Bricking It

by Nick Spalding

  And everything was going so well.

  ‘Looking lovely, isn’t it?’ Fred remarks as I gaze at the nearly complete bathroom with misty eyes. I am a woman who enjoys a good bath, and this is most certainly a good bath. In fact, it’s a great bath. A fabulous bath. The kind of tub you would only be marginally annoyed to drown in, given that there probably isn’t a nicer place in the world to shuffle off this mortal coil than a brand-new, bespoke, luxury bathroom suite.

  ‘It’s stunning.’

  ‘I’ll give Mitchell some credit. He may dress like my uncle after he’d lost his marbles, but the boy knows how to design a house,’ Fred says, nodding his head. ‘And source the fittings. I have no idea how he managed to find this lot at such a good rate.’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ I reply, only half listening. I’m imagining myself in here on my own of an evening, with a glass of wine and an iPod dock.

  The bathroom is absolutely in keeping with the modern farmhouse aesthetic we’ve gone for. The roll-top bath is exquisite. The large, broad sink unit is magnificent. Even the toilet looks like a work of art, what with the cistern on the wall way above it, connected by a polished chrome pipe. The tiles that line the walls and floor are a heady combination of black and white that shouldn’t work, but just do – effortlessly so.

  I turn my head to where Weeble is standing behind me with an expectant look on his face. ‘Well done, Weeble,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve done an amazing job in here.’

  Weeble smiles the smile of a man well pleased with both his work, and the compliments it has received. ‘Thanks, Hayley. It’s one of the best ones I’ve done.’

  Fred clamps a hand over Weeble’s shoulder. ‘No arguments there, my boy,’ he says, with father-like approval.

  ‘Of course, there’s no water yet,’ Weeble continues. ‘We’re still having issues down at the main pipe from the road, so it’ll be a while.’

  ‘It’ll be a while yet’ is now the catchphrase of this renovation.

  I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. When presented with such a lovely place in which to bathe your cares away, it would be nice to actually have the water with which to do so.

  I grit my teeth. There I go again – picturing a life for myself in this house, when it will be someone else who gets to enjoy it, when all is said and done.

  I try very hard not to heave a sigh, fail miserably, and turn myself away from Mitchell Hollingsbrooke’s work before I get any more morose.

  ‘How’s the front garden coming?’ Fred asks me as we amble back downstairs.

  I give him a look. ‘Just go outside and find out, Fred. It’s fairly obvious what Sally and her team are doing out there.’

  ‘No it ain’t, love. Me and gardening do not get on at all. I haven’t a clue what they’re up to out there. All I see is a bunch of people in dungarees bent over and fiddling. I haven’t got the first bloody clue what they’re actually doing.’

  I think for a moment, trying to recall what my brother had told me yesterday. ‘Danny says they’re plotting out a classic English country garden in the front, designed to draw the eye—’ I pause. ‘Designed to draw the eye somewhere. I can’t quite remember where. I want to say to the horizon, but that doesn’t sound right. Maybe the front door?’

  ‘Well, that’s where I’d want my eye drawn, cos that’s where I’d be bloody heading,’ replies Fred sagely. ‘What about the back bit?’

  I wave a hand. ‘No idea. They’ve got enough trouble wrestling the mess out the front into something attractive, let alone sorting out Pat The Cow’s field.’

  The rear garden has become the property of Pat The Cow over recent weeks. She will not be happy once Sally Willingham gets out there and starts cutting all that lovely grass down.

  ‘Whatever they’re planning, they need to get it done quickly,’ I continue. ‘The weather will be caving in pretty soon. This Indian summer won’t last much longer.’

  ‘As long as they keep out of our way,’ Fred warns. ‘We’re still nowhere near done yet. The electricians need to come back; the plumbers still have to get through. Then there’s the kitchen.’

  For all his bluster and bravado, Fred Babidge can be a right worrywart sometimes. I put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Fred. Danny will make sure they’re kept out of your way. Why don’t we go have a look outside at what they’re up to?’

  Fred shrugs his shoulders. ‘Alright. Can’t hurt, I suppose.’

