Bricking It

by Nick Spalding

  Okay, I’m probably being extremely fanciful about most of this, but without firm evidence I’m just going to fill in the blanks with what I think happened, no matter how whimsical it might sound.

  And so, you fell into a life of domestic bliss with Granddad. Pregnant with my father a year after the marriage, it must have seemed such a lurch for you. Were you bored, at all? I bet you were! Maybe just a little bit? After all, I doubt caring for a baby and attending church every Sunday would compete with all that behind-closed-doors debauchery!

  Whatever. I guess none of that is really important any more. What is important is that you are the kind of woman who can build not one, not two, but three lives for yourself – picking yourself up and ‘getting on with it’ each and every time. I hope and pray that I have some of that in me too.

  Which leads me to my final unanswerable question: is that why you left Danny and me the farmhouse? Did you see your two grandchildren lost and directionless, and decide that dropping a derelict ex-brothel on their heads would be the best way to shake them out of their respective ruts?

  Because if it was, your plan has worked spectacularly well.

  Before this project Danny was drifting through life, and was a lazy, stumbling mess. This house has given him purpose, a reason to get out of bed in the morning and go do some proper work.

  Do you know what he said to me yesterday?

  ‘Fred’s offered me a job, sis. He wants me to come work for him on a build he’s starting in the New Year. I’m going to pack it in at the museum and go for it!’

  I’ve never seen him look so happy or so fulfilled. It’s not like he’s doing it for the money, either. Not if the house sells for what we hope it’s going to. No, Danny is going to work for Fred because it makes him happy. I never thought I’d see the day!

  And as for me?

  Those last few months of your life must have been a real joy whenever my miserable little face turned up on your doorstep. Did you have to bite your tongue when I moaned and groaned about how Simon had treated me? How he went from the best man in the world to the worst in the space of five short years? I imagine you did, given that you appear to be the kind of woman who would never have taken that kind of rubbish from a man for more than a minute. Little did I know I was pouring my poor, pitiful heart out to a woman who was built of far stronger stuff than I was!

  You left me this place to end all that self-pity, didn’t you? To give me something constructive to think about, rather than wallowing in misery about the divorce.

  I’ve always had an obsessive personality. You just turned that obsession away from a useless, pathetic little man, and towards a dilapidated house with no roof.

  You crafty, clever old woman!

  No wonder you ran a money-spinning brothel, and controlled the local police for three years!

  (Oh God, I’ve just had a thought. What the hell is Dad going to say when I tell him that his eight-month cruise around the world was funded by his mother stuffing her knickers into the mouth of a senior police officer? I must remember to ask Gerard along, so he can set up a video camera to capture the look on my parents’ faces when I tell them.)

  And as for Gerard O’Keefe, you couldn’t have seen that one coming, could you?

  Maybe you hoped that the renovation would pull me up by my bootstraps, and that maybe I’d earn back enough self-confidence to one day meet another man and start a new relationship. I very much doubt you could have predicted a man like Gerard O’Keefe entering my life, though.

  But oh dear, Grandma, I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.

  Stronger I may be, thanks to Daley Farmhouse, but I’m afraid that moping, sad little girl who visited you to complain about Simon is still there underneath it all and just waiting to rear her ugly head again.

  I’m trying – really, really trying – to be as strong as you were, Grandma. To be as fearless as you. But it’s hard. A little too hard, I think. I look at Gerard and see a kind, thoughtful man. But then Simon was the same when we first met, wasn’t he?

  It scares me.

  Scares me as much as finding yourself alone in a rambling old farmhouse must have scared you.

  Can I follow in your footsteps, though? Can I take the plunge and do something that scares me?

  I’m deathly afraid that starting my own brothel would be a piece of cake compared to trusting my heart to another man again.

  But anyway, the farmhouse is finished now, Grandma.

  I did it!

  Sorry – we did it.

  From a ruined bunch of bricks sat in an overgrown field, we have restored Daley Farmhouse to its Victorian glory.

  Actually, I’ll go a step further than that – I think we’ve made it better. A grander, larger, prettier house than it ever was before. You would be proud if you could see it, I have no doubt.

  You’d also want to immediately light some candles and jump in the bath. I know I do every time I walk past it.

  It’s kind of strange to see everything finished.

  I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment, but on the other, I feel a strange sadness that the job is now done.

  Maybe that’s because we’ve gone twenty grand over budget and had to max out both our credit cards, but I also think it’s because I really don’t want to let the place go! I look at all the work we’ve done, all the beautiful things we’ve put into the place and I keep picturing myself living there, amongst all that finery. Every time I start to daydream about making breakfast in the kitchen, or drifting off to sleep looking at the stars through the enormous bedroom windows, I have to stop myself before it hurts too much.

  Your story doesn’t help either. Now I know how important the house was to you, the idea of selling it to a complete stranger fills me with a deep unease. There’s so much history here. A majority of it X-rated I’ll grant you, but it’s our family history nonetheless.

  But what choice do I have? We have to sell the place. There’s that mortgage and credit cards to pay off, and I can’t just turn down the prospect of dumping a huge lump sum into my bank account.

