Bricking It

by Nick Spalding

  Mitchell Hollingsbrooke does not answer the door dressed that way. In fact, Mitchell Hollingsbrooke does not answer the door at all. Rather, we are greeted by a smiling young dark-haired girl, who is probably far too pretty to be stuck on a houseboat with an architectural reject from Pirates of the Caribbean.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says to us. ‘You are here to see Mitchell, yes?’ The accent is Eastern European, but her English is extremely good.

  ‘Yes, that’s us,’ I reply. ‘Hayley and Danny Daley.’

  ‘Yes. That’s us. Hayley and Danny Daley,’ my brother parrots from beside me. His voice has taken on an odd robotic tone. I turn to look at him and instantly realise he will be very little use to me in the coming conversation. If we were in a cartoon from the 1930s, there would now be birds circling around Danny’s head, tweeting musically, and two bright pink hearts would have replaced his eyeballs.

  As stated, this girl is very pretty, and the accent is very exotic. Her tits look rather fabulous as well, I’m disgusted to say. I’m quite proud of the fact that mine continue to remain more or less upright as I enter my mid-thirties, but compared to the perky wonders underneath the tight shirt the girl is wearing, mine are like two spaniel’s ears.

  ‘Please come in,’ she tells us, and opens the houseboat door wider to allow us entry. ‘My name is Mischa,’ she adds with another dazzling smile.

  ‘My name is Danny,’ my smitten brother tells her.

  ‘Yes, I think she’s got our names,’ I inform him, resisting an eye roll as I do. ‘In you go.’

  I push Danny through the door, and into the kind of room that anyone with a nautical persuasion would probably orgasm over in three seconds flat. There is polished oak in here – a great deal of it. And brass. Oh my lord, there is so much brass. Maps cover the walls, all of them the out-of-date, brown kind that probably cost a fortune, despite their inaccuracies. There’s something that I believe is called a sextant stood in one corner on a giant tripod. Dominating the room, however, is a massive polished-oak console replete with buttons, knobs, old-fashioned electronic displays and a gleaming ship’s wheel that is more highly polished that the surface of the Hubble Space Telescope. Frankly, the room should just have ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’ piped in through speakers, just to set the whole thing off.

  ‘Well, this is . . . this is nice,’ I tell Mischa, not sounding convincing in the slightest.

  ‘Boaty,’ Danny adds. It seems that being in the presence of a beautiful girl has regressed my brother back to toddlerhood, when the only phrases that came out of his mouth were of the simple, one-word kind.

  For the first time Mischa looks a little awkward. ‘Yes. It is, er, nice, isn’t it? Mr Hollingsbrooke is currently in a sea-faring frame of mind.’

  ‘Currently?’

  ‘Yes. He goes through creative phases such as this quite a lot. He says it informs and improves his work. Last year we were based on a farm because he was in a rustic period.’ Mischa’s perfect little nose wrinkles. ‘I prefer this. It smells better.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ I reply. ‘Well, we’re here about a farmhouse, so that might help us.’

  ‘Our place doesn’t smell, though,’ Danny blurts out. ‘Even with the cow shit on the doorstep.’

  Mischa looks taken aback. I look thoroughly disgusted. Put my brother in front of perky tits and a nice smile and this is what you get. A man with the social skills of Jeremy Clarkson.

  ‘That is . . . that is very nice,’ Mischa tells Danny, stepping back slightly as she does so. ‘Shall I take you through to meet Mr Hollingsbrooke?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say to the girl, hoping and praying that Danny doesn’t say anything else to embarrass either one of us.

  ‘Yes,’ is all he manages to come out with. We’re back to the monosyllabic toddler again.

  Mischa bids us follow her across . . . I guess what you’d have to describe as the bridge of the boat, and through another door that leads down a long corridor with rooms off to either side. One is a kitchen, one a bathroom, and the other two must have been bedrooms at some point. I say that because now they are stuffed to the rafters with paperwork of all shapes and sizes. I see a lot of house blueprints, mixed in with Ordnance Survey maps and the occasional copy of Sailing Today.

  At the end of the corridor is another door that Mischa knocks on. ‘The Daleys are here to see you, Mr Hollingsbrooke,’ she says through the door.

