Untitled 18

Now that the ivy was almost down, Ray felt quite sure that the job could be finished by the end of the week, even if they had to scrimp the work in places to complete it in time.
Terry had guessed well enough how Ray would go about the rest of the work, assuming no other problem-patches appeared with the ivy skins and the knuckles.
‘Go and check how many bricks we got, will ya, Rob?’ asked Ray.
‘OK.’ And off he went, out the door and around to the back of the cottage.
Sat down with Terry, he poured some tea and looked at the front page of the paper. It read ‘Houses Prices Sure To Soar’, another media balloon for the masses to latch onto.
‘It’ll be you and me on the ladders and Rob on the ivy skins this morning,’ he said, without looking up.
‘Nice one, chef,’ replied Terry, clearing his throat and looking ill at ease. ‘I’ve sharpened up a load of chisels and got the brushes.’
‘Good. We’d best be very careful up top with that gutter,’ said Ray, looking over at Terry. ‘We don’t want it coming away at the wrong time. Could be dangerous, and there’s the flowers to think about.’ Terry had foreseen the delicacy of the gutter’s removal as a potential headache, too.
‘Best get some rope in that bag of yours,’ he ended, supping on his tea.
The rope would be handy for passing the sections of guttering down between the two ladders for Rob to ease down to the ground.
That was if it needed to come down.
If the ivy had only toyed with the gutter, unlike the crippling damage it had imposed upon the area around the drainpipe, which was pure abuse, the gutter could stay in place, repaired from ladders, and the drainpipe could be de-rusted, sanded, re-painted and replaced without too much bother.
That was the scenario that the three gardeners had in mind.
Just as Ray had sat back to look at his Mail, Rob came bowling through the door.
‘There’s only about fifty left!’ he shrieked.
‘There’s more than that, lad,’ said Ray. ‘I saw them there last Christmas and there were a lot more than fifty. Go and check again!’
But Rob knew his bricks. ‘Come and see for yourself, chef.’
The three gardeners went out through the door and around to the back of the cottage, which had been disused since the sixties.
‘Look!’ cried Rob. ‘There’s hardly any. It’ll never be enough for the wall.’
Ray said nothing (the word ‘wall’ was beginning to get on his nerves) and Terry stayed quiet with pursed lips, trying to look as bemused as the others.
‘Someone must have had ‘em away.’ Ray nearly turned towards Terry but thought better of it.
There followed a short silence, in which Terry appeared extremely uncomfortable.
‘Who’s going to nick a load of old bricks?’ asked Rob.
‘They’re quite sought after as it goes but,’ said Ray, rubbing his head, ‘who the hell would ‘ave taken ‘em?’
‘I know someone that sells bricks in Eastleigh,’ said Terry. He certainly did. He’d sold them to him a fortnight ago to pay for a little fishing weekend in Wales with the boys.
‘These are nearly two hundred years old, for Christ’s sake,’ said Ray, picking up a brick from the little pile. ‘They might have some old bricks but they won’t have these bricks.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure, chef. He’s got all different types there. I’ll call him tonight, alright?’
The three gardeners finished their tea and walked towards the wall. There were no words spoken as they marched from the shed.
Rob wished that they were working by the river as he watched a heron take flight with an urgent few steps before its wings took over.
Ray looked dejected.
They hadn’t lifted a finger against the wall and already the day seemed destined to doom.
They hadn’t even got to the damned wall and already a major problem had rendered them speechless.