Nothing worked.
“Have you tried—”
It wasn't just water down there. Something dark and fibrous floated on top, like wet felt. She fished a stick from the woodpile and prodded. A greasy, cold lump resisted. She pulled. A string of congealed fat emerged, studded with what looked like coffee grounds and the ghost of a pea.
That evening, she installed a small mesh strainer over the plughole. She scraped plates into the bin before rinsing them. She poured fats into an old jar, let them harden, and threw the jar in the rubbish.
A pause. “I’ll send my man. But he’s not cheap, and if it’s fat and scraps, that’s on you. Drain’s not a bin, Olive.”