Turning on the Waterworks

Saturday May 1st, a rainy bank holiday weekend (but is there any other kind of bank holiday weekend??)

11 am
FH and BB have just gone out, in search of something to do to pass the time until the rainy bank holiday weekend is over.
I put LB to bed, make myself a cup of tea, settle down to drink it in the living room.
Five seconds later, the startling sound of gushing water makes me spring up.
It sounds like a torrent of water is about to pour through the ceiling onto my head
(the torrent of water in question is not rainwater: there is a flat above us, and two occupants: Grumpy Old Man and Wife).

11.05 am
Panicked, I rush outside, and as luck would have it, Grumpy Old Man is standing around in the communal garden, ostensibly supervising a tree-felling operation taking place in the neighbour's garden.
I grab him, explain in a breathless tumble of words that something terrible is happening, and he must come and see.

11.07 am
Grumpy Old Man stands in my living room, cocks his ear and listens thoughtfully to the ongoing whoosh of water above our heads.
He admits it sounds dubious, but fails to express the kind of panic I expect.
He trudges off, unhurried, to investigate.
I remain paralysed in the living room, waiting for the ceiling to cave in.

11.12 am
A full FIVE minutes later, the torrent finally dwindles and stops.
I rush outside and hover, jumping impatiently from one foot to the other as I wait for news from Grumpy Old Man.

11.14 am
Grumpy Old Man huffs and puffs his way down from his own flat. He ambles across, looking sheepish (or as sheepish as his stern features will allow).
"Nothing to worry about," he assures me, in a tone that is striving for affable. "Just my wife... er... you know, using the bidet. Ha, ha. Finished now. Voilà."

End of story, apparently.
I nod, rather shaken, but too flustered at the idea of discussing bottom-washing with Grumpy Old Man to pursue the conversation.

The day moves on.


4.45 pm
We have just spent a pleasant 45 minutes chatting with our Canadian friends on Skype. I click off the computer, pull out the plug... and something pulls my gaze upwards.

There is a huge water stain adorning our living room wall.

My gaze follows the stain upwards to the ceiling, over a swollen pouch of water that is threatening to spill over at any second, and along the entire length of the ceiling-to-wall joint, that is dripping wet.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, open them, yell for FH.


5 pm
For some reason that I cannot fathom, Grumpy Old Man is back in my living room.
Our back door tends to be open most of the time, except in winter, and he must have heard the commotion and decided to take a look.
Or maybe I went into stress-induced unconsciousness for a few minutes, because I now see that FH is busily pointing out the water stains and analysing them with GOM (let's start using initials: he's popping up too frequently to spell out every time) in a man-to-man way that is making me anxious.
"Er.. but remember what happened this morning..." I squeak, because nobody seems to be mentioning that, "It must be a leak from your flat, right?"
"Oh, non, non, pas du tout!" GOM assures me, wide-eyed and incredulous, "what happened this morning was just the sound of my wife flushing. But THIS looks like something more serious. It must be the rain. My bet is: there's a crack between next-door's roof and your wall."
FH is nodding thoughtfully.
"Yep, I think that must be it. Next door's roof is in a right state..."
"Er... look, I don't mean to insist, but this morning..."
The men shush me. There is a definite undertone of "Woman: stay out of this one."
I purse my lips. Tears of panic well up and prick my eyes: BB comes over to comfort me.


5.30 pm
The insurance company is closed because it's a bank holiday, even though it's also a Saturday. Closed until Monday.
The lady who answers the "emergency assistance" number is tired, fed-up and bitchy.
From my 5-second description of our predicament, she deduces that it's not her problem. Not the problem of our insurance company, to be more exact.
"But, the wall is in OUR flat!" I insist.
"Why don't you understand what I'm saying, Madame?!" she snaps, "What's wrong with you?"
A giant sob bubbles up in my throat and I hang up.


6 pm
Another neighbour, also male, is now in our living room. The three men stare up at the watery wall while BB and LB snuggle up together on the sofa, in awe, and I sniff unhappily in the corner.
The other neighbour says that, if we're unlucky, the problem is our own water system. Pipes that haven't been replaced since the last war, and have burst.
"Not covered by insurance, probably cost you a fortune," he concludes grimly.
GOM nods his agreement.
I turn my face away so the kids don't can't see the panicky tears rolling down my cheeks.


9 pm
The troop of neighbours passing through to give their verdict has finally left.
The boys are in bed.
The rain has slackened.
The wall is drying, slightly.
The stain is still there.

There is a moment of complete silence.
FH and I look at each other... and suddenly, the penny drops.
He opens and closes his mouth.
I open mine, find my voice and say darkly:
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but have we ever, EVER, in the four years we have lived in this flat, heard a noise like the one I heard this morning??"

"Er..."

"No, we have not. And correct me if I'm wrong, but have we ever, EVER had a load of water come down from the ceiling before??"

"N...."

"Do you think... do you actually think..." (my voice is rising: I am Wronged Woman rising from the ashes of submission) "that these two events constitute a COINCIDENCE???"

"Non."

"What???" I yell.

"Non," FH says meekly.

GOM may be old. He may be "doddery". But hell, he's got a nerve.
Just when I thought it was safe to dream ... the ominous chime of domestic turmoil has struck again.

To be continued...