Bricking It

by Nick Spalding

Of course, Fred! How could I forget!

  Surely he won’t want a load of limp-wristed TV types getting in his way while he restores this building to its former glory, will he? Fred is bound to object!

  ‘Fine by me,’ the cockney git says when Gerard asks his permission a few minutes later.

  You can’t bloody rely on anyone these days, can you?

  ‘The boys will love it, won’t you, lads?’ he asks his crew. Cue a chorus of uncertain nods. ‘Think of how much the ladies will like seeing you on the telly, eh?’ This is greeted with far more enthusiasm. Baz and Spider look positively delirious at the prospect of women dropping at their famous feet. Comically so, in fact. They actually hug each other in sheer, unbridled joy at the prospect.

  ‘Excellent!’ Gerard replies, sharing a firm handshake with Fred Babidge. There’s a great deal of alpha maleness going on here that I clearly have no part of.

  My mood can best be described as morose as we walk back up the garden path to the 2CV.

  ‘You’re not happy about this at all, are you?’ Gerard O’Keefe says to me quietly as we walk behind Mitchell and Danny. The architect is waving his hands around in excitement, and my brother is practically vibrating with his own exhilaration about the prospect of being on TV. Neither share my misgivings, at all.

  ‘Honestly? Not really,’ I tell Gerard.

  ‘Why do you feel that way?’ His tone is soft and calm. I’m surprised. From a man who appears to thrive on being larger than life, the swift change in gears is rather difficult to deal with.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before, and if we’re on the TV . . .’ I trail off, unable to put into words what I’m thinking.

  ‘You don’t want to be seen as a failure by millions of people. You don’t want to look stupid,’ Gerard finishes for me.

  I blink a couple of times. ‘Yes, that’s it. It’s not so much about the cash we’re spending, but I can’t stand the idea of coming across as some kind of naïve idiot.’

  ‘Completely understandable. You’re not the first person I’ve met who feels that way at the start of a project. The whole thing is a learning curve. But . . . let me try and sell the concept to you by saying one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If the house is on our show, it’ll sell for more money.’

  ‘How would that work?’ I ask, confused. ‘You wouldn’t broadcast it until after it’s sold, would you?’

  ‘That’s not how Great Locations works. You’re thinking of one of those other shows.’

  ‘Location Location Location?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gerard agrees through instantly gritted teeth.

  ‘And what’s that one with Kevin Whatshisface?’

  ‘Grand Designs,’ Gerard says in a flat tone.

  ‘Oh yes. That’s right.’ I cock my head innocently to one side. ‘They’re on in the evenings, aren’t they?’

  A wry smile crosses Gerard’s face. ‘Are you mocking me, Hayley?’

  I press a hand to my chest. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mr O’Keefe?’ I drop the act. ‘Why is your show different?’

  ‘We film a house renovation as it goes along, and we come back several times as the build progresses. Daley Farmhouse will be on the TV for everyone to see on three or four programmes during the series. That should increase your chances of flogging it for a premium, don’t you think?’

  Damn it. He’s got me. You can appeal to my brother, Mitchell Hollingsbrooke and Fred Babidge’s men with the lure of fame, but Hayley Daley’s ego doesn’t not need such massaging. Her bank balance most certainly does, though.

  We reach Mitchell’s car and I look at Gerard O’Keefe with a strange combination of optimism and suspicion. When a man makes me a promise these days, my guard immediately goes up. I can thank my arsehole of an ex-husband for that. But this man isn’t talking to me about relationships, he’s discussing a business deal. There’s no ulterior motive in his actions, other than to make us all as much money as possible.

  ‘Alright Gerard, let’s do it,’ I tell him, trying to sound more confident that I really feel.

  ‘That’s brilliant! I wouldn’t want to get going without you both completely on board.’ He holds out a hand. ‘I look forward to working with you, Hayley.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say, surprised that I now genuinely feel that way, and take his hand. It’s quite calloused and rough, but his grip is gentle.

