Authors: Nick Spalding
‘Yep,’ he replies, taking another bite of flapjack.
Hayley swallows hard. ‘Is that everything?’
‘Oh no!’ Fred responds in ebullient fashion, spitting oats everywhere. ‘That’s the structural stuff. We haven’t even got on to the renovation yet! That’ll need a new kitchen. A new bathroom, and an en suite putting in off the main bedroom. Complete strip of all the walls and a re-plaster. You’ll want the whole of the electrics and water re-done. Don’t fret! I got boys that can do that, no problem. Then there’s repointing the walls outside – all of ’em. Painting everything. New floors.’ He drains the last of his tea. ‘And that’s all the stuff you’d do to get it back to square one. If your architect bloke wants any changes put in, then that’s all extra too, cos you’ll need RSJ supporting beams and new brickwork if there are any room configuration changes . . . after you’ve got all the planning permissions of course.’
I feel light-headed. All of that sounds like it’ll take a thousand years and cost a hundred million pounds. We should just bulldoze the place and be done.
‘That sounds like an awful lot,’ the ghost of my sister says from my side.
Fred Babidge gives us both a sympathetic look. One only slightly ruined by the bits of flapjack clinging to the edges of his mouth. ‘It sounds like a lot, but that’s what happens when you take on these old places. To tell you the truth, it could be worse.’
‘Could be
worse
?’ I say, highly unconvinced.
‘Oh, Christ yes. We did a place down by the river a few years back that was leaning over like the bleedin’ Leaning Tower of Pizza. It was only held together by spit and sawdust. Half the job was just clearing out all the rat corpses and bat shit.’ Fred looks at Spider. ‘Are you gonna eat that flapjack or not, my son?’
Spider hands the baked biscuit over and starts investigating one earhole with an enormous index finger.
‘How much do you think this will cost?’ Hayley asks Babidge.
The amount of air he sucks in through his teeth could have filled up the Hindenburg. ‘Most builders, it’d be about two hundred grand.’ He lets that sink in for a moment, like a hot coal into a tub of margarine. ‘Me? I can probably do it for what? Hundred and fifty, tops? But probably more like one hundred and forty. I’ll have to sit down and work out the numbers in more detail, but that’s a pretty good guesstimate for now.’ He looks at his two companions for confirmation. They both look around the room and nod expansively. ‘There you go. If the boys say that’s about right, then that’s good with me.’ Fred beams.
Hayley looks suspicious. ‘And you can tell all of that in just a twenty-minute cursory look around the place?’
Fred finishes Spider’s flapjack, chewing it slowly as he gives Hayley a thoughtful look. ‘Hayley, I’ve been in this business for forty-five years,’ he says, ‘ever since I was old enough to pick up my first trowel with my dad at the tender age of ten. I’ve built more houses that I can remember, and done up twice as many wrecks like this in that time too. When you’ve been around as long as I have, you can tell what needs doing and where, don’t you fret.’
I don’t know about my sister, but I’m bloody convinced – especially if he can do the job for fifty grand cheaper than anyone else.
‘There is one thing I can’t do much about, though,’ Fred tells us.
‘What’s that?’ I ask in disbelief. From this man’s general persona and attitude, I’d be half convinced that if you asked him to cure cancer, he’d tip you a wink, drain his tea and tell you he’d have it done by teatime.
‘I can’t do much about your cow.’
I take a couple of moments to digest this. Surely he didn’t just say
cow
, did he? I must have misheard.
‘Did you just say “cow”?’ I ask, safe in the knowledge that Fred is going to laugh at me and tell me to clean my bleedin’ ear’oles out.
‘Yep. Your cow.’
‘But we haven’t got a cow,’ I state, very sure of myself. At no point have Hayley or I purchased a cow. Of that I can be sure.
Fred grins. ‘You have, you know.’
And it was all going so well. Here I was thinking that Fred was a sensible, down-to-earth sort of chap with a firm grip on the world and his own sanity, and yet here we are, discussing non-existent cows. Maybe Spider and Baz can cart him away before he starts seeing other farmyard animals where there are none.
He leans forward. ‘Why don’t you go have a look out the back door?’
‘Okay.’
