Bricking It

by Nick Spalding

  It’s funny how different people react to a camera, isn’t it? Fred Babidge turns into a small girl, Spider becomes a town crier – and Mitchell Hollingsbrooke unveils his very best impression of a serial killer.

  ‘Have you enjoyed working on the house, Mitchell?’ Gerard asks, attempting to draw the architect’s gaze away from the lens.

  Mitchell is having none of it, though. He continues to stare intently straight down the barrel. ‘Yes, thank you, Gerard. It has been a fascinating and fulfilling job.’ His voice has become robotic and monotone. I’m reminded of The Terminator, only with more brightly coloured clothing. ‘I look forward to seeing my concepts and designs realised in this bucolic setting,’ he adds in the same dead voice.

  If there are any children watching at home who haven’t as yet developed a fear of clowns, this will tip them over the edge.

  ‘Well, that’s lovely,’ Gerard responds despondently. He knows this whole thing has gone south faster than a nuclear-powered duck.

  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ Mitchell says sharply.

  ‘Really?’ Gerard sounds genuinely scared for his life now.

  ‘Yes. A lovely surprise for the Daleys.’

  Oh god, he’s about to murder us right here on national TV.

  Instead of whipping out a bread knife and going at us hammer and tongs, Mitchell bends over a cardboard box just to one side, opens it, and searches around in the polystyrene balls inside.

  ‘Isn’t this exciting, everyone?’ Gerard says to the audience, who by now are probably on the edge of their seats, I would imagine. After all, they expected a rather dreary live broadcast from a house halfway through a renovation, and what they’ve had so far is swearing, sex aids and a maniac in a bowler hat.

  ‘What is it you’re looking for?’ I ask Mitchell, attempting to parrot the light, breezy tone Gerard is adopting.

  ‘Taps!’ he bellows without turning round.

  ‘Taps?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, taps!’ Mitchell replies.

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Gerard exclaims. ‘It’ll be fantastic to see some of the final elements of the bathroom’s design before they actually go in. Gives us a good chance to get up close and personal with them, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised!’ Mitchell says. ‘I found these in a catalogue from Italy. Very exclusive design. They will work wonderfully with the aesthetic I’m trying to create in here!’

  And with that, Mitchell pulls two taps from the box, holding them up for the camera to get a good look at.

  They are . . . very interesting.

  For starters, they’re mixer taps. One for the bath, one for the sink. Big ones too. In a lovely chromed finish, the long, thick shaft of the tap curves gently upwards and over, before culminating at the business end in a graceful flared metal bulb.

  Yes, I am pretty much describing a penis here, aren’t I?

  Mitchell is holding two large chrome – and no doubt hideously expensive – cock taps. Whoever ends up buying Daley Farmhouse will have the joy of bathing themselves in water ejaculated from taps that would look perfectly at home sat on a shelf next to the golden butt plug we’ve already inflicted on the great British public this morning.

  Or is it just me?

  I haven’t had sex in longer that I care to think about, so maybe the taps aren’t all that phallic after all. Maybe it’s just my supressed libido trying its hardest to get noticed again.

  I look at Danny and Gerard’s expressions.

  Nope, the taps definitely look like dicks. There can be no other explanation for the strangled look on Gerard’s face, and the smirking schoolboy look on Danny’s.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mitchell asks, still sounding rather like The Terminator. The effect is now ruined somewhat by his hilariously shaped bathroom fittings. He waves both in our general direction. I feel like I’m being sexually assaulted.

  ‘They’re very large,’ Gerard says.

  ‘Indeed!’ Mitchell replies. ‘I wanted to make a statement with them.’

  ‘Oh, they’re definitely making a statement,’ I say, giving Gerard a sideways look.

  ‘A very interesting design,’ he ploughs on, with a degree of bravery I have to admire.

  ‘Bulbous,’ Danny points out, trying hard not to snigger.

