I grab his jacket again. ‘What could possibly happen to me that’s worse than getting a six-inch nail through my foot?’
‘Inch and a half . . . Two at most.’
‘Shut up, Danny!’
The paramedic gives me an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, we just can’t let them take you.’
Fred grunts in disgust. ‘Well, how about round the side of the house then?’
I look at him wide-eyed. ‘What? Across the battlefields of the Somme, you mean? That’ll be even worse!’
To explain: both sides of the garden have been mud bogs for the past few weeks. When you have heavy machinery trundling across them every day, the soft earth and grass doesn’t stand a chance, especially with the usual amount of summer and autumn rain you get in the UK. While I was pleased to see the back of the gigantic bramble bushes and overgrown trees, the uneven hills and troughs of mud have not been much of an improvement. I’m amazed none of us has come down with trench foot yet.
In fact, the job I should have been doing today – instead of being the DIY disaster I quite clearly am – was to find a decent landscape gardener to come and fix all that mess once the house is finished.
Getting me across that mud bog on a big ambulance stretcher will be a nightmare.
‘We can lay down some planks to get you over the worst bits,’ Fred suggests to the two ambulance men. ‘It won’t be a problem.’
Another fresh wave of pain emanates from my foot. It seems the medication isn’t as strong as it could be. ‘Oh, whatever!’ I say, trying not to faint again. ‘Just get me somewhere clean and smelling of Dettol!’ I lie back down on the stretcher properly and cross my fingers.
What follows could easily be filmed by Pete the cameraman and released on YouTube to the delight and edification of anyone who enjoys watching others in extreme distress.
The two paramedics start to wheel me across the mud, with my brother, Fred and the rest of them all watching on with nervous expressions on their faces.
At first things don’t go too badly. We edge around the side of the house until we are in view of the ambulance. It’s only when the muddy ground starts to get really uneven that we encounter difficulties.
‘Watch the wheel on the edge of that plank!’ Danny warns – sadly too late.
‘Ow! Bloody hell!’ I cry as my foot bangs painfully against the stretcher’s side.
‘It’s okay, I’ve got it!’ Paramedic One assures me as he wrenches the stretcher back onto the precarious track that Fred and the boys have constructed across the muddy battlefield. He gives me a reassuring smile as he does so.
Then he instantly disappears from view as he steps into the mud and his leg goes out from under him.
‘Oh bugger!’ Paramedic Two shouts. ‘I don’t think I can hold the—’
And he’s gone too. It’s like they’ve both been sucked under by a bog monster, leaving me high and dry on a stretcher in the middle of no-man’s land. I crane my neck round to the small crowd gathered off to one side. ‘Aren’t any of you going to bloody help me?’
‘No, no!’ A muddy hand appears, waving frantically. ‘We’ve got everything under control!’
Paramedic Two is back upright again. He is also now covered from head to toe in mud. Those shiny cuffs are well and truly in need of a good hosing down.
‘Are you alright, Alistair?’ he asks the other guy.
‘Not really. I think I’ve sprained my ankle,’ Alistair replies in a reedy voice, still out of sight.
‘Do you think you can help me with the patient?’ Paramedic Two asks.
‘I don’t think so . . .’
‘Oh.’
Silence descends. I look up at Paramedic Two, getting a really good view of his nasal cavity.
‘Do you think you could get me to the ambulance?’ I ask, trying to stay calm. ‘I am in rather a lot of pain, you know.’
He looks down at me. ‘But what about Alistair?’
‘I DON’T CARE ABOUT ALISTAIR! My foot is about to fall off!’ It’s not, but it certainly feels like it might if I have to lay here on this stretcher for much longer. ‘Let them help you!’ I order.
‘But health and safety . . .’
I don’t grab his jacket, because I don’t want to get any mud on me. ‘I’m marooned in a bog with one foot bleeding all over the place, with one paramedic down and the other resembling a fresh turd. I think health and bloody safety have gone right out of the window! Danny! Fred! Get over here and get me to the ambulance!’
