Bricking It (7 page)

I resist the urge to knock their heads together and step through the dark doorway. Luckily, Gerard O’Keefe’s torch is one of those ridiculously bright ones – one he probably purchased from the same army surplus store as his clothes – and casts more than enough light for me to see by as I make my tentative way down the steps to join him.

Fred wasn’t lying. The basement is
enormous
. Comprising of several areas bricked off from one another by crumbling masonry, it’s a rabbit warren down here.

I find O’Keefe standing in one of the larger areas at the rear of the basement, examining a wall.

‘You hear that?’ he asks as I join him.

‘The slurping sound?’ I respond, craning to hear.

‘Yep. That’s the concrete going in to shore up the foundations. Lucky for you, the basement terminates before reaching the corner of the house. Otherwise we’d be knee deep in the stuff by now. Mr Babidge seems to know his stuff, especially where to pour his concrete.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘It’s a good space you have down here.’

I look around at the dingy basement. ‘You have a talent for seeing potential where I can’t, Mr O’Keefe.’

‘Every house has potential, Hayley. You just have to see past the problems.’

‘Your eyesight is better than mine.’

O’Keefe laughs and walks through into another area of the basement. ‘Do you know much of the house’s history?’ he asks me.

I shrug. ‘Not really. It was my grandma’s. None of us knew she owned it. We all knew she was married before she met our granddad, but she never talked about it. The deeds say this place was bequeathed to her by her first husband when he died, but that’s about as much as I know.’

‘Aren’t you curious to find out more?’

‘I guess. But I’ve been up to my ears in just getting everything sorted out for the renovation. The history of this place will just have to wait. Probably until we’re getting near completion – whenever that happens. I’ll have the time and energy to devote myself to it then, but for now, it’s on the back burner.’

‘Were you close to your grandmother?’

I laugh ruefully. ‘I thought so. We were certainly close when I was a little girl. I used to write her letters all the time about what I was up to. She’d always reply, telling me how her day was going. All slightly pointless to be honest, as we lived a twenty-minute drive away from her, and I saw her every week, but you know what children are like.’

‘It sounds as if she was encouraging you to write, as much as anything.’

‘Quite possibly.’

‘Sounds like a lovely woman.’

My eyes light up. ‘Oh, she was. Kind, considerate. The kind of grandma anyone would want. She always made me happy when I was around her. In fact, from what I remember, she was the type of person who could brighten anyone’s day.’

‘So she never mentioned the house in any of her letters to you?’

‘Not once! She just talked about her life at the vicarage with my granddad. Before he died, that is. Then she went in to the nursing home . . . and the letters got a
lot
shorter. She never wrote anything about her life before marrying the local vicar, though. Certainly never anything about her first husband – or this place.’

‘So, this is a quaint Victorian farmhouse set in idyllic countryside, with plenty of original features and a mysterious past?’

My eyes narrow. ‘Yes. What are you getting at, Mr O’Keefe?’

‘Please, it’s Gerard.’ His eyes light up. ‘And I want this house, Hayley!’

I scowl. ‘Well, you can’t have it yet, it’s not finished.’

He laughs. ‘I mean I want it for
Great Locations
!’

I bloody
knew
it.

The last thing I want is for this project to be featured on the TV.

It’ll just be a massive hassle from start to finish. Also, what if everything turns out shit? What if the renovation is a disaster? It’s one thing to throw hundreds of thousands of pounds down the crapper when nobody is looking, but to do it on national TV is another thing entirely.

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ I argue.

‘No, no, no! It’ll be marvellous!’ Gerard replies with excite
ment, and starts to make his way back towards the stairs. ‘A
brother-and-sister
team new to house renovating; a young exciting architect and interior designer working on his latest project; a farmhouse with a past shrouded in secrecy . . .’

‘It’s not really shrouded in secrecy, I just haven’t bothered to Google any—’

‘The producers will love it!’ Gerard interrupts as he reaches the top of the steps with me just behind, still trying to lodge my objections.

