Still, bless him for wanting to be helpful, and actually getting off his arse to make the effort. It’s a good job he only works part-time at the museum, otherwise he’d have no time to come down here and be emasculated by large men covered in tattoos.
I’ve had to take an unpaid sabbatical from the school. I just couldn’t stand the idea of all this work going on without me here to supervise. And by supervise, I mean stand at the back in ill-fitting wellies and worry about all the money disappearing down the nearest hole. I asked for nine months off, and was amazed to get it with relatively little fuss. I don’t know whether I should be pleased that they capitulated so easily, or worried that they think I’m dispensable enough to get rid off for three-quarters of a year. What I do know is that this house had better sell for the money it’s supposed to; otherwise I’m going to be eating dry pasta out of a hubcap for the rest of my life.
Taking so long off work is a massive risk. Probably an extremely stupid one, given that I still have to pay rent every month and do annoying things like eat and drink. Luckily, I had these old wedding and engagement rings lying around that I no longer have any use for, so I pawned the bloody things for a few thousand quid, which should keep me going for quite a while.
I’m betting that the farmhouse will sell for a considerable profit – and that’s far more likely to happen with me on site every day, rather than dividing my time between here and the school.
I guess I’ve always got the credit cards to fall back on if things get really tight.
Speaking of tight, these wellies are quite, quite uncomfortable. I can feel a nice big blister forming on my right heel already. It’s probably just as well that I’m stood still a good twenty feet away from all the action . . . supervising.
Ah, here comes Danny. His face is like thunder.
‘Off to the shop are we?’ I ask as he tramps towards me.
‘They want crisps with the tea this time. Spider likes Monster Munch.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ I try very hard not to smirk. ‘We’ll have to get a kettle on site before you walk through the soles of your shoes.’
Danny looks past me, ignoring my comment. ‘Who’s that?’
I turn and see a car approaching. It’s a beige Citroën 2CV.
There’s only one person in this world I know who would drive such a bizarre car in this day and age.
‘What the hell is Mitchell doing here?’ I wonder out loud. ‘He’s not supposed to be on site for another week.’
Danny shakes his head. ‘No idea. Perhaps he’s come to see how the work is going.’
‘But we haven’t even started on his designs yet. Not even for the roof. Fred says that’s a few days away at the absolute earliest.’
‘Well, tell him that.’
The 2CV shudders to a halt just behind one of Fred’s Transits, and out jumps Mitchell Hollingsbrooke. I’m pleased to see the sailor’s hat has gone. Sadly, it’s been replaced by a bowler. The purple trousers are still in evidence as well, unfortunately.
Out of the passenger seat climbs another person. One I seem to recognise, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Danny recognises him as well, and has no doubt who he is. ‘Fuck me! That’s Gerard O’Keefe!’
‘Who?’
Danny rolls his eyes. ‘Come on, Hayley! Gerard O’Keefe? He hosts Great Locations!’
‘What? That stupid daytime show on BBC One? The one they sling on before the lunchtime news?’
‘Yes!’
‘Why the hell is he here?’
Danny shrugs. ‘I have no clue. Shall we go and find out?’ Without waiting for me, he marches off in the direction of the 2CV. I look back over at Fred and his team, who are still pumping in the concrete. I hope Danny doesn’t get too distracted by our new visitor. Spider looks like he could do a lot of damage to my brother’s spinal cord if he doesn’t get his Monster Munch.
‘Hayley! Hayley!’ Mitchell shouts at me over the sounds of heavy machinery. ‘Come over here! Over here, now!’
I grit my teeth. Some might find Mitchell’s aggressive approach to social interaction to be endearing. I resolutely do not. But I have to say, Danny’s excitement has piqued my curiosity about why Gerard O’Keefe would be here, so I gingerly raise one blistered, wellington-boot-clad foot, and slowly make my way over to them through the mud.
‘Morning, Mitchell,’ I greet our architect.
‘Good morning, Hayley! Wow! Those are nice wellies. Very flattering on you!’
