Bricking It (8 page)

‘Yep, Danny is up there doing the joists,’ I hear Fred reply. ‘Come to think of it, he should be done by now. Are you alright up there, captain?’ he hollers.

Fuck.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I bloody
do
?

I elect to remain silent, hoping that both men will just go away and leave me be. My thighs grip the sides of the cardboard box as I try my hardest not to move a bloody muscle.

‘He must have finished up and come back down again,’ Fred says. ‘Here, Hayley?’ he calls downstairs.

I hear my sister’s faint reply.

‘Have you seen your brother? I thought he was doing the joists? Pete here could get a good shot of him at work!’

Oh yes, he can get a good shot of him at work, alright.

Hayley’s reply drifts up the stairs, but is too mumbled for me to hear properly.

‘He must have finished, I guess,’ Fred says to Pete.

‘Okay. Can I pop up there and get a shot of the new joists anyway? It might make a good cutaway.’

Say no, Fred. Say no, Fred. Say
NO
, Fred!

‘Sure! Take as long as you like!’

Aaaarrghh!

I hear Pete’s foot on the first rung of the ladder, and my heart rate shoots up. I have nowhere to hide. The loft is more or less empty, and the only thing big enough for me to hide behind is currently underneath me, and full of my effluence.

Pete continues to climb the ladder, and I see the camera lens poke into the loft.

In absolute terror I look around, searching for something that might help me. I could throw another box at Pete’s head, or maybe dazzle him with one of the lights—

The lights!

That’s it!

If I can put the lights out, Pete won’t be able to see me!

I bend down and pick up the extension cable that the lights are all plugged into. With one swift movement I grab the end in my sweaty hand and hammer the cut-off switch.

The loft is instantly plunged into darkness, other than a few thin shafts of light from the various holes about the place. Luckily, I am not in one of them. Instead, I am now shrouded in complete darkness.

‘Oh!’ Pete exclaims, his head popping through the loft hatch. ‘The lights have all gone out, Fred!’

‘Must be a fuse gone, mate. Sorry, not much I can do from down here.’

‘No worries,’ Pete says. ‘I can use the light on the camera to get around. Maybe I can see what the problem is using that.’

My blood runs cold again. Pete presses a button on the side of the camera, and a bright, white lamp flicks on at the top of the machine, bathing a large circle of the roof above his head in light.

‘Maybe I’ll do a bit of filming like this,’ Pete adds. ‘Get a bit of spooky atmospherics on the go!’

‘You do whatever makes you happy, Pete,’ Fred replies, trying not to sound patronising.

Pete laughs, climbs into the loft, and starts to wave his camera around the place.

As the beam of light goes over my head I hold my breath. He still hasn’t seen me! If I stay very, very quiet, he might not shine the light over here again.

Then Pete starts to do something very strange: an unconvincing impression of David Attenborough.

‘And up here, in the eaves of the house,’ he says in a raspy voice, reminiscent of the legendary documentary presenter, ‘what kinds of interesting specimens might we encounter?’

The impression isn’t
that
bad, to be honest. It seems like Pete is the kind of BBC cameraman who wishes he were on location somewhere tropical, filming Sir David as he stands next to a rare species of bee, talking about its fascinating abdominal striping.

‘The heat is stifling,’ he continues, ‘the humidity is high. Only certain creatures can survive in such a harsh climate.’

Okay now, Pete. You’ve had your fun. Why not fuck off back downstairs?’

Pete sniffs the air. ‘Here, Fred?’ he bellows back down the ladder, breaking character for the moment. ‘It doesn’t half stink up here!’

‘Probably where the fuse has gone! See if you can spot the extension cable!’

‘Okay, but it doesn’t really smell of burning, more like something’s taken a shit up here!’

The camera swings around again, tracking across the floor a mere few metres in front of me.

‘The environment could not be more extreme,’ Fake Attenborough says. ‘The heat, the smell, the darkness. What kind of strange and bizarre creature could possibly want to make this place its hom—
JESUS CHRIST
!
’

My eyes close reflexively in the glare of the camera’s light. One hand cups my genitals, while the other is thrown up to protect myself from Pete’s prying electronic eye.

‘Danny?’ Pete exclaims in horror. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Composing a bloody symphony, Pete! What does it look like?’

‘It looks like your pooing in a box!’

‘Does it? Does it really? Well, that must be what I’m doing then!’

‘Why?’

‘
Why
?
’
I repeat, incredulous. ‘Because there’s nothing I like more than defecating in the pitch black where its boiling hot. I would have climbed into the airing cupboard if it wasn’t too small.’