Thankfully, the paramedic makes no more objections when the boys slip and slide over to me, picking the stretcher up between them and carrying me over to the ambulance. They then go back and pick up Alistair, who has gone very grey. That sprain might well end up being a break.
In no time at all, I am loaded into the ambulance and awaiting departure.
‘I’ll ride down behind you,’ Danny says.
‘Thanks.’ The anger is gone from my voice again, now it’s all about the pain.
Paramedic Two fires up the ambulance as Alistair limps in and sits next to me. He looks down at my foot again, checking the temporary dressing.
‘So, how exactly did this happen?’ he asks in a tight, pained voice.
‘Well, it was like this,’ I reply, matching the tone of his perfectly. ‘My grandma left me a house, and I thought it would be a good idea to fix it up. So now I have a giant hole in my foot.’
‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t. You really, really don’t,’ I disagree, closing my eyes and trying to ignore the throbbing coming from my lower left extremity.
I expected Daley Farmhouse to throw up a lot of difficulties, but I was rather counting on being able to tackle them without bleeding everywhere.
In the end, I get two stitches in my foot for my troubles, a tetanus injection and a big box of lovely painkillers. Danny offers to ride me home, but I wisely decide to take a taxi instead.
That evening I am feeling decidedly miserable, and very sorry for myself. My foot aches like mad, and the painkillers are making me woozy and fuzzy-headed, which is horrible. I’m about to limp up to have a bath (with a plastic bag round my foot so the dressing doesn’t get wet) when my phone rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Hayley? It’s Gerard. I heard about what happened. Are you alright?’
Well, this is unexpected.
‘Not really. My foot hurts,’ I reply, voice treacherously quivering somewhat.
‘Ouch. Tell me all about it.’
So I spend the next twenty minutes explaining what happened to Gerard, who listens quietly until I am finished, and then sympathises with me in that soft tone of voice he has no doubt practised a thousand times in interviews with people as incompetent as I am at house renovation.
By the end of the chat I am actually feeling a lot better.
I put the phone down and allow myself a little smile. What a nice thing for him to have done.
Hang on.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
This is an utter disaster.
The last thing I want right now is a charming, rich, famous man being nice to me. That way madness lies. I swore off men for life after Simon ruined me.
How could I be any different after what happened? I got swept off my feet by the best-looking man in the nightclub, found myself married to him a mere three months later because he was the most exciting person I’d ever met, spent five years thinking I was living with the man of my dreams, and then had everything torn away from me when that bitch turned up on the doorstep in her stupid plastic high heels.
I do not need the kind of temptation that Gerard O’Keefe represents.
It may all be charm and smiles and concern right now, but in five years? All that charm is being directed at two other women, and the concern is only for his own well-being when I find out he’s been cheating on me!
Now, come on Hayley. Gerard isn’t the same man, my internal voice of reason says.
&n
bsp; Yes, he bloody well is. They’re all the same!
I’m not going to fall for it again! I’m not!
What I am going to do is scream and reach for the painkillers, as I’ve just forgotten about today’s injury, and stamped my foot on the ground in determined anger.
How hard can it be to use a nail gun? Extremely easy, if what you’re trying to do is get yourself a month’s supply of ibuprofen tablets and work yourself up into a rage about how useless men are. If you’re putting up shelves though, I’d stick to a tube of No More Nails and save yourself the bother.
DANNY
July
£76,546.39 spent
The house is coming along nicely. Nearly three months in and we’re motoring along marvellously.
All the boring stuff is pretty much done. The foundations are secure. The roof is fixed. The walls are strong. The woodworm has been killed. The floorboards have been replaced. The extension is built. The list goes on and on.
Sadly, virtually none of these enormous improvements are visible from the street, which is a tad disheartening, to be honest. When you spend over seventy thousand quid, you expect there to be something to show for it. But thus far, Daley Farmhouse looks like it’s been barely touched.