  ‘Wait! Wait!’ a strangled voice replies from within.

  Oh God. He’s masturbating.

  We’ve arrived earlier than he was expecting and he’s still cracking out his morning pick-me-up. Any moment now the door will be thrown open by a lunatic in a sailor suit, and I’m going to get covered in an unfortunate substance.

  Mischa offers us both an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. Mr Hollingsbrooke is a unique man.’

  There’s nothing unique about spanking the monkey, sweetheart. They all do it.

  ‘Very well! Come in!’ the voice from beyond the door says. ‘I am now ready.’

  Ready for what exactly? A court case involving indecent exposure?

  Mischa opens the door to reveal Mitchell Hollingsbrooke – not holding his penis, thankfully, but holding something even stranger.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asks, looking directly at me for some reason.

  ‘What do I think?’ I reply, completely confused.

  ‘Yes! What do you think?’

  I don’t really know how to respond, but I give it my best shot. ‘Is it a tuba?’

  Hollingsbrooke’s brow furrows. ‘Well, yes. Of course it’s a tuba! But what do you think?’

  ‘Er . . . it’s a nice tuba. Very shiny.’

  He tuts loudly. ‘I mean, what do you think of the shape?’

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘Curvy’, Danny remarks. I think he’s talking about the tuba and not Mischa.

  Hollingsbrooke literally jumps up and down. ‘Exactly! Exactly! It’s perfect, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perfect for what?’ I ask.

  ‘The roof of the swimming pool.’

  Okay, this conversation has now officially gone so far off the beaten path I’m going to need a satnav and survival rations.

  ‘What I think Mr Hollingsbrooke is trying to say,’ Mischa jumps in, ‘is that the curve of the tuba is just right for the shape of the new roof he is designing for the nearby community centre. It is a very prestigious job.’

  Wow. She’s handled that magnificently. You get the distinct impression that this isn’t the first time she’s had to explain the rather odd behaviour of her employer to a potential client. I hope he’s paying her well.

  ‘I see.’ I look back at Hollingsbrooke, who has now discarded the tuba and is sat on a large chrome-and-glass desk, which looks completely incongruous in this old-fashioned nautical setting. ‘It’s a nice shape for a roof,’ I say to him.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he replies, nibbling a fingernail. ‘Do you want to sit down then, or what?’ he adds.

  Now he’s got rid of the tuba, let’s discuss what he’s wearing, shall we? It shouldn’t be possible for a fully grown man to pull off a tweed jacket, purple corduroy trousers, a paisley shirt, a bow tie and a white sailor hat.

  It sure as hell isn’t possible for Mitchell Hollingsbrooke. He looks like someone has thrown the contents of an Oxfam shop at him. There’s every chance that I’m currently in the presence of the worst dressed man in England. If we hire this maniac, and his architectural skills are on a par with his dress sense, our farmhouse will end up painted bright orange and thatched with pubic hair.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Mischa says. What I feel she should be saying is: ‘Please run a fucking mile.’

  Danny, bless him, is so enamoured with the girl that he automatically sits down in front of Hollingsbrooke’s desk without a word of protest. This forces me to join him, despite every fibre in my being telling me to leave.

  Hollingsbrooke instantly sits bolt upright and gives us both a ste
ely look. ‘A farmhouse then!’ he exclaims loudly, and looks up at his assistant before we have a chance to say anything in return. ‘Tea, Mischa! Tea and biscuits for our guests!’ he orders. Then a firm finger is held up. ‘Not the garibaldis, though! You know how I feel about them!’

  Mischa nods, smiles and backs away calmly, as if she hasn’t just been treated like a lowly servant by a man in a sailor hat with a tuba parked next to him. She must be used to this kind of behaviour as well.

  ‘A farmhouse then!’ Hollingsbrooke repeats loudly.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a big place,’ Danny adds. ‘It’ll be a big job.’

  Miracle of miracles. Without a hot woman in the room, my brother has returned to his senses. Let’s just hope it takes Mischa a good ten minutes to sift out all the garibaldis.

  Hollingsbrooke puts his elbows on the glass desk and steeples his fingers. ‘A big job, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Danny’s right. It needs a lot of work,’ I say.