  It’s not exactly said with enthusiasm, but if I can just get Fred to appreciate how important it is for the garden to look as good as the house, it’ll go a long way to making sure the two teams get on with each other.

  We traipse over to where Sally and Danny are standing by a hole in the left-hand corner of the front garden. Around them are a team of three gardeners, currently all busying themselves with clearing the garden of detritus in preparation for what I assume will be the planting of bright, waving flowers.

  ‘Oh no, nothing that grand yet,’ Sally tells me when I voice this assumption. ‘Autumn’s no time for planting anything like that. We’re strictly here to re-turf, re-grass, build a border pattern, and put in some simple violas and pansies for the minute. The showpiece stuff will have to wait until spring.’ She catches the look on my face. ‘Don’t fret. The garden will still look lovely, you mark my words. It’ll just be a subtle design. Which, as it happens, works better with a grand old farmhouse like this. You’ve all done such good work making the place look as magnificent as it does, I wouldn’t want the garden to compete with it.’

  Fred glows with pride at these words. So much for me needing to get him and Sally on the same page. She’s done it for me with a simple but effective compliment that will ensure harmony at Daley Farmhouse for some time to come, with any luck.

  ‘What’s the hole for?’ I ask her.

  ‘There was a rather nasty old yew stuck in there. Half rotten and good for nothing. It had to come out. Left a big hole to fill, though.’ Sally indicates a rather chubby young man in a work shirt digging in the hole with a spade. ‘Jez is just making sure there’s no root matter left before we fill it in. How’s it going, Jez?’ she asks him.

  ‘Not too bad, boss,’ he replies, thrusting the spade head back into the ground as he speaks. ‘Think we’ve got all of it. I’ll poke around for another few minutes or so, just to make sure we—’

  CLUNK!

  The sound is low, metallic and hollow.

  ‘What was that?’ Danny asks, moving forward.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jez replies. He lets the spade fall out of his hand, and bends down to scrape the mud away from something under his feet with both hands. In a few seconds he has revealed the round end of a metal object about eight inches wide.

  ‘What is that? A tin can?’ Danny asks.

  ‘Too big for that,’ Jez responds, brushing off even more dirt. ‘Looks like it’s got funny fins down the sides. And what’s that writing mean?’ He manages to reveal a good foot and half of metal before Fred issues a sharp intake of breath and steps forward with both hands out.

  ‘Stop!’ he orders.

  Jez looks up. ‘What’s the matter? The quicker I get it uncovered, the quicker we can get it out.’

  ‘Trust me, lad. You don’t want to mess with that bloody thing any more!’ Fred insists.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s a bomb, son,’ Fred tells him matter-of-factly. ‘German probably,’ he adds.

  If you ever have the urge to watch a chubby man in his twenties leap ten feet into the air in a split second, simply tell him he’s standing in a hole with a seventy-year-old unexploded bomb.

  ‘Everybody back!’ Danny wails, somewhat unnecessarily, as we’ve already all started to back-pedal like maniacs.

  ‘Into the house!’ Fred orders.

  Much to my dismay, Sally’s team of dirty, mud-encrusted gardeners all pile through the front door to Daley Farmhouse, and onto the crisp, clean, polished floorboards inside.

  It is testament to my obs
ession with this place that even in the face of potential explodification, I am still more concerned about the bloody house than my own well-being.

  Mind you, if the bomb goes off, a few dirty footprints will be the least of my worries. I can’t imagine that bomb-damaged properties sell for much on the open market, no matter how nice the roll-top bath is.

  ‘Er, I guess we should call the police?’ Danny suggests as we all crowd in one corner of the living room.

  ‘Good idea,’ Sally agrees.

  ‘Do you think it’ll go off?’ Jez asks no one in particular.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ Sally replies. ‘I’ve left my favourite hoe out there.’

  It seems I’m not the only woman in the world who has slight problems getting her priorities right when faced with the prospect of a bomb going off.

  Danny takes out his mobile and hits the usual three digits. What follows is a unique conversation I am only privy to one side of.

  ‘Hello? I need the police!’ Danny says in a strangled voice. ‘There’s a bomb in my front garden!’