Giving Fred a concerned look, I edge around all three of them and walk down the hallway. I pass through the kitchen, and open the back door onto the garden.
Not that I can see much of the garden, because my view is now eighty-three per cent cow.
‘Hayley!’ I call back into the house. ‘We have a cow!’
She appears in the hallway, Fred Babidge and the muscle twins in tow. All three have smirks on their faces. ‘Are you sure?’ she asks me.
I step to one side. ‘Have a look for yourself,’ I tell her.
Hayley draws closer and regards the cow – which is black and white, and something I believe is called a Friesian. The cow looks solemnly back at Hayley, chewing cud as it does so. It seems perfectly at ease standing here at our back door, as if this is the correct place for it to be in the world. Most cows seek open pastures. This one apparently prefers an overgrown patio.
‘Well, at least we know where the cowpat on the front doorstep came from,’ Hayley remarks.
‘How the hell did it get into the garden?’ I wonder. ‘The fences are still up.’
‘Maybe it jumped over them,’ Spider offers helpfully.
‘Yeah,’ Baz agrees. ‘I saw a cow jump once.’
Fred rolls his eyes. ‘It wasn’t jumping, Baz. You was in Afghanistan and an IED went off under it. What that cow was doing, my boy, was exploding.’
Baz shrugs his massive shoulders. ‘It looked like it was jumping.
’
I look back at the cow. It doesn’t show any signs of leaping into the air. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only way it could leap into the air would indeed be if somebody set explosives off underneath it. I think Baz’s theory may be wholly inaccurate.
‘We’ll have to get rid of it,’ I say.
‘Nah, leave it there for now,’ Fred tells me. ‘She’s doing a nice job cropping your grass for you.’
My heart sinks. ‘Oh crap. I’d forgotten about the garden. That’ll need fixing as well, won’t it?’
Fred nods. ‘Yep. Not one for us though, captain. We don’t do gardens.’
My heart sinks further. Fred grins. ‘But don’t you worry!’
‘You know a man who does?’ Hayley interrupts.
Fred claps his hands together. ‘That’s right, Hayley! Now you’re getting it!
‘So what do you think?’ I ask my sister, as I watch Fred Babidge’s white Transit van speed away off down the road.
‘I think he could charm the hind legs off a donkey, and our new pet cow, in three seconds flat.’
‘Yes, but do you think we should hire him?’
Hayley scratches the end of her nose thoughtfully. ‘He does seem to know what he’s on about. And he seems very confident about getting the job done.’
‘And he’s cheap, which in our case is always the magic word.’
Hayley gives me a long look. ‘Well, I found Mitchell Hollingsbrooke and we’ve gone for him. Maybe we should go with your choice for a builder?’
I wave my hands. ‘Oh no. Don’t put this all on me. Joint decision, remember?’
‘Fair enough.’ Hayley considers the idea a little more, before her eyes narrow slightly. ‘Alright. We’ll give him a go.’
‘Yeah. Why the hell not?’
I have been completely convinced by Fred Babidge’s forceful personality. This is probably a poor reflection on my character, but I’m too relieved at the moment to realise it. Hiring a builder and an architect are the two biggest jobs you need to accomplish up front, and we appear to have done it without too much fuss and bother. If the rest of the build goes as smoothly as the past few days, we’ll be laughing!
I’m sure most home renovators make the mistake of thinking much the same way when they start out on a project. It’s only when their hair starts falling out that they realise the error of their ways.
What they don’t have to worry about, though, is the removal of a half-ton cow from the back doorstep. Not unless they’re converting an old dairy farm, I’d imagine.
‘How do you shoo a cow away?’ I ponder, standing back at the rear exit to the house. The cow has not budged an inch.
‘I have no idea. Maybe poke it with something?’ Hayley says.
‘No chance. Cows are deadly,’ I point out.
This earns me a look of derision and a short bray of laughter. ‘
Cows
, Danny? Cows are bloody harmless!’
‘No they’re not! I’ve heard stories.’
‘
Stories?
What kind of stories?’
I cross my arms. ‘People walking through fields, not paying the cows any attention . . . and
wham
!’
‘George Michael appears?’
‘Very funny. No. Trampled underfoot they are.’
‘Rubbish,’ Hayley insists.