I stumble on the last step as I try to keep up with the enthusiastic TV presenter. He steadies me with one strong hand. ‘They might love it, but I’m just not sure it’ll be a good idea for us,’ I say.

‘What’ll be a good idea for us?’ Danny asks as I emerge in a cloud of basement dust.

‘I want this house to be on
Great Locations
, Danny!’ Gerard tells him.

Danny’s expression instantly changes. The last time I saw that look he had just been told we were going to Disneyland.

‘Brilliant!’ he shouts excitedly.

My fate is bloody sealed, isn’t it?

I can protest as much as I like, but I’m done for. Even if I sat down with my brother for an hour and showed him a convincing PowerPoint presentation of all the reasons we shouldn’t invite the BBC onto our building site, there’s no way I could convince him not to accept Gerard O’Keefe’s offer.

‘When would you want to start?’ I ask Gerard, trying to ignore my brother bouncing up and down beside me.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘
Tomorrow?
’ I repeat in utter shock. ‘I thought you TV types needed ages to make a show!’

Gerard waves a hand. ‘Oh, it’ll take a while to get all the crew arranged and the financing sorted, you’re absolutely right. But I can have a camera down here tomorrow morning to start filming, that’s the most important bit. It won’t cost much, and my favourite cameraman is available.’

‘Oh good,’ I reply in dismay. I thought I’d at least have a few days to prepare for this latest twist. If nothing else, we could have had some time to smarten the place up a bit before the cameras descended.

Mitchell holds up a hand. ‘One thing, though . . . you’ll have to get Mr Babidge to agree to it.’

Of course, Fred! How could I forget!

Surely he won’t want a load of limp-wristed TV types getting in his way while he restores this building to its former glory, will he? Fred is
bound
to object!

‘Fine by me,’ the cockney git says when Gerard asks his permission a few minutes later.

You can’t bloody rely on anyone these days, can you?

‘The boys will love it, won’t you, lads?’ he asks his crew. Cue a chorus of uncertain nods. ‘Think of how much the ladies will like seeing you on the telly, eh?’ This is greeted with
far
more enthusiasm. Baz and Spider look positively delirious at the prospect of women dropping at their famous feet. Comically so, in fact. They actually hug each other in sheer, unbridled joy at the prospect.

‘Excellent!’ Gerard replies, sharing a firm handshake with Fred Babidge. There’s a great deal of alpha maleness going on here that I clearly have no part of.

My mood can best be described as morose as we walk back up the garden path to the 2CV.

‘You’re not happy about this at all, are you?’ Gerard O’Keefe says to me quietly as we walk behind Mitchell and Danny. The architect is waving his hands around in excitement, and my brother is practically vibrating with his own exhilaration about the prospect of being on TV. Neither share my misgivings, at all.

‘Honestly? Not really,’ I tell Gerard.

‘Why do you feel that way?’ His tone is soft and calm. I’m surprised. From a man who appears to thrive on being larger than life, the swift change in gears is rather difficult to deal with.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before, and if we’re on the TV . . .’ I trail off, unable to put into words what I’m thinking.

‘You don’t want to be seen as a failure by millions of people. You don’t want to look stupid,’ Gerard finishes for me.

I blink a couple of times. ‘Yes, that’s it. It’s not so much about the cash we’re spending, but I can’t stand the idea of coming across as some kind of naïve idiot.’

‘Completely understandable. You’re not the first person I’ve met who feels that way at the start of a project. The whole thing is a learning curve. But . . . let me try and sell the concept to you by saying one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘If the house is on our show, it’ll sell for more money.’

‘How would that work?’ I ask, confused. ‘You wouldn’t broadcast it until after it’s sold, would you?’

‘That’s not how
Great Locations
works. You’re thinking of one of those other shows.’

‘
Location Location Location
?’

‘Yes,’ Gerard agrees through instantly gritted teeth.

‘And what’s that one with Kevin Whatshisface?’

‘
Grand Designs
,’ Gerard says in a flat tone.

‘Oh yes. That’s right.’ I cock my head innocently to one side. ‘They’re on in the evenings, aren’t they?’