  He listens for a moment. ‘No, I’m being bloody serious! We’ve just found a bomb!’

  He listens again. ‘How should I know? It’s big, metal and missile shaped!’

  Listens. ‘No, it’s not fucking ticking! This isn’t a Bugs Bunny cartoon, mate!’

  Fred whips the phone out of Danny’s shaking hand. ‘Let me speak to them,’ he says. ‘Can we please have the police here as quickly as possible?’ he tells the operator in a much calmer tone than my brother. Then he explains the situation, gives the guy on the other end the address and hangs up. ‘They’ll be here within the next few minutes,’ Fred tells us, handing the phone back to Danny.

  Baz then appears from upstairs. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks us.

  Danny gives him a look of abject terror. ‘There’s a bomb in the garden, Baz!’

  Baz looks out of the living-room window, cocks his ear to the faint sound of sirens, and nods his head. ‘Right then.’ He walks back out into the hallway and shouts upstairs. ‘Tea break, lads!’

  Not just us women with the misplaced priorities, then.

  Twenty minutes later a small police car turns up at the front gate, being driven by an even smaller police officer.

  ‘Blimey,’ Danny says when he sees the pocket copper climb out of the car. ‘He’s a little one.’

  ‘He looks like my grandson,’ Fred remarks, peering through the front-room window.

  ‘Copper too, is he?’ I ask.

  Fred gives me a look. ‘No. Eight years old.’

  The policeman steps over the broken garden gate – we really have to get that sorted out soon – and makes his way rather nonchalantly down the garden path.

  ‘We did say we thought there was a bomb in our garden, didn’t we?’ I murmur as I watch the policeman show absolutely no signs of concern about the massive explosive device sat in the hole off to his right-hand side.

  ‘I thought I made it pretty bloody clear,’ Fred says, and walks out of the room. He opens the front door and points at the bomb hole. ‘You might want to walk a bit quicker there, officer.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’ the copper replies, with a cheery smile on his face.

  ‘There’s a bomb in that hole over there,’ Fred tells him.

  The copper continues to show no outward signs of distress. He waves a hand. ‘Oh, we get these calls all the time. It always turns out to be a tin can, or an old bit of pipe.’

  ‘Ah, does it?’ Fred replies, eyes narrowing. ‘Do the tin cans or old bits of pipe often come with fins down the sides and the words Warnung Explosiv stamped on them?’

  The copper’s face goes a little grey around the edges. ‘Fins?’ he says in a reedy tone.

  ‘Yep. Big ones.’

  ‘Er, I think I’ll come inside then.’

  ‘That’s your best bet, squire.’

  The copper is in the house faster than you can say doodlebug. He’s on his radio even faster than that. ‘Victor One from Papa 72, are you there, Victor One?’ he says breathlessly.

  ‘Receiving, Papa 72,’ a bored voice on the other end says.

  ‘Um. There’s a bomb here, Victor One.’

  ‘Are you mucking about, Kev? Only the inspector warned you lot about mucking around on the radio last week in that email.’

  ‘No, Tracy, I am not mucking about! There’s a ruddy Second World War bomb here! I need more units and the sodding bomb squad as quickly as they can get here!’

  ‘Received, Papa 72. I’ll get them out to you as soon as possible,’ the call taker responds, this time with a satisfying sense of urgency to her voice.

  ‘Received, Victor One.’ The copper pauses and looks round at all of us. ‘I think I’ll evacuate these people into the back garden, as far away from the device as possible.’

  ‘Wise move, Papa 72. Wise move.’

  Kev the copper gets off the radio and tries to issue us all a reassuring smile. It fails miserably.

  ‘Okay, everyone. Why don’t we step out into the back garden?’

  ‘Alright,’ I agree.’

  ‘And everyone be nice to Pat The Cow,’ Danny adds. ‘Too many people on her patch makes her, um, frisky.’

  With the warnings given, we all traipse out into the garden to await the arrival of people who, with any luck, will know what the hell to do with a seventy-year-old explosive device.

