Bricking It (17 page)

That somewhere else for me is Mischa in her underwear. Again. What can I say? I am a man of little imagination when I’m not on drugs.

As I finish off the last of the undercoat on the windowsill, I start to have a particularly pleasant daydream about the unreachable object of my affections – one that would be instantly banned from cinemas, if it were ever exposed to celluloid. As I’m reaching a fairly graphic part that causes my hand to get a little unsteady as it guides the paintbrush along the woodgrain, I spy something out of the corner of my eye: a brief flash of red coming from the woodland.

I am instantly transfixed. There’s somebody down there!

There’s a person in the woodland. That flash of red was a hooded top, I’m
sure
of it.

And what do hardened criminals like to wear? Hooded tops, that’s what! We’ve all seen
Crimewatch
. We all know how they like to skulk around in the shadows with their hoods up, waiting to smack the next unsuspecting person around the head and take their wallet.

My heart starts to race. What do I do? Do I confront this evildoer alone? Do I recruit some of my burly building colleagues to help me apprehend the monster? Do I call the police?

Or do I calm down a fucking bit, take a few deep breaths and go have a better look, before I jump to any more ridiculous conclusions?

I put the paintbrush down, walk downstairs and go out into the garden through the kitchen, eyes locked on the woodland and whatever miscreant may be hiding down there.

‘Where are you goin’?’ Baz asks me from inside the front room, as he notices me creep past the patio doors.

‘Um . . . Pat The Cow. She needs feeding,’ I tell him.

Baz looks confused. ‘I only fed her an hour ago with that stuff Blenkins sold us.’

Pat The Cow has become the de facto mascot for Daley Farmhouse now, and everyone has embraced her as a large, smelly pet. Everyone except Fred, who refuses to have anything to do with her. Poor cow.

‘Well, I heard her mooing,’ I tell Baz. ‘You must not have fed her enough.’

Baz looks crestfallen, and I feel awful. But what else am I supposed to tell him? That I’m jumping at red-hooded shadows? They all had a jolly good laugh at my expense (again) when the full details of the marijuana bonfire came to light. I hardly want to give Baz any more ammunition for a good giggle by telling him I’m off to investigate who put the bloody stuff there in the first place.

With some trepidation, I make my way down to the bottom of the garden. Pat The Cow is actually nowhere to be seen. I can’t rely on her for back up, it appears.

As I reach the hedge, I duck down and crab my way along it, listening for more evidence of human activity. I get it when I hear some sulphurous swearing coming from just the other side of the hedge.

‘Fuck! Fuck! Bollocks!’ the voice says. ‘Where’s it all bloody gone? Fuck!’

Rather than the gruff, harsh tones of a gigantic man who has stabbed more people than he cares to remember, this is the voice of a very angry, but also very teenage,
girl
. Unless I haven’t been watching the right episodes of
Crimewatch
, this doesn’t strike me as the type of person who would be part of a gang of international marijuana smugglers that want to use my genitals as earrings.

I’m not taking any chances though, and remain hidden, listening intently to the one-sided conversation going on beyond the greenery.

‘India? Is that you?’ I hear the girl say, apparently into a phone, unless she’s gone mad with the grief of losing her drugs. ‘Where’s Cindy? Is she there?’ A pause. ‘Who do you think it fucking is, you idiot? It’s Mel! I’ve got to talk to Cindy. All the bloody plants have gone!’ Another pause. ‘I don’t know, do I? I just got down here, and someone’s nicked them!’

Aha!

So it’s not a gang of Eastern European thugs then. Just some teenage girls.

‘I’m gonna get out of here,’ Mel continues, ‘before he sees me.’

He?

Does she mean me? Has my lonely vigil been noticed?

It’s probably about time I confronted this girl, before she has a chance to slip away.

Emboldened by the fact that I’m fairly sure I could hold my own in a fight against someone who sounds about sixteen years old, I stand up, gird my loins and leap over the freshly cut hedge like Batman on a particularly bad day.

