‘Show my two new valued clients out please. Feel free to issue them with garibaldis on their way out.’
‘Yes, Mr Hollingsbrooke.’
Mischa holds out a hand towards the door. I quickly take it before Mitchell has the chance to destroy any more of my five senses.
‘Bye,’ Danny says, and gives Mitchell a little wave.
I suppress a sigh of exasperation, and make my way back to the front of the boat, leaving Mitchell to gaze lovingly at his tuba and twiddle his moustache.
‘If you could email me all of your contact details,’ Mischa asks at the main door, ‘I will draw up the preliminary contract and get it to you for signing. If you like, I can come and pick up the paperwork for the house from you later today, if that is convenient.’
‘Thank you, Mischa, that’s very kind of you.’ I regard the young girl for a moment, before continuing. ‘Can I ask you something personal?’
She looks a bit startled. ‘Um, okay?’
‘Why do you work for him?’
Mischa smiles. Not the first time somebody has asked her this, I believe. ‘He isn’t as bad as he appears. I want to be an architectural designer, and I want to learn from the best. Mr Hollingsbrooke is the most talented artist I have ever met.’
‘But he treats you like a servant.’
‘No . . . no, he really doesn’t. I have worked for other architects and interior designers, and he is the only one who values my opinion, and lets me contribute to the projects he takes on. All the others just see a silly little girl from Slovenia. He sees a fellow architect and designer. Everything else does not matter.’
Interesting. I’d completely misjudged their relationship.
‘Slovenia,’ Danny remarks helpfully.
Mischa smiles. ‘Yes. I am from Novo Mesto, Mr Daley. Have you heard of it?’
Have you ever seen a small defenceless mammal trapped in the glare of your headlights on your way home from a late-night party?
Mischa stares at my brother’s blank expression for a few moments, trying to figure out what is wrong with him. ‘Would you like a garibaldi?’ she ventures, holding up the packet.
Danny fumbles a biscuit out of it. ‘Thanks,’ he says, taking a bite.
I grab his arm. ‘Come on, Danny, let’s leave Mischa here in peace and go see if we can find a builder who can work with Mitchell.’
‘Okay,’ my brother says around a mouthful of crumbs.
I lead us back up onto the deck and along the gangplank to the safety of dry land. ‘Well, that was quite an experience,’ I say as we walk back to my car.
‘You think he’s actually going to do a good job?’ Danny asks me.
‘Oh! Hello, Danny! Come back to us, have you?’ I mutter sarcastically. ‘For a while there, I thought you’d been replaced by one of the pod people. Was she really that pretty?’
He blushes furiously. ‘I’ve just never seen a girl like that before. Did you hear her accent?’
‘Yes, Danny, I did hear her accent. It was very musical.’ I stop and place my hands on my hips. ‘Look, are you going to be able to function while she’s around? It sounds like Mitchell works quite closely with her. I’m sure she’ll be on site at the house quite a lot.’
‘I’ll be fine!’ he replies, not sounding convincing in the slightest.
I’ll have to take Mischa to one side and ask her to wear an unsightly boiler suit and no make-up if she comes within a mile of the Daley farmhouse. Smearing herself with cow shit may be a good idea too. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Do you think he’ll do a good job?’
I look back down the river at the houseboat and draw in a breath. ‘I don’t know, Dan. I really don’t. But he’s cheap up front, comes highly recommended . . . and doesn’t seem to doubt his own abilities one bit. I guess we’re just going to have to take the plunge and hope he’s everything he’s cracked up to be.’
Danny looks dismayed. ‘It’s risky.’
‘No arguments here.’
‘Do you think this entire project is going to be like this? Risky, I mean?’
‘Probably. We’re going to have to take a chance on everyone we work with.’
Danny looks doubly dismayed. ‘Great.’
‘Speaking of which, have you come up with any good ideas for a builder yet?’
He opens the car door. ‘Well, there is one guy I’ve found, but we need to have a chat about him . . .’ Danny tails off mysteriously.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, let’s just say that Mitchell Hollingsbrooke might not be the only slightly odd character we could have involved in the renovation.’