  Mitchell’s face clouds. ‘Do you think so? I think the shape is more graceful than that.’ He puts one of the taps back in the box and concentrates on the other. ‘I was fascinated with the curve and tone of the shaft. The smoothness of its arch recalls the form of a rolling wave at its zenith, or the back of a leaping dolphin.’ To demonstrate how much he appreciates the curve of the tap, Mitchell gently takes hold of it and runs his hand from the bottom of the tap to the top.

  ‘I see what you mean!’ Danny says, shoulders starting to shake with mirth. ‘Could you just repeat that motion a few times so I really understand?’

  Mitchell duly obliges.

  And now, for the delight and edification of the BBC audience, we have a man in a clown costume wanking off a tap at five to twelve on a Wednesday morning. It doesn’t help that Mitchell has returned to looking down the camera with that intense stare.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mitchell!’ Gerard cries, grabbing the architect’s arm and pulling the tap out of shot. ‘Why don’t we all make our way back outside and take one last look at the farmhouse as a whole before the show finishes?’

  This particular show might not be the only thing finishing here today, I reflect as we troop back down the stairs. Poor old Gerard’s ratings hit Great Locations might well be finishing here for good if enough complaints roll in over the next few days. I’m not sure Mitchell has done his architectural practice many favours either.

  In fact, what with Spider’s swearing, and Fred’s lost little girl impression, there’s every chance that Danny and I are the only ones who have come out of this thing relatively unscathed.

  Time to wrap things up.

  Gerard strides back up the garden path, still talking to his audience, this time about how they can find out more on how to renovate their own properties. He doesn’t give them any advice on where to buy the best butt plugs or cock taps though, which I feel is something of an oversight on his part, as I’m sure at least a few of them will be interested.

  The others peel away out of shot, leaving just Gerard, Danny and myself at the gate to the front garden.

  ‘So, how long do you think the rest of the project will take to complete?’ Gerard asks us.

  I rock a hand back and forth. ‘We’ll have it done by the end of November with any luck.’

  Gerard’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘November, eh?’

  ‘You don’t think that’s likely?’ I enquire doubtfully.

  Gerard laughs abruptly. ‘I’ve seen enough of these projects to know that timescales can go out of the window before you know it. Problems and issues can arise from where you least suspect them. You can never be prepared for all eventualities. You might find yourselves having to make changes and alterations when you didn’t expect to.’ His tone has taken on a somewhat patronising quality I’m not enjoying one little bit. Gerard O’Keefe the friendly TV presenter has become Gerard O’Keefe the pretentious construction expert in three seconds flat.

  I bat my eyelashes at him in a winsome fashion. ‘Do you think so, Mr O’Keefe? Do you think we might have to make changes?’

  ‘Yes. Probably.’

  I now effect a shocked expression. ‘It’s the taps, isn’t it? The taps need changing.’ I look around. ‘Let’s get Mitchell back over here. Perhaps the audience can help us decide whether we should use them or not!’

  Gerard’s face crumbles in panic. The last thing he needs is more tap wanking. I know it. He knows it. His rapt audience knows it.

  ‘No no no! I’m sure they will be fine. They looked lovely!’ Gerard says.

  ‘And bulbous. Don’t forget bulbous,’ Danny remarks, stirring the pot again.

  Gerard chooses
not to take the bait and addresses the audience again through Pete’s lens. ‘That’s about all we’ve got time for on the programme today, everybody. I do hope you’ve enjoyed our look around Daley Farmhouse, and are looking forward to seeing the finished article in a few months.’

  Gerard then starts to talk about all the interesting features the audience can find on the BBC’s interactive services. What he doesn’t realise is that while he has been talking, Pat The Cow has wandered over from where she was happily chewing on a clump of old grass in the far corner of the front garden. As Gerard is telling his audience about what time the show will be on next week, the cow has come up behind him, looking for her customary pat. Gerard now sees the cow, but as he’s in full flow, he ignores her, which is a mistake of epic proportions. Danny’s cow doesn’t like to be ignored, so as Gerard is saying a final awkward goodbye to the public, Pat butts him heavily in the side, sending the poor bugger teetering off balance. The last thing the million or so viewers see of their favourite TV presenter is him stumbling out of shot with a squawk of surprise.

