Bricking It Page 3

  Hayley scowls. ‘Hold your bloody horses. There’s a very good reason why I brought us both up here to see the place. I wanted to get a good look at how much work is needed.’

  ‘To do what? Bulldoze the place?’

  ‘No. Renovate it.’

  ‘Renovate it? Are you mental? You did see me fall through the ceiling, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. But Grant didn’t just quote me on how much the place would sell for as it is. He also gave me a figure for how much we could get for the house if it was completely renovated.’

  Now I’m curious again. ‘How much?’

  ‘Here.’ She hands me the piece of paper she’s been clutching.

  I give it a read, and have to sit back down again very quickly.

  ‘Six hundred thousand?’ I say in a faraway voice.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Six hundred thousand quid,’ I repeat.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Six hundred thousand.’

  Hayley sighs. ‘Yes, Danny. That’s how much this place would be worth.’

  ‘Why?’

  She throws a hand out. ‘Are you kidding? You can see how glorious the view is, can’t you? And the place is a massive, three-bedroom, detached Victorian farmhouse. Properties like this go for a premium, especially out here in the country.’

  ‘But we’d have to fix it up, though, yeah?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the problem. It’s not a small job.’

  Understatement of the century there, I think. ‘How much would that cost?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not until we’ve had people in to look at it. But it’s going to be expensive. Probably as much as again as what it’s worth now. At least a hundred and sixty grand.’

  My shoulders slump. ‘Well, that’s us fucked then. You’re a teacher, I’m a caretaker, we’re both single, and we both rent the places we live in. Neither of us can stump up anything like that kind of cash.’

  ‘We can if we re-mortgage the house.’

  It sounds like Hayley has put a lot more research into this than I thought. ‘But would a bank give us a mortgage? I mean, neither of us are the best of bets, are we? I live in what could charitably be called a shoebox on the worst council estate in the area, thanks to the fact I earn such a shitty wage, and after what happened with you and Simon . . .’ I trail off as I see the look of hurt in Hayley’s eyes. That bastard really screwed her over in the divorce. It’s a miracle she can even afford somewhere to rent on her teacher’s salary.

  ‘I know,’ she replies. ‘But there’s still a chance. If we can just prove to the bank that we can make the money back when we sell the place.’

  I lean back in my chair again, mulling both options over.

  On the one hand, six hundred thousand quid is a huge amount of money – but with it comes a huge amount of work. It might just be better to take the one sixty and run.

  I say as much to Hayley. She doesn’t look happy about it.

  ‘I thought that’d be how you’d feel,’ she says and kicks an inoffensive stone into the long grass. There’s a look of deep disappointment in her eyes.

  ‘Did you really?’ There’s an edge to my voice. This sounds like the beginning of the same conversation we’ve had many times.

  ‘Yep. It’s the easy way, and we all know how you like the easy way, Danny.’

  I throw my hands up. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Not this again.’

  Hayley folds her arms and looks daggers at me. ‘Yes! This again, Danny. Anytime something comes along that requires you to put some effort in, you run a bloody mile. Look at the job with Halifax . . . or helping Dad with the boat . . . or Kelly.’

  ‘God! You just love trotting all of those out every time you bring this bloody subject up, don’t you?’ I shout.

  ‘That’s because you keep doing the same fucking thing, Dan!’

  ‘For the last time: the Halifax job was hideously boring, Dad was never going to get that stupid boat back in the water anyway, and Kelly was a control freak!’

  Hayley stamps her foot. ‘She just asked you to wear a pair of trousers when you met her parents, you maniac!’

  ‘Exactly! I don’t like to be told what to wear.’ I’m in danger of stamping my feet. ‘She did it more than once!’

  ‘She was also beautiful, caring and the best chance you’ve ever had for a proper relationship, you bloody tool!’

  ‘Oh, and I should be taking advice from you about relationships, should I?’