  ‘What year was it built?’

  ‘1890,’ I reply.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘About ten miles north of town.’

  ‘A good location?’

  ‘Yes. Very pretty.’

  ‘Is it on loam?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is it on loam?’

  ‘No, chalk, I think.’

  ‘Architraves still present?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Plumbing still working?’

  ‘No idea!’

  ‘Is it iridescent at sunset?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Iridescent at sunset!’

  ‘We haven’t been there at bloody sunset!’ This quick-fire interrogation is making my blood boil.

  ‘The garden’s massive,’ Danny pipes up.

  Hollingsbrooke looks horrified. ‘I care nothing for gardens!’ he shrieks.

  ‘I don’t think we should—’ I start, but I am again interrupted by the upraised finger.

  ‘Wait! Wait! Look at this please!’ the architect snaps, and reaches behind him for a large leather-bound photo album on the shelf behind his head. He throws it onto the glass desk and sits back, a look of triumph on his face.

  Danny opens the album and we both peer at its contents.

  There are page after page of pictures of some of the loveliest-looking houses and rooms I have ever seen. All of them are in the style of an English country cottage, and all of them are marvellous. There are images of pristine kitchens with butler sinks and Shaker style cupboards; gorgeous bedrooms that look so comfortable I have to stifle a yawn; lounges decorated and designed with such ruthless attention to rustic detail that I am quite taken aback; and lush, shiny bathrooms with roll-tops that I would happily stay in until my entire body had turned into a prune.

  I look up from the album to Hollingsbrooke, who has raised eyebrows and an expectant expression. ‘Thoughts?’ he demands.

  ‘Is this your work?’ Danny asks, earning him a sharp and derisory exhalation of breath.

  ‘Of course!’ the architect says. ‘All projects similar to yours that I have completed. Four in all, I believe. Each one better than the last.’

  Wow. I can’t tell which is worse, the purple trousers or the ego.

  . . . Actually, it’s the purple trousers. They are truly dreadful.

  What quite clearly isn’t dreadful is Hollingsbrooke’s talent as an architect – and it turns out, as an interior designer as well. If this is an example of how good he is at planning renovations on properties like ours, then I want to hire him – horrible cords and inflated ego notwithstanding.

  ‘These are very good, Mr Hollingsbrooke,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t realise you designed interiors as well.’

  ‘Of course! The work is only half finished if all you build is the shell!’ He points a finger at his own face. ‘I am a completist! I cannot walk away from a project until I know every element of the house is in situ!’

  ‘Well, that does sound very thorough, Mr Hollingsbrooke.’

  He quickly sits back again in his chair. This bugger is twitchier than a man whose pants are made of ants. ‘Please! Call me Mitchell,’ he tells me with a smile. Then he looks up and his eyes widen with pure happiness. ‘Aha! Tea! And biscuits!’ The brow instantly furrows. ‘No garibaldis, though?’

  ‘No garibaldis, Mr Hollingsbrooke,’ Mischa assures him as she steps back into the office, holding a tray of cups and an assortment of biscuits. I spot a Jammie Dodger, which pleases me no end.

  ‘Aha! There are Jammie Dodgers!’ Hollingsbrooke virtually shouts. Oh great . . . now I have competition for my favourite biscuit.

  ‘Jammy,’ says Danny from beside me, giving Mischa an awkward smile.

  Mischa departs, to presumably go and feed all the garibaldis to the seagulls, so we have Hollingsbrooke’s undivided attention once more. I nibble on a Jammie Dodger while leafing through the pictures of his work for a second time.

  ‘What would you need us to provide?’ I ask him. ‘You know, about the house?’

  He waves a hand around in the air. ‘Oh, as much as you can possibly give me. Your email gave me a good idea of the project, but there is some paperwork I will need. A floor plan of the property, information about the deeds, the local services, etcetera, etcetera. Mischa and I will undertake the necessary research, and then we will start to draw up plans.’ He springs forward in his chair again, giving both Danny and I quite a start. ‘Do you iPad?’

  ‘What?’ we both reply at the same time.

  ‘Do you, or do you not, iPad?’

