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a spare wheel strapped to the front. It was painted a bright orange and decorated with green lettering. Only the black-and-white dalmatians were missing - gypsy caravans in England usually had one or two of those spotted hounds padding along behind. When the vehicle came to a stop at the house, I half expected to have my fortune told.
The driver jumped down and opened his paniers and boxes along the side of the vehicle. These were crammed with wires, clips, shiny pipes, and other hardware trinkets. He walked over to the rusty steel wellhead and gave it a kick, and he looked down inside. I knew I was in the presence of an expert.
“Get hold of that chain and pull,” he directed.
I did, and slowly a stiff black pipe with wires wrapped around it came out of the well. More and more came out, rising like an enormous snake from the basket of an Indian snake charmer. I was too much out of breath to ask what we were going to do with this plastic snake so cold and unbending. But the expert clearly had everything under control and w'aved for me to pull the pipe around in a large circle. When the pump finally came out, it, the black pipe and electric wires lay in the winterbrown grass of the hay field.
The expert kicked the rust from the pump, looked down the well again and said: “You don’t have any spiders.”
I must have had a blank expression on my face because he decided then and there to give me a brief lesson on well engineering. He opened the various paniers and lockers and
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