  This, I fear, is an insult too far. I instantly regret it the second it comes out of my mouth.

  Hayley’s break-up with Simon wasn’t her fault. Not in the least. He was the one who cheated on her with two women, after five years of what looked like married bliss – at least from the outside. Five years that came to a sudden halt when one of the women turned up at Hayley’s doorstep, trying to assuage her guilty conscience by confessing everything.

  No, the only mistake Hayley ever made was marrying Simon in the first place.

  ‘I’m sorry, sis,’ I say to her, squirming at the look of dismay on her face. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just you brought up Kelly, and I got angry, and . . . and . . .’

  Hayley turns away from me for a second, and looks at the dilapidated house that started this argument. I can see she’s trying to compose herself. I hope she does a good job of it. My sister is slow to temper, but when it arrives, it’s time to batten down the hatches – and possibly update your life insurance.

  ‘I think we should leave,’ she eventually says, in a calm, tight voice.

  ‘That might be for the best,’ I agree. When Hayley and I start to argue, it’s invariably a good idea for us to be split up as quickly as possible. Our parents learned this early on in our lives, and were quick to pull us apart before any serious injury could be done.

  They weren’t always quick enough. I still have a small scar on my shoulder from when Hayley whipped a plastic necklace across it when I pulled the left leg off her favourite Sindy.

  ‘But I want you to have a long think about this place, Danny,’ Hayley continues, her voice taking on what I like to call the ‘teacher’s tone’. ‘Don’t just dismiss the idea of renovating it so you can avoid doing any work.’

  I start to open my mouth to protest, but the daggers in her eyes are even sharper now, so I think better of it.

  ‘Just think about it overnight, okay?’

  ‘Alright, alright. I will,’ I agree, despite myself.

  ‘Good.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’m babysitting for a friend in half an hour, so I’m going back to the car.’

  ‘Through the house?’ I say with mock horror, trying to lift the atmosphere a bit.

  Hayley’s having none of it. ‘Yes, Dan. Through the bloody house.’

  And with that, she walks back through into the kitchen, and towards the front of the property.

  I heave a sigh. One of these days, I’ll learn to think before I speak. Probably on my deathbed.

  Hayley’s car is already gone by the time I get back to the motorbike.

  I shouldn’t be that surprised really. My sister is one of those people who take a long time to come back off the boil once you get them riled up.

  I can only hope she’s forgiven me, and is in a better mood the next time I see her.

  The twenty-minute ride back to town through the leafy country lanes gives me time to think about what my sister had just said. Pretty much all of my family are of the opinion that I am a lazy slacker, based on the last five or six years of my life since I left university. But I can’t help it if the jobs I get are dull, or the girlfriends I have are too controlling, can I?

  And as for this house . . . I don’t think Hayley realises just what she’d be getting us into if we do try to renovate it. I’ve seen enough episodes of Great Locations to know that it’s never easy, never cheap, and is back-breaking work for the most part. Do I really want to spend the summer painting that shithole?

  But then I see that look of d
isappointment in Hayley’s eyes again – swiftly followed by the hurt at the mention of Simon’s name.

  Christ.

  When I get back to the flat, my head is still buzzing. Usually a nice ride clears it, but not today.

  I don’t really taste my hastily thrown together beans on toast, nor do I enjoy the cigarette I have after them. I just keep seeing Hayley’s disappointed face floating in front of my mind’s eye.

  Fuck it.

  I’m going to have to learn how to lay bricks, aren’t I?

  I pick up my phone and dial my sister’s number. She doesn’t answer, and it goes to her voicemail. Hayley always answers her phone. She’s obviously still angry with me.

  ‘Hi, sis,’ I say after the beep, ‘I just wanted to say sorry again for bringing Simon up like that. It wasn’t fair of me.’ I pause for a moment. ‘And, if you want to renovate that house, then I’m in . . . I guess. Give me a call when . . . when you want to. See you later.’