‘Stop right there!’ I cry manfully, which makes Mel scream, somewhat unsurprisingly like a teenage girl.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ she hollers.

‘Me? I’m the man who’s been waiting for you, young lady!’

Mel the teenage drug-dealer’s eyes widen. ‘Paedophile!’ she screeches.

‘What?’

The girl bends down and picks up a large, thick branch, which she then proceeds to hit me with.

This is not going the way I thought it would. This girl is meant to be terrified, knowing that her criminal ways have been discovered by an upstanding member of society. She is not supposed to mistake me for a child molester and start hitting me about the torso with a short length of beech tree.

‘Ow! Ow! Stop it!’ I wail. ‘I’m not a bloody paedophile!’

‘Yes, you are! I know your type!’ Mel argues. ‘Britney got jumped out on the other day when she was walking home from Budgens. He waved his willy at her and asked her to touch it. And Britney is a right fat lard ball, so he must have been a weirdo! Just like you!’

She swings the stick at me again, but this time I manage to dodge it, my arms flailing wildly as I lose my balance and fall back into the hedge. This gives Mel the hooded terror the opportunity to advance on me, stick held aloft. ‘I’m not touching your willy!’ she screams.

‘Everything alright here, is it?’ Baz says conversationally, from where he’s peering over the hedge at proceedings.

‘Baz! Help me, Baz!’ I implore.

‘This bastard wants to fiddle with me!’ Mel rages at him.

Baz calmly pokes a finger in one ear and has a bit of a rummage. ‘I doubt it, luv,’ he tells the girl. ‘You’re not his type.’

‘Thank you, Baz!’

‘If you was from Europe and liked to design houses you might stand a chance.’ Baz chuckles. ‘Not like he does though, eh, Danny?’

‘Here! That’s not fair!’ I argue, temporarily forgetting that I have an enraged and tiny teenage girl standing over me, ready to bash my brains in with a big stick.

‘Sorry, Danny. Couldn’t resist,’ Baz tells me, and climbs over the hedge himself. ‘Gi’s that, luv. Can’t have you smashing the boss’s head in.’

I’m touched by Baz’s use of the word ‘boss’ in relation to my good self. It’s a slightly misconstrued description, but I’ll take it nonetheless.

‘He’s a paedo!’ she snaps.

‘No, he ain’t,’ Baz disagrees, snatching the stick away. ‘But you’re a druggie, right?’

Mel’s face goes white. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re the one who planted all them Mary Jane plants that Danny found the other day. The coppers cleared it all out though, there ain’t nothing left.’

‘Coppers?!’ Mel says in a terrified tone.

‘Yeah!’ I interject. ‘The police are on to you!’ I tell her, trying to get back to my feet as I do.

Mel backs away. ‘Oh God! Please don’t take me to them! Please don’t let them know it was me!’ She shakes her head back and forth. ‘It was Cindy’s idea. She got the seeds from her brother! She said we should plant them here cos of my dad!’

‘Your dad?’ I ask, confused.

Mel’s eyes go wide. ‘Please don’t tell my dad! He’ll
kill me
!’ Tears start to well up at the corners of her eyes.

‘Here, steady on,’ I say. ‘Don’t cry.’

Baz rolls his eyes. ‘Let’s get back over this hedge and up to the house.’ He points at Mel. ‘If you try to run away, I’ll grab you before you get far, alright?’

I know Baz is a right soft touch, but he is still six foot three and built like a brick shithouse, so I can understand the look of fear that crosses the girl’s face.

It doesn’t go anywhere while we frogmarch her up to the house, and it gets even more pronounced when Fred’s entire crew crowd around her.

‘You’re in a lot of trouble, petal,’ Fred tells Mel and points at me. ‘Your drugs made poor old Daniel here think a demon cow was after him.’

Oh,
thanks
, Fred.