Mad. Completely mad.
It’s a bloody good job I fell in love with his design for the en suite bathroom the second I laid eyes on it.
‘Thank you, Mitchell,’ I reply. I give the other man an expectant look. Now I’m up close I recognise him properly. I’ve never watched more than two or three episodes of Great Locations, but Gerard O’Keefe is quite hard to miss, given that he is a good six foot three, has floppy brown hair that is only slightly greying at the temples, and is prone to wearing army surplus clothing that must give the BBC wardrobe department nightmares every time he steps on set. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr O’Keefe,’ I say. ‘My brother enjoys your show a lot.’
‘I do!’ Danny agrees enthusiastically. ‘That one last week? The Georgian townhouse with the dry rot and fungus everywhere? That was great!’
Only home improvement shows can make a rational human being that excited about fungus.
‘Thank you, Danny,’ O’Keefe replies with a smooth smile, before turning back to me. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you too, Hayley. Mitchell has told me a lot about you . . . and your farmhouse here.’
‘Has he?’
‘Oh yes!’ Mitchell interjects, all eyeballs. ‘I’ve known Gerard since university. He used to come in and give guest lectures back before the TV show started. I like to keep him up to date with my projects. He seemed very keen on finding out more about yours, so I brought him down so he could see it!’
I give Gerard O’Keefe a rather disbelieving look, which he picks up on instantly. ‘I have a soft spot for these old Victorian piles,’ he confides. ‘I was brought up in one until the age of fourteen.’ He looks at Daley Farmhouse with a wistful expression. ‘This place looks just like it.’
‘With less people covered in tattoos pumping concrete, I’d imagine,’ I say, as I watch Spider guide the spout coming from the concrete mixer to another part of the hole. They must be nearly finished now, surely?
Gerard O’Keefe laughs. ‘It does rather ruin the picturesque quality of the place doesn’t it?’ He gives me a dazzling smile. ‘Do you mind if I look around? Mitchell has been telling me all about it. I’m keen to see some of the original features.’
I almost ask if those original features include the dead animals in the bathroom and the nuclear green fridge, but manage to bite my tongue at the last moment. ‘Yes, that’s fine. Just to warn you, though,’ I tell O’Keefe, ‘we’ve not cleared anything out of the place yet. It’s pretty much still the way we found it. Fred said it wouldn’t be worth doing any of that stuff until the foundations were secure.’
‘Fantastic!’ O’Keefe responds. ‘The less work you’ve done the better.’
What’s that supposed to mean?
A suspicion begins to form in my mind – one that probably should have started to take shape the second I clapped eyes on the presenter of a daytime TV series about house renovations . . .
I decide to hold my counsel for the time being. I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of this impressively put together individual. It must be all that camouflage. ‘After you,’ I tell him.
O’Keefe marches off down the cracked garden path with the three of us in tow right behind him. He veers off to the right to walk down the side of the house, giving Fred and the boys a wave as he does so. ‘I’d like a chat with you at some point, Mr Babidge!’ he calls to the flat-cap-wearing cockney, who gives him a doubtful look before replying.
‘No problem, Mr O’Keefe. I’d be delighted to make
your acquaintance!’
It seems Fred Babidge is a fan of Great Locations. It’s not that surprising, to be honest.
‘Excellent!’ O’Keefe exclaims, and re-joins us at the front of the house. ‘Shall we have a little explore, then?’ he says, rubbing his hands together.
‘By all means,’ I reply. ‘You may want to hold your nose.’
O’Keefe does so, in very theatrical fashion, and strides into the hallway, a look of real purpose in his eyes.
What follows is half an hour of Gerard O’Keefe studying every single nook and cranny of the building. His studiousness puts our first visit to the house completely to shame. He takes time to examine each and every architrave, cornice and skirting board, even going so far as to sketch the ceiling rose in the living room in a small notebook he carries around in one large front pocket of his green ex-army jacket. Nothing about the house seems to faze him. The dead rats and crow in the bathroom are virtually ignored in favour of commenting on how wonderful the taps must have been when they were new. The hole Danny put in the ceiling is laughed off as a minor issue. The overpowering smell of cow shit and old plumbing in the kitchen barely registers on the man’s face as he examines the fireplace, commenting on how marvellous it is that the thing wasn’t filled in decades ago.