  It only takes her ten minutes to call back, so she can’t have been that mad after all.

  ‘You really want to do this?’ she asks warily.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I do,’ I reply, trying to sound convincing. ‘Six hundred thousand is a lot of money.’

  ‘It’ll be hard,’ she cautions. ‘All our time will be taken up with it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’ll need to help me with all the admin stuff like calling people, filing documents, paying bills.’

  Shit. I’d forgotten about the admin. Trying to build a brick wall is one thing, but admin work is quite another. It’s the main reason I quit that job with the Halifax. I’ve committed myself now, though, haven’t I?

  ‘Yes, yes. I know,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I’m up for it.’

  ‘Great! Then we’ll get together tomorrow morning to chat about it a bit more. Ten o’clock at the Long Café?’ Hayley’s voice is lighter and brighter again – and all it took was for me to agree to months of back-breaking labour.

  ‘Yep. Sounds good to me. See you tomorrow.’

  I end the call and throw the phone onto the couch.

  So that’s that, then.

  I’ve just passed up an easy payday to keep my older sister happy. I must be mad.

  Having said that: six hundred thousand pounds . . .

  . . . Less the money we spend renovating Grandma’s farmhouse, and the cut the taxman will take, of course.

  I’d get fifty per cent of more than £300,000, give or take. That buys an awful lot of Xbox games and new tyres for the Kawasaki. I could also afford to rent a much better flat. Hell, I could afford to buy a bloody flat. Maybe one of those posh ones down by the quay. Lovely stuff.

  Maybe, just maybe, the effort will be worth it . . .

  I flick on the TV and start to channel surf. By startling coincidence, an episode of Great Locations is on BBC Three. I settle myself down to watch it. Previously, this show just used to be on in the background while I was doing something else, but now it has my undivided attention. I’m about to get into the property renovation game myself, so I figure it’s vital to pick up a few tips.

  An hour later I am as white as a sheet and reconsidering the whole bloody idea.

  I’ve just watched two people descend into madness while trying to renovate a barn in the Lincolnshire countryside. By the end of the show, he’d lost half his hair and she’d piled on three stone.

  What the fuck am I letting myself in for?

  HAYLEY

  May

  £500.00 spent

  Of course, neither my brother nor I have the first clue how to renovate a property. You might as well hand us both a scalpel and ask us to perform brain surgery. On each other.

  But while I don’t know how to refurbish a house, I do know how to use Google.

  And the first thing I learn during a constructive couple of hours of research is that we need to enlist the help of two very important people if we’re going to have any chance of getting this project off the ground: an architect and a builder.

  I hand the task of finding the builder to Danny, while I search for an architect in our local area that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. I could go national, but if something goes wrong with the build, I want to be able to physically get hold of people, so hiring someone in the Outer Hebrides just isn’t practical. A local architect is a must.

  Sadly, there are surprisingly few of them – and all of them appear to be astronomically expensive. If I ever do decide that I want to risk getting into another relationship with a man, I will make it my goal in life to find the nearest architect. If nothing else, my financial stability will be assured.

  I wish I’d chosen it as my field of study at university, rather than teaching. There would have probably been less job satisfaction – but a lot more soft-top convertibles and holidays to the tropics.

  A lot of advice online indicates that the best way to find an architect is by word of mouth and through the local council. So I look at various property renovation forums, and write an email to the relevant council offices, asking for help. Over the course of the next two weeks I arrive at a shortlist of architects that we can probably afford if I’ve done my sums right on the budget, who work within a twenty-mile radius of the house. The list is very, very short: just three names in total. I am dismayed to realise that all of them are men. Maybe I should have studied to be an architect, after all.

  Of the three names, I have to discount two almost immediately. One is busy for the next two years with a variety of projects, and the other requires a hefty fee up front before completing any work – a fee that we simply don’t have. This means we don’t have to bother with the tedious process of putting the job out to tender and waiting for quotes to come back. A saving grace, I guess.

