Bricking It

by Nick Spalding

  I pat Pat The Cow in customary fashion. She looks up at me with a content expression on her face, chewing the cud lazily, as she is wont to do. She then returns her gaze to the forest again.

  ‘What is it, girl? Have you spotted something?’

  I sound like I’m talking to Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.

  The image of Pat The Cow leading emergency services to the site of the abandoned well that little Timmy has fallen into suddenly springs into my head. I can picture the police and fire crew following her through the fields, mesmerised by her swinging udders.

  This leads to a five-minute laughing fit that Pat The Cow wants no part of. She ambles away from me as I begin to get myself under control.

  Pat The Cow may have lost interest in the patch of forest, but now my curiosity has been well and truly aroused. Figuring that I’m under no time limit, and whistling the Skippy the Bush Kangaroo theme tune, I wander over to the hedge that divides the forest from the garden and have a closer look.

  There’s not a whole lot to it, to be honest. Bordered on three sides by our garden, and two fields belonging to Pat The Cow’s ex-owner, the woodland is a clump of beech and oak trees, interspersed with brambles, small bushes and leaf litter. Looking just over the hedge, I can see a large clump of some sort of tall plant, flourishing nicely in the late September sun. In fact, the closer I look the more of the broad, leafy plant I can see spread out in front of me. There’s something familiar about it, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. Some of the plant has invaded the boundary hedge of our garden and is growing through it, making the hedge even untidier than it needs to be.

  Right then – there’s my first gardening job of the day. I’ll have to trim the hedge back to make it neater, and I suppose I’d better climb over into the woodland to yank a load of it out so it can’t grow back through the hedge again at a later date.

  Feeling good that I have actually managed to identify a job to do, I get to work with the set of old garden shears I found underneath a bag of nails in Fred’s van.

  The shears are blunter than an Australian sheep farmer. It takes three or four rapid chops to get through even a couple of hedgerow branches. The leafy green plant is easier to cut through, thankfully.

  Two sweaty hours later, the whole back hedge is looking much, much neater. I check my watch and groan out loud. It’s lunchtime. At this rate, I’ll never get the other side of the garden cut before Sally Willingham turns up to judge me. Still, I’ve pigging well started now, haven’t I? I can’t just do this one edge and not the others, no matter how big and daunting the job appears. It would be rather like cutting the top of somebody’s hair and leaving the back and sides long.

  I take a deep breath, an even bigger swig of water, and set to work on the rest of the job.

  Luckily, the hedges on the left- and right-hand sides of the garden are easier to deal with. They’re less brambly for starters. It only takes me an hour on each side to wrestle them under some kind of control with the old shears. It helps when Fred provides me with a whetstone halfway through, and tightens the bolt in the centre of the shears for me. The two things help them cut a lot better, and by two o’clock the hedges have been trimmed all the way to the house.

  I now have a slight problem, though. What the hell to do with all the greenery I’ve just chopped down. I can’t just leave it there. It looks awful. Pat The Cow may be a bovine masticating machine, but not even she can eat her way through that lot before Sally Willingham arrives.

  ‘Burn it,’ Fred suggests. ‘There’s a can of petrol in the van. Just make sure you do it well away from the house.’

  ‘But what will the landscape gardener say?’

  Fred’s eyebrows knit with disdain. ‘What are you bellyaching about now?’

  ‘Well, she might not like it if I burn all that stuff.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be such a goon, chief. That’s the way they do things out here in the country. Look.’ Fred points at the horizon to a column of smoke in the distance. ‘You ain’t gonna be the only one having a bonfire today.’

  Well, that settles it. If it’s good enough for the locals, it’s good enough for me.

  It doesn’t take me long to gather all the mess up and collect it in a nice big pile in the right-hand corner of the garden. I make sure to site the bonfire away from any of the overhanging trees in the woodland. We don’t want this thing getting out of control, after all.

  To that end, I’m quite sparing with the petrol. Too sparing to begin with, as the fire is hardly going before the combination of light wind and green branches put it out in a haze of smoke. The smoke makes me hack and cough a bit, so I have to take a step back to have a bit of a rethink, while the pile gently puffs white clouds into the air.

