Bricking It (5 page)

‘No arguments here.’

‘Do you think this entire project is going to be like this?
Risky
, I mean?’

‘Probably. We’re going to have to take a chance on everyone we work with.’

Danny looks doubly dismayed. ‘Great.’

‘Speaking of which, have you come up with any good ideas for a builder yet?’

He opens the car door. ‘Well, there is one guy I’ve found, but we need to have a chat about him . . .’ Danny tails off mysteriously.

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, let’s just say that Mitchell Hollingsbrooke might not be the only slightly odd character we could have involved in the renovation.’

‘Wonderful. It sounds like Daley Farmhouse is attracting all sorts of weird people already – possibly including us.’

Danny laughs. ‘What did you just call it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You just called that tumble-down shit pile
Daley Farmhouse
.’ He laughs again. ‘You’re not getting attached to it, are you?’

My turn to go flame-faced. ‘Of course not! But we have to call it something, don’t we?’ I throw open my car door and climb inside. The key is in the ignition before Danny has got his seatbelt on. This is not a conversation I wish to pursue any further.

Possibly because Danny is right.

Have I started to get attached to the old wreck already? Is it, like the mould along the skirting board, growing on me? And if it is, what effect will it have on my approach to this renovation?

A lot of questions start revolving in my head as I drive away from Mitchell Hollingsbrooke and his purple cords. Not least of which is, why would anyone want to swim in a building shaped like a tuba?

DANNY

May

£514.58 spent

W
hen you hear the name Fred Babidge, what kind of person is conjured up in your mind

Is there a flat cap involved?

Wellington boots?

A rolled-up cigarette permanently parked on one side of the mouth?

A grizzled, stubbly chin, and a hoarse, echoing laugh that sounds like it’s at least thirty-two per cent gravel?

Congratulations.

Meet our new builder.

Now, I’m going to be honest here and say that I found Fred Babidge thanks to a conversation I had down the pub. I am fully and comprehensively aware that you should never enter into any kind of business relationship based on a conversation you had down the pub, but researching and finding a builder is bloody hard work. So hard in fact that up until the pub chat, I had spent four frustrating days trying to nail down (no pun intended) a builder who was cheap enough, and
competent
enough, to take a load of complicated architectural plans and make a half-million-pound house out of them.

Unlike Hayley and her search for an architect, I had plenty of options to choose from. Too bloody many, as it happens. How exactly are you supposed to decide which building firm you want to hire when you know nothing of the industry, and only have the reviews of others to go by? It’s all very well Find a Trade giving you a comprehensive listing of customer reviews on every builder in the local area, but if at least eighty of those builders rank ninety-five per cent or above, it doesn’t really narrow the playing field much, does it?

I’ve spent more time on the phone in the last few days than I have in my entire life, speaking with a series of men who all sounded exactly the same, and said much the same thing too – all of it mildly baffling.

At the end of the four days I had successfully narrowed the one hundred and sixty-three builders in our area down to just seventy-eight. If I kept going that way, I would have arrived at a final choice around the same time Daley Farmhouse finally collapsed into dust, which would have rendered the whole search completely bloody moot.

In disgust, I threw down my phone and buggered off down to the pub, to see if a little light refreshment with some friends would help me with my problem.

A solution arrives when Fat Bob suggests Fred Babidge.

‘Who’s Fred Babidge?’ I ask him, sipping my pint of John Smith’s.

‘He did my nan’s conservatory. He’s brilliant.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yep!’ Long Johnson pipes up from where he’s standing at the nearby fruit machine. ‘He rebuilt my cousin’s Jeff’s house after that water main burst and the whole left-hand side sunk two feet into the ground. Did it in half the time any other builder could, and at a fraction of the price.’

‘Babidge is a local legend,’ Fat Bob continues. ‘You ask around this pub, or any other of the locals, and I’ll bet you’ll hear loads of people recommend him.’

‘Is he on Find a Trade?’

‘Fuck no. Fred Babidge doesn’t need any of that nonsense.’

This one fact endears Mr Babidge to me more than anything else. ‘How do I get hold of him? Have you got his phone number?’

Fat Bob picks up a beer mat and peels it apart. ‘You write your number down on this, and I’ll see if I can get it to Fred. No guarantees, mind. He’s dead popular in these parts.’

Fred Babidge is starting to sound like some kind of folk hero, rather than an inexpensive builder. Still, this is the clearest direction I’ve had yet on where to go to find someone to fix up Daley Farmhouse, so I’m not going to look a potential gift horse in the mouth, until it tries to bite my nose off.

And yes . . . I’m fully aware that I am now referring to the place as ‘Daley Farmhouse’. Blame my bloody sister for that one.