‘It’s true!’ I doubly insist. ‘Herds of cows trample people to death. It’s a well-known fact.’
‘Well, this is just one cow. I think we’re safe. I don’t see any doe-eyed calves in the vicinity for it to protect. Poke it with something.’
‘Don’t be so cruel.’
Hayley tuts. ‘You’re such a softie,’ she tells me, before stepping forward and pointing a finger at the cow. ‘You!’ she snaps at it. ‘Fuck off!’ Her finger quickly points away from the house.
‘Oh yeah, that’ll do it,’ I say in a flat tone. ‘Nothing like a bit of insulting language to get a cow to do what you want. Why not call her a fat bitch while you’re at it?’
‘Shut up, Danny!
You!
Cow! Sod off right now!’
As you might imagine, this has little effect on the cow. I doubt it bothers you too much to be told to fuck off when you weigh half a ton. These are the benefits of girth.
Hayley tries another tactic.
‘If you don’t go away,’ she tells the cow, pointing her finger right between its big liquid eyes, ‘I will eat a hamburger right in front of you.’
‘Really?’ I say, rather contemptuously. ‘You think threatening to munch one of its relatives will get it to take to the hills, do you?’
‘It’ll get what I mean.’
‘Will it? I bloody don’t.’
‘It’s a threat, isn’t it?’ Hayley maintains. ‘Either you go away, or I’ll eat you the same way I’m eating this burger.’ To underline her point, Hayley mimes taking a bite out of an imaginary Big Mac.
‘I think you might be overestimating the cow’s brain capacity on that one,’ I say, in a withering tone.
Hayley steps back. ‘Oh well, genius. You think of something then!’
This presents something of a problem.
I have no idea how to get rid of a cow any more than she does.
Perhaps I’ll go for a more polite tone.
I look down at the cow, which continues to chew slowly, and regards us both with blank-eyed disinterest. ‘Erm, excuse me, cow. Would you mind leaving our garden please?’ I entreat.
‘Oh yes! That’ll do it!’ Hayley roars. ‘There’s nothing more guaranteed to get a cow to move than –
I don’t fucking believe it
!
’
The cow is turning around. I am as stunned as Hayley. Who knew the bovine species responded so well to a polite request? Or is this a special cow? If I tried the same tactic with a different member of her species, would I get the same result? I’ll have to try it one day, when I’m completely alone, and possibly drunk.
‘There you go,’ I say to Hayley in a very self-satisfied tone. ‘Sometimes you just have to be nice.’
‘Oh, sod off. Where’s the bloody thing going to go now, though?’ Hayley comments, as the cow saunters off into the long grass.
‘Not a clue. But I’m sure if it found a way in, it’ll find a way out.’
We both watch the cow disappear from view as the rolling garden field dips down towards the trees at the back of the property. ‘So that’s that then,’ I say, once I can no longer see the cow’s backside. ‘We’ve hired a builder and an architect.’
‘Yep. All we need to do now is re-mortgage the place once Mitchell and Fred provide us with a rundown of costs.’
‘How long is that likely to take?’
Hayley shrugs. ‘Depends on how fast they work, I suppose. A month, maybe?’
I sigh. I had hoped work could start quicker than that, but there’s no rushing these things – especially when you have other people involved, who work to their own schedules. I sniff the air. ‘I think the cow has left us another present,’ I remark.
‘Smells like it. Why don’t you chase after her and ask her not to do it again?’ Hayley takes on a simpering expression and grasps her hands together. ‘
Excuse me, cow. Would you mind awfully not shitting in our garden again? Thank you so, so much
.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘That won’t work on me any better than it did the cow.’
‘Shall we get out of here and start on that mortgage application?’ I suggest. ‘I think we’ve accomplished about as much as we’re likely to today.’
‘Yeah, alright,’ Hayley agrees. ‘We’ve bonded with a cockney in a flat cap, and you’ve discovered a talent for cow whispering. I’d call that a productive day.’
And with that we leave the house, before the smell of cow shit has a chance to permeate our clothes.
As I ride away on the bike, I swear I catch sight of a black-and-
white hide between the brambles, down the left-hand side of the farmhouse. That cow is going to be a problem, I just know it.
Do they have pest exterminators that can deal with cows?
Is that even a thing?
