‘And that’s probably the reason you have an American accent,’ Greg concluded. ‘But how did you manage to get back here again? Why did they let you return?’
‘I got lucky, I guess. You know how I mentioned earlier that when I first got there I was reminded of Heathrow Airport? Well, the whole place is like an airport. It’s not just the queuing and the lounges: there are announcements detailing departure numbers, and when people hear their number they simply get up and leave. I think there are actual flights out!
‘The number I’d been given was Z87, but when they announced that number they said that the departure was overbooked and they were looking for five people to give up their places and take a later departure. They said that anyone prepared to do this would be given a free upgrade when they left.
‘So I went up to the X-ray woman standing behind the reception desk and told her that even though I’d been assigned the number Z87 I wasn’t the Lyle Bowman they had me down as – the one from Buffalo – and I was more than happy to wait for another number until the right paperwork came through. She made a few tut-tutting noises when she heard this and told me to stand completely still. She then pressed a button and, like before, I was sucked into the air and plonked down on a chair in another white room.’
It was a larger room than the one Lyle had previously been in, and this time there were three X-ray people sitting there, all with a copy of his file open before them. The X-ray who sat in the middle was a woman and she apologised to Lyle for the mistake made in wrongly identifying him as Lyle Bowman of Buffalo, New York. She assured him that the X-ray who’d made the error and not rectified it would be disciplined. There was no excuse for poor customer service.
She told Lyle that he would remain there until his documentation had been corrected and would then be given a departure upgrade as promised. It would, however, take time for this to happen. In view of his poor experience of death to date, and the fact that the first X-ray had classified him as a Reluctant Dead because of some unresolved family matters, they were prepared to give him the opportunity of returning to the world for a short time.
Lyle then described the restrictions of his furlough. He was limited to one physical location and could reveal himself to only one person – both of which had to be decided then and there. He would be able to touch and move objects, but unable to touch or be touched by a living person.
‘The house was an obvious choice,’ Lyle said, ‘but I was never sure you’d be there. I figured that sooner or later you would show up, but it was still a gamble. Fortunately it’s paid off.’
The maximum time he could spend in the world was twenty days – it was the most they allowed anyone in his category. Once that time had elapsed, he would be recalled automatically. If, however, he chose to return earlier, all he had to do was move beyond the physical location he’d chosen. Unfortunately, the sensation of travel he’d experienced on first dying would have to be endured for a second time: there was, they told him, no easy way around this.
‘That’s the bit I’m not looking forward to,’ Lyle said.
‘Is there any point in me bringing Billy and Uncle Frank to see you?’ Greg asked.
‘Not really. I’d be able to see them, but they wouldn’t be able to see or hear me. The only thing they’d see is you talking to yourself and that wouldn’t look good. For your own sake, you have to keep our meetings private. If you tell them you’re talking to me they’ll think you’ve lost your mind – and who’s going to accept the help of a crazy person?’
Greg wasn’t sure about Billy, but had no doubts that his Uncle Frank would jump at the chance.
‘Don’t you think they’ll get a bit suspicious when I know all this stuff about them? How am I supposed to explain it to them?’
‘You’ll think of something, Greg. Tell them we discussed things on the phone, or think of something else. You were always good at lying.’
It was a compliment of sorts, Greg supposed, but doubted that this credential alone made him the right person for the job. In all likelihood, his father would return to Heathrow Airport a disappointed man.
5
Callers
Fred Stubbington knocked on the door at precisely ten o’clock.
‘Mr Bowman? Fred Stubbington. I’m here to look at the crack.’
He had a firm handshake and was, as Greg had hoped, no-nonsense and to the point. Greg was confident that at least Mr Stubbington was the right man for the job.
They walked to the rear of the house and Greg pointed to the crack. On seeing it, Fred Stubbington sprang to life.
‘Classic wall-tie failure!’ he exclaimed. ‘No doubt about it.’
‘Is that bad?’ Greg asked, having no idea what wall-tie failure was.
‘It’s something that happens, Mr Bowman – especially in houses as old as this – but you can rest assured that it’s not the end of the world – or the house.’
Most houses, Mr Stubbington explained, were built with inner and outer walls. There was a space between the walls called a cavity, and hence the term cavity walling. For a cavity wall to have structural integrity, the inner and outer leaves of masonry had to be ‘tied’ together with fasteners. These fasteners were called wall-ties and were made of metal. Over time, however, the metal corroded – especially if it was iron – and eventually the rusting would cause a tie to snap. If a sufficient number of ties snapped, the integrity of the wall would be compromised and, in some instances, crack.
‘Considering the age of the house, Mr Bowman, I’d say the builders used iron fish-tails, and this type of tie is particularly susceptible to rusting. You wouldn’t think moisture would find its way through a thick layer of pebble dashing like this, would you? But it does, and this rear wall of yours is also the weather wall – the one that gets the brunt of the wind and rain. This explains why the crack is here and not in the side or front walls.’
Mr Stubbington walked down the steps to the side of the cellar door where a large piece of rendering had fallen from the wall. ‘Hmm, just as I suspected,’ he said. ‘They’ve used black ash mortar.’