Mel gives me a long look. ‘Really? Cos all I get off that stuff is a buzz. Cindy says she sees tracers, but I don’t believe her. You really saw a demon cow?’

‘Maybe,’ I reply in a very small voice. Now I have the distinct pleasure of knowing that I have less resistance to strong marijuana than a bunch of teenage girls.

‘Who’s your dad?’ I ask her, changing the subject. Her face blanches.

‘Look, flower,’ Fred says, ‘it’s either we tell your dad, or we tell the coppers. Choice is yours.’

‘Shouldn’t we just tell the police anyway?’ Hayley says.

Fred shrugs. ‘What good would it do? She’s fifteen years old.’

‘Sixteen,’ Mel says with a huff.

‘
Sixteen
years old. They won’t charge her with anything. I reckon her dad will be a better bet, punishment wise. If she tells us who he is.’

‘I ain’t saying nothing,’ Mel says, crossing her arms.

It’s at this point that Pat The Cow appears in the doorway, looking at Mel intently.

The girl turns around and says something that gives me a bloody good idea of exactly who her father is, whether she wants us to know or not. ‘Angelina?’ the girl says incredulously. ‘What are you doing here?’

I put two and two together.

‘Blenkins!’ I shout. ‘Your dad is Blenkins! He owns the farm next door.’

Mel cringes. She knows I’ve got her pegged! She starts to cry. ‘He’s going to kill me! He’s going to bloody kill me!’

‘Moo,’ Pat The Cow intones, as one who has finally seen justice served this day.

En masse, we deliver Mel back to her father.

As she predicted, he is not best pleased. ‘Growing drugs on moi land!’ he snaps at her. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble here, missie! You just wait until I tell your mother!’

The farmer turns back to us. ‘Are you gonna tell the police on her?’ he asks.

‘Nah,’ I reply, to his visible relief. ‘If Mel here promises not to do it again, we’ll say no more about it.’

In truth, getting the police back would be more hassle than it’s worth, and I have no real desire to ruin the life of a small girl just because she made one stupid mistake.

‘Thanks very much,’ Blenkins says. ‘How’s Angelina workin’ out for ya?’

‘Pat The Cow is a legend,’ I tell him. Everyone behind me nods in agreement.

Then they stop, realising how stupid they look. Pat The Cow’s influence runs deep.

We exchange a few more words with the farmer while Mel squirms and looks at her feet. I have a feeling that her mother is the disciplinarian of the family, and will be meting out the kind of justice that the police probably couldn’t get close to if they tried.

We part company with Blenkins and Blenkins Junior, satisfied that this matter can now be put behind us.

As I wander back to the house with the others, I am forced to reflect that without Pat The Cow’s timely intervention, we may have never discovered who Mel’s father was.

Maybe my idea for a cow-based TV series isn’t so ridiculous after all. Altogether now:

It’s Pat The Cow, she’s Pat The Cow,

If you’re in trouble, she’ll come right now.

She catches thieves, she catches thugs,

She’ll tell your dad if you grow drugs.

HAYLEY

October

£129,734.28 spent

W
hen we began this crazy renovation I did a lot of reading about the pitfalls and problems that you can – and probably will – encounter during the project. I am a girl who likes to plan ahead, and I most certainly do not like surprises. You can imagine how disconcerting I found it when pretty much the first thing I read about house renovations was to ‘expect surprises’. Nevertheless, I spent a great deal of time familiarising myself with the kind of bombshells we might encounter, just to be as ready as possible for any eventuality.

And so far that prior planning has paid off. There have been some shocks and surprises along the way, but each and every time, they were the kind I half expected to happen at some point. Take the subsidence, for instance. That ended up costing us thousands more than we thought, but while it was painful in the pocket, it wasn’t a complete and total surprise. Therefore, my stress levels remained in the yellow zone. More floorboards needed replacing due to the woodworm as well. Again, this was expensive and time-consuming, but was a fairly typical problem with a property of this age and again, my stress levels didn’t tick into the red zone once.

