Dangerous Encounters

Chapter 2 Sabotage, client's error, Liz, and always the weather.

The snows melted and the octagonal pit filled with water to become a deep lake which made work impossible. We hired a big electric submersible pump, and regained control. 

"I can't understand where all this water is coming from." 

Steve looked at me pityingly, and momentarily moved his umbrella aside and pointed skywards into the stair-rodding rain. 

"No, you daft bugger. Why are we getting it all in the hole?" 

We spludged around, in the wet, still winter-fawn grasses, until we came to the archeological trenches. Then it was obvious; the trenches acted as long sumps taking the run off from some several acres of land, which then drained into our hole now it was the deeper feature. 

Steve said, "I'll make earth dams and block them off." 

"That should help." 

The rain sheeted down relentlessly for three more days. On the evening of the third day I was working on the computer, doing my monthly cash flow and billing forecast, when the drive fizzed down and the lights went out. Looking out of the window I caught sight of the filaments of the site lights as they cooled through orange to red to black. 

'Bugger', I thought. 'Firstly that's a file trashed, and the last back up was fifteen minutes ago.' I switched off the computer. 'Secondly it's still raining and there's no pump to drain the excavation, and the Poclain excavator is still in it, and the driver's gone home.' 

I went to the security gate with a big torch. Alf was sitting with his lamp reading the Sporting Life, and listening to Radio One, "Bastard of a night Mr Wisheart. Do you know when the power'll come back on?" 

"No. it's too early to phone. They'll need time to find out what's wrong. Give me the key to the Poclain, Alf. It's down the hole and the drainage pump will be off." 

He handed me a bunch. 

Under the crackling skin of the umbrella I walked along the archeological trench to the edge of our octagonal hole. The trench was brim full, and water was trickling over the top of the dam, eroding it away. 'Oh shit I thought, 'I may not have enough time to get the machine out before this lot mudslides away.' 

I went down the entrance ramp to the excavation, and walked in the squishy mud surface and six inches of water to the Poclain. I clambered up the steps to the top of the three foot high caterpillar track, and then with the torch and umbrella in one hand tried each of the four keys in turn to open the cab door."Why is it always the last one?" I vocalized in exasperation. Inside I wiped water from my hair and eyebrows and searched for an interior light switch. I found it - eventually. 

I located the glowplug switch, and the starter button and the big diesel clattered into action somewhere behind me. I turned on the operating headlights and the scene in front was brightly illuminated, but wholly unintelligible. Two minutes later I found the wiper switch. 

I first had to get the digging bucket off the ground, so it didn't obscure my view. I wasn't a professional excavator driver, and the icons on the various controls meant little to me. 

After fifteen minutes of threshing about in the mud and rising water I had the thing pointing in the right direction and driving up the access ramp. The water suddenly rose a foot from a miniature Severn Bore swishing across the surface of the pool, as the dam to the archeological dig finally gave way. "Ya, missed me," I shouted, over the roar of the diesel. 

Back in the office, I spread my wet things on the cooling storage heater to dry, and made to make a brew. No electricity. This must be what Ruth had to put up with all the time and no running water either. How did she keep so clean and wholesome? I realised that was one of her more subtle attractions. She smelt of lovely herbs.