  ‘That’s it. My career is over,’ Gerard moans from where we sit watching the TV crew pack up the equipment.

  I pat him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I bet it won’t be that bad.’

  He gives me a look. ‘Butt plugs? Cock taps? Cow assault? The F-word?’

  ‘Fair point, but it was a live show. Things always go wrong on live TV, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, and people invariably lose their jobs because of it.’

  I can’t help but feel at least partially responsible for Gerard’s glum mood. This is, after all, my house of horrors, and my team of renovators. ‘Sorry, Gerard.’

  He smiles at me. ‘It’s not your fault. How were you to know?’

  We both lapse into silence. There doesn’t seem to be much more I can say to console him at this stage.

  ‘Hayley?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There might be something you can do that might make me feel a little better.’ Gerard’s tone has changed. The glumness is gone. Now he sounds nervous.

  ‘What’s that?’ I reply, suspicion dawning.

  ‘I . . . I’d like to take you out to dinner. Would you come with me?’

  Okay, so that’s not the question I thought he was going to ask me. I was expecting him to want another live TV broadcast out of us to make up for this one, not a date. I’m struck dumb for a moment, unable to respond.

  He sees this. ‘I’m sorry! It was a stupid suggestion.’

  ‘No! Actually, it’s a very nice thought.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It really is, as well. I’m very flattered that a celebrity would want to take me out to dinner. If life had dealt me a better hand recently, I might have accepted.

  I take Gerard’s calloused hand. ‘It’s a very nice offer, but I don’t think I’m ready for anything like that. It hasn’t been that long since my divorce, and—’

  ‘Oh god, I’m sorry!’

  ‘No. No. It’s not you. It’s me.’ Captain Cliché, eh? ‘It’s just that Simon, my ex-husband, he was very bad to me . . .’

  Gerard puts his other hand over mine. ‘Don’t worry, Hayley. I completely understand.’

  ‘We’re ready to go, Gerard,’ Monica the producer calls over from the BBC truck. She looks even more worried about her immediate future than he does.

  The presenter stands up. ‘Well, that’s that then,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘I’m sure we’ll be back again soon. Take care of yourself, Hayley.’

  ‘And you, Gerard. And thank you again for the offer.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replies with an uncertain grin, and walks over to his waiting colleagues.

  As the BBC van drives away I feel a sudden and very much unwanted anger rise from the depths of my body. It’s been nearly two years since I threw that bastard out of my life, but here he is again, ruining my life without even having to be in it. I’ve just turned down a date with a famous – and handsome – TV presenter because of the emotional baggage Simon Claremont has left me carrying around like a ton of bricks.

  When the hell am I ever going to get over this? When the hell am I going to be able to trust a man again?

  I stand up and walk back towards Daley Farmhouse, trying to put such black thoughts at the back of my mind.

  To help me do this, I think again of the golden butt plug and rusty handcuffs.

  Someone put those bloody things up in that chimney. But who? And when?

  I’m not a fan of mysteries, and I resolve quietly to myself that I will get to the bottom of this one before the renovation is complete.

  DANNY

  September

  £112,291.45 spent

  In the end, our very special episode of Great Locations ended up being the third most downloaded programme on the BBC iPlayer for the month of August. Gerard O’Keefe was praised by his bosses for ‘handling a difficult situation’ – along with a metal butt plug – and the programme was once again renewed for another series. This all goes to show that if you surprise the audience with something they weren’t expecting, the chances are you’re onto a winner.

  Not long after the broadcast I discover that I am resolutely not onto a winner when I get steamrollered into doing something concrete about the bloody garden.

  I would like to just concrete the whole thing over, as I’m sick of looking at a vast combination of mud, badly cut grass and gnarled old trees, but this won’t do. If nothing else it’ll play havoc with Pat The Cow’s hooves. Therefore, I am tasked with finding an appropriate landscape gardener to have a proper go at it.