  ‘Me too!’ Danny pipes up from where he’s appeared at my side, thrusting out his own hand, which Gerard takes and pumps up and down a couple of times.

  Gerard then looks at his watch. ‘Right. Back up to the city, then. I can make some calls on the way to get things moving. If I can get it all sorted out, I’ll be back tomorrow morning with my camera guy to film a quick intro to the project. We’ll get the paperwork out to you for signing in the next few days. How does all that sound?’

  ‘Fast, Gerard,’ I reply.

  He smiles. ‘No point in hanging around, Hayley. We don’t want this place looking too good before we start, do we?’

  I look back at the war zone that is Daley Farmhouse. ‘Not much chance of that happening any time soon,’ I say.

  Gerard climbs into Mitchell’s 2CV and within moments they are driving away from the house, leaving Danny and I alone – and not a little shell-shocked.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ Danny says breathlessly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re going to be on TV, sis.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You seem less than enthused.’

  ‘About the house being on the TV? No. I’m fine with that. My ugly mug, on the other hand?’ I have to suppress a shudder.

  ‘Oi! Danny!’ Fred Babidge calls from behind us. ‘Spider needs those Monster Munch. His blood sugar is dropping like a stone over here!’

  Danny sighs. ‘From errand boy to TV star and back again in the space of an hour.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to have your ego too inflated, do you?’ I suggest.

  Danny gives me a look. ‘I work as a caretaker in a public museum that has been on its last legs for thirty years, Hayley. I don’t think my ego is in any danger of getting inflated any time soon.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you just wait until the first show airs and that Mischa sees you in a whole different light.’

  Oh crap.

  I shouldn’t have said that. I can see the light bulb going on behind Danny’s eyes, and I instantly regret my choice of words.

  ‘I hadn’t even thought of that!’ he declares.

  ‘Just go get the Monster Munch before Spider has a hypo,’ I order him.

  My brother floats off down the road on wings I’ve just accidentally nailed to his back. He is officially now going to be a nightmare every time the cameras turn up to film.

  Speaking of which, I hastily withdraw my phone from my pocket and Google the phone number for my hairdresser. I’d best be getting in this afternoon, if I can. The last thing the viewing public needs is the vision of Hayley Daley with hair like an epileptic-bird’s nest. The wellington boots will be bad enough.

  As the phone rings I look over at where Fred and the boys are finishing off the concrete pouring.

  One job down, then. Seventy-five million to go.

  . . . And now all of them are going to be recorded in HD for posterity.

  God help us all.

  DANNY

  June

  £37,745.82 spent

  With a month already gone on the house renovation, I am starting to feel like I am completely surplus to requirements.

  I suppose this shouldn’t shock me. After all, I am to building what Ed Miliband is to male modelling.

  Hayley’s alright. She can do all the administration and money stuff in her sleep. Every time I so much as look at an Excel spreadsheet I come out in a cold sweat.

  Given the fact that I work as a caretaker, you’d think I’d have more to offer on the labour front, but compared to Fred and the boys I am a total novi
ce. Oh, I can screw in a light bulb and fix the ballcock in the toilet when called upon to do so, but I have no experience of the kind of big, sweaty tasks that Spider and his cronies are faced with each and every day on this build.

  They’ve already shored the entire house up so it’s now rock solid from below, and tied the walls back together with enormous steel screws so they’re not bowing out all over the shop. Daley Farmhouse is now looking more stable than it has in decades, and I haven’t contributed a single thing to the process, other than the purchasing of tea, biscuits and many, many variety packs of Monster Munch.

  I said as much to Hayley.

  ‘Well, don’t feel too bad. You’re not a builder.’

  ‘No. But my job is one that’s mostly manual labour. I should be able to do something of use here.’

  ‘Maybe just wait until they move on to something that you’re more familiar with, and offer to help out when it comes up.’

  Sound advice.

  Luckily for me, that day has now arrived!