  Second time around I pour more petrol on. Trying to be at least a little sensible about the whole thing, I light a piece of cardboard and throw it on the pile, rather than try to light the petrol up close. I enjoy having eyebrows, and don’t think the soot-blackened-face look would suit me.

  This time the fire roars into life in a far more satisfactory manner. The amount of petrol I’ve poured on overcomes how green and fresh the branches are, and in no time the fire is a good three feet high and crackling away nicely.

  I feel an immense feeling of manly pride.

  This is par for the course any time a man lights a fire. Whether it is a bonfire, a barbecue or a campfire, we take great delight in the act of setting fire to stuff. It must be something written in our DNA from the time we were all cavemen.

  I supress the urge to find a woman to hit over the head with a wooden club and step back a little from my fire, so I’m not breathing in quite so much smoke.

  To tell the truth, I’m beginning to feel a bit giddy from smoke inhalation right now. My head is swimming, and my face feels a bit numb.

  I step back even more from the blaze and the vast clouds of smoke emanating from it. Most of the smoke appears to be coming from that big leafy plant I extracted from the hedge.

  As the fire burns I stand there and daydream a little. At first I think about how nice the house is going to look once we’ve finished the renovation. This leads me to picture the enormous £4,000 TV I’m going to buy with the money I make from the sale. Then, as is usual when I’m in a daydreaming mood these days, I think about Mischa in her underwear. Finally, I go back to thinking about Pat The Cow as a member of the emergency services. I can imagine her in her own TV series, saving small boys and elderly ladies from a variety of horrible dangers. A theme tune springs into my head and I start to make up some lyrics to go along with it.

  ‘It’s Pat The Cow, she’s Pat The Cow,’ I sing to myself. ‘If you’re in trouble, she’ll come right now. She’ll save your life, she’ll save your wife. She’ll be right there, if you’re in strife.’

  An enormous bray of laughter erupts from my mouth. I can’t quite believe how astronomically funny my new tune is. And how creative am I being? To think of not only a theme tune, but the lyrics to the theme tune, all in the space of a few seconds? Amazing!

  I continue to sing, marvelling at my inventiveness.

  ‘If you’re up a tree, or you’ve hurt your knee, Pat The Cow is a sight to see. Her udders are round, her eyes are brown, let’s make her the queen, let’s give her a crown.’

  The image of Pat The Cow dressed in full ermine cloak and golden crown, sat on her throne in the House of Lords, instantly fills my imagination, and I start laughing again.

  Twenty-five minutes later, I’m still laughing. There’s every chance that if I don’t get this giggling fit under control, I’m going to pass out from oxygen deprivation.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Why is the image of my pet cow in a crown so bloody funny? I look over to where Pat The Cow is staring at me in bewilderment, and I mentally place a crown on her head. This sends me off into another fit of laughter that lasts a good quarter of an hour.

  Through tear-streaked eyes I look up to see Fred and Hay
ley walking down the garden towards me. With them is a tall blonde-haired woman of about forty-five, who must be the eponymous Sally Willingham. She’s wearing green wellington boots and a cable-knit sweater. Her hair is held back in an Alice band and she has the kind of suntan that only comes from extensive time spent outside.

  I wonder if she’d like to hear my song about Pat The Cow?

  I try to get the giggles under control as the others get closer, without much success.

  ‘Danny? Are you alright?’ my sister asks. ‘You’ve been down here for ages. The gardener is here to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, I’m fine!’ I reply, tittering slightly.

  Don’t think about a cow in a crown. Don’t think about a cow in a crown.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Danny,’ Sally Willingham says, offering me a hand. I go to shake it, but miss completely, as a wave of nausea blows through me.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘I appear to be feeling a little light-headed.’ I attempt to grasp her hand again, this time with more success. I pump it up and down once before letting go. ‘So! What do you think of our garden then?’ I say in an inexplicably loud voice.

  Sally Willingham is taken aback. ‘Um, it’s very large. But there’s plenty we can do with it.’ She points at the bonfire. ‘Mr Babidge told me you were down here clearing some cuttings away.’