‘Wonderful. It sounds like Daley Farmhouse is attracting all sorts of weird people already – possibly including us.’
Danny laughs. ‘What did you just call it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You just called that tumble-down shit pile Daley Farmhouse.’ He laughs again. ‘You’re not getting attached to it, are you?’
My turn to go flame-faced. ‘Of course not! But we have to call it something, don’t we?’ I throw open my car door and climb inside. The key is in the ignition before Danny has got his seatbelt on. This is not a conversation I wish to pursue any further.
Possibly because Danny is right.
Have I started to get attached to the old wreck already? Is it, like the mould along the skirting board, growing on me? And if it is, what effect will it have on my approach to this renovation?
A lot of questions start revolving in my head as I drive away from Mitchell Hollingsbrooke and his purple cords. Not least of which is, why would anyone want to swim in a building shaped like a tuba?
DANNY
May
£514.58 spent
When you hear the name Fred Babidge, what kind of person is conjured up in your mind
Is there a flat cap involved?
Wellington boots?
A rolled-up cigarette permanently parked on one side of the mouth?
A grizzled, stubbly chin, and a hoarse, echoing laugh that sounds like it’s at least thirty-two per cent gravel?
Congratulations.
Meet our new builder.
Now, I’m going to be honest here and say that I found Fred Babidge thanks to a conversation I had down the pub. I am fully and comprehensively aware that you should never enter into any kind of business relationship based on a conversation you had down the pub, but researching and finding a builder is bloody hard work. So hard in fact that up until the pub chat, I had spent four frustrating days trying to nail down (no pun intended) a builder who was cheap enough, and competent enough, to take a load of complicated architectural plans and make a half-million-pound house out of them.
Unlike Hayley and her search for an architect, I had plenty of options to choose from. Too bloody many, as it happens. How exactly are you supposed to decide which building firm you want to hire when you know nothing of the industry, and only have the reviews of others to go by? It’s all very well Find a Trade giving you a comprehensive listing of customer reviews on every builder in the local area, but if at least eighty of those builders rank ninety-five per cent or above, it doesn’t really narrow the playing field much, does it?
I’ve spent more time on the phone in the last few days than I have in my entire life, speaking with a series of men who all sounded exactly the same, and said much the same thing too – all of it mildly baffling.
At the end of the four days I had successfully narrowed the one hundred and sixty-three builders in our area down to just seventy-eight. If I kept going that way, I would have arrived at a final choice around the same time Daley Farmhouse finally collapsed into dust, which would have rendered the whole search completely bloody moot.
In disgust, I threw down my phone and buggered off down to the pub, to see if a little light refreshment with some friends would help me with my problem.
A solution arrives when Fat Bob suggests Fred Babidge.
‘Who’s Fred Babidge?
’ I ask him, sipping my pint of John Smith’s.
‘He did my nan’s conservatory. He’s brilliant.’
‘Is he?’
‘Yep!’ Long Johnson pipes up from where he’s standing at the nearby fruit machine. ‘He rebuilt my cousin’s Jeff’s house after that water main burst and the whole left-hand side sunk two feet into the ground. Did it in half the time any other builder could, and at a fraction of the price.’
‘Babidge is a local legend,’ Fat Bob continues. ‘You ask around this pub, or any other of the locals, and I’ll bet you’ll hear loads of people recommend him.’
‘Is he on Find a Trade?’
‘Fuck no. Fred Babidge doesn’t need any of that nonsense.’
This one fact endears Mr Babidge to me more than anything else. ‘How do I get hold of him? Have you got his phone number?’
Fat Bob picks up a beer mat and peels it apart. ‘You write your number down on this, and I’ll see if I can get it to Fred. No guarantees, mind. He’s dead popular in these parts.’
Fred Babidge is starting to sound like some kind of folk hero, rather than an inexpensive builder. Still, this is the clearest direction I’ve had yet on where to go to find someone to fix up Daley Farmhouse, so I’m not going to look a potential gift horse in the mouth, until it tries to bite my nose off.