‘Really?’

‘No, not fucking
really
! I got caught short and didn’t have much of a choice!’

‘But there’s a Portaloo downstairs.’

I don’t have an answer for that. Well I do, but it’s a ridiculous one.

‘What’s going on up here, then?’ Fred Babidge says, poking his head into the loft. ‘I can hear a load of commotion—’ Fred spots me in the corner. His eyes widen. ‘
Aha ha haha ha haha ahha ah.
’

Much as I hope and pray that the ladder gives way under Fred’s shaking body, I fear that it probably won’t.

‘Oh, give it a bloody rest,’ I tell him and point my finger back at Pete. ‘Could you stop waving that thing in my face?’ I notice that the little red light is on. ‘Are you
recording
this?’ I wail.

‘What’s happening?’ I hear Hayley ask someone from below.

‘Don’t know. We only came here to ask the boss something,’ Baz says.

‘But we think he’s having some kind of fit,’ Spider adds.

I now have an audience, each no doubt lining up to stick their heads through the hatch to see the amazing Loft Poo Man in action.

I give Pete my best ‘I will come over there and crap on you too if you don’t do what I say’ look. ‘Turn the camera off Pete, and go away. See if you can calm Fred down before he has a hernia.’

‘But I wanted to get a shot of the joists!’ he complains.

The scowl deepens. ‘Pete, if you don’t sod off that camera’s getting shoved where the sun doesn’t shine.’

Pete grumbles something about being sick of people threatening him like that, but does switch the bloody machine off, once again plunging me into darkness. He climbs back down the ladder, leaving me gratefully alone, but with my untenable position more or less unchanged.

‘Are you okay, Danny?’ Hayley calls up.

‘Yes! Just get everyone downstairs please!’ I plead with her. ‘I’ll be down in a minute!’

I just about hear the shuffling of feet over Fred’s continued hysterical laughter, and take a deep breath.

Now what?

I fumble around until I feel the head of the extension cable again and hit the switch. The glare of the lights blinking into existence is so bright I jerk my head backwards, bringing it into sharp contact with the roof beam behind me.

‘Oh crap!’ I screech and rock forward again.

The wooden box, which hasn’t taken too well to all this abuse, having been left to its own devices in a damp loft for fifty years, gives way under me . . . and I find myself sitting in my own crap for the first time since I was a baby.

I don’t want to discuss the details of the clean-up operation. Suffice to say it involved a bucket full of cold water, and an ocean full of cold humiliation.

I’ve read stories about people who have embarrassing episodes involving the toilet. Hayley had some trashy comedy book that I scanned through a couple of years ago, which had a guy accidentally crapping into a pedal bin thanks to a bout of food poisoning. It seemed pretty awful at the time.

I would like to find the guy who wrote it and reassure him that his mortification at ruining a date thanks to some dodgy chicken, is nothing compared to holding out a ball of ripped-up newspaper from the 1960s at arm’s length, and parading it past your sister, a team of beefy workmen and a BBC cameraman, on the way to the wheelie bin.

I slam the lid down and look back at everyone, trying not to burst out crying.

‘I once got the shits on a job,’ Spider says in a thoughtful voice.

‘Oh yeah!’ Baz laughs and points at him. ‘You was up the scaffold, wasn’t you? I could see skid marks from the ground! What was it we called you for the rest of the month?’

‘Brown Spider,’ Spider says, possibly highlighting why brickies don’t have alternate careers as stand-up comedians.

‘That’s right! Brown Spider!’ This sends Baz off into a gale of laughter. Then he sees the glum look on Spider’s face and instantly sticks an arm round his friend’s shoulder to make him feel better.

‘I followed through in the truck once,’ Fred says. ‘Three-hour journey up to Lincolnshire for a new stove, as I recall. Dad wasn’t best pleased, I can tell you.’

‘I peed over Trevor McDonald once,’ Pete pipes up. We all turn to look at him aghast. ‘Yep. Got pissed at a wrap party and fell over at the urinal. He never knew what hit him. Some of it went in his eye.’

I try for a moment to work out the logistics of such a feat, but it eludes me.

I know what they’re trying to do, but it’s not helping. I’m fully aware that other people have highly embarrassing episodes in their lives, but I’m the one who’s just had to walk past a group of people carrying my own shit in a scrunched-up roll of paper, so unless one of them wants to squat here in front of all of us, I’m just going to carry on feeling epically sorry for myself.

‘I’m going home,’ I tell them in a flat tone of voice. Nobody puts up an argument. And who can blame them?

‘I got caught kissing Claire Wright at university!’ Hayley squeaks.