My main thoughts on Daley Farmhouse have largely been that it is currently Hell on Earth, and doubts as to whether thousands of pounds can possibly make it any better. Gerard O’Keefe seems to be able to see beauty and charm in the place, even in its dilapidated condition. I don’t know whether this is an admirable trait, or the first signs of an incipient slip into senility. O’Keefe only looks to be in his mid-forties, but these things can come on early if you’re unlucky enough.
‘What’s the basement like?’ he asks, having crawled over every other inch of the place.
‘No idea,’ I tell him.
‘No idea?’
‘Yep. Haven’t been down there. Nobody has except Fred, and he wasn’t divulging much.’
‘He did say it was large,’ Danny points out. ‘That was about it, though.’
O’Keefe looks at Mitchell. ‘What about you, Mitch? No plans for the basement?’
Mitchell looks awkward. ‘I felt it best to wait until Mr Babidge’s structural work was complete. Besides . . . spiders.’ Mitchell’s face contorts in a combination of loathing and terror.
‘Ah, I see,’ O’Keefe says, and pushes the under-stairs door open. ‘Well, I’ll have a look if you don’t mind.’
‘Be careful!’ I warn him. ‘It’s very dark down there.’
‘Not a problem, Hayley,’ he tells me, and produces a torch from another one of his voluminous jacket pockets. There’s something very James Bond about the smile he gives me before disappearing down into the depths.
Danny, Mitchell and I are all far more hesitant about going down there.
‘One of us had better follow him,’ I say, peering into the gloom.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Danny replies, giving me a meaningful look.
‘Spiders as well?’ I ask him in the tones of one resigned to her fate.
He shakes his head. ‘Nope. Spiders are fine.’ It’s now Danny’s turn to look horrified. ‘But the moths can go fuck themselves.’
Ah yes, I’d forgotten my brother’s completely irrational fear of moths. Blame it on a rather unfortunate incident when he was two, involving him, a family holiday to Morocco, and a midnight visit from one of the local hawk moths that took a liking to Danny’s sleeping face.
‘I don’t think there are likely to be moths down there, Danny,’ I try to reassure him.
He folds his arms. ‘I’m not taking any chances.’
I resist the urge to knock their heads together and step through the dark doorway. Luckily, Gerard O’Keefe’s torch is one of those ridiculously bright ones – one he probably purchased from the same army surplus store as his clothes – and casts more than enough light for me to see by as I make my tentative way down the steps to join him.
Fred wasn’t lying. The basement is enormous. Comprising of several areas bricked off from one another by crumbling masonry, it’s a rabbit warren down here.
I find O’Keefe standing in one of the larger areas at the rear of the basement, examining a wall.
‘You hear that?’ he asks as I join him.
‘The slurping sound?’ I respond, craning to hear.
‘Yep. That’s the concrete going in to shore up the foundations. Lucky for you, the basement terminates before reaching the corner of the house. Otherwise we’d be knee deep in the stuff by now. Mr Babidge seems to know his stuff, especially where to pour his concrete.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘It’s a good space you have down here.’
I look around at the dingy basement. ‘You have a talent for seeing potential where I can’t, Mr O’Keefe.’
‘Every house has potential, Hayley. You just have to see past the problems.’
‘Your eyesight is better than mine.’
O’Keefe laughs and walks through into another area of the basement. ‘Do you know much of the house’s history?’ he asks me.
I shrug. ‘Not really. It was my grandma’s. None of us knew she owned it. We all knew she was married before she met our granddad, but she never talked about it. The deeds say this place was bequeathed to her by her first husband when he died, but that’s about as much as I know.’
‘Aren’t you curious to find out more?’