  Why did you have to have such a colourful past, Grandma?

  And why do I have to be the kind of person who gets attached to things that she really bloody shouldn’t?

  We had a meeting with our estate agent, Grant, the other day about the best way to sell the place. I thought we’d just sling it on Rightmove and wait for the offers to roll in, but he thinks it’s better to sell the house at an auction.

  ‘None of us have any real idea what this place is worth,’ he told Danny and I over his large pink tie, as we sat in his office pretending to understand what he was on about. ‘We know it’ll go for about six hundred thousand, but for all we know it could be worth way more than that. The best way to sell the place is to let the market decide what it’s worth. And I’d sell it on-site, rather than at an auction house. It doesn’t happen much, but this is a unique property, so let’s sell it in a unique way. We can really make it a grand event. Advertise the auction for about two months to build interest, I reckon. That way we should get plenty of potential players on the day.’

  ‘Cost?’ I replied. I’ve been at this game long enough now for that to always be the first thing out of my mouth.

  Grant rocked his hand back and forth. ‘The auctioneer will want two and a half per cent of the selling price, but you’ll stand to make ten to fifteen per cent more on the house in total, I’d say.’

  I don’t think Danny and I were a hundred per cent sold on the idea, but after discussing it with Fred and Mitchell, we agreed to go ahead with it. It’s funny how these two men have become so much more than people we’ve employed to help us renovate the farmhouse. I value their opinions as much as I value my own, and they both think the auction is a great idea.

  ‘It’s a wondrous way to encourage the more discerning, and aesthetically astute buyer,’ Mitchell said. ‘Grant’s idea of an jubilant occasion fills me with d
elightful anticipation.’

  ‘You’ll make a fucking packet,’ Fred said.

  Good enough for me.

  The auction date is set for – and I can hardly believe this – 14 February.

  ‘People will remember when it is!’ Grant told us. ‘And it’s a chocolate box kind of place. You never know, if romance is in the air, we might get an even higher price!’

  Which is hard to argue with. It still makes me feel a bit uncomfortable though, for some reason.

  Gerard was delighted with the date, of course. Great Locations wants to come back to film on the day of the auction, and you can just imagine how his eyes lit up when I told him it would be happening on Valentine’s Day.

  ‘What a perfect end to the story!’ he said happily over the phone from his office in London. ‘And with the whole fascinating history of the place, it’ll make such great television.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re not mentioning my grandmother’s past, thank you very much,’ I told him.

  ‘What? But it’ll make great television!’ Gerard repeated, in the tone of a small boy who’s just been told he has to come in for his tea and can no longer play in the makeshift fort he’s just built with his snotty compatriots.

  ‘I don’t care if it’s BAFTA-worthy Gerard, I’m not having my grandma’s past as a brothel madam revealed on live television! If nothing else, it might damage our chances of selling the bloody house!’

  There was a moment of silence on the other end before Gerard reluctantly agreed with me. ‘It could throw a spanner in the works, couldn’t it?’

  ‘You think so? I can just see Grant showing someone around the bedroom: “And this is the original mantelpiece. I believe they used to tie the clients up right here when they inserted the love beads.” I don’t think it’d go down too well, do you?’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  Gerard and crew will still be out in force on the day of the auction, though. And he’s promised to mention that it’s happening in the shows running up to it. That should drum up even more potential business with any luck.

  I am both hopeful of getting a good price, and terrified that no one will want to buy it.

  Then again, I am terrified of getting a good price, and hopeful that no one will want to buy it.

  My emotions are confused, to say the least.

  So now the waiting begins.

  This is likely to be excruciating.

  I’ve spent virtually every minute of every day at Daley Farmhouse for the past few months. How the hell am I supposed to just go back to a normal life now the thing is finished, but knowing won’t be sold until early next year?

  It’ll be like ending a relationship knowing you still have to see them one more time to swap DVDs and get your clothes back.

  I can go back to work a bit early, I guess. I’m sure the headmaster will be delighted to get me back in the classroom, given the horror stories I’ve had related to me by email about the poor substitute teacher they’ve had in for me. I just don’t think I’m mentally prepared to take on that lot again, though. I now officially have until the start of March off, and I think I’m going to take every last day of it – even if it does mean feeling somewhat aimless until the auction comes around.

  Maybe I’ll download the Rightmove app to my iPad. There are bound to be some nice fixer-uppers in the local area. I might be able to find something more constructive to do with all that money I’m hopefully going to earn than just dump it in the bank account and watch what the interest rate does.

  One way or the other though, Grandma, the story of Daley Farmhouse is going to take another turn come Valentine’s Day. Someone else will get to sit in that bath, and look at those stars very soon.

  I have to say I envy them so much it almost brings tears to my eyes. Maybe if you were still alive you’d feel much the same way.

  That damn house has a way of working its way underneath your skin, doesn’t it? That’s why you couldn’t let go of it all those years ago, and that’s why it’s going to kill me to have to do it now.

  Thank you, Grandma.

  Thank you for giving me the chance to rebuild your brothel, and my own life with it.