Now it’s everyone’s turn to look at her.

I’m aghast, but everyone else is suddenly smiling. Hayley looks at us nervously, realising that sharing this kind of information isn’t quite the same thing as letting people in on your embarrassing episodes of public incontinence. ‘We were only experimenting a bit in the common room after everyone else had left. Gav the Chav came back to get his coat and saw us over by the Space Invaders machine.’ Hayley sees my expression, stops talking and looks down at her feet.

‘I’m definitely going home,’ I repeat and stalk off towards the motorbike, hoping to Christ that nobody else is going to let me in on one of their past humiliations just to try and make me feel better. Then, a thought strikes me, and I’m striding back towards Pete in a split second.

‘Hand it over,’ I tell him.

‘What?’

‘Hand it over, Pete!’ I snap.

He sighs and pops the digital tape out of the camera, handing it to me reluctantly. ‘Those things are expensive, you know,’ he moans.

‘I’ll buy you another one,’ I reply, trying to resist the urge to hit him over the head with it.

This time there are no interruptions to my walk of shame, and I manage to get on the bike and ride away without doing further injury to both my body and my sense of self-worth.

I think today has taught me a very valuable lesson. Don’t get ideas above your station, because the chances are you’ll just end up burning the station down, with hoards of screaming commuters inside.

From now on I think I’ll stop trying to integrate myself into the Daley Farmhouse workforce, and just be content to be the client paying for them to do a better job than I can.

On my way home I stop to get some petrol – and a variety pack of Monster Munch. It’ll save time tomorrow.

HAYLEY

July

£59,327.92 spent

I
mean, come on, how hard can it possibly be to use a nail gun?

‘
Miss Daley? Can you hear me, Miss Daley
?
’

I can feel someone pinching my earlobe. It hurts.

My eyes flutter open as I hear my brother’s tremulous voice. ‘Is she going to be alright?’

‘Have I got this done up alright?’ I ask Spider, showing him my efforts to get into the dark blue overalls.

‘I dunno, Hayles. I never wore one of those things before.’

My brow creases. ‘You’ve never worn overalls to work?’

‘Nope.’

‘But the bloke in B&Q told me that if I was going to do some DIY, I should wear them.’

Spider smiles thinly and rubs his bald head. ‘Yeah, I bet he did.’

I catch the tone. ‘So, you’re saying I got ripped off?’

Spider holds up his hands. ‘I ain’t saying that, Hayles, but I never saw no one wearing one of those things on site before. Not when you can just wear your hi-vis over your T-shirt and jeans.’

Well, I don’t care what Spider thinks. I reckon I look
smart
in my overalls. I particularly like the shiny cuffs and bright white piping going down both sides. I feel like a Power Ranger who’s lost a lot of weight recently.

If I’m going to have a go at some DIY, I want to look the part, don’t I?’

And that’s been the problem. All I’ve been doing is
looking
. Looking at other people doing all of the hard work. I’ve stood around and done bugger all, except fill out countless spreadsheets, and make phone calls to people who want to take all of my money away from me.

For the first few weeks the idea of doing any manual labour turned my stomach, but as time has gone by and I’ve spent more time on the site, I’ve become more and more aware that I have an itch that I really want to scratch.

It’s quite fascinating to see Daley Farmhouse change for the better in front of my eyes, and when it’s complete I want to be able to say that I contributed to that change. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?

Danny’s having no problems. Okay, it took him a good fortnight to return to the renovation after that incident in the loft, but since then he’s got on with the job alongside the rest of Fred’s team quite well. If anything, I think they all actually like him
more
since he took a shit in the loft. It’s almost as if that one act of disgusting behaviour has integrated him into their ranks more than any actual contribution to the build.

I will never understand men as long as I live.

This has left me as the only person involved in the build that hasn’t actually done anything yet, other than push paper about and stand around feeling awkward in wellies. Even Gerard O’Keefe mucked in a couple of days ago on one of his occasional visits. One minute he’s standing there delivering an update into Pete’s camera, the next he’s trowelling mortar next to Fred, and slapping bricks onto the back wall of the new extension.

Speaking of which, the extension is really coming along nicely now. By the time it’s done the whole rear of the ground floor will be a lot more spacious, and I can’t wait to see what it looks like.

Mitchell’s design is fabulous, I have to say. By extending several metres back from the old rear wall of the house, we’ll open out the kitchen and the lounge into one huge, light-filled space. This also gives us room to put in a downstairs cloakroom, which should increase the house’s value even more.