And yes . . . I’m fully aware that I am now referring to the place as ‘Daley Farmhouse’. Blame my bloody sister for that one.
The next day I am sat enjoying a Pot Noodle in my broom closet at work when my phone rings.
‘Hello?’
‘You alright there, mate?’ a man asks me with the thickest cockney accent I’ve heard outside a Danny Dyer film.
‘Um. Yes? Who is this?’
‘The name’s Fred Babidge, chief. I hear you’re looking for a builder?’
‘Um. Yes. We are.’
‘What’s the gaff?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The gaff, son. The place you want crowbarring. What’s the job?’
‘Er, it’s a farmhouse.’
‘Nice country pile, then?’
‘It’s a pile alright.’
I’m treated to my first dose of the Babidge gravel-filled laugh. ‘Blinding. Shall I come have a look at the gaff?’
‘Um. Okay?’
‘Smashing. I’ll bring a few of the lads. They can have a crawl over it and see what’s what. When are you free, captain?’
I’m not a captain, but I can’t pretend I mind being referred to as such. ‘We’ve got a meeting with an architect tomorrow, so maybe the day after?’
‘Got an archy lined up already then? Hit the ground running, have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good for you, china. Alright, Friday it is then. Email me over the address and your details, and I’ll see you there at ten.’
‘Okay, Mr Babidge.’
‘Call me Fred, teacup. The only person who ever called me Mr Babidge was my old parole officer, and he was a twat.’
Hayley is going to kill me. ‘Okay, Fred. See you Friday then?’
‘Smashing! See you then, champ.’
And with that, the phone line goes dead. A few seconds later a text comes through with Babidge’s email address. I was half expecting it to be [email protected], but it is in fact [email protected]. I fire off the email as requested and sit back, wondering how the hell I’m going to break it to Hayley that I may well have hired half the cast of EastEnders to rebuild our house for us.
‘So, you have no recommendation for this man other than the one you got from somebody called Fat Bob in your local boozer?’ Hayley asks me, the look of barely concealed contempt growing on her face with every syllable spoken.
‘More or less,’ I reply, trying to prop the garden gate back up.
I look at my watch. It’s 10.40. Babidge is late.
‘There was nobody else, Danny? No other builder within a thirty-square-mile radius who would have been a better option?’
‘Not really,’ I lie through my teeth.
Hayley folds her arms. ‘Just because our surname is Daley, it doesn’t mean I want Arthur Daley anywhere near this build.’
‘He’s not that bad.’
‘Oh no? The only recommendations the man has is from half-drunk locals. And he called you china?’
‘And captain.’
‘Yes. And captain. These facts do not fill me with a huge amount of confidence.’
We both hear the sound of an engine and look down the road. ‘And neither does that,’ Hayley adds, pointing at the vehicle now coming into view.
Yes, it’s a bloody Ford Transit. Yes, it’s white. And yes, it’s half covered in rust. I’m sure there’s every chance it cut up fifty or sixty others cars on its way here.
Down the side of the transit is the legend: Fred Babidge – The Builder You Can Rely On.
‘Rely on to do what, exactly?’ Hayley says out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Insult you in rhyming slang and steal your back tyres?’
‘Just let’s give him a chance, shall we?’ I implore, knowing full well that if this goes as pear-shaped as it looks like it might, I will have all decision-making responsibilities on this project taken away from me.
The van comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and out jumps Fred Babidge – along with two heavily tattooed lumps of muscle that are no strangers to a nice casual glassing in the pub, I have no doubt.
‘Oh good fucking grief,’ Hayley whispers.
Babidge strides over, removing his flat cap as he does so. This reveals a gleaming bald pate that he must wax to get it so lovely and shiny. ‘Morning,’ he says with a big smile.
‘Hello, Fred,’ I say.
‘Good morning, Mr Babidge,’ Hayley says. She’s using her teacher voice. This does not bode well.