Yes, indeed, I thought that whatever Daley Farmhouse wanted to throw at us, I was ready and prepared to deal with it. Woodworm, rising damp, broken sewerage pipes, bad wiring, bad weather, bad insulation – Hayley Daley was ready to cope with all of these things, and many more!

However, in all those online articles I read, in all the books I bought, in all the TV shows I watched, not once, not bloody
once
, did anyone mention that during a house renovation you might come across
unexploded ordnance
.

Yes, that’s right. A fucking
bomb
.

An unexploded shell from the Second World War, to be more precise.

I mean, come on people. That’s entirely unfair!

If we were fixing up a house on the Normandy beaches I could accept it, but not in the middle of the bloody Hampshire countryside!

And everything was going so well.

‘Looking lovely, isn’t it?’ Fred remarks as I gaze at the nearly complete bathroom with misty eyes. I am a woman who enjoys a good bath, and this is most certainly a
good bath
. In fact, it’s a
great
bath. A
fabulous
bath. The kind of tub you would only be marginally annoyed to drown in, given that there probably isn’t a nicer place in the world to shuffle off this mortal coil than a brand-new, bespoke, luxury bathroom suite.

‘It’s stunning.’

‘I’ll give Mitchell some credit. He may dress like my uncle after he’d lost his marbles, but the boy knows how to design a house,’ Fred says, nodding his head. ‘And source the fittings. I have no idea how he managed to find this lot at such a good rate.’

‘Mmmmm,’ I reply, only half listening. I’m imagining myself in here on my own of an evening, with a glass of wine and an iPod dock.

The bathroom is absolutely in keeping with the modern farmhouse aesthetic we’ve gone for. The roll-top bath is exquisite. The large, broad sink unit is magnificent. Even the toilet looks like a work of art, what with the cistern on the wall way above it, connected by a polished chrome pipe. The tiles that line the walls and floor are a heady combination of black and white that shouldn’t work, but just
do
– effortlessly so.

I turn my head to where Weeble is standing behind me with an expectant look on his face. ‘Well done, Weeble,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve done an amazing job in here.’

Weeble smiles the smile of a man well pleased with both his work, and the compliments it has received. ‘Thanks, Hayley. It’s one of the best ones I’ve done.’

Fred clamps a hand over Weeble’s shoulder. ‘No arguments there, my boy,’ he says, with father-like approval.

‘Of course, there’s no water yet,’ Weeble continues. ‘We’re still having issues down at the main pipe from the road, so it’ll be a while.’

‘It’ll be a while yet’ is now the catchphrase of this renovation.

I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. When presented with such a lovely place in which to bathe your cares away, it would be nice to actually have the water with which to do so.

I grit my teeth. There I go again – picturing a life for myself in this house, when it will be someone else who gets to enjoy it, when all is said and done.

I try very hard not to heave a sigh, fail miserably, and turn myself away from Mitchell Hollingsbrooke’s work before I get any more morose.

‘How’s the front garden coming?’ Fred asks me as we amble back downstairs.

I give him a look. ‘Just go outside and find out, Fred. It’s fairly obvious what Sally and her team are doing out there.’

‘No it ain’t, love. Me and gardening do not get on at all. I haven’t a clue what they’re up to out there. All I see is a bunch of people in dungarees bent over and fiddling. I haven’t got the first bloody clue what they’re actually doing.’

I think for a moment, trying to recall what my brother had told me yesterday. ‘Danny says they’re plotting out a classic English country garden in the front, designed to draw the eye—’ I pause. ‘Designed to draw the eye somewhere. I can’t quite remember where. I want to say to the horizon, but that doesn’t sound right. Maybe the front door?’

‘Well, that’s where I’d want my eye drawn, cos that’s where I’d be bloody heading,’ replies Fred sagely. ‘What about the back bit?’

I wave a hand. ‘No idea. They’ve got enough trouble wrestling the mess out the front into something attractive, let alone sorting out Pat The Cow’s field.’