Fred and the boys have already knocked down the wall between the kitchen and the lounge, and have put a strong RSJ in its place to hold the first floor up. It really is quite incredible what you can do to a property once you have the plans in place, and the expertise to see them brought to life.

Which is why I’m standing here in a brand-new set of overalls. I want to be a part – however small – of seeing those plans turned into reality, just so I can stand back when the house is finished and know that a tiny part of it includes Hayley Daley’s blood, sweat and tears.

‘
Oh God! She’s bleeding
!
’
Danny moans. ‘Can you stop it?’

‘Please stand back, Mr Daley.’

The paramedic’s jacket has the same shiny cuff as my overalls.

‘Everything’s gonna be fine, lad,’ I hear Fred say. ‘Let’s just move back and let him patch your sister up.’

‘Right, what can I do?’ I ask Fred Babidge expectantly.

He gives me the narrowed eyes. ‘What would you like to do?’

I wave a hand. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Anything really. As long as someone shows me the ropes, I’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

Fred’s doubtful expression fills me with feminine rage.

‘What’s the matter, Fred? Don’t you think I can do anything?’ My tone is haughty. My face is sharp. ‘Is it because I’m a
woman
?’

Fred sighs and puts down the hammer. ‘Hayley, my youngest, Trina, would be here working on this job if she hadn’t got pregnant. My wife has forgotten more about furniture-making than I’ll ever know, and my old mum – may she rest in peace – could put up a set of shelves blindfold in a hurricane. This has nothing to do with you being a woman.’

‘Then what is it, Fred? What is it?’

‘You’ve never done a day’s DIY in your life, have you?’

My hands go to my hips in indignation. ‘And what makes you say that?’

‘Well, firstly, you’re wearing a set of overalls that most labourers wouldn’t go within a thousand feet of. Then there’s the fact that last week you asked me what a spirit level was, and when I asked you the other day to order us some more two-by-four, you told me that buying a new truck would be far too expensive.’

I don’t have an answer to that. My anger is instantly quashed, as I realise that Fred is not being a sexist pig – he’s just got a set of eyes and a functioning brain.

‘But I want to do something, Fred!’ I say in a whiny, nasal tone that I intend to regret for the rest of my life. Every feminist on the planet would be tutting louder than the cement mixer if they were here.

Fred folds his arms. ‘Okay, I get you. This always happens on a job. I once had a seventy-five-year-old grandmother of six up on a ladder doing a little light plastering before her hip gave out.’

‘Well, there you go then! If you got her working, you can give me something to do as well!’

Fred’s eyebrow arches. ‘The old dear was in hospital for a week. You should have seen the paperwork I had to fill out.’

I stamp my foot. Somewhere in the world a cold shiver has just run down Germaine Greer’s back. ‘Oh, come on Fred! I’m not going to hurt myself!’

‘Now I’m just going to give you a small injection for the pain, Miss Daley.’

I nod and squeeze my eyes closed.

‘Then we’ll get you into the ambulance, and to the hospital as quickly as we can.’

Fred looks over at where Spider and Weeble, the smallest member of our building team, are putting floorboards down in the massive new lounge. Spider is holding the boards in place while Weeble nails them into the joists with a very loud and very powerful nail gun. ‘Boys? You got anything Hayley here can do?’

The look of veiled terror is priceless. If I look closely, I can actually watch the blood run from Weeble’s face. I can’t do the same with Spider as all those tattoos are in the way.

Fred sucks in air over his teeth. ‘I tell you what, there’s some wood needs cutting for the studwork. Do you think you can handle a saw?’ he says to me.

I nod enthusiastically. That sounds like just the kind of job I can do: simple, easy and straightforward.

Fred takes me out of the extension and onto the patio area, which has been cleared somewhat thanks to Baz’s efforts with an old industrial strimmer.

Fred walks over to what looks like two thick black plastic hurdles. ‘Now these are sawhorses, Hayley. You stick your wood across them, and saw through them.’ He picks up a long length of thin wood and places it over both of the plastic hurdles. ‘So I want you to measure out lengths of three metres, and cut twelve separate bits. You got that?’

I nod slowly.

‘Good stuff.’ He takes out a tape measure and a thick black marker and hands both to me. ‘Remember, three-metre lengths, alright?’ Fred then retrieves a long saw from beside the sawhorse and hands that to me as well. ‘You good?’

I nod again, faster this time. I want to show willing.

‘Smashing! Off you go then!’ Fred gives me a pat on the shoulder and returns back to where he came from, into the bowels of the house and out of sight.

For a few moments I just stand staring at the hurdle things. I was rather hoping for some more complete instructions, but it appears that Fred is one of those minimalist types, who prefers to give people the bare facts and let them work things out for themselves.