  I wasn’t aware iPad was now a verb. ‘Er, I have an iPad, yes,’ I say to him.

  ‘Excellent! We have recently discovered a rather wonderful app on iPad that can create a three-dimensional interpretation of a planned renovation. I am finding it invaluable for giving my clients an accurate representation of what I have planned for their property.’

  I’m slightly taken aback. If the shiny glass desk plonked in the middle of a rustic houseboat is incongruous, then a man who wears tweed and corduroy, likes a tuba and has a moustache from the 1920s knowing all about iPad apps is doubly incongruous, with a side order of highly unlikely. I am forced to remember that Mitchell Hollingsbrooke is only in his late twenties, despite all sartorial evidence to the contrary.

  ‘What about money?’ Danny asks, seeking to make up for his uselessness in the presence of Mischa with a question that cuts right to the heart of the matter.

  This earns him a raised eyebrow from Hollingsbrooke. ‘I’ll need a small retainer to begin with,’ he tells us. ‘Five hundred pounds should do it. My standard rate is ten per cent of whatever the total build and design cost may be.’ He gives us an indulgent smile. ‘I’m sure we can work everything out once I have a better idea of the job at hand.’

  Ten per cent of the cost is quite a lot of money once we’ve borrowed it, but then £500 up front isn’t. The only other option open to us would cost far, far more before any work had actually started. Hollingsbrooke represents the best deal we’re going to get. He probably knows this as much as we do. Without architect’s plans, we can’t work out a budget, and without a budget we can’t mortgage the property. We’re just going to have to throw our lot in with this eccentric, or risk not being able to move forward on the project at all.

  I look round at Danny, to see what he’s thinking. He catches the look I give him, understanding it in an instant. In silent reply he shrugs his shoulders and nods his head. What other choice do we have?

  I look back to the architect, safe in the knowledge that my brother and I are on the same page. ‘Fair enough,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll bring all the information about the house to you tomorrow.’

  Hollingsbrooke’s eyes light up. ‘So does that mean we have a deal?’

  I smile. ‘Yes, Mitchell, it does.’

  He stands bolt upright. ‘Excellent!’ One arm goes out, with hand extended and palm open. ‘High-five me then!’

 
‘You what?’

  ‘High-five me! I can never say I have started a job until I high-five my client!’ He points at us with his other hand. ‘Do not, as the common vernacular holds, leave me hanging!’

  So let’s reflect: I am about to enter into a business relationship with a man who works on a houseboat, wears a headache-inducing combination of clothes, despises garibaldi biscuits and insists on a high-five instead of a handshake; all because I like the way he positions a roll-top bath.

  Reluctantly – oh so very reluctantly – I slap Hollingsbrooke’s hand.

  Danny is far more enthusiastic about the whole thing, and delivers a right palm stinger. This doesn’t seem to bother Mitchell in the slightest. ‘Fabulous! I’m so excited that you’re going to be working for me.’

  Eh? Aren’t we the clients?

  ‘You just wait,’ he adds, waggling a finger in our general direction. ‘I will transform your farmhouse into something fit for a king!’

  I admire his conviction, but I’ve seen the place up close and personal – he hasn’t yet. I just hope Mitchell Hollingsbrooke’s rock hard self-confidence is enough to withstand the horrors that await him at the Daley farmhouse.

  ‘Thank you, Mitchell, we look forward to working with you too,’ I say, emphasising the word with for all I am worth.

  ‘Yes . . . you and Mischa,’ Danny adds with a dumb smile. Mitchell’s eyebrow goes up once again. Purple-corduroy-wearing lunatic he may be, but there’s evidently a shrewd mind underneath all that bombast.

  ‘Indeed,’ he says, a sly smile crossing his face. There’s obviously nothing going on between architect and assistant then, judging from his reaction. ‘I’m sure she is looking forward to working with you as much as I am.’ He breathes in deeply and picks the tuba up again. ‘Now please get out.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Please pop off. I have to ruminate on my tuba.’ He cranes his neck. ‘MISCHA!!!’

  ‘Good grief!’ I exclaim loudly, deafened by my new architect’s shrieking command.

  Poor old Mischa re-enters the room calmly. ‘Yes, Mr Hollingsbrooke?’