  I gaze at the fire.

  I continue to gaze at the fire.

  I continue to continue to gaze at the fire.

  In fact, the fire is all that exists in the universe. Its flickering flames, its burning inner light, its curling, wonderful swirls of smoke that I could get lost in for hours . . .

  ‘Danny!’ Hayley snaps. ‘Sally is talking to you!’

  ‘Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm?’ I reply, sounding like a malfunctioning electrical transformer.

  Hayley looks exasperated. ‘I said, Sally is talking to you.’

  What is a Sally? Is it an alien creature? Or maybe it’s a small turtle from beyond Atlantis?

  Maybe Sally is a cow, just like Pat The Cow. They could rule us together as our benevolent cow overlords. The world would bow to their bovine might. We would tremble! Tremble, I say!

  I collapse into another fit of giggles. The three of them stare at me as if I have gone completely off my rocker, which to a certain extent, I have.

  Maybe that’s it . . .

  Maybe I’ve gone stark staring insane in this garden. After all, people do go insane, don’t they? Maybe this is how it happens. Maybe one minute you’re a perfectly normal human being cutting down some hedges, the next you’re visualising cows as world leaders with tears of laughter streaming down your face.

  That must be it.

  Oh God! I’ve gone mad!

  I instantly sober up as I realise that for me, the universe has now become a dark and cold place. Has the sun gone in above my head? Yes, it has! The world has darkened! The creature comes for me!

  What slouches towards Bethlehem? I do! I am cursed by the demon! Star Wormwood! The end of days!

  I give my sister an imploring look. ‘I . . . I think there might be something wrong with me,’ I tell her in a raspy voice.

  Sally Willingham has been studying me closely for a few moments, with a speculative look on her face. She takes a couple of steps past me, and sniffs the air closer to the bonfire.

  ‘Ah, I think I see what’s happening here,’ she tells us all.

  ‘Is it Satan?’ I ask, terrified. ‘He’s come to claim me, hasn’t he?’

  ‘I very much doubt it, Mr Daley.’ She points at the burning plant material. ‘That’s your problem.’

  ‘What is?’ Hayley asks.

  ‘I believe your brother’s bonfire consists largely of marijuana,’ Sally states, trying not to laugh.

  Fred has no problems expressing his amusement. ‘Ha! I don’t believe it! The captain’s gone and got himself stoned!’

  I am not laughing – far from it. I’ve reached a stage of such sublime paranoia and dread from the vast amounts of marijuana smoke I’ve inhaled that I’m pretty much terrified of everything. Out of the corner of one eye I see Pat The Cow ambling towards us. Except that it is no longer Pat The Cow. It is Pattus Cowisicus, Roman deity of death and destruction. She has come to claim me! Claim me for her own!

  And with that, I’m off and running.

  ‘Danny!’ Hayley shouts, but I hear none of it. Pattus Cowisicus is right behind me! I must flee for my mortal soul!

  Sadly, standing between me and the ability to flee from the Friesian Death Goddess, is one of the twisted old apple trees, whose trunk I choose to run into at full speed.

  Did I say apple tree? No. What I meant is Arborus Applosicus, Roman deity of torture and severe bowel cramps brought on by sorbitol intolerance.

  ‘Mehunga!’ I screech. I have no idea who or what a Mehunga might be. Perhaps I am praying to a sworn enemy of my two foes, in the hopes that he or she may appear out of thin air to save me from a fate worse than death.

  This does not happen, of course. Rather, I stumble backwards away from the apple tree and lose my balance, collapsing onto the uneven grass. To me, this does not feel like rough, uneven ground covered in stones and clumps of dying grass. To me, it is a soft and comfortable mattress made of woven cloud, upon which I can rest my weary head for the rest of eternity.

  Not even Pattus Cowisicus and Arborus Applosicus can trouble me here. In this place, all is well. All is good. All is peace.

  ‘Had we better call an ambulance?’ I hear the disembodied voice of my sister say.