I’ll have to ask Fred Babidge. I’m sure he’ll know someone.
HAYLEY
May
£12,826.16 spent
T
hese wellington boots really don’t suit me. Green has never been my colour, and I simply don’t have long-enough legs to look like anything other than a bandy-legged gnome, when forced into a pair of rubber wellies.
Still, better that than ruin another pair of expensive trainers wandering around this place. Especially now that work has started, and vast sections of the overgrown garden have been transformed into a building site.
I’ll give Fred Babidge his due, once he gets the green light to start on a job, he doesn’t hang about. A mere forty-eight hours after I rang to tell him that we’d had the mortgage approved and now had the cash in our bank account, he was on site and conducting a symphony of clanking metal that would be guaranteed to give anyone a headache who wasn’t foresighted enough to stick in a pair of ear plugs.
I knock back two paracetamol as I watch the concrete start to be poured underneath the right-hand side of the house.
This was the first job Fred and his crew of five lads insisted we get done. ‘Ain’t much point doing anything before those foundations are sorted,’ he told us. ‘You don’t want the gaff toppling over, do you?’
And who could argue with that?
So here I stand, watching several tons of concrete being poured into the vast hole underneath the house. It looks like enough to support St Paul’s Cathedral, so I’m assuming it’ll render the farmhouse safe from further subsidence with no problems at all.
It had better, given that it’s costing twelve bloody grand to get it done. When we started on this renovation I had visions of the cash being spent on roll-top baths and new kitchen cabinets, not on filling a big hole under the ground. I hate to spend money on things I can’t see, and it’s rapidly becoming evident that when it comes to house building, most of the money gets spent on stuff that will end up being invisible.
Still, at least I’m not being called upon to actually help pump the concrete into the hole. I’m all for equality between men and women, but when it comes to standing in a wet muddy hole for hours while heavy machinery turns you deaf, I’m quite happy to live in the 1950s.
No such luck for Danny, of course. There he stands, looking as miserable as sin, trying to help Fred and his boys, but failing
magnificently
. It’s like watching a small boy around his dad and uncles. Any minute now they’re going to ask him to go make them a nice cuppa, just to get him out of the way.
Still, bless him for wanting to be helpful, and actually getting off his arse to make the effort. It’s a good job he only works part-time at the museum, otherwise he’d have no time to come down here and be emasculated by large men covered in tattoos.
I’ve had to take an unpaid sabbatical from the school. I just couldn’t stand the idea of all this work going on without me here to supervise. And by supervise, I mean stand at the back in ill-fitting wellies and worry about all the money disappearing down the nearest hole. I asked for nine months off, and was amazed to get it with relatively little fuss. I don’t know whether I should be pleased that they capitulated so easily, or worried that they think I’m dispensable enough to get rid off for three-quarters of a year. What I
do
know is that this house had better sell for the money it’s supposed to; otherwise I’m going to be eating dry pasta out of a hubcap for the rest of my life.
Taking so long off work is a
massive
risk. Probably an extremely stupid one, given that I still have to pay rent every month and do annoying things like eat and drink. Luckily, I had these old wedding and engagement rings lying around that I no longer have any use for, so I pawned the bloody things for a few thousand quid, which should keep me going for quite a while.
I’m betting that the farmhouse will sell for a considerable profit – and that’s far more likely to happen with me on site every day, rather than dividing my time between here and the school.
I guess I’ve always got the credit cards to fall back on if things get really tight.
Speaking of tight, these wellies are quite, quite uncomfortable. I can feel a nice big blister forming on my right heel already. It’s probably just as well that I’m stood still a good twenty feet away from all the action . . .
supervising
.
Ah, here comes Danny. His face is like thunder.
‘Off to the shop are we?’ I ask as he tramps towards me.
‘They want crisps with the tea this time. Spider likes Monster Munch.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ I try very hard not to smirk. ‘We’ll have to get a kettle on site before you walk through the soles of your shoes.’
Danny looks past me, ignoring my comment. ‘Who’s that?’
I turn and see a car approaching. It’s a beige Citroën 2CV.
There’s only one person in this world I know who would drive such a bizarre car in this day and age.
‘What the hell is Mitchell doing here?’ I wonder out loud. ‘He’s not supposed to be on site for another week.’
