Tales of the West Riding by Phyllis Bentley Page A

now, ony road,” said the old man. “A wall that size can’t be built up in half an hour. She’ll brim, you mark my words.”
    â€œThere’s other reservoir commissioners besides Mester Beaumont,” reflected Joe.
    â€œNearest is three miles away. Sit thee down, Joe. Drawer will find it out in t’morning, when he goes to let watter flow down for t’mills. News’ll be all over valley by noon.”
    In this forecast at least the old man was correct, and the news of the Ling danger spread rapidly up and down the valley. The next couple of days, though not to be called dry, for mist and drizzle prevailed, were not as wet as Sunday, and quite a few Yarrow men walked or rode up to the reservoir, and stood gazing at it with mixed alarm and fascination. They could not help feeling a certain enjoyable interest in the reservoir, which was certainly very full; waves, driven by one of the westerly breezes so frequent in the Pennines, slapped sharply against the embankment only a few feet from the top. Here and there, indeed, the surface of the water was less than a yard from the top; the embankment had certainly sunk in an uneven and untidy fashion. Criticism of the reservoir commissioners was severe. They should never have let it get into this state—it’s disgraceful—well, they’ve no money—Lords wouldn’t pass the Bill—I don’t care; they should have repaired it, choose how. Mr. Beaumont, riding up on Tuesday morning, gave orders that the valves regulating the flow of water down the river were to be opened wide. With one culvert, this was immediately effected; the other valve for some reason stuck; a bush or tree had become lodged against the opening, perhaps; such a temporary closure had happened before. In this case, however, the closure proved notto be temporary, for the combined efforts of the drawer and several men borrowed from the upper mill where Joe now worked failed to open the valve.
    In the early hours of Wednesday morning the weather changed. The drizzle gave way to pouring rain. A westerly breeze sprang up, became a wind, became a storm. All through the day the rain deluged the hills, the wind howled down the narrow valley. It was later estimated—perhaps erroneously—that during the afternoon the Ling reservoir was filling at the rate of eighteen inches an hour, while the strong wind drove all this vast volume of water against the embankment.
    In the evening the rain suddenly stopped; the clouds cleared, the moon came out. The wind, however, still howled, and the air was biting as Joe made his way up the valley after work. A group of men, similarly drawn by curiosity, were standing on the hillside gazing down at the reservoir. Among them were the drawer, and Joe’s father.
    â€œWell, rain’s stopped at last,” said the drawer in a tone of relief.
    â€œAye, but watter hasn’t stopped coming in,” said John Booth. “Look at those becks up yonder.”
    He pointed to the hills which rose to the west. In the moonlight the streams on their sides showed white and swollen, leaping and foaming down the steep slopes into the Ling reservoir.
    â€œShe’ll brim,” he said in a gloating tone.
    â€œI reckon she will,” said the drawer. “But the fields below will sop it all up, surely.”
    â€œIf they don’t it’ll be a poor do for the mills along the river side,” said John Booth.
    After a time Joe, hungry and tired, began to think of home and tea. His father, however, declined to budge.
    â€œDon’t stop too late, now, father,” urged Joe.
    â€œI shall stay till she brims,” replied his father.
    Joe was by now so tired of this expression, which had become a byeword in the valley, that without any further attempts at persuasion he left the hillside.
    In the silver light of the full moon every wall and building, every field and lane in the Valley lay clear to his sight as