‘Shouldn’t they have done that?’ Greg asked.
‘There’s no law forbidding it, Mr Bowman, but it wouldn’t have been my choice. This particular type of mortar is acidic, and acid corrodes wall-ties just as much as moisture. Not to worry though: it’s all fixable.’
‘So what do we do next?’
‘We call in a firm of specialists and get them to replace the wall-ties.’
Mr Stubbington told him the name of a company he trusted. ‘They charge reasonably,’ he said, ‘and, what’s more, they guarantee their work for twenty years.’
Greg accepted his suggestion, and it was agreed that Mr Stubbington would send a copy of his report to them. ‘I’ll suggest they use the vertical twist rather than the double triangle ties. All types are made from stainless steel these days, but the vertical twist has a plastic coating.’
‘Do we just replace the ties in this wall?’
‘No. You have them all done. Even though there aren’t any cracks showing in the other walls, the ties there will have weakened and eventually they’ll start to crack too. Any surveyor acting for a potential purchaser would insist on this work being carried out.’
‘How long will it take to do this?’ Greg asked.
‘No more than a day. They’ll drill holes in the walls and insert the ties through them, and then they’ll fill in the crack. There won’t be any need for scaffolding. Do you want them to replace the sill while they’re at it?’
Greg agreed to his suggestion. ‘How much do you think this is going to cost, Mr Stubbington?’
‘No more than £1,500, Mr Bowman. If the house was in London you’d be paying twice that amount. People down there don’t know the value of money.’
Mr Stubbington went inside the house with Greg and phoned the firm he�
�d recommended. ‘Is Thursday of next week alright for you, Mr Bowman?’ he asked. ‘Okay, Bill,’ he said to the person at the other end of the phone. ‘He’ll expect you then.’
Greg walked with Mr Stubbington to his car and turned to see Mrs Turton standing in her bay window. He didn’t wave and neither did she. It appeared they had arrived at an understanding.
Greg saw little point in starting any work inside the house until after the estate agents had visited. The first of them, he noted, would be arriving in just over two hours and he decided to use the time clearing out the garage. He unlocked the door with the small key Billy had given him and started to poke around. Apart from his father’s tools and gardening implements, there appeared to be little of value. There was a pile of wood and a stack of old bricks at the far end of the garage, a jumble of empty paint cans closer to the door and some cardboard boxes containing only detritus – plastic plant pots, dirty rags, jam jars and empty margarine tubs. The only thing of any substance was an old four-bar electric fire, and he doubted that Billy would have any use for this.
He was filling a dustbin bag with rubbish when the first of the estate agents arrived. A man slightly younger than himself walked down the drive and introduced himself as Darren Coates. He was from the largest of the three estate agencies and his manner was suitably perfunctory. He wished to inspect the house alone, he said, and declined Greg’s offer of a tour.
Having already decided not to put the house in Darren’s hands, Greg returned to the garage. Darren joined him there thirty minutes later.
‘I suggest we put the house on the market for £129,950, Mr Bowman – but don’t expect to get that price. The house needs too much doing to it, and the fact that it’s been extended is immaterial in the current market. If I were you, I’d seriously consider any offer over £110,000.’
He handed Greg a shiny coloured brochure and his business card. ‘Call me if you’d like to take advantage of our services. We’re the biggest in the city and you won’t find any better.’
Greg watched while Darren drove away, and then put the brochure and business card with the rest of the rubbish.
The second agent to arrive was a woman in her early forties who believed herself to be more attractive than she actually was. As Greg led her from room to room, she flirted with him unabashedly and, on reaching the back bedroom, sat down on his bed and applied a new coat of lipstick. Her valuation of the house, however, was the same as Darren’s: £129,950. ‘And remember, Greg, if you sign with our agency, you’ll be getting my very own special attention – and I mean special!’ She then winked at him.
Kevin Dangerfield, the third of the estate agents, had a nervous affliction that caused him to flinch every few minutes. ‘Sorry about the flinching, Mr Bowman. It happens sometimes. Is it all right if I call you Greg?’
‘Sure, Kevin. Let me show you round the house.’
‘I’m not very good at this, yet,’ Kevin confessed. ‘I’m more used to selling novelties for a living than houses, but the company I worked for went belly-up and I had to look for something else. I’ve only been an estate agent for a month and this is the first time I’ve been out of the office on my own. In fact, the only reason you’re seeing me today, instead of someone who knows what they’re doing, is because we’re a bit short staffed at the moment. I promise you I’ll do my best though, and I’m happy to take on board anything you have to say.’
Greg took an instant liking to Kevin. There was no side to him, no airs and graces, and he was unreservedly honest – probably too honest for his own good. He impressed Greg as a tryer; someone who would put his full weight – which was considerable – behind the sale of the house. The fact that he hadn’t yet mastered his electronic tape measure and had the dining room measuring thirty-six yards by four feet mattered little to Greg, who was more than happy to show him how it worked – even though he’d never seen one before.