  ‘Yes, I’d say so,’ Sally Willingham replies. ‘From the looks of his reaction, that was some very strong stuff he burned. Probably a strain of outdoor skunk.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘My brother is a police officer,’ Sally Willingham continues. ‘You learn things.’

  Instantly, my peace is shattered. The police! The man! 5-0! The Rozzers! The Peelers! The Old fucking Bill!

  I’m a man stoned out of his brains on skunk. They will arrest me, chuck me in the nearest cell and throw away the key!

  My becalmed state is immediately replaced by the paranoia and fear again. This time it’s not cow gods I am afraid of, it’s having my poor innocent bottom ravaged by a never-ending queue of hardened criminals.

  I must get away!

  I’m back on my feet before anyone can stop me, and within seconds I’m careening down the side of the house with my sister, builder and potential landscape gardener in hot pursuit. They catch up to me as I’m sat astride my motorbike, trying to kick-start it into life.

  ‘Danny! What are you doing?’ Hayley demands, pulling at my arm.

  I slap her away. ‘No! No! Leave me alone! My poor bottom! They will destroy my poor bottom!’ I wail, still feverishly working at the kick-starter with one trembling leg.

  Fred Babidge assesses the situation and decides to take a decisive course of action. ‘Right, my old china, that’s quite enough of that. I once had to calm my cousin Clive down when someone slipped him a mickey in his drink. Let’s see if the same method works on you.’

  Fred stands beside me, measures me up, and gives me a hard bop on the side of the head with his fist. This has the desired effect. I fall limply off the motorbike and crumble to the asphalt. This does not feel like a comfortable mattress in any way, in fact it feels like precisely what it is – a hard black road surface, designed to carry heavy vehicles. In the sane part of my brain that has been locked away by all that inadvertent marijuana abuse, a coherent thought forms: I must be coming out of it. The weed must be losing its potency.

  I no longer think monster cows are after me. I do, however, start to feel the massive bump on my head incurred from hitting that apple tree at full pelt.

  ‘Can someone help me back inside please?’ I ask the three of them. ‘I think I might need an aspirin.’

  Four aspirin and two pints of water later, the ambulance arrives. Hayley is dismayed to see that one of the paramedics is Alistair, th
e poor bugger she abused some time ago when she shot herself with a nail gun. He doesn’t look happy about being called back to this house either. Last time he was here, he nearly broke an ankle. I’m sure he wants to see the back of the place this time as quickly as possible, before it can do him any more injury.

  To that end, he and his female partner deal with me swiftly. They take my blood pressure and run a few other checks to see that my vital signs are all okay. Alistair also treats the bump on my head with some antiseptic, which stings like hell.

  ‘You know, we have to tell the police about this,’ he says to me.

  ‘Yeah. I figured as much.’

  To tell the truth I’m not all that concerned about the police coming down here, now that the drug high has worn off. If nothing else, I want them to get rid of the rest of the marijuana at the bottom of our garden.

  ‘How the hell did it get there? Who put it there?’ I ask the tired-looking policeman who turns up to the house about half an hour later. The paramedics have gone by this time. As he left I’m sure I saw Alistair sketch the sign of the cross, which I felt was a little over the top.

  The copper shrugs. ‘Could have been anyone really. These more remote areas are popular for growing outdoor marijuana plants. It’s probably kids.’

  ‘I thought you had to grow that stuff in a greenhouse or something?’ Hayley pipes up. This is a good question. If I knew marijuana could grow outdoors in the UK I might have realised what I was burning before it sent me loopy.

  ‘Nah. Some strains can grow outdoors here,’ the copper replies. ‘It just needs a bit of sun and warm weather.’

  Well, there you go. You learn something new every day – even if you didn’t want to. I’ve never smoked cannabis in my life, so all of this has been a real eye-opener for me.

  Then Hayley gives voice to a question that makes my blood run cold. ‘What if whoever planted them comes back?’

  I hadn’t thought of that! What if it isn’t kids? What if it’s hardened Eastern European criminals, covered in tattoos and just itching for the chance to remove the testicles of anyone who burns their cash crop?