  About six months ago, we had woodworm in some of the roof joists at the museum. A roofer was called in to fix the problem, but he was a bit of a one-man band, and the job turned out to be bigger than initially thought, so I got drafted in to help him out. This gave me some experience of roof joist replacement, even if it was purely in the role of willing assistant.

  And what do you know? Fred and the boys have moved on to the roof this week . . . and some of the joists need replacing.

  This is my chance!

  I sidle up to our cockney builder and his crew as they’re drinking their morning tea, with an ingratiating smile plastered on my face. ‘Er, Fred?’

  ‘What’s up, flapjack?’

  Fred’s nicknames for me are becoming progressively more and more surreal. I’m being optimistic by taking it as a sign of growing affection on his part.

  ‘Well, I was just wondering . . . Can I give Trey a hand with the roof joists today?’

  Trey, a gigantic black guy from Barbados, does his level best not to look horrified at the prospect of my assistance.

  Fred’s mouth goes tight. ‘I don’t know, chief. Don’t you think it might be better for you to help out down here? You know, where it’s easier for you to get back outside if you’re needed?’

  Needed to go and buy the bloody lunch is what he means.

  ‘I know what I’m doing with a roof joist, Fred,’ I assure him, and regale him with my story of woodworm repair at the museum.

  Both Fred and Trey seem to visibly relax slightly when I start talking about construction adhesive and strut beams. I think I’m winning them round.

  ‘It might help, boss,’ Trey tells Fred in his lyrical Bajan accent. ‘It will mean one of the others doesn’t ’ave to do it with me. They can help you with the flashing outside.’

  Fred nods carefully, obviously taking his time to think about my proposition. I can’t really blame him. As far as he is concerned, the evidence shows that I am only good for the purchasing of pickled-onion-flavoured wheat snacks. But if I can help Trey out it would free another one of his men up, and would thus speed up the job just that tiny bit.

  ‘Alright, my old muck spreader, you’re on. You go help Trey today, and if that goes well, we’ll see what else you can do around here.’

  I have to resist the urge to jump up and down. I’m rather like a puppy that’s just been given a treat for not shitting on the lounge carpet for the first time since it was born.

  I try to contain my pleasure, not wanting to come across as a complete fool in front of all these burly men. Now that I’m officially on the workforce, I feel an immediate sense of kinship with all of them I haven’t felt before. I even go so far as to pour myself a nice cup of tea from the flask Fred brought down to save me the trouble of going to the shop quite as often.

  It’s disgusting. There’s so much sugar in it, it’s a wonder any of these bastards still have a front row of teeth.

  Still, I’m standing in the mud with a bunch of builders, and I belong, dammit!

  Two hours later I don’t want to belong any more. The entire thing has been a massive mistake. Why didn’t I just accept my position as Monster Munch purchaser, and be happy with my lot? Why did I have to push things?

  The loft is hotter than the surface of the sun. The June weather has taken a turn for the ridiculous, and it’s a good twenty-five degrees outside. Yesterday it was nineteen and raining. The day before it was seventeen and hailing. It’s been more up and down than a whore’s drawers – to use a phrase that Fred loves to trot out whenever he gets the chance.

  If you know your lofts, you’ll know that if it’s twenty-five outside, then it’s thirty-five under the eaves. The three portable work lights that have been rigged up to provide us with illumination really aren’t helping matters either. The only real ventilation we have up here is two small holes caused by slipped tiles and rotten roof lining. These give us a bird’s-eye view of the front garden below, but the slight puffs of wind that occasionally blow through them are about as much use as a fart in a hurricane.

  The sweat is pouring off me.

  Worse, it’s pouring off Trey, and Trey is not a man who sweats in a genteel fashion. You’d think a bloke from such a hot country would be used to these kinds of temperatures, but by the way he keeps wiping his brow and swearing, this is apparently not the case. With great sweat, must come great smell, and boy does Trey stink.

  I’m no better. The supermarket-brand antiperspirant I’m currently using gave up the fight a good ninety minutes ago, and my T-shirt is now soaked with sweat. I can feel it dripping down into my butt crack, which, as you might imagine, is a deeply unpleasant sensation.