‘I guess. But I’ve been up to my ears in just getting everything sorted out for the renovation. The history of this place will just have to wait. Probably until we’re getting near completion – whenever that happens. I’ll have the time and energy to devote myself to it then, but for now, it’s on the back burner.’
‘Were you close to your grandmother?’
I laugh ruefully. ‘I thought so. We were certainly close when I was a little girl. I used to write her letters all the time about what I was up to. She’d always reply, telling me how her day was going. All slightly pointless to be honest, as we lived a twenty-minute drive away from her, and I saw her every week, but you know what children are like.’
‘It sounds as if she was encouraging you to write, as much as anything.’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Sounds like a lovely woman.’
My eyes light up. ‘Oh, she was. Kind, considerate. The kind of grandma anyone would want. She always made me happy when I was around her. In fact, from what I remember, she was the type of person who could brighten anyone’s day.’
‘So she never mentioned the house in any of her letters to you?’
‘Not once! She just talked about her life at the vicarage with my granddad. Before he died, that is. Then she went in to the nursing home . . . and the letters got a lot shorter. She never wrote anything about her life before marrying the local vicar, though. Certainly never anything about her first husband – or this place.’
‘So, this is a quaint Victorian farmhouse set in idyllic countryside, with plenty of original features and a mysterious past?’
My eyes narrow. ‘Yes. What are you getting at, Mr O’Keefe?’
‘Please, it’s Gerard.’ His eyes light up. ‘And I want this house, Hayley!’
I scowl. ‘Well, you can’t have it yet, it’s not finished.’
He laughs. ‘I mean I want it for Great Locations!’
I bloody knew it.
The last thing I want is for this project to be featured on the TV.
It’ll just be a massive hassle from start to finish. Also, what if everything turns out shit? What if the renovation is a disaster? It’s one thing to throw hundreds of thousands of pounds down the crapper when nobody is looking, but to do it on national TV is another thing entirely.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ I argue.
‘No, no, no! It’ll be marvellous!’ Gerard replies with excitement, and starts to make his way back towards the stairs. ‘A brother-an
d-sister team new to house renovating; a young exciting architect and interior designer working on his latest project; a farmhouse with a past shrouded in secrecy . . .’
‘It’s not really shrouded in secrecy, I just haven’t bothered to Google any—’
‘The producers will love it!’ Gerard interrupts as he reaches the top of the steps with me just behind, still trying to lodge my objections.
I stumble on the last step as I try to keep up with the enthusiastic TV presenter. He steadies me with one strong hand. ‘They might love it, but I’m just not sure it’ll be a good idea for us,’ I say.
‘What’ll be a good idea for us?’ Danny asks as I emerge in a cloud of basement dust.
‘I want this house to be on Great Locations, Danny!’ Gerard tells him.
Danny’s expression instantly changes. The last time I saw that look he had just been told we were going to Disneyland.
‘Brilliant!’ he shouts excitedly.
My fate is bloody sealed, isn’t it?
I can protest as much as I like, but I’m done for. Even if I sat down with my brother for an hour and showed him a convincing PowerPoint presentation of all the reasons we shouldn’t invite the BBC onto our building site, there’s no way I could convince him not to accept Gerard O’Keefe’s offer.
‘When would you want to start?’ I ask Gerard, trying to ignore my brother bouncing up and down beside me.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’ I repeat in utter shock. ‘I thought you TV types needed ages to make a show!’
Gerard waves a hand. ‘Oh, it’ll take a while to get all the crew arranged and the financing sorted, you’re absolutely right. But I can have a camera down here tomorrow morning to start filming, that’s the most important bit. It won’t cost much, and my favourite cameraman is available.’
‘Oh good,’ I reply in dismay. I thought I’d at least have a few days to prepare for this latest twist. If nothing else, we could have had some time to smarten the place up a bit before the cameras descended.
Mitchell holds up a hand. ‘One thing, though . . . you’ll have to get Mr Babidge to agree to it.’
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