Kevin was the only agent to tell Greg that he actually liked the house – he’d grown up in one just like it. He nodded appreciatively when Greg showed him how the dining room had been built out and the garden extended, and whistled in amazement when he took in the views from the rear windows.
Greg made coffee and they sat down to determine a selling price. With little discussion they decided on £135,000 which, they both agreed, could be reduced if the right buyer came along. Kevin handed Greg some sheets of paper held together with a clip and wrote his name on the front.
‘I haven’t got a business card yet,’ he explained. ‘What do you think I should put on it when I do: KP Dangerfield or Kevin?’
‘I’d go with Kevin. KP makes you sound like a nut.’
Kevin laughed and shook Greg’s hand. ‘It’s a bit damp, I’m afraid, but I like to think it’s firm. It’s been very nice meeting you, Greg, and I’m sorry to hear about your father. Thanks again for giving me your time and showing me how to use the tape measure.’
He then made to leave the house.
‘Well, do you want the business or don’t you?’ Greg asked him.
‘You want me to sell your house?’ Kevin asked in amazement.
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Greg said. ‘And tell your boss it was you who swung the decision, and not the name of the agency.’
‘Well I’ll be!’ he said.
Kevin left the house whistling, and Greg returned to the garage smiling. He continued to sort the rubbish into piles and then took a brush and swept the floor. It was while he was carrying the electric fire to the car that the truth dawned on him:
He’d just hired Billy.
Some things in life never change and, fortunately for Greg, neither had the location of the refuse tip. The internal arrangement of the dump, however, had changed considerably since he’d last visited and there were now numerous and separate skips for different kinds of rubbish: paper, cardboard, plastic, metal, garden waste and so on. He was wondering where to make a start when Syd Butterfield approached him.
‘It’s Greg, isn’t it?’ Syd enquired.
‘Hello, Syd!’ Greg said, surprised to meet anyone he knew at the dump. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I’ve been off-loading some leylandii clippings, Greg. Those trees make fine hedges, but if you don’t keep on top of them and cut them back every year, they’ll grow tall enough to interfere with air traffic. What are you up to? Clearing out your dad’s house?’
‘I’m making a start – all this is from the garage,’ he said, pointing to the car. ‘I was just wondering which skip to put what in.’
‘Dump it all in the skip marked General Waste,’ Syd told him. ‘That’s what me and your dad did. We weren’t prepared to waste what precious time we had left on earth accommodating the lazy buggers who work here. And what’s more, it’s only since we joined the EU that we’ve had to do this – and neither me nor your dad voted for that! What in the name of God are we supposed to have in common with the French?
‘Anyway, you’d best get cracking. The dump closes at five and there’s no one here works a minute longer than they have to. I’ll get my gloves and give you a hand.’
They took the bags and boxes out of the car and, as Syd had suggested, threw them all into the same skip. All that remained was the electric fire.
‘I could take that off your hands, if you like,’ Syd said. ‘I could use it for heating my garage, and the warmth would remind me of your father.’
Greg was happy to oblige him. He carried the fire to Syd’s car and placed it carefully on the back seat. The two of them then leaned against the side of the car.
‘It was at this dump that I met your father,’ Syd reminisced. ‘He was throwing out an old television.’
At the time of their meeting Lyle had already been a widower, and five years later Syd was also bereaved. While Lyle’s wife, Mary, had died of a thrombosis, Syd’s wife died of a brain tumour.
After that, the two of them had started to do their weekly shops at Tesco together, taking it in turns to drive there until Lyle accidentally killed a motorcyclist and then sold his car. Although Lyle hadn’t been at fault in the collision, his confidence behind the wheel was as shattered as the car windscreen the motorcyclist had sailed through, and thereafter it had been Syd who’d driven, picking up Lyle at his house every Thursday morning at ten and returning there for coffee afterwards.
‘I’m going to miss our Thursdays together,’ Syd said. ‘Your father was a good man, Greg; the best friend I ever had. In all the time I knew him I don’t think we ever had a cross word. It’s too late for me to find another friend now, but at least I have my family – three daughters, two sons-in-law and five grandchildren…’
Greg knew Syd’s family tree backwards, but pretended he was hearing it for the first time. Every week, for as long as he could remember, his father had recited the names, heights and occupations of Syd’s daughters as though a litany.
The eldest was Lorna. At 6’ 2” she was the tallest of the three sisters and lived in The Netherlands close to Haarlem. She was married to a Dutchman five inches taller than herself and had two young sons, no doubt destined for gianthood. She was a stay-at-home mum these days, but had worked in the marketing department of Heineken.
The middle daughter, Alice, was an inch shorter than Lorna and lived in London. She was married to an architect and also had two small children – a boy and a girl. Despite the demands of motherhood, she worked part-time as a primary school teacher.
The third daughter, Catherine, was the shortest of the three sisters, but still 5’ 11”. She worked in the city as a probation officer, lived over the brush with a career student called Derek and had one son born on the wrong side of the blanket. (Despite these apparently disapproving judgements, Catherine had been Lyle’s favourite, and he’d often accompanied her to the Gilbert & Sullivan performances of her father.)
The Last of the Bowmans Page 12