  Sadly, the people in question are sequestered on the nearest army base, which is a good hour away in the car, so we’re forced to stand around like a bunch of lemons awaiting the bomb squad’s arrival. In that time another ten police officers turn up to see what all the fuss is about. By midday the immediate area is swarming with coppers. About the only constructive thing they do is erect an exclusion zone around the bomb with bright yellow tape that stretches from back up the road to where we’re all stood at the far end of the garden.

  I look at my watch every thirty seconds or so. All this hanging around is costing us valuable time that could be spent on the house renovation – not to mention all the money it’s costing Danny and I, as our team of builders and gardeners stand around doing nothing at our expense.

  Eventually I see a large green army truck roll up at the front of the house. Four men get out dressed in military garb. I’m very pleased to say they all look calm about the whole thing. This can only be a good sign.

  One of them skirts the edges of the garden, keeping as far away from the bomb as possible, and makes his way through the mud towards us. ‘Morning, folks,’ he says. ‘I’m Corporal Smith. Looks like you have an old Luftwaffe shell in your garden, eh?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ I reply. ‘Can you get rid of it?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we can. Done quite a few of these over the years. A lot of the German shells were duds when they were dropped, you know. That’s what comes of enlisting prisoners of war and the poor old Jews to build your bombs for you. They’re bound to do a bad job, quite deliberately!’

  This man seems quite jocular about the concept of innocent people being enslaved by the Nazis, but I think I’ll let it pass, as it’s now one in the afternoon, and those skirting boards aren’t going to fit themselves.

  ‘How long will it take?’ I ask Corporal Smith.

  He sticks his chin in the air in deep thought. It’s a very odd gesture to make. I guess it looks perfectly fine if you’re in the military. ‘Depends on the shell, my dear. If it’s an SC50BI it’ll be quite quick. If it’s a JB though, then that could take a while.’

  This makes absolutely no sense to me, obviously. But I’ll take his word for it. As long as he knows what he’s talking about, then everything is fine. As fine as it can be with an unexploded bomb less that a hundred metres away, anyway.

  Of course, Sod’s Law being what it is, the bomb is indeed a bloody JB. And boy does it take the bomb squad an age to sort the ruddy thing out. I’m not privy to the actual analysis and defusement of the device, as I’m still stuck with the rest of my clan a
t the rear of the garden. About the only thing we’ve got to look at is Pat The Cow chewing cud and looking decidedly grumpy about having her private patch of grass invaded by quite so many people.

  It’s gone five p.m. when Corporal Smith jogs back over to us to let us know that the bomb has been removed from the garden. ‘All done!’ he says cheerfully. ‘Looks like the fuse was missing completely. It couldn’t have gone off. You were all perfectly safe.’

  This is very good news indeed. We may have lost a day, but at least the situation is resolved.

  ‘However—’ Smith continues.

  I don’t like the sound of that however one little bit. Nothing good can come of it.

  ‘However, the JBs were often dropped in clusters,’ Smith tells us.

  ‘Which means?’ I reply, dread creeping into my voice.

  ‘Which means there’s every chance that there could be more of them in the area, also unexploded. The prisoners would often sabotage these things in entire batches. Could be quite a few of them lying around under the soil. We have protocols in place for such an eventuality, of course.’

  ‘What kind of protocols?’ I ask, my heart racing in panic.

  Corporal Smith catches my mood and gives me a sympathetic look. ‘We have to do a sweep of the area. All standard stuff, don’t you worry. It just might take a little bit of time.’

  I can almost hear the money draining from my bank account as I ask my next question. ‘How much time?’

  ‘Depends on what HQ says about the likely spread. But we’ve had to do this a couple of times, and both searches took a good week to complete. You can’t be too careful.’

  A week!

  A bloody week!

  Smith looks even more apologetic. ‘And we’ll have to get into the house with the metal detectors too, I’m afraid. There could be a device underneath it. You wouldn’t want one going off, now would you?’

  Oh god! The floorboards! The poor bloody floorboards!

  I start to go a bit weak at the knees.

  ‘What if you find a bomb under the house?’ Danny asks.

  ‘Oh, we’ll whip it out, don’t you fret!’

  Whip it out?