A wry smile crosses Gerard’s face. ‘Are you mocking me, Hayley?’

I press a hand to my chest. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mr O’Keefe?’ I drop the act. ‘Why is your show different?’

‘We film a house renovation as it goes along, and we come back several times as the build progresses. Daley Farmhouse will be on the TV for everyone to see on three or four programmes during the series. That should increase your chances of flogging it for a premium, don’t you think?’

Damn it. He’s got me. You can appeal to my brother, Mitchell Hollingsbrooke and Fred Babidge’s men with the lure of fame, but Hayley Daley’s ego doesn’t not need such massaging. Her bank balance most certainly does, though.

We reach Mitchell’s car and I look at Gerard O’Keefe with a strange combination of optimism and suspicion. When a man makes me a promise these days, my guard immediately goes up. I can thank my arsehole of an ex-husband for that. But this man isn’t talking to me about relationships, he’s discussing a business deal. There’s no ulterior motive in his actions, other than to make us all as much money as possible.

‘Alright Gerard, let’s do it,’ I tell him, trying to sound more confident that I really feel.

‘That’s brilliant! I wouldn’t want to get going without you both completely on board.’ He holds out a hand. ‘I look forward to working with you, Hayley.’

‘Me too,’ I say, surprised that I now genuinely feel that way, and take his hand. It’s quite calloused and rough, but his grip is gentle.

‘Me too!’ Danny pipes up from where he’s appeared at my side, thrusting out his own hand, which Gerard takes and pumps up and down a couple of times.

Gerard then looks at his watch. ‘Right. Back up to the city, then. I can make some calls on the way to get things moving. If I can get it all sorted out, I’ll be back tomorrow morning with my camera guy to film a quick intro to the project. We’ll get the paperwork out to you for signing in the next few days. How does all that sound?’

‘
Fast
, Gerard,’ I reply.

He smiles. ‘No point in hanging around, Hayley. We don’t want this place looking too good before we start, do we?’

I look back at the war zone that is Daley Farmhouse. ‘Not much chance of that happening any time soon,’ I say.

Gerard climbs into Mitchell’s 2CV and within moments they are driving away from the house, leaving Danny and I alone – and not a little shell-shocked.

‘That’s brilliant,’ Danny says breathlessly.

‘Yes.’

‘We’re going to be on TV, sis.’

‘Yes.’

‘You seem less than enthused.’

‘About the
house
being on the TV? No. I’m fine with that. My ugly mug, on the other hand?’ I have to suppress a shudder.

‘Oi! Danny!’ Fred Babidge calls from behind us. ‘Spider needs those Monster Munch. His blood sugar is dropping like a stone over here!’

Danny sighs. ‘From errand boy to TV star and back again in the space of an hour.’

‘Well, you don’t want to have your ego too inflated, do you?’ I suggest.

Danny gives me a look. ‘I work as a caretaker in a public museum that has been on its last legs for thirty years, Hayley. I don’t think my ego is in any danger of getting inflated any time soon.’

‘Yeah, well, you just wait until the first show airs and that Mischa sees you in a whole different light.’

Oh crap
.

I shouldn’t have said that. I can see the light bulb going on behind Danny’s eyes, and I instantly regret my choice of words.

‘I hadn’t even thought of that!’ he declares.

‘Just go get the Monster Munch before Spider has a hypo,’ I order him.

My brother floats off down the road on wings I’ve just accidentally nailed to his back. He is officially now going to be a nightmare every time the cameras turn up to film.

Speaking of which, I hastily withdraw my phone from my pocket and Google the phone number for my hairdresser. I’d best be getting in this afternoon, if I can. The last thing the viewing public needs is the vision of Hayley Daley with hair like an epileptic-bird’s nest. The wellington boots will be bad enough.

As the phone rings I look over at where Fred and the boys are finishing off the concrete pouring.

One job down, then. Seventy-five million to go.

. . . And now all of them are going to be recorded in HD for posterity.

God help us all.

DANNY

June

£37,745.82 spent

W
ith a month already gone on the house renovation, I am starting to feel like I am completely surplus to requirements.

