"Breakthrough!" Arthur shouted over the engine noise.
Suddenly, the hose lurched forward, sucking Arthur's arms down to the elbow. A gurgle echoed from the depths—not a choking sound, but the deep, thirsty gulp of a drain clearing its throat.
Arthur wiped his hands on a rag, the adrenaline fading, replaced by the familiar ache of a job well done. He looked up at the Dunstable sky, which was finally beginning to clear, patches of blue breaking through the grey.
The jetting began. Arthur worked the hose forward, inch by inch, using the immense pressure of the water to force its way through the blockage. The technique was surgical. He had to feel the feedback through the rubber hose; too much force and he could damage old clay pipes, too little and he’d just tickle the blockage.
"Tree roots?" the café owner asked, peering over Arthur's shoulder.