Bricking It (10 page)

I do
not
need the kind of temptation that Gerard O’Keefe represents.

It may all be charm and smiles and concern right now, but in five years? All that charm is being directed at two other women, and the concern is only for his own well-being when I find out he’s been cheating on me!

Now, come on Hayley. Gerard isn’t the same man
, my internal voice of reason says.

Yes, he bloody well is. They’re
all
the same!

I’m not going to fall for it again! I’m not!

What I am going to do is scream and reach for the painkillers, as I’ve just forgotten about today’s injury, and stamped my foot on the ground in determined anger.

How hard can it be to use a nail gun? Extremely easy, if what you’re trying to do is get yourself a month’s supply of ibuprofen tablets and work yourself up into a rage about how useless men are. If you’re putting up shelves though, I’d stick to a tube of No More Nails and save yourself the bother.

DANNY

July

£76,546.39 spent

T
he house is coming along nicely. Nearly three months in and we’re motoring along
marvellously
.

All the boring stuff is pretty much done. The foundations are secure. The roof is fixed. The walls are strong. The woodworm has been killed. The floorboards have been replaced. The extension is built. The list goes on and on.

Sadly, virtually none of these enormous improvements are visible from the street, which is a tad disheartening, to be honest. When you spend over seventy thousand quid, you expect there to be something to show for it. But thus far, Daley Farmhouse looks like it’s been barely touched.

I’m led to believe this is fairly typical of major house renovations like this. If you’re looking for immediate gratification, pick something else to do as a hobby is my advice.

Still, we’re at the point when we are ready to start on all the fun stuff, and thus far we’ve had very few big problems come our way. Hayley is still limping about the place a bit, but the doctor has assured her she’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. Fred and the lads will just have to find a different impression to do than Long John Silver.

Nope, everything is ticking along nicely.

Now, if I could just get rid of that bloody cow, everything would be truly fantastic.

Three weeks ago I was helping Spider strip the last of the old plaster from a corner of the dining room.

‘I’m going for a piss,’ I inform him.

He gives me a look. ‘I think Fred’s in the Portaloo.’

‘Oh. Then I guess I’ll have to brave the jungle outside.’

We haven’t started on the expansive back garden yet, apart from clearing the immediate area around the house. The rest of it is still the overgrown wilderness it was when Hayley and I first came here.

‘I’d wait for the Portaloo,’ Spider replies.

‘Why’s that?’

He grimaces. ‘There’s way too many spiders out the back there.’

I’m stunned. ‘Spider – your name is
Spider
.’

‘So?’

‘Well, how can you not like spiders, if your name is Spider?’

‘That’s what my mum always says.’

‘So what’s your real name?’

‘Charlton.’

‘Come again?’

‘M’name’s Charlton. My dad’s a Man U fan.’

‘I think I prefer Spider.’

‘Me too.’

This is easily the most profound conversation I’ve ever had with the tattooed, bald brickie, but my bladder is making noises that I can no longer ignore. ‘Hold that thought, I’ll be back in a minute.’

It doesn’t take long to reach an area of the back garden that is out of sight and within moments I am breathing a blessed sigh of relief as I water one of the gnarled old apple trees that dot the garden.

‘Moo.’

What the fuck?

‘Moo.’

I spin around, penis still in hand, to see a cow staring at me from less than four feet away.

No, not a cow.
The
cow. The same cow Hayley and I first encountered all those weeks ago. It has the same black patch around one eye and the same searching expression coming from those big, brown cow eyes.

And here I am, presenting my genitals to it. Probably not appropriate, all things considered.

I spin back around and finish urinating. By the time I am done and the old chap is popped back in, I fully expect the cow to have moved away.

Nothing of the sort. If anything, it’s a foot closer.

‘Watch yourself,’ I tell it. ‘I’ve just peed there.’

‘Moo,’ the cow replies, and doesn’t budge an inch.

I regard the cow with a look of extreme suspicion. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ The cow has not been seen again in the garden since that first encounter. Possibly all the heavy machinery put her off, but now the big noisy work is done, she’s returned. Quite how is still beyond me. I’ve walked around the whole gigantic field that passes for a garden at Daley Farmhouse, and can see no evidence of where something as big as a cow could gain entry to it. It’s quite unfathomable.

‘I feel as if I should call you Houdini The Cow,’ I say to the cow, continuing my train of thought out loud. ‘But you don’t look like a Houdini.’ Inspiration strikes. ‘I shall call you Pat The Cow. How does that sound?’

‘Moo.’ I swear there’s a derisory tone to that response.

‘Please yourself. I never said I was a creative genius.’

Pat The Cow takes another step towards me, so her head is within touching distance. ‘There, there,’ I say, and pat Pat The Cow’s head gently.