I suppose this shouldn’t shock me. After all, I am to building what Ed Miliband is to male modelling.

Hayley’s alright. She can do all the administration and money stuff in her sleep. Every time I so much as look at an Excel spreadsheet I come out in a cold sweat.

Given the fact that I work as a caretaker, you’d think I’d have more to offer on the labour front, but compared to Fred and the boys I am a total novice. Oh, I can screw in a light bulb and fix the ballcock in the toilet when called upon to do so, but I have no experience of the kind of big, sweaty tasks that Spider and his cronies are faced with each and every day on this build.

They’ve already shored the entire house up so it’s now rock solid from below, and tied the walls back together with enormous steel screws so they’re not bowing out all over the shop. Daley Farmhouse is now looking more stable than it has in decades, and I haven’t contributed a single thing to the process, other than the purchasing of tea, biscuits and many, many variety packs of Monster Munch.

I said as much to Hayley.

‘Well, don’t feel too bad. You’re not a builder.’

‘No. But my job is one that’s mostly manual labour. I should be able to do
something
of use here.’

‘Maybe just wait until they move on to something that you’re more familiar with, and offer to help out when it comes up.’

Sound advice.

Luckily for me, that day has now arrived!

About six months ago, we had woodworm in some of the roof joists at the museum. A roofer was called in to fix the problem, but he was a bit of a one-man band, and the job turned out to be bigger than initially thought, so I got drafted in to help him out. This gave me some experience of roof joist replacement, even if it was purely in the role of willing assistant.

And what do you know? Fred and the boys have moved on to the roof this week . . . and some of the joists need replacing.

This is my chance!

I sidle up to our cockney builder and his crew as they’re drinking their morning tea, with an ingratiating smile plastered on my face. ‘Er, Fred?’

‘What’s up, flapjack?’

Fred’s nicknames for me are becoming progressively more and more surreal. I’m being optimistic by taking it as a sign of growing affection on his part.

‘Well, I was just wondering . . . Can I give Trey a hand with the roof joists today?’

Trey, a gigantic black guy from Barbados, does his level best not to look horrified at the prospect of my assistance.

Fred’s mouth goes tight. ‘I don’t know, chief. Don’t you think it might be better for you to help out down here? You know, where it’s easier for you to get back outside if you’re needed?’

Needed to go and buy the bloody lunch is what he means.

‘I know what I’m doing with a roof joist, Fred,’ I assure him, and regale him with my story of woodworm repair at the museum.

Both Fred and Trey seem to visibly relax slightly when I start talking about construction adhesive and strut beams. I think I’m winning them round.

‘It might help, boss,’ Trey tells Fred in his lyrical Bajan accent. ‘It will mean one of the others doesn’t ’ave to do it with me. They can help you with the flashing outside.’

Fred nods carefully, obviously taking his time to think about my proposition. I can’t really blame him. As far as he is concerned, the evidence shows that I am only good for the purchasing of pickled-onion-flavoured wheat snacks. But if I can help Trey out it would free another one of his men up, and would thus speed up the job just that tiny bit.

‘Alright, my old muck spreader, you’re on. You go help Trey today, and if that goes well, we’ll see what else you can do around here.’

I have to resist the urge to jump up and down. I’m rather like a puppy that’s just been given a treat for not shitting on the lounge carpet for the first time since it was born.

I try to contain my pleasure, not wanting to come across as a complete fool in front of all these burly men. Now that I’m officially on the workforce, I feel an immediate sense of kinship with all of them I haven’t felt before. I even go so far as to pour myself a nice cup of tea from the flask Fred brought down to save me the trouble of going to the shop quite as often.

It’s disgusting. There’s so much sugar in it, it’s a wonder any of these bastards still have a front row of teeth.

Still, I’m standing in the mud with a bunch of builders, and I belong, dammit!

Two hours later I don’t want to belong any more. The entire thing has been a massive mistake. Why didn’t I just accept my position as Monster Munch purchaser, and be happy with my lot? Why did I have to push things?