Danny shakes his head. ‘No idea. Perhaps he’s come to see how the work is going.’
‘But we haven’t even started on his designs yet. Not even for the roof. Fred says that’s a few days away at the absolute earliest.’
‘Well, tell him that.’
The 2CV shudders to a halt just behind one of Fred’s Transits, and out jumps Mitchell Hollingsbrooke. I’m pleased to see the sailor’s hat has gone. Sadly, it’s been replaced by a bowler. The purple trousers are still in evidence as well, unfortunately.
Out of the passenger seat climbs another person. One I seem to recognise, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Danny recognises him as well, and has no doubt who he is. ‘Fuck me! That’s Gerard O’Keefe!’
‘Who?’
Danny rolls his eyes. ‘Come on, Hayley! Gerard O’Keefe? He hosts
Great Locations
!’
‘What? That stupid daytime show on BBC One? The one they sling on before the lunchtime news?’
‘Yes!’
‘Why the hell is he here?’
Danny shrugs. ‘I have no clue. Shall we go and find out?’ Without waiting for me, he marches off in the direction of the 2CV. I look back over at Fred and his team, who are still pumping in the concrete. I hope Danny doesn’t get too distracted by our new visitor. Spider looks like he could do a lot of damage to my brother’s spinal cord if he doesn’t get his Monster Munch.
‘Hayley! Hayley!’ Mitchell shouts at me over the sounds of heavy machinery. ‘Come over here! Over here,
now
!’
I grit my teeth. Some might find Mitchell’s aggressive approach to social interaction to be endearing. I resolutely do
not
. But I have to say, Danny’s excitement has piqued my curiosity about why Gerard O’Keefe would be here, so I gingerly raise one blistered, wellington-boot-clad foot, and slowly make my way over to them through the mud.
‘Morning, Mitchell,’ I greet our architect.
‘Good morning, Hayley! Wow! Those are nice wellies. Very flattering on you!’
Mad
. Completely mad.
It’s a bloody good job I fell in love with his design for the en suite bathroom the second I laid eyes on it.
‘Thank you, Mitchell,’ I reply. I give the other man an expectant look. Now I’m up close I recognise him properly. I’ve never watched more than two or three episodes of
Great Locations
, but Gerard O’Keefe is quite hard to miss, given that he is a good six foot three, has floppy brown hair that is only slightly greying at the temples, and is prone to wearing army surplus clothing that must give the BBC wardrobe department nightmares every time he steps on set. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr O’Keefe,’ I say. ‘My brother enjoys your show a lot.’
‘I do!’ Danny agrees enthusiastically. ‘That one last week? The Georgian townhouse with the dry rot and fungus everywhere? That was great!’
Only home improvement shows can make a rational human being that excited about fungus.
‘Thank you, Danny,’ O’Keefe replies with a smooth smile, before turning back to me. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you too, Hayley. Mitchell has told me a lot about you . . . and your farmhouse here.’
‘Has he?’
‘Oh yes!’ Mitchell interjects, all eyeballs. ‘I’ve known Gerard since university. He used to come in and give guest lectures back before the TV show started. I like to keep him up to date with my projects. He seemed very keen on finding out more about yours, so I brought him down so he could see it!’
I give Gerard O’Keefe a rather disbelieving look, which he picks up on instantly. ‘I have a soft spot for these old Victorian piles,’ he confides. ‘I was brought up in one until the age of fourteen.’ He looks at Daley Farmhouse with a wistful expression. ‘This place looks just like it.’
‘With less people covered in tattoos pumping concrete, I’d imagine,’ I say, as I watch Spider guide the spout coming from the concrete mixer to another part of the hole. They must be nearly finished now, surely?
Gerard O’Keefe laughs. ‘It does rather ruin the picturesque quality of the place doesn’t it?’ He gives me a dazzling smile. ‘Do you mind if I look around? Mitchell has been telling me all about it. I’m keen to see some of the original features.’
I almost ask if those original features include the dead animals in the bathroom and the nuclear green fridge, but manage to bite my tongue at the last moment. ‘Yes, that’s fine. Just to warn you, though,’ I tell O’Keefe, ‘we’ve not cleared anything out of the place yet. It’s pretty much still the way we found it. Fred said it wouldn’t be worth doing any of that stuff until the foundations were secure.’