Fair enough, I suppose. This will be my chance to endlessly impress him with my independence, and ability to pick things up quickly. Germaine will be so proud!

I go over to the pile of wood and immediately get two splinters. Carrying a length very carefully over to the two hurdle things, I place it on top of them and use the tape measure to section out three metres, which I mark with the pen. So far, so good. Then I grab the saw, take a deep breath and drag the teeth across the wood. Fairly quickly, I build up a nice rhythm, and the sharp saw neatly cuts through the wood in no time at all. Before I know it the two pieces of long wood are falling apart. I have successfully cut my first piece of wood!

I look up to see Fred standing where the double doors to the extension will eventually be. He smiles and gives me a thumbs up, which I return with enthusiasm. ‘Keep going then,’ he tells me, before disappearing off into the house again.

And keep going I do, for an hour. By the time I have finished, there are six splinters of wood in my fingers, and a big pile of three-metre timber lengths. The job is done and I couldn’t be happier about it. Not least because those splinters are really hurting. I should have worn gloves.

‘So, how do you fancy screwing those bits of wood together into a framework for me?’ Fred offers as we stand eating sandwiches in the sunshine.

‘Er . . .’ I reply, looking down at my hands. I’m going to need a good couple of hours with the tweezers and Savlon as it is.

‘Go on, sis!’ Danny encourages. ‘It’ll save me having to do it!’

‘Yep,’ Fred adds. ‘Then you can get on with treating the floorboards, my old cupcake,’ he says to Danny.

Ah, I see what’s going on here. Fred has cunningly made sure there are enough easy jobs lying around the place to keep both Daleys busy and out of his hair. The studwork had obviously been earmarked as a Danny job, but with my, er,
helpful assistance
, he can do something else that the average five-year-old could probably have a decent go at.

We are both being
smoothly
handled.

‘Oh, okay,’ I agree, with visions in my head of walking around the completed house, patting the stud walls affectionately, as someone offers me a million quid for the place.

And so, a short time later, I’m back on the patio surrounded by wood, with Fred once more giving me a detailed set of instructions.

‘Right, you put three down this way round,’ he says, placing the bits of wood down on the flagstones. ‘Then two this way round.’ Another two lengths are put at either end of the other three. ‘Then you use the stud brackets to screw ’em altogether using the inch-long screws, and the drill with the screwdriver attachment over there. Just make sure the middle one is exactly one and a half metres in the centre and you’ll be golden. Do six of them, and then I’ll come back and we’ll do the supporting struts in between, alright?’

Not really.

‘Yes, I’ll be fine, Fred,’ I assure him. ‘Off you go.’

I could, and should, get him to go through all of that again in finer detail, but I figure I’m on a roll now, and probably don’t need any more assistance.

Fred claps his hands together. ‘Lovely jubbly. If you need any help, just ask.’

And with that, he leaves so I can I continue with my new career in advanced carpentry.

Sadly, it turns out I wasn’t on any kind of roll.

The only thing rolling around here are my eyes, in frustration every time I have to use that bloody drill.

You see, the wood is hard, and the screws are quite blunt. The cordless drill is also large, heavy and quite unwieldy. Persuading the screws to go through the holes in the bracket and into the wood straight is a virtual impossibility. I struggle for fifteen minutes with the first frame, and end up with something more warped than the Starship Enterprise. The only wall you’d want to build with this thing would be one in a house of horrors at the funfair. I pull out the screws and do it again, but try as hard as I might, I just can’t get everything to marry up straight, even if I stand on the wood while I’m screwing.

There must be any easier way to do this . . .

‘There must be a better way to get to the ambulance,’ I moan through the fog of pain.

‘This is the best way, Miss Daley,’ the paramedic replies, strapping me onto the wheeled stretcher.

‘Just mind the new floorboards!’ I wail, as my head swims with the pain medication he’s just administered.

I make my way back into the house to find that everybody has buggered off.

The kitchen extension and lounge are empty.

Looking out of the broad front windows I can see why. Danny has been out and apparently bought doughnuts. The entire workforce is crowded round him and tucking into a large box of Krispy Kremes.

Why
did nobody tell
me
there were bloody doughnuts?

I am most, most put out. I have been forgotten about. Because I have been out in the back garden struggling with the studwork for hours, it has become a definite case of out of sight, out of bloody mind.

Men!

There’s no way I’m going out there to ask for help now – and I’m not going to ask for a doughnut either. They can just feel incredibly guilty later when they realise that they forgot all about me. Yeah. That’ll do it.