The loft is hotter than the surface of the sun. The June weather has taken a turn for the ridiculous, and it’s a good twenty-five degrees outside. Yesterday it was nineteen and raining. The day before it was seventeen and hailing. It’s been more up and down than a whore’s drawers – to use a phrase that Fred loves to trot out whenever he gets the chance.

If you know your lofts, you’ll know that if it’s twenty-five outside, then it’s
thirty
-five under the eaves. The three portable work lights that have been rigged up to provide us with illumination really aren’t helping matters either. The only real ventilation we have up here is two small holes caused by slipped tiles and rotten roof lining. These give us a bird’s-eye view of the front garden below, but the slight puffs of wind that occasionally blow through them are about as much use as a fart in a hurricane.

The sweat is pouring off me.

Worse, it’s pouring off Trey, and Trey is not a man who sweats in a genteel fashion. You’d think a bloke from such a hot country would be used to these kinds of temperatures, but by the way he keeps wiping his brow and swearing, this is apparently not the case. With great sweat, must come great smell, and boy does Trey stink.

I’m no better. The supermarket-brand antiperspirant I’m currently using gave up the fight a good ninety minutes ago, and my T-shirt is now soaked with sweat. I can feel it dripping down into my butt crack, which, as you might imagine, is a deeply unpleasant sensation.

Still, we have managed to accomplish quite a lot in our two sweaty hours. Trey certainly knows his way around the supporting beams of a roof. We’ve changed three of the rotten beams already, and have started on the fourth and last one. There’s more to do up here, but until the chimney breasts are sorted out at either end of the building, this is as much as we can do for now.

I have been a good little assistant, obeying Trey’s every command as soon as he has given it, and I haven’t once screwed anything up. I feel the big Barbadian and I have bonded over our thankless task.

‘Nearly done now eh, Trey?’ I say to him as he walks over to me carrying the last replacement joist. It’s a testament to the height of Victorian roof spaces that Trey is able to do this without having to duck.

‘Yep man, we’ll be done in double-quick time. Which is just as well. I need to change my damn underwear!’ Trey laughs in a big, Barbadian sort of way. I assume he means because they are sweaty, rather than that he’s had an accident. Trey gives me a contemplative look. ‘Actually, Danny, how do you feel about giving this last one a go on your own?’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. You know what you’re doing now. I think you can handle it, yeah?’

How proud am I right now?

I’ve gone from Monster Munch fetcher to valued and independent member of the construction team in the space of one morning!

‘Sure!’ I bark excitedly, ‘I can do it, Trey. No worries!’

‘Great!’ He hands me the joist. ‘Just remember to get those screws in nice and tight and make sure the adhesive is spread like I showed you.’

‘Yep. I’ve got it, Trey. You go grab yourself a nice drink. I’ll get this done in no time.’

Trey laughs, claps me on the back, and makes his way back over to the ladder poking through the loft hatch. As he starts to descend he looks back at me. ‘And hey! If you do that okay, maybe we let you fix that hole you made over there, yeah?’ Trey laughs again and is gone from sight.

I try to ignore his reference to my fall from grace the first time I looked around the house, and busy myself with the task at hand.

Said task is a lot more difficult when there isn’t somebody standing over you, giving advice. What seemed like a relatively easy job with Trey by my side is most definitely
not
now that I am alone in the sweatbox. Manhandling a long, heavy length of wood around on your own is bloody hard, especially in thirty-five degree heat. It took Trey and I half an hour to do each of the other joists. I’m still at it on the fourth one a good
hour and a half
later. But I can’t leave until the job is done. I simply cannot climb out of this loft space with my tail between my legs, and let Trey know I have failed him. It just
won’t happen
.

Besides, as I peek out of the hole in the roof, I can see that the BBC camera crew have arrived for a day’s filming. There’s no Gerard O’Keefe with them today, but they’ll no doubt want to crawl over the house again to get shots of all the work going on. If it gets caught on camera that I am unable to do something as simple as fixing a roof joist, I will have to kill myself. I won’t be able to take the shame of it.