Pat The Cow seems to be quite happy with this state of affairs. ‘Moo.’

‘You’re quite sweet really, aren’t you?’ I tell Pat The Cow.

‘Moo,’ Pat The Cow agrees. ‘Moo mooooooo.’

‘Why thank you, Pat The Cow,’ I tell her. ‘I’m glad you think I’m sweet too.’

From over by the house I hear Spider calling me. Pat The Cow looks around, chewing the cud slowly as she tries to spot this new interloper. She then turns back to me, gives a look with her big swimmy cow eyes that seems to say ‘mention nothing of this’ and turns to walk away into the long grass.

‘Danny! Where the hell are ya?’ Spider calls.

‘Over here!’ I call back and start to make my way back towards him. I turn and throw one last glance in Pat The Cow’s direction to say goodbye . . . But she has disappeared! The big bovine is nowhere to be seen.

Spooky.

I return to Spider. He notes the look of confusion on my face. ‘What’s up?’

I open my mouth to tell him all about my encounter with Pat The Cow, but then I remember the expression on her face and keep my trap shut. Pat The Cow is obviously part ninja, and I don’t want to end up skewered on the end of an expertly thrown ninja cow dagger.

My next encounter with Pat The Cow happened a mere couple of days later. I was sitting on one of the old patio chairs out the back, enjoying a nice chicken Cup-a-Soup and some sun, when Hayley limped over to me, carrying a small trowel.

‘Having fun with the pointing?’ I ask her.

‘Not really. I should never have asked Fred what pointing was. He’s had me filling in gaps between bricks for the past two hours.’

‘At least you’re still showing willing.’ I grin. ‘You are being careful not to stab yourself though, aren’t you?’

She gives me a withering look. ‘Very funny. Baz handed me the trowel covered in bubble wrap when I started.’

I laugh. ‘Well, look at it this way, at least they see you as one of the boys now!’

‘I don’t want to be one of the boys. The last time I tried that, I ruined my chances of competing in any upcoming marathons.’

‘How is the foot?’

She shrugs. ‘Could be better. Could be worse. At least I can put some of my weight on it now. Still hurts like buggery, though.’ She looks around. ‘Where’s the Big Black Bucket of Water? I need to give this trowel a clean.’

You may think that something as prosaic as a bucket of water would not need capitalisation, but trust me: it deserves that amount of importance. On a building site such as this, the Big Black Bucket of Water is easily one of the most valuable things to have at hand. Don’t believe me? Try spending three months of your life surrounded by mud, dust, plaster, wood chips, construction adhesive, mortar and more mud. The Big Black Bucket of Water is an absolute must.

‘I haven’t seen it,’ I tell Hayley. ‘Could be in the kitchen, though.’

‘Thanks. I’ll have a look.’

Hayley limps slowly off across the patio and in through the brand-new double doors that lead into the kitchen area. I have to refer to it as a ‘kitchen area’, as we still haven’t put the actual kitchen in yet. The concrete took longer to set than anticipated, and the plumbers still haven’t been round to extend the pipes back.

There’s nothing much in the broad expanse of empty space right now, other than a pasting table, on which sits a kettle from 1985, more Pot Noodles than you can shake a fork at, enough tea and coffee to drown a hall full of insomniacs, and a bag of sugar that would last an entire African village until the end of time.

Nothing dangerous, weird or scary.

Which is why it comes as something of a surprise when I hear a blood-curdling scream come from my sister.

Wondering what she’s managed to impale herself upon now, I get up off my chair and go inside.

The sight that greets me is a true tableau of bovine terror. Hayley is backed up against one wall, the trowel held out in front of her, while Pat The Cow is slowly edging towards her, still chewing the cud, and with the same implacable look on her face.

Hayley spots me. ‘Get it away from me, Danny! Aaargh!’

‘Calm down! Pat The Cow isn’t dangerous!’

Terror turns to disgust. ‘You’ve given it a bloody
name
?!’

I stride forward, wanting to get myself in between the two of them before Pat The Cow treads on Hayley’s foot, and gets a smack between the eyes with a trowel for her troubles. ‘Just calm down, sis. She just likes to be patted, don’t you Pat The Cow?’ I give Pat The Cow the now customary pat, which she seems to appreciate.

‘Moo.’

Hayley isn’t so impressed. ‘Move it away from me, Danny. I keep thinking it’s going to charge me at any moment!’

‘It’s a cow, Hayley. Not a bull. The only way Pat The Cow will charge is if you stuck a cattle prod up her arse. I thought you were the one who didn’t think cows were dangerous? Pat The Cow is not dangerous. Smelly, but not a risk to life and limb.’

