Flushed With Pride

By DAVID MILLWOOD THEY knew all about me in New York. 'You're the guy who's got a lavatory like Buck- ingham Palace.' It was the same in Boston, in Washington, DC, in St. Petersburgh, Florida, in New Orleans, Los Angeles, San Francisco. Chicago and a town of less than 15,000 in the Tennessee cotton country. Someone had read about me, and always in the same connection.

The story of my fame begins with my younger son, Christopher, running to me from the bath- room, crying: 'Daddy, pull the chain for me!' He was only four and he couldn't reach it. We had the typical overhead tank-and-chain unit: noisy, constantly leaking water in the pan and requiring the special skill of a regular user to make it flush. It never flushed for guests.

When we came to design our own house we asked the architect about alternatives. You could have a low-level suite, he said—no chain but a tank behind the pan—or a flush valve. This, the most modern, neat and efficient device of all, was about the size and shape of a half-pound jam-jar and fitted on the pipe behind the pan. It was used universally on ships and was popular in America and many other countries. 'That's for us,' we said.

Our house was built with two w.c.s, one up and one down. A few weeks after we had moved in, a, cheerful inspector from the Metropolitan Water Board called. When he saw our flush valves, he shook his head. 'You'll have to take them out. They're against the Board's regulations. They waste water.' But I had been into all that before I installed them, I explained. 'Why should I take them out if they have been proved to be more efficient?' I was told I would have to be reported.

The Board's first letters were courteous but firm. They all said, in essence: these things waste water; take them out. I replied with test statistics, guaranteed not to use more than the statutory 3} gallons per flush and promised that the valves would be available for inspection at all times. The Board ignored my offer and threatened to cut off guy water supply unless I obeyed. This didn't worry me very much for I knew that other Lon- don suburban householders used flush valves. I knew that several private firms, factories, West End hotels and at least one London hospital had them. And I knew the Queen had them at Buck- ingham Palace. So I explained my problem to a friend on a national Sunday paper.

That weekend six million or so readers were informed that an attractive, twenty-five-year-old mother of two was beleaguered in the smallest room of her suburban house by Water Board bureaucrats. Letters came from cranks and sym-

pathisers. Friends—and complete strangers—

called to see what all the fuss was about and to press the illegal levers. 'Good luck!' they all said.

'Keep at it!' I did. I wrote for support to other flush-valve offenders, to the League for Civil Liberties, to Miss Pat Hornsby-Smith of the

Health Ministry, who was also our MP, to other MPs, other newspapers, to everyone I could think of. I even wrote to the Queen—and received a polite reply from a private secretary that Her Majesty could not be involved in the affair.

William Warbey, the Labour MP, asked two Questions in the House of Commons; I recorded an interview for the National Broadcasting Com-

pany of America, gave interviews to everyone, from the Daily Telegraph (OWNER INTENDS TO KEEP VALVES) to the Daily Worker (QUEEN HAS THIS WHY NOT ME?) and fondly imagined that we had 'em licked. Then came a letter from the Board. Remove the valves within fourteen days or have your water cut off.

As my wife pointed out, fighting for the rights of the individual was all very well, but what did the individual and his grubby individualist chil- dren do for water if the bureaucratic beasts cut it off? Neighbours answered that one. 'We'll keep you supplied with buckets. . ."Don't worry, old man, we'll run a hose from our kitchen tap to your roof tank. . . .' A practical friend brought round a T-shaped metal rod. 'If they turn it off,' he said, 'you can turn it on again with this. Where's your master valve?'

We surveyed the garden. No master valve. Only a sea of foot-high grass—no time for mow- ing when you're fighting a war. But after search-

ing around in front of the house, we found the master valve, made sure the rod fitted, then hid it. Two days to go now. What if we packed our bags and moved in with relatives for a few days? No, that would only postpone the issue. Then it struck me. Whoever the Board sent would turn off the supply only if he found the valves in use. Why not remove them just for his visit—and for any future visits?

The porcelain lavatory pan in the downstairs w.c. has a spider's-web pattern where I dropped the wrench into it. Otherwise, the removal opera- tion went according to plan.

At 10 a.m. on the appointed day a moon-faced man on a bright red bicycle arrived, pulled off his cycle clips and marched to the front door. I invited him in, conducted him to both w.c.s. He peered at the gaps between pan and water pipe and grunted. He knew what game I was playing. 'May I take it, sir, you are in course of complying with the Board's instructions?'

This was the question I had been waiting for. I had my answer ready. 'Just go back,' I said, 'and tell them what you found.' When he left, we put back the valves. As I expected, there was a letter two days later noting with satisfaction that we had removed them and presuming we were in course of complying with the Board's instructions. That was the last we heard from the Board.

When I told this story in the United States, I was often asked how I felt having fought and won my battle with the Board. And I would reply (the answer was always irresistible) that I was flushed with pride.