This leaves me in what you might call a sticky situation. I can’t climb down to ask for help, because it might end with my unwanted suicide, but that leaves me up here in Sweatsville still struggling to finish a job I started four and a half hours ago. I am hot, thirsty, hungry and tired.

Unfortunately, there’s something else I am as well – in dire need of the toilet.

Not for a pee, you understand. All the moisture has been leeched from my body by the heat up here. No, I am in need of a number two. In a house with no working plumbing and no toilet, given that it was ripped out last week. We do have a Portaloo in the front garden, but the bloody thing is broken (Baz’s fault I’m led to believe), so the nearest toilet that I can use to have a decent crap is now a good ten-minute walk away in the village.

It’s a tricky problem, and no mistake.

I try not to think about my rolling bowels, and continue with the slow and painstaking task of hammering the joist into the correct position. The bloody thing just won’t marry up with the ends of the old beam, no matter how hard I bang it with the hammer. The next twenty minutes are spent angrily tapping and whacking the wood this way and that to try and get it to fit properly. I’m only interrupted from the task when my bowels roll over a lot harder than they have previously, and I am forced to stand up, holding my belly and groaning in discomfort.

What the hell do I do now? Shuffle out of the house and hope I don’t have an accident while walking down the road?

No bloody chance.

Think, Daley,
think
!

Wait a minute . . . Wait just a damn minute!

I look around the loft at the detritus surrounding me. There’s not much up here apart from the work tools and lights Fred’s team have brought with them. But over in one corner, pushed out of the way so they don’t interfere with the workspace are all those empty wooden boxes I first spied on my initial – and disastrous – trip up here.

One of them is even about the same height as a toilet seat.
And
there’s old shredded paper in it that if you squint hard enough, you could mistake for a load of discarded Andrex . . .

I am immediately disgusted by the idea. What kind of lunatic would rather have a poo into a loft box, than act like an adult and make a run for the toilet down in the village?

This
kind of lunatic, unfortunately.

If I can just get this out of the way, I can cover it up with some more of the paper and tuck it away in one corner, get the joist fixed, and do away with the box later tonight when everyone else has left the building.

It’s the perfect crime.

Oh, good Lord above.

I shuffle over to the most appropriate box for the task and peer into it. A closer look at the paper inside reveals that it is in fact a lot of torn up newspaper from the 1960s, yellowed with age. Some of the pieces are large enough for me to still just about be able to decipher the story. The newspaper must have been a local rag, as there are stories about places in the area I recognise. Somebody grew a prize-winning marrow in the village, another person narrowly avoided being run over by a man in a Wolseley Hornet on the High Street, and scandal rocked the community when a ‘gentlemen’s club’ was discovered close by.

I start to wonder why anyone would want to run a knocking shop out here in the sticks, but am cut short by another roll from my bowels. I’m going to have to make my mind up right now over whether to put my disgusting plan into action or not.

Gritting my teeth and praying to whatever gods of home renovation might be listening, I unbuckle my jeans and perch myself over the box, lowering my backside gently down onto it.

Success! The thing takes my weight. Now to just relax and let nature take its course.

Nature does indeed take its course, very rapidly. I’ve always been a man blessed with a strong digestive system, unlike poor old Spider and his IBS.

Within moments I am finished and am just about to clean myself up with what remains of the letters page. All has gone well. I can now get back to work safe in the knowledge that—

I freeze. Voices are filtering up to me from below.

‘Is anything going on in the loft today?’ I hear someone ask. I have to think for a moment as to who it is, but then I remember – the voice belongs to Pete, the BBC cameraman. A chubby, balding fellow, who favours a black leather waistcoat and worn-out BBC T-shirt, Pete only transferred onto the
Great Locations
crew a few months ago, and is a man determined to prove his worth. To that end, he’s spent two days with us here already, poking his lens into every nook and cranny. I’m led to believe that Daley Farmhouse will be featured in four half-hour shows across the renovation, but Pete seems to be recording enough material to fill a thirty-six-hour miniseries.