The rear garden has become the property of Pat The Cow over recent weeks. She will not be happy once Sally Willingham gets out there and starts cutting all that lovely grass down.

‘Whatever they’re planning, they need to get it done quickly,’ I continue. ‘The weather will be caving in pretty soon. This Indian summer won’t last much longer.’

‘As long as they keep out of our way,’ Fred warns. ‘We’re still nowhere near done yet. The electricians need to come back; the plumbers still have to get through. Then there’s the kitchen.’

For all his bluster and bravado, Fred Babidge can be a right worrywart sometimes. I put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Fred. Danny will make sure they’re kept out of your way. Why don’t we go have a look outside at what they’re up to?’

Fred shrugs his shoulders. ‘Alright. Can’t hurt, I suppose.’

It’s not exactly said with enthusiasm, but if I can just get Fred to appreciate how important it is for the garden to look as good as the house, it’ll go a long way to making sure the two teams get on with each other.

We traipse over to where Sally and Danny are standing by a hole in the left-hand corner of the front garden. Around them are a team of three gardeners, currently all busying themselves with clearing the garden of detritus in preparation for what I assume will be the planting of bright, waving flowers.

‘Oh no, nothing that grand yet,’ Sally tells me when I voice this assumption. ‘Autumn’s no time for planting anything like that. We’re strictly here to re-turf, re-grass, build a border pattern, and put in some simple violas and pansies for the minute. The showpiece stuff will have to wait until spring.’ She catches the look on my face. ‘Don’t fret. The garden will still look lovely, you mark my words. It’ll just be a subtle design. Which, as it happens, works better with a grand old farmhouse like this. You’ve all done such good work making the place look as magnificent as it does, I wouldn’t want the garden to compete with it.’

Fred glows with pride at these words. So much for me needing to get him and Sally on the same page. She’s done it for me with a simple but effective compliment that will ensure harmony at Daley Farmhouse for some time to come, with any luck.

‘What’s the hole for?’ I ask her.

‘There was a rather nasty old yew stuck in there. Half rotten and good for nothing. It had to come out. Left a big hole to fill, though.’ Sally indicates a rather chubby young man in a work shirt digging in the hole with a spade. ‘Jez is just making sure there’s no root matter left before we fill it in. How’s it going, Jez?’ she asks him.

‘Not too bad, boss,’ he replies, thrusting the spade head back into the ground as he speaks. ‘Think we’ve got all of it. I’ll poke around for another few minutes or so, just to make sure we—’

CLUNK!

The sound is low, metallic and hollow.

‘What was that?’ Danny asks, moving forward.

‘I don’t know,’ Jez replies. He lets the spade fall out of his hand, and bends down to scrape the mud away from something under his feet with both hands. In a few seconds he has revealed the round end of a metal object about eight inches wide.

‘What is that? A tin can?’ Danny asks.

‘Too big for that,’ Jez responds, brushing off even more dirt. ‘Looks like it’s got funny fins down the sides. And what’s that writing mean?’ He manages to reveal a good foot and half of metal before Fred issues a sharp intake of breath and steps forward with both hands out.

‘Stop!’ he orders.

Jez looks up. ‘What’s the matter? The quicker I get it uncovered, the quicker we can get it out.’

‘Trust me, lad. You don’t want to mess with that bloody thing any more!’ Fred insists.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a bomb, son,’ Fred tells him matter-of-factly. ‘German probably,’ he adds.

If you ever have the urge to watch a chubby man in his twenties leap ten feet into the air in a split second, simply tell him he’s standing in a hole with a seventy-year-old unexploded bomb.

‘Everybody back!’ Danny wails, somewhat unnecessarily, as we’ve already all started to back-pedal like maniacs.

‘Into the house!’ Fred orders.

Much to my dismay, Sally’s team of dirty, mud-encrusted gardeners all pile through the front door to Daley Farmhouse, and onto the crisp, clean, polished floorboards inside.