Babidge smiles even more broadly. ‘Please, call me Fred,’ he tells her. ‘I’m an old-fashioned sort, Miss Daley, so might I take your hand and give it a gentle kiss?’
What the fuck is this? Fred Babidge has gone from East End barrow boy to Shakespearean lover in the space of two heartbeats.
‘Er . . . I guess so?’ Hayley replies, hesitantly offering out her hand.
Babidge takes it and plants a gentle smacker on it. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Daley.’
Hayley actually blushes. My sister never blushes.
‘Call me Hayley,’ she tells Babidge.
‘Very musical,’ he says.
‘What is?’
‘Your name. Hayley Daley. I like it.’
Hayley’s face clouds for a moment. ‘I don’t. Blame it on my parents. There were a lot of drugs going around in the early eighties.’
‘Don’t you worry about it,’ Babidge tells her. ‘I was called Babidge the Cabbage right up until I left school, and now look at me.’ He holds his arms out expansively.
I don’t know what to do with that, I truly don’t.
‘Would you like to look over the farmhouse, Fred?’ I ask him, changing the subject for all I am worth.
‘Why the hell not, chief!’ he gestures to his two tattooed colleagues. ‘These are my two boys, Baz and Spider. They’ll be my right-hand men on the build if you hire us.’
Baz smiles a lot more pleasantly than should be possible with teeth like that. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says. Spider looks even happier to see us. ‘Alright,’ he says, beaming for all he is worth. It’s a shame about the spider web tattoo running down the whole left-hand side of his neck and half his face. It turns what I’m sure is intended to be a welcoming grin into something that you’d usually see plastered across the face of the nearest child killer. The strange tribal symbol that snakes its way around his right eye and temple don’t help matters either. Both of them look positively terrifying, beaming smiles notwithstanding.
You get the impression that Fred has taken a great deal of effort and time to ensure his men are polite and courteous to his clients. Possibly employing a cattle prod to do so.
B
abidge stands back and puts his hands on his hips. ‘So this is it, is it?’ he says, looking at the farmhouse.
‘What’s left of it,’ I reply, only half joking.
Babidge pulls out a rolled-up cigarette from behind his ear. ‘Ah, it probably looks a lot worse than it is.’
‘You think so?’ Hayley says, with a sardonic laugh.
‘Yeah. I’ve done tons of these jobs. It won’t have anything I ain’t seen before, little lady.’
Hayley’s eyebrow shoots up. She holds out a hand, indicating the way over the broken gate and down the path. ‘Then by all means, Fred, go have a look and tell us what you think.’
Babidge laughs and gives my sister a florid bow. ‘It’d be my pleasure, Hayley!’ He regards his two boys. ‘Let’s go crawl over the place, lads.’
And with that he steps forward. Before he can go two paces though, Babidge stops and laughs once more. ‘Almost forgot! Can I have the key to get in?’
‘You won’t need one,’ I tell him.
‘Oh . . . that bad, is it?’
‘Pretty much.’
Babidge laughs again and sets off down the path. ‘Any chance of some tea and biscuits?’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘I think I saw a nice little café in the village back there! Three builders, please! And some garibaldis if they’ve got any!’
I look at Hayley. She looks right back at me.
‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ I say with a sigh, and trudge off down the road, the good little errand boy that I am.
Twenty minutes later I’m back to discover that Hayley has made it back into the house. ‘I hope he is good,’ I tell her as I enter the front room. ‘This little lot cost me nearly fifteen quid.’
Fred Babidge’s head appears from around the doorframe. ‘Is that tea and biscuits?’ he says cheerfully. It doesn’t take much to keep a builder happy. Tea, biscuits, the opportunity to slap on a seventy-five per cent markup.
‘Yep,’ I tell him, carrying the cardboard tray over. Babidge and his two looming associates take their drinks.
‘What’s this?’ Spider remarks, picking up his biscuit.
‘It’s a flapjack,’ I reply, a little uncertainly. ‘It’s all they had.’
‘It’s got bits in it,’ he remarks, examining the oat-based snack with a furrowed brow.
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