Pat The Cow supplies me with a reproachful look. At least I think it’s reproachful. It could just as easily be wind.

‘Just give her a pat. I’m sure she’ll move away then,’ I suggest to my sister, who, with nose wrinkled and trowel still held up defensively in her other hand, reaches out and issues Pat The Cow with a timid couple of light taps to the forehead.

This seems to be enough as far as Pat The Cow is concerned, as she backs away from Hayley, nearly knocking over the pasting table snack bar.

‘One question,’ Hayley says.

‘Yep?’

‘How the hell did it get in here?’

Now this, in any other circumstances, would be a very sensible and unanswerable question. But we are dealing with a very special cow here. One able to vanish without a trace, like Batman.

‘I’ll just lead her back outside . . .’ I venture, not willing to answer Hayley’s question for fear of sounding like a lunatic.

Luckily, Pat The Cow is not feeling in an intransigent mood today, so when I gently put my arm over her neck and start to pull her round to face the doorway, she doesn’t put up a struggle.

‘What the living fuck?’

This comes from Fred Babidge, who has just appeared at the patio doors, no doubt wondering what all the fuss is about.

‘It’s alright, Fred,’ I assure him, ‘I’m getting her out.’

‘You’d better! That concrete’s only just set. Those hooves could do some real damage!’

I think Fred’s being a bit melodramatic, but I figure it’s best not to argue with him. To that end, I start to pull Pat The Cow’s head towards the door. She moves, but when she reaches the threshold, she stops dead, giving Fred a look.

‘Er . . . I think you’d better pat her,’ I tell Fred.

‘What?’

‘You have to pat her. It’s what she wants.’

He looks at me aghast. ‘It’s what she wants? It’s a flamin’ cow, chief!’

‘Just do as he says,’ Hayley tells Fred. ‘Otherwise we might be here forever.’

Fred huffs, and shakes his head in disgust – but also reaches out a hand and smacks Pat The Cow once on the top of the head. It’s not so much a pat, as it is a slap for being naughty, but Pat The Cow doesn’t mind. She’s made of strong stuff.

Fred has to dodge out of the way as Pat The Cow makes her exit, easily avoiding doing any damage to the patio doors. Pat The Cow may not be svelte, but she’s not big enough to trouble such a wide exit either. The several hundred quid we spent on the big glass doors to provide great views of the garden and easy access to the patio are starting to pay for themselves already.

Pat The Cow does not hesitate once she’s outside. She trots off back towards the jungle garden without a look back at any of us.

‘Maybe we should follow it,’ Hayley says. ‘Find out where it’s getting in.’

‘Don’t bother,’ I reply, knowing full well the extent of Pat The Cow’s supernatural abilities.

‘In all my years of doing this job,’ Fred says, ‘I’ve never known anything like that.’

‘Pat The Cow is quite special,’ I reply, regretting it as soon as it’s out of my mouth.

Fred looks in disbelief at Hayley. ‘He’s
named
it?’

Hayley grimaces. ‘It appears so.’

Fred Babidge has several laughs.

There’s the ‘someone’s just told a dirty joke of which I wholeheartedly approve’ laugh. There’s the ‘don’t try and pull a fast one on me, son, I’ve heard it all before’ laugh. And everyone’s favourite, the ‘Danny Daley has just said or done something ridiculous, and boy do I find it hilarious’ laugh. I’d like to say the first two are far more common than the third, but I’d be lying through my teeth.

Fred walks off back to where the rest of the crew are busily pointing the side of the house, leaving me to ponder where Pat The Cow might have gone . . . and my sister pondering where my sanity might have gone.

Which brings us to our third and final meeting with Pat The Cow thus far, and blimey if it isn’t the weirdest one yet.

Picture, if you will, a cold, windy, summer’s morning. A typical July day of 18 degrees and cloud.

The weather, having recently been very mild, has changed for the worse, bringing in a gusty wind that tempts you to put the central heating on in the middle of what could be laughably termed the English summer.

Given the fact that most of the doors and windows haven’t been fixed yet, Daley Farmhouse is falling prey to the wind, and is rather like a wind tunnel when we all arrive early that morning to start work again.

I am, unusually, the first to arrive. The reason for this is simple. My next-door neighbour is an arsehole. While most people are sleeping soundly at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning, she is just getting in from a night out. And boy does she like to let everybody know about it. There’s nothing like hearing Taylor Swift at high volume seeping hideously through your adjoining wall to really ruin the (very premature) start to your day. Having laid there trying to get back to sleep while Taylor tells us about how all of her ex-boyfriends are pricks, I eventually give up, when Taylor is replaced by Beyoncé, who, if anything, sounds even more grating than the elfin-faced pipsqueak at that time in the morning.