making and had cleared the final distance to an old dumper track that ran to the end of the ridge when Bum returned with a chipped mug and a length of string. They stood round as he climbed back astride the tank and carefully lowered the mug down through the inspection hatch. Seconds later he was triumphantly hauling it back up full of rather slimy green water, which he promptly spilt onto his shorts.

‘Good work Bum.’

‘But it’ll take you all week to empty the tank and that mug tilts to the side sloshing half the water out.’

‘We’ve got all week,’ laughed Dob.

‘S’pose …’

The evenings were drawing in and they reluctantly had to acknowledge that there was little more they could do that day – and there was the small matter of tea (for which they were already late) to consider. Sitting on a different pile of sand they were discussing how they were going to accomplish the first task in the morning, moving the tank onto the old dumper track when Eb, looking over the shoulders of the others stiffened.

‘We’re being watched … DON’T !’

But he was too slow, they all turned to follow his gaze and there, despite the failing light, they made out two figures looking across at them from the gates on the other side of the site.

‘What do they want?’ scowled Eb.