‘Fantastic!’ O’Keefe responds. ‘The less work you’ve done the better.’
What’s that supposed to mean?
A suspicion begins to form in my mind – one that probably should have started to take shape the second I clapped eyes on the presenter of a daytime TV series about house renovations . . .
I decide to hold my counsel for the time being. I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of this impressively put together individual. It must be all that camouflage. ‘After you,’ I tell him.
O’Keefe marches off down the cracked garden path with the three of us in tow right behind him. He veers off to the right to walk down the side of the house, giving Fred and the boys a wave as he does so. ‘I’d like a chat with you at some point, Mr Babidge!’ he calls to the flat-cap-wearing cockney, who gives him a doubtful look before replying.
‘No problem, Mr O’Keefe. I’d be delighted to make your acquaintance!’
It seems Fred Babidge is a fan of
Great Locations
. It’s not that surprising, to be honest.
‘Excellent!’ O’Keefe exclaims, and re-joins us at the front of the house. ‘Shall we have a little explore, then?’ he says, rubbing his hands together.
‘By all means,’ I reply. ‘You may want to hold your nose.’
O’Keefe does so, in very theatrical fashion, and strides into the hallway, a look of real purpose in his eyes.
What follows is half an hour of Gerard O’Keefe studying every single nook and cranny of the building. His studiousness puts our first visit to the house completely to shame. He takes time to examine each and every architrave, cornice and skirting board, even going so far as to sketch the ceiling rose in the living room in a small notebook he carries around in one large front pocket of his green ex-army jacket. Nothing about the house seems to faze him. The dead rats and crow in the bathroom are virtually ignored in favour of commenting on how wonderful the taps must have been when they were new. The hole Danny put in the ceiling is laughed off as a minor issue. The overpowering smell of cow shit and old plumbing in the kitchen barely registers on the man’s face as he examines the fireplace, commenting on how marvellous it is that the thing wasn’t filled in decades ago.
My main thoughts on Daley Farmhouse have largely been that it is currently Hell on Earth, and doubts as to whether thousands of pounds can possibly make it any better. Gerard O’Keefe seems to be able to see beauty and charm in the place, even in its dilapidated condition. I don’t know whether this is an admirable trait, or the first signs of an incipient slip into senility. O’Keefe only looks to be in his mid-forties, but these things can come on early if you’re unlucky enough.
‘What’s the basement like?’ he asks, having crawled over every other inch of the place.
‘No idea,’ I tell him.
‘No idea?’
‘Yep. Haven’t been down there. Nobody has except Fred, and he wasn’t divulging much.’
‘He did say it was large,’ Danny points out. ‘That was about it, though.’
O’Keefe looks at Mitchell. ‘What about you, Mitch? No plans for the basement?’
Mitchell looks awkward. ‘I felt it best to wait until Mr Babidge’s structural work was complete. Besides . . .
spiders
.’ Mitchell’s face contorts in a combination of loathing and terror.
‘Ah, I see,’ O’Keefe says, and pushes the under-stairs door open. ‘Well, I’ll have a look if you don’t mind.’
‘Be careful!’ I warn him. ‘It’s very dark down there.’
‘Not a problem, Hayley,’ he tells me, and produces a torch from another one of his voluminous jacket pockets. There’s something very James Bond about the smile he gives me before disappearing down into the depths.
Danny, Mitchell and I are all far more hesitant about going down there.
‘One of us had better follow him,’ I say, peering into the gloom.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Danny replies, giving me a meaningful look.
‘Spiders as well?’ I ask him in the tones of one resigned to her fate.
He shakes his head. ‘Nope. Spiders are fine.’ It’s now Danny’s turn to look horrified. ‘But the moths can go fuck themselves.’
Ah yes, I’d forgotten my brother’s completely irrational fear of moths. Blame it on a rather unfortunate incident when he was two, involving him, a family holiday to Morocco, and a midnight visit from one of the local hawk moths that took a liking to Danny’s sleeping face.
‘I don’t think there are likely to be moths down there, Danny,’ I try to reassure him.
He folds his arms. ‘I’m not taking any chances.’