The next day I am sat enjoying a Pot Noodle in my broom closet at work when my phone rings.

‘Hello?’

‘You alright there, mate?’ a man asks me with the thickest cockney accent I’ve heard outside a Danny Dyer film.

‘Um. Yes? Who is this?’

‘The name’s Fred Babidge, chief. I hear you’re looking for a builder?’

‘Um. Yes. We are.’

‘What’s the gaff?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The gaff, son. The place you want crowbarring. What’s the job?’

‘Er, it’s a farmhouse.’

‘Nice country pile, then?’

‘It’s a pile alright.’

I’m treated to my first dose of the Babidge gravel-filled laugh. ‘Blinding. Shall I come have a look at the gaff?’

‘Um. Okay?’

‘Smashing. I’ll bring a few of the lads. They can have a crawl over it and see what’s what. When are you free, captain?’

I’m not a captain, but I can’t pretend I mind being referred to as such. ‘We’ve got a meeting with an architect tomorrow, so maybe the day after?’

‘Got an archy lined up already then? Hit the ground running, have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good for you, china. Alright, Friday it is then. Email me over the address and your details, and I’ll see you there at ten.’

‘Okay, Mr Babidge.’

‘Call me Fred, teacup. The only person who ever called me Mr Babidge was my old parole officer, and he was a twat.’

Hayley is going to kill me. ‘Okay,
Fred
. See you Friday then?’

‘Smashing! See you then, champ.’

And with that, the phone line goes dead. A few seconds later a text
comes through with Babidge’s email address. I was half expecting it to be
[email protected]
, but it is in fact
[email protected]
.
I fire off the email as requested and sit back, wondering how the hell I’m going to break it to Hayley that I may well have hired half the cast of
EastEnders
to rebuild our house for us
.

‘So, you have no recommendation for this man other than the one you got from somebody called Fat Bob in your local boozer?’ Hayley asks me, the look of barely concealed contempt growing on her face with every syllable spoken.

‘More or less,’ I reply, trying to prop the garden gate back up.

I look at my watch. It’s 10.40. Babidge is late.

‘There was nobody else, Danny? No other builder within a thirty-square-mile radius who would have been a better option?’

‘Not really,’ I lie through my teeth.

Hayley folds her arms. ‘Just because our surname is Daley, it doesn’t mean I want
Arthur
Daley anywhere near this build.’

‘He’s not that bad.’

‘Oh no? The only recommendations the man has is from half-drunk locals. And he called you
china
?’

‘And captain.’

‘Yes. And
captain
. These facts do not fill me with a huge amount of confidence.’

We both hear the sound of an engine and look down the road. ‘And neither does that,’ Hayley adds, pointing at the vehicle now coming into view.

Yes, it’s a bloody Ford Transit. Yes, it’s white. And
yes
, it’s half covered in rust. I’m sure there’s every chance it cut up fifty or sixty others cars on its way here.

Down the side of the transit is the legend:
Fred Babidge – The Builder You Can Rely On.

‘Rely on to do what, exactly?’ Hayley says out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Insult you in rhyming slang and steal your back tyres?’

‘Just let’s give him a chance, shall we?’ I implore, knowing full well that if this goes as pear-shaped as it looks like it might, I will have all decision-making responsibilities on this project taken away from me.

The van comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and out jumps Fred Babidge – along with two heavily tattooed lumps of muscle that are no strangers to a nice casual glassing in the pub, I have no doubt.

‘Oh good fucking grief,’ Hayley whispers.

Babidge strides over, removing his flat cap as he does so. This reveals a gleaming bald pate that he must wax to get it so lovely and shiny. ‘Morning,’ he says with a big smile.

‘Hello, Fred,’ I say.

‘Good morning, Mr Babidge,’ Hayley says. She’s using her teacher voice. This does not bode well.

Babidge smiles even more broadly. ‘Please, call me Fred,’ he tells her. ‘I’m an old-fashioned sort, Miss Daley, so might I take your hand and give it a gentle kiss?’

What the fuck is this? Fred Babidge has gone from East End barrow boy to Shakespearean lover in the space of two heartbeats.

‘Er . . . I guess so?’ Hayley replies, hesitantly offering out her hand.

Babidge takes it and plants a gentle smacker on it. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Daley.’

Hayley actually
blushes
. My sister
never
blushes.

‘Call me Hayley,’ she tells Babidge.

‘Very musical,’ he says.

‘What is?’

‘Your name.
Hayley Daley
. I like it.’

Hayley’s face clouds for a moment. ‘I don’t. Blame it on my parents. There were a lot of drugs going around in the early eighties.’

‘Don’t you worry about it,’ Babidge tells her. ‘I was called Babidge the Cabbage right up until I left school, and now look at me.’ He holds his arms out expansively.