  Still, we have managed to accomplish quite a lot in our two sweaty hours. Trey certainly knows his way around the supporting beams of a roof. We’ve changed three of the rotten beams already, and have started on the fourth and last one. There’s more to do up here, but until the chimney breasts are sorted out at either end of the building, this is as much as we can do for now.

  I have been a good little assistant, obeying Trey’s every command as soon as he has given it, and I haven’t once screwed anything up. I feel the big Barbadian and I have bonded over our thankless task.

  ‘Nearly done now eh, Trey?’ I say to him as he walks over to me carrying the last replacement joist. It’s a testament to the height of Victorian roof spaces that Trey is able to do this without having to duck.

  ‘Yep man, we’ll be done in double-quick time. Which is just as well. I need to change my damn underwear!’ Trey laughs in a big, Barbadian sort of way. I assume he means because they are sweaty, rather than that he’s had an accident. Trey gives me a contemplative look. ‘Actually, Danny, how do you feel about giving this last one a go on your own?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. You know what you’re doing now. I think you can handle it, yeah?’

  How proud am I right now?

  I’ve gone from Monster Munch fetcher to valued and independent member of the construction team in the space of one morning!

  ‘Sure!’ I bark excitedly, ‘I can do it, Trey. No worries!’

  ‘Great!’ He hands me the joist. ‘Just remember to get those screws in nice and tight and make sure the adhesive is spread like I showed you.’

  ‘Yep. I’ve got it, Trey. You go grab yourself a nice drink. I’ll get this done in no time.’

  Trey laughs, claps me on the back, and makes his way back over to the ladder poking through the loft hatch. As he starts to descend he looks back at me. ‘And hey! If you do that okay, maybe we let you fix that hole you made over there, yeah?’ Trey laughs again and is gone from sight.

  I try to ignore his reference to my fall from grace the first time I looked around the house, and busy myself with the task at hand.

  Said task is a lot more difficult when there isn’t somebody standing over you, giving advice. What seemed like a relatively easy job with Trey by my side is most definitely not now
that I am alone in the sweatbox. Manhandling a long, heavy length of wood around on your own is bloody hard, especially in thirty-five degree heat. It took Trey and I half an hour to do each of the other joists. I’m still at it on the fourth one a good hour and a half later. But I can’t leave until the job is done. I simply cannot climb out of this loft space with my tail between my legs, and let Trey know I have failed him. It just won’t happen.

  Besides, as I peek out of the hole in the roof, I can see that the BBC camera crew have arrived for a day’s filming. There’s no Gerard O’Keefe with them today, but they’ll no doubt want to crawl over the house again to get shots of all the work going on. If it gets caught on camera that I am unable to do something as simple as fixing a roof joist, I will have to kill myself. I won’t be able to take the shame of it.

  This leaves me in what you might call a sticky situation. I can’t climb down to ask for help, because it might end with my unwanted suicide, but that leaves me up here in Sweatsville still struggling to finish a job I started four and a half hours ago. I am hot, thirsty, hungry and tired.

  Unfortunately, there’s something else I am as well – in dire need of the toilet.

  Not for a pee, you understand. All the moisture has been leeched from my body by the heat up here. No, I am in need of a number two. In a house with no working plumbing and no toilet, given that it was ripped out last week. We do have a Portaloo in the front garden, but the bloody thing is broken (Baz’s fault I’m led to believe), so the nearest toilet that I can use to have a decent crap is now a good ten-minute walk away in the village.

  It’s a tricky problem, and no mistake.

  I try not to think about my rolling bowels, and continue with the slow and painstaking task of hammering the joist into the correct position. The bloody thing just won’t marry up with the ends of the old beam, no matter how hard I bang it with the hammer. The next twenty minutes are spent angrily tapping and whacking the wood this way and that to try and get it to fit properly. I’m only interrupted from the task when my bowels roll over a lot harder than they have previously, and I am forced to stand up, holding my belly and groaning in discomfort.