  I think it speaks volumes about how odd my life has become that the last sentence doesn’t sound weird to me in the slightest.

  God bless,

  Hayley

  PROPERTY AUCTION NOTICE

  Monday, 8 December

  Whitlow & Cressida Auction House are pleased to announce a unique opportunity to purchase at auction a newly renovated Victorian cottage in the heart of the Hampshire countryside.

  The Daley Farmhouse is a three-bedroom, two-bathroom detached property, sitting on over an acre of land. It has recently been completely modernised, and boasts a brand new extension, bespoke kitchen and bathroom facilities, and brand-new décor throughout.

  The garden is landscaped to provide an idyllic backdrop to this wonderful, historic property – close to a tranquil English village, but within easy distance of major transport links.

  Auction to take place during a very special event held at the farmhouse on Saturday, 14 February.

  To register your interest, please contact Grant Evanshaw at Winters Estate Agents, or call into Whitlow & Cressida’s offices.

  DANNY

  February – Auction Day

  £173,765.97 spent

  Valentine’s Day is usually a day to be feared and dreaded – when you’re single, anyway. But I can safely say that I have never been more nervous in the run up to 14 February than I am this year – even when I was eight and made Carla Peterson that card and had to give it to her at her birthday party.

  I’m hoping the auction of Daley Farmhouse goes better than that did. Carla looked at the card for a few moments, before yakking up her fifth bowl of jelly and ice cream all over it. My timing was off that day, to say the least.

  Thankfully, I won’t actually have much to do today. The business of holding the auction is being handled by Grant, our bombastic estate agent and his auctioneer colleague, an equally bombastic woman called Camilla. If the two of them had a baby, the nursing staff would all need cochlea implants after the delivery.

  No, all I have to do is turn up, try not to look stupid, and hope and pray that the house sells for the right money.

  The right money is more money than I can comprehend to be honest. The reserve price on the farmhouse is a cool £600,000. This, to me, is an idiotic amount of money. I’m sure anyone living in London would laugh in my face if I were to tell them that, as it probably buys you a small cardboard box next to the fishmongers there, but in the sleepy Hampshire countryside, it’s a decent price for a three-bedroom detached, even a relatively small one like ours.

  If it goes for that kind of cash, I will be rich. Like, proper, proper well off. Not rich enough to retire, but certainly rich enough to not have to worry about my finances for a good ten years if I’m careful with it.

  The flip side is that if it doesn’t sell, Hayley and I will be stuck with a renovated farmhouse, an unpaid mortgage and a load of credit card debt.

  This is one of those boom or bust days. The type that can easily lead to a stomach ulcer.

  As I peer out of my bedroom window at the overcast weather, I half contemplate rolling over and going back to sleep. Hayley could just text me when the whole ordeal is over, and let me know whether I have to sell one of my kidneys or not. That probably wouldn’t go down too well, though. Not least because I would quite literally be the only person not there who has had any involvement in the renovation. Fred and the crew are coming along, as are Sally and her team. Gerard and the BBC are filming the entire debacle, and even my parents, fresh back from their ridiculously long cruise around the world, have decided to turn up to make everyone sick with how tanned they are.

  Hayley promised not to tell Dad about his mother’s morally grey past – right up until Dad told her he thought that the renovation had aged her a good five years. Then the gloves were off. The expression
on Dad’s face was priceless when he discovered that his suntan had been funded by extensive and well-managed prostitution. Mum, strangely enough, didn’t seem all that surprised by the revelation. ‘I always knew there was more to Genevieve than met the eye,’ she said. ‘She always used to terrify me when I first met your dad, and now I know why.’

  Of course Mischa will be there too, right alongside her boss Mitchell.

  I’m not quite sure how I feel about that, to be honest. I haven’t seen her for the past few weeks. We’ve been on a few dates in the past two months, mostly consisting of her talking at me again. I took her ice skating because I thought that might end the endless stream of architectural-based anecdotes, but no, even when she’s gliding around on ice, Mischa can quite easily bore you with her detailed description of the new health-centre entrance she’s working on right now. Ice, you see, looks very similar to the brushed aluminium roof her and Mitchell are designing for the project. I would have skated over my own neck, if it weren’t physically impossible.

  I really should stop seeing her. I have nothing in common with the girl other than bricks and mortar. I’m also fairly dubious about her attitude to Baz and Spider’s romantic involvement. That look on her face disturbs me.

  But what can I say? She’s the most incredible-looking woman I have ever met, and I am completely in thrall to those looks. I’m hoping that eventually she’ll get bored of being boring, and we can move on from the architecture to any other subject of conversation. Next time I go out with her I’m going to ask her what she thinks of Brussel sprouts. If she says they remind her of the chicken coop she built for her Uncle Yuri back in Slovenia I’m walking out, gorgeous looks and perky breasts be damned.

  When I arrive at Daley Farmhouse, the place is already alive with people. The auction isn’t due to start until 11 a.m., but the house is swarming with prospective buyers as I look at my watch to find it’s only 9 o’clock. Grant has certainly done his job in drumming up interest. There must be fifteen to twenty different groups of people here today.