It is testament to my obsession with this place that even in the face of potential explodification, I am still more concerned about the bloody house than my own well-being.

Mind you, if the bomb goes off, a few dirty footprints will be the least of my worries. I can’t imagine that bomb-damaged properties sell for much on the open market, no matter how nice the roll-top bath is.

‘Er, I guess we should call the police?’ Danny suggests as we all crowd in one corner of the living room.

‘Good idea,’ Sally agrees.

‘Do you think it’ll go off?’ Jez asks no one in particular.

‘Let’s hope not,’ Sally replies. ‘I’ve left my favourite hoe out there.’

It seems I’m not the only woman in the world who has slight problems getting her priorities right when faced with the prospect of a bomb going off.

Danny takes out his mobile and hits the usual three digits. What follows is a unique conversation I am only privy to one side of.

‘Hello? I need the police!’ Danny says in a strangled voice. ‘There’s a bomb in my front garden!’

He listens for a moment. ‘No, I’m being bloody serious! We’ve just found a bomb!’

He listens again. ‘How should I know? It’s big, metal and missile shaped!’

Listens. ‘No, it’s not fucking
ticking
! This isn’t a Bugs Bunny cartoon, mate!’

Fred whips the phone out of Danny’s shaking hand. ‘Let me speak to them,’ he says. ‘Can we please have the police here as quickly as possible?’ he tells the operator in a much calmer tone than my brother. Then he explains the situation, gives the guy on the other end the address and hangs up. ‘They’ll be here within the next few minutes,’ Fred tells us, handing the phone back to Danny.

Baz then appears from upstairs. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks us.

Danny gives him a look of abject terror. ‘There’s a bomb in the garden, Baz!’

Baz looks out of the living-room window, cocks his ear to the faint sound of sirens, and nods his head. ‘Right then.’ He walks back out into the hallway and shouts upstairs. ‘Tea break, lads!’

Not just us women with the misplaced priorities, then.

Twenty minutes later a small police car turns up at the front gate, being driven by an even smaller police officer.

‘Blimey,’ Danny says when he sees the pocket copper climb out of the car. ‘He’s a little one.’

‘He looks like my grandson,’ Fred remarks, peering through the front-room window.

‘Copper too, is he?’ I ask.

Fred gives me a look. ‘No. Eight years old.’

The policeman steps over the broken garden gate – we really have to get that sorted out soon – and makes his way rather nonchalantly down the garden path.

‘We did say we thought there was a bomb in our garden, didn’t we?’ I murmur as I watch the policeman show absolutely no signs of concern about the massive explosive device sat in the hole off to his right-hand side.

‘I thought I made it pretty bloody clear,’ Fred says, and walks out of the room. He opens the front door and points at the bomb hole. ‘You might want to walk a bit quicker there, officer.’

‘Why’s that then?’ the copper replies, with a cheery smile on his face.

‘There’s a bomb in that hole over there,’ Fred tells him.

The copper continues to show no outward signs of distress. He waves a hand. ‘Oh, we get these calls all the time. It always turns out to be a tin can, or an old bit of pipe.’

‘Ah, does it?’ Fred replies, eyes narrowing. ‘Do the tin cans or old bits of pipe often come with fins down the sides and the words
Warnung Explosiv
stamped on them?’

The copper’s face goes a little grey around the edges. ‘Fins?’ he says in a reedy tone.

‘Yep. Big ones.’

‘Er, I think I’ll come inside then.’

‘That’s your best bet, squire.’

The copper is in the house faster than you can say doodlebug. He’s on his radio even faster than that. ‘Victor One from Papa 72, are you there, Victor One?’ he says breathlessly.

‘Receiving, Papa 72,’ a bored voice on the other end says.

‘Um. There’s a bomb here, Victor One.’

‘Are you mucking about, Kev? Only the inspector warned you lot about mucking around on the radio last week in that email.’