I’m led to believe this is fairly typical of major house renovations like this. If you’re looking for immediate gratification, pick something else to do as a hobby is my advice.
Still, we’re at the point when we are ready to start on all the fun stuff, and thus far we’ve had very few big problems come our way. Hayley is still limping about the place a bit, but the doctor has assured her she’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. Fred and the lads will just have to find a different impression to do than Long John Silver.
Nope, everything is ticking along nicely.
Now, if I could just get rid of that bloody cow, everything would be truly fantastic.
Three weeks ago I was helping Spider strip the last of the old plaster from a corner of the dining room.
‘I’m going for a piss,’ I inform him.
He gives me a look. ‘I think Fred’s in the Portaloo.’
‘Oh. Then I guess I’ll have to brave the jungle outside.’
We haven’t started on the expansive back garden yet, apart from clearing the immediate area around the house. The rest of it is still the overgrown wilderness it was when Hayley and I first came here.
‘I’d wait for the Portaloo,’ Spider replies.
‘Why’s that?’
He grimaces. ‘There’s way too many spiders out the back there.’
I’m stunned. ‘Spider – your name is Spider.’
‘So?’
‘Well, how can you not like spiders, if your name is Spider?’
‘That’s what my mum always says.’
‘So what’s your real name?’
‘Charlton.’
‘Come again?’
‘M’name’s Charlton. My dad’s a Man U fan.’
‘I think I prefer Spider.’
‘Me too.’
This is easily the most profound conversation I’ve ever had with the tattooed, bald brickie, but my bladder is making noises that I can no longer ignore. ‘Hold that thought, I’ll be back in a minute.’
It doesn’t take long to reach an area of the back garden that is out of sight and within moments I am breathing a blessed sigh of relief as I water one of the gnarled old apple trees that dot the garden.
‘Moo.’
What the fuck?
‘Moo.’
I spin around, penis still in hand, to see a cow staring at me from less than four feet away.
No, not a cow. The cow. The same cow Hayley and I first encountered all those weeks ago. It has the same black patch around one eye and the same searching expression coming from those big, brown cow eyes.
And here I am, presenting my genitals to it. Probably not appropriate, all things considered.
I spin back around and finish urinating. By the time I am done and the old chap is popped back in, I fully expect the cow to have moved away.
Nothing of the sort. If anything, it’s a foot closer.
‘Watch yourself,’ I tell it. ‘I’ve just peed there.’
‘Moo,’ the cow replies, and doesn’t budge an inch.
I regard the cow with a look of extreme suspicion. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ The cow has not been seen again in the garden since that first encounter. Possibly all the heavy machinery put her off, but now the big noisy work is done, she’s returned. Quite how is still beyond me. I’ve walked around the whole gigantic field that passes for a garden at Daley Farmhouse, and can see no evidence of where something as big as a cow could gain entry to it. It’s quite unfathomable.
‘I feel as if I should call you Houdini The Cow,’ I say to the cow, continuing my train of thought out loud. ‘But you don’t look like a Houdini.’ Inspiration strikes. ‘I shall call you Pat The Cow. How does that sound?’
‘Moo.’ I swear there’s a derisory tone to that response.
‘Please yourself. I never said I was a creative genius.’
Pat The Cow takes another step towards me, so her head is within touching distance. ‘There, there,’ I say, and pat Pat The Cow’s head gently.
Pat The Cow seems to be quite happy with this state of affairs. ‘Moo.’
‘You’re quite sweet really, aren’t you?’ I tell Pat The Cow.
‘Moo,’ Pat The Cow agrees. ‘Moo mooooooo.’
‘Why thank you, Pat The Cow,’ I tell her. ‘I’m glad you think I’m sweet too.’
From over by the house I hear Spider calling me. Pat The Cow looks around, chewing the cud slowly as she tries to spot this new interloper. She then turns back to me, gives a look with her big swimmy cow eyes that seems to say ‘mention nothing of this’ and turns to walk away into the long grass.
‘Danny! Where the hell are ya?’ Spider calls.