  We’ve obviously picked the ideal time to find a gardener – the arse end of the summer. I’m sure most of them are planning to disappear down a burrow soon to hibernate until March. Still, somebody started Find a Trade for a reason, so I spend an hour or so browsing the selection of gardeners in the local area who might actually be agreeable to coming out and doing some work as autumn hits us square in the face.

  I find a likely looking company called Willingham Landscape Creations, who certainly sound like they know what they’re doing, just from the name. I give them a call and have a brief chat with the head of the company, a middle-class-sounding but very friendly woman called Sally.

  ‘It sounds like an interesting project,’ she tells me, after I’ve filled her in on all the gory details. ‘It’d have to be a simple design to start off with, I think. Once winter has passed we could look to putting more in, as and when it is needed.’

  I grimace. The idea of working on this house next year is not one that fills me with pleasure. There’s still so much to do, and everything will slow down once bad weather hits.

  Sally (who I assume is the Willingham of the company’s name) agrees to come over later today to have a look at the place. This pleases Hayley no end. Whether that’s because she didn’t think I could find a gardener in the local area, or whether it’s because she didn’t think I could find a gardener because I am an idiot, I will never know. Still, the appointment is booked. I have done a good job, and probably deserve a nice pat on the head.

  It occurs to me though, as I look out at the mess that is our garden, that when Sally turns up I am going to have some explaining to do. I confess that we have not treated this garden with anything like the kind of love and attention the house has been getting. It’s been a complete afterthought, and boy is that screamingly obvious when you look at it. I have never met Sally Willingham, but by the sounds of her on the phone I can imagine her as tall, robust and likely to look down on me with a mild loathing when she sees the mess we’ve made of such a potentially lovely stretch of greenery.

  ‘Well, there’s not much we can do about it now,’ Hayley says to me, when I voice this concern. ‘Go and have a poke about, and see if you can neaten it up a little. At least cut the hedges back a bit at the sides. That’ll improve things.’

  I open my mouth to protest, but frankly, I have nothing else
to do today. The electricians are in the house now, doing the rest of the wiring – a job that has to be left to the professionals, lest you want to die at the end of 40,000 volts and burn your house down at the same time. Even Fred’s crew have knocked off for the day, leaving their boss and my sister loafing about, keeping an eye on the electricians and advising them when necessary.

  I could go into work and catch up on all the jobs I should have had done ages ago, but I can’t frankly be arsed. I have to admit that my eighteen hours a week at the Emberland House Museum have shrunk to more like fourteen, given the amount of time I’m bunking off to come here and work on the house. But what can I say? I am far more invested in making this place look good, than I am in trying to maintain a badly neglected city museum on the brink of closure. If we sell this house at a premium, I’ll earn about ten years’ wages in one fell swoop.

  So, given my inability to run wiring through a loft space, and given my supreme indifference to my part-time day job, I really have nothing better to do than a spot of light gardening, in order to tidy the place up a bit before the landscape gardener comes over. This is rather like washing your dishes before putting them in the dishwasher, but I try very hard to ignore this fact as I pull out a few battered and rusty gardening tools from the back of Fred’s Transit van.

  ‘Good luck using them, colonel,’ he tells me, as I walk past him down the left-hand side of the house. ‘The last time I did any proper outside work, Callaghan was prime minister.’

  ‘They’ll do. I only want to neaten up the hedges a bit.’

  Actually, that’s about all I can do, anyway. The gnarled trees look like they could withstand a nuclear blast, and the expanse of grass is just too huge to have a serious go at without industrial lawnmowers. Besides, I wouldn’t want to deprive Pat The Cow of her favourite foodstuff, now would I?

  Speaking of whom, I find my bovine pet standing at the rear of the garden, looking into the small patch of forest that stands at the garden’s edge. I haven’t investigated this area in the entire time we’ve been here, which is something of a surprise as when I was a boy I liked nothing more than having a good explore in a bit of woodland.