I don’t know what to do with that, I truly don’t.

‘Would you like to look over the farmhouse, Fred?’ I ask him, changing the subject for all I am worth.

‘Why the hell not, chief!’ he gestures to his two tattooed colleagues. ‘These are my two boys, Baz and Spider. They’ll be my right-hand men on the build if you hire us.’

Baz smiles a lot more pleasantly than should be possible with teeth like that. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says. Spider looks even happier to see us. ‘Alright,’ he says, beaming for all he is worth. It’s a shame about the spider web tattoo running down the whole left-hand side of his neck and half his face. It turns what I’m sure is intended to be a welcoming grin into something that you’d usually see plastered across the face of the nearest child killer. The strange tribal symbol that snakes its way around his right eye and temple don’t help matters either. Both of them look positively terrifying, beaming smiles notwithstanding.

You get the impression that Fred has taken a great deal of effort and time to ensure his men are polite and courteous to his clients. Possibly employing a cattle prod to do so.

Babidge stands back and puts his hands on his hips. ‘So this is it, is it?’ he says, looking at the farmhouse.

‘What’s left of it,’ I reply, only half joking.

Babidge pulls out a rolled-up cigarette from behind his ear. ‘Ah, it probably looks a lot worse than it is.’

‘You think so?’ Hayley says, with a sardonic laugh.

‘Yeah. I’ve done tons of these jobs. It won’t have anything I ain’t seen before, little lady.’

Hayley’s eyebrow shoots up. She holds out a hand, indicating the way over the broken gate and down the path. ‘Then by all means, Fred, go have a look and tell us what you think.’

Babidge laughs and gives my sister a florid bow. ‘It’d be my pleasure, Hayley!’ He regards his two boys. ‘Let’s go crawl over the place, lads.’

And with that he steps forward. Before he can go two paces though, Babidge stops and laughs once more. ‘Almost forgot! Can I have the key to get in?’

‘You won’t need one,’ I tell him.

‘Oh . . . that bad, is it?’

‘Pretty much.’

Babidge laughs again and sets off down the path. ‘Any chance of some tea and biscuits?’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘I think I saw a nice little café in the village back there! Three builders, please! And some garibaldis if they’ve got any!’

I look at Hayley. She looks right back at me.

‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ I say with a sigh, and trudge off down the road, the good little errand boy that I am.

Twenty minutes later I’m back to discover that Hayley has made it back into the house. ‘I hope he
is
good,’ I tell her as I enter the front room. ‘This little lot cost me nearly fifteen quid.’

Fred Babidge’s head appears from around the doorframe. ‘Is that tea and biscuits?’ he says cheerfully. It doesn’t take much to keep a builder happy. Tea, biscuits, the opportunity to slap on a seventy-five per cent markup.

‘Yep,’ I tell him, carrying the cardboard tray over. Babidge and his two looming associates take their drinks.

‘What’s this?’ Spider remarks, picking up his biscuit.

‘It’s a flapjack,’ I reply, a little uncertainly. ‘It’s all they had.’

‘It’s got bits in it,’ he remarks, examining the oat-based snack with a furrowed brow.

‘Just eat the thing,’ Babidge tells him. ‘It’ll be good for your dicky digestive system.’

Who’d have thought it? A man with a spider web tattoo down one side of his neck has irritable bowel syndrome.

‘So, what do you think of the place then, Fred?’ I ask the builder as he dunks his own flapjack into the tea.

Wait for it . . .

Wait for it . . .

Here comes the sucking in of the air through the teeth!

‘
Ssssccchhhhhwwwww
. . . Well, it’s not a bloody show house, is it?’ Fred intones, and takes a large mouthful of flapjack.

‘No.’

Fred gravel laughs, and draws in a deep breath. ‘I’d say your main problems are a touch of subsidence at the back on the right-hand side – probably done by the fact you’re on loam. That’ll need underpinning. The back wall is going to need ties put in, cos there’s a fair bit of bowing going on. You got some lovely woodworm munching their way through the floor joists in here, the kitchen, the roof and at least two of the bedrooms, so they’ll need killing. Your pipes need ripping out and replacing, cos they’re copper and gone to shit. There’ll be a good two or three blockages down to the main junction, you mark my words. There’s rising damp in the kitchen and the basement too, so you’ll need a course put in both. And there’s penetrating damp upstairs, which means the gutters and flashing need ripping out and redoing. That’s after the roof’s been rebuilt and retiled, of course.’

I am slack-jawed in amazement. Horrified, knee-trembling amazement.

I look at Hayley, who resembles someone who’s been sat down and shown an extensive slide show of dead puppies.

‘And you worked all that out in the twenty minutes I was away getting tea?’ I ask him, dumbfounded.