‘Over here!’ I call back and start to make my way back towards him. I turn and throw one last glance in Pat The Cow’s direction to say goodbye . . . But she has disappeared! The big bovine is nowhere to be seen.
Spooky.
I return to Spider. He notes the look of confusion on my face. ‘What’s up?’
I open my mouth to tell him all about my encounter with Pat The Cow, but then I remember the expression on her face and keep my trap shut. Pat The Cow is obviously part ninja, and I don’t want to end up skewered on the end of an expertly thrown ninja cow dagger.
My next encounter with Pat The Cow happened a mere couple of days later. I was sitting on one of the old patio chairs out the back, enjoying a nice chicken Cup-a-Soup and some sun, when Hayley limped over to me, carrying a small trowel.
‘Having fun with the pointing?’ I ask her.
‘Not really. I should never have asked Fred what pointing was. He’s had me filling in gaps between bricks for the past two hours.’
‘At least you’re still showing willing.’ I grin. ‘You are being careful not to stab yourself though, aren’t you?’
She gives me a withering look. ‘Very funny. Baz handed me the trowel covered in bubble wrap when I started.’
I laugh. ‘Well, look at it this way, at least they see you as one of the boys now!’
‘I don’t want to be one of the boys. The last time I tried that, I ruined my chances of competing in any upcoming marathons.’
‘How is the foot?’
She shrugs. ‘Could be better. Could be worse. At least I can put some of my weight on it now. Still hurts like buggery, though.’ She looks around. ‘Where’s the Big Black Bucket of Water? I need to give this trowel a clean.’
You may think that something as prosaic as a bucket of water would not need capitalisation, but trust me: it deserves that amount of importance. On a building site such as this, the Big Black Bucket of Water is easily one of the most valuable things to have at hand. Don’t believe me? Try spending three months of your life surrounded by mud, dust, plaster, wood chips
, construction adhesive, mortar and more mud. The Big Black Bucket of Water is an absolute must.
‘I haven’t seen it,’ I tell Hayley. ‘Could be in the kitchen, though.’
‘Thanks. I’ll have a look.’
Hayley limps slowly off across the patio and in through the brand-new double doors that lead into the kitchen area. I have to refer to it as a ‘kitchen area’, as we still haven’t put the actual kitchen in yet. The concrete took longer to set than anticipated, and the plumbers still haven’t been round to extend the pipes back.
There’s nothing much in the broad expanse of empty space right now, other than a pasting table, on which sits a kettle from 1985, more Pot Noodles than you can shake a fork at, enough tea and coffee to drown a hall full of insomniacs, and a bag of sugar that would last an entire African village until the end of time.
Nothing dangerous, weird or scary.
Which is why it comes as something of a surprise when I hear a blood-curdling scream come from my sister.
Wondering what she’s managed to impale herself upon now, I get up off my chair and go inside.
The sight that greets me is a true tableau of bovine terror. Hayley is backed up against one wall, the trowel held out in front of her, while Pat The Cow is slowly edging towards her, still chewing the cud, and with the same implacable look on her face.
Hayley spots me. ‘Get it away from me, Danny! Aaargh!’
‘Calm down! Pat The Cow isn’t dangerous!’
Terror turns to disgust. ‘You’ve given it a bloody name?!’
I stride forward, wanting to get myself in between the two of them before Pat The Cow treads on Hayley’s foot, and gets a smack between the eyes with a trowel for her troubles. ‘Just calm down, sis. She just likes to be patted, don’t you Pat The Cow?’ I give Pat The Cow the now customary pat, which she seems to appreciate.
‘Moo.’
Hayley isn’t so impressed. ‘Move it away from me, Danny. I keep thinking it’s going to charge me at any moment!’
‘It’s a cow, Hayley. Not a bull. The only way Pat The Cow will charge is if you stuck a cattle prod up her arse. I thought you were the one who didn’t think cows were dangerous? Pat The Cow is not dangerous. Smelly, but not a risk to life and limb.’
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