  The only local architect I can find who will take a minimal up-front fee, and has a schedule that’s not fully booked up, is a gentleman called Mitchell Hollingsbrooke.

  From his website it appears that Mr Hollingsbrooke is in his late twenties, and is a wanker. There’s only one picture of him, and he’s wearing a trilby hat in it. A white one with a paisley band. He also has a moustache. One that tapers to a point at either end. Given that it’s not Movember, I can only assume that this is a permanent piece of facial furniture. I think the expression he is trying to achieve in the picture is one of considered intellect. Sadly, he’s failing, and it just looks like someone’s recently inserted a set square into his rectum.

  Nevertheless, all the reviews and opinions that I can find of Mitchell Hollingsbrooke say the same two things over and over again: he is good at his job, and even more importantly, he is cheap.

  With more than a slight degree of trepidation I call his office and book an appointment to meet with him, through his exotic-sounding assistant, Mischa.

  Danny is initially reluctant to attend the meeting as it’s at 8.45 in the morning, but I sweeten the deal by offering to buy him breakfast afterwards.

  ‘Alright, I’ll come in that case,’ he says, proving that any man can be pretty much told to do anything, providing you reward them with something covered in sugar that they can shove in their mouths. ‘Please don’t expect me to do much of the talking, though,’ he adds. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what to say.’

  I snort. ‘And you think I have? Basically I’m going to show him a few photos of the farmhouse along with a floor plan, and hope he doesn’t throw us both out of the door with a sneer on his face.’

  Mitchell Hollingsbrooke doesn’t have an office in the strictest sense of the word. You might think somebody in the architectural world would secrete himself away in some ultra-modern, high-class office space, full of interesting and valuable pieces of art that inexplicably look cheap and nasty when you actually get up close and give them a good hard look. Everywhere is lit with long strip-lighting, and the furniture is the optical illusion type that looks comfortable from a distance, but the minute you park your backside on it, you discover that you’re sitting on something e
ven Torquemada would have found a bit excessive.

  None of this for Mitchell Hollingsbrooke, though. He chose to set up shop on a houseboat. A very large, blue houseboat. And not one of the new ones either. This thing looks like it just sailed straight out of an episode of Howard’s Way.

  When Mischa told me the address was 13 The River’s Edge, I thought it would be a road next to the river, but no, here we are, standing right on the riverbank, and there is the sign for Hollingsbrooke’s architectural practice, nailed to a pole next to a long gangplank that leads down to the deck of the aforementioned gigantic old houseboat.

  ‘This guy designs houses?’ Danny asks, as we study the sign, double-checking that we haven’t got the wrong end of the stick completely.

  ‘Yep. This is it,’ I reply, consulting the email Mischa sent me.

  ‘Fantastic. Well, we’re fine then, providing you want the place to have a nautical theme,’ Danny says, and takes himself off down the gangplank.

  This is a somewhat worrying development, it has to be said. What kind of architect would keep office hours on a houseboat?

  The stark raving mad kind, that’s who.

  When I join Danny on the deck outside the – the what? Front door? Cabin door? I know as much about boats as I do about brain surgery – I can’t help but feel we may be on a hiding to nothing here. The front windows on the houseboat are tinted so you can’t see in. A small plaque on the door features Hollingsbrooke’s name again, as well as the entreaty to knock politely and wait. I feel less like I’m about to meet an architect, and more like I’m about to meet a lower-ranking member of the royal family.

  ‘Oh yes, this is going to be fun,’ Danny intones.

  ‘We don’t have any other choice. I took the morning off work for this, so we’re going in. Besides, the only other guy available wanted at least five grand up front.’

  ‘Really?’ Danny’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘Captain Pugwash it is then!’ He raps smartly on the door a couple of times. ‘If he answers in waders, carrying a harpoon, I’ll get a bank loan out to pay for the other guy.