Too Precious to Waste

Stella was still only half-awake as she lay listening to the longed-for sound of rain on the roof. The raindrops were so few and far between that she could almost hear the sound of each individual drop as it splattered on the corrugated iron.

They had moved to this house, at the end of a dusty gravel road leading to a national park by the sea on the south-east coast of Australia, when Jim retired almost a year ago. "You're connected to the electricity, of course," the real estate agent had said, "But you'll have to rely on those two big rainwater tanks for your water. Shouldn't be a problem."

But it had become a problem, and she had finally acknowledged to herself that she had caused it by insisting on a shower when she got up in the morning and another to wash her hair after their almost daily visits to the beach. Now, at the end of the long, dry summer, she had to be content with a stand-up-allover-wash using a shallow basin and a few cups of water. She was sick of it.

She had come to hate the tantalising way that, here near the sea, rain frequently started with a few haphazard drops which slowly moved together in space and time until it was raining properly. But you couldn't depend on it. Far too often it was nothing more than a few token drops from a passing cloud on its way to dump its load somewhere else. She decided it was still too dark to get up and peer hopefully at the sky. A month ago, she thought, it wouldn't have mattered, but now, with the level in the tanks down to the last few inches, they would have to buy water unless there was some good rain soon.

The splatter on the roof faded, and all she could hear was the distant roar of the surf and Jim's steady breathing as he slept soundly beside her. Snuggling into him she drifted back to sleep.

She woke again to the sound of rain on the roof and lay listening to the welcome splash of water plunging headlong from the downpipe into the kitchen tank. How heavy was it really, she wondered. The sky was beginning to lighten as she slipped out of bed and wandered on to the verandah.

When Jim emerged, sleepy-eyed, a few minutes later, she was standing on the withered grass, arms outstretched, her face upturned to the rain. He went back inside briefly, re-emerging with a cake of soap, a big sponge and the towels from the bathroom.

Stripping off his pyjamas, he said, "We may as well have a proper wash while we can. The water going into the tanks is too precious to waste on showers. Lord knows how long this rain will last or when we'll get any more." She wriggled out of her sodden nightdress and tossed it to him. "You know," he said, admiring her still trim figure, "Nobody seeing you like that would believe you're almost sixty. Here, let me wash your back." The rain lasted just long enough for them to wash the soap off each other.

Later, muttering to himself, "We can't really afford this," Jim phoned and ordered a tanker load of drinking water. The day after it was delivered there was steady rain all day and the tanks overflowed.