JARRAH was at the door with a smile as bright as the arvo itself, his white Ceridwen Plumbing van making coughing noises in the midday-heat in the driveway. He was wearing a loud tropical shirt with palm trees that promised paradise but was purchased at an op-shop. He seemed to call out from the scene when he said, “You called for a plumber?” We couldn’t stop a leak somewhere in the pipeline and it was seeping through a crack in the cement floor. My partner and I didn’t know what to do. We needed someone immediately, as the water had created a small pool in the laundry room and threatened to spread into a nearby bedroom and beyond. So, we called Ceridwen, which had a nasty reputation for overcharging customers, but was willing to come immediately. And here was Mr Smiles, introducing himself as Jarrah, an Aboriginal fella. 

“Come in,” I said, and led him to the watery mess. 

He eyed it quietly, and then said, “I’ll have to tear it up to get to the leak.”