Untitled 21

Once he was in his Polo, Terry got on the phone to call the brick man in Eastleigh but it was too late in the day. He left an urgent message to say that he desperately needed the bricks back and could he please call as soon as possible.
He couldn’t stop worrying about the bricks so he decided to have a few beers at the pub, but this turned into six or seven.
At ten o’clock, he wobbled out to the car park and drove home.
It was only a mile away and he’d done it plenty of times in the past, but the new landlord didn’t like Terry.
Just before turning into his road, the police lights came on behind him and he was breathalysed. Being nearly three times over the limit, he was arrested and placed in a cell overnight to sober up.
At seven o’clock the next morning, he was picked up by Josie and taken home. If he hurried, he’d have just enough time to shower, feed and get the bus into town for the connecting bus to work.
Rob watched some telly and listened to music that evening while Ray tuned into LBC for all the political banter, tittering when he heard something particularly junevile or cringeworthy.
A hung parliament was definitely the best he could hope for, he decided, while nursing his aching muscles with a rather large glass of Irish whiskey. At least if parliament was hung, the three parties would have to agree upon something instead of bickering and jibing one another for their own ends.
Election morning was bright and breezy, but Terry was in a bad way. He’d missed the connecting bus from town and the brick man had called to say he’d sold half of the bricks. He could come and get what were left but he would need to pay a surcharge of thirty pounds for the privilege, owing to VAT or some other cost he was barking on about down the phone. It was ‘required by law’, he said.
Having paid the rent and all the bills, Terry didn’t have the £180 the brick man wanted, which was a problem, but he didn’t want Ray to go with him because the brick man might let the cat out of the bag.
Rob had arrived at the shed and the tea was on the table when Ray came in.
‘Morning, lad,’ he said.
‘Morning, chef,’ replied Rob.
About ten minutes later, Terry bowled through the doorway and told them what had happened.
‘Sorry I’m late, chef,’ he said, rubbing his head. ‘I got nicked for drink-driving last night and they only let me out two hours ago. I got the bus in and missed the connection.’
Ray wasn’t happy with him. ‘What about the bricks?’ he said. ‘Have you spoken to the bloke in Eastleigh?’
‘No, chef,’ lied Terry. ‘I called him and left a message on his answerphone to say I’ll be there on Saturday morning so I’ll go over and have a look then, alright?’
That pleased Ray little.
‘Saturday’s too late, lad,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘We’ll have to knock some out of the coal shed. We’ll get them after tea.’
The first part of the morning was spent taking out rotten old bricks and pointing and then hosing and scrubbing the wall down with water. This and a watery mix of PVA would clean the surface for long-lasting pointing and masonry repairs.
After tea, they set off with two large barrows towards the coal shed at the back of the main building.
In past times, this area of the estate was a busy hub of the working men and women.
Now, it had become a set of outhouses let to small private companies with parking dotted around in various pockets.
The only reason the coal shed survived at all was because of the cruddy old central heating system, which had failed at some time or other every winter for the last twenty years.
After about twenty minutes of uninterrupted work, they had tapped out what Ray believed to be more than enough bricks for the job without causing too much of an eyesore, having taken bricks from the furthermost point of the coal shed.
So off they went, the guilty gardeners, back to the wall with the bricks covered over with dirty, brown cotton sheets.
‘Piece of cake,’ said Terry as they tailed off away from the whispering walls of the main building.
He was particularly happy about this arrangement because he wouldn’t have to go to Eastleigh on Saturday and give the bastard brick man £180. It also meant that he could work on his own garden and have it shipshape for Emerald on Sunday afternoon as planned.
If he’d had to fork out that money, he’d have only spent the weekend getting pissed in angry regret.
Ray was more than happy with the find. ‘They’re the exact same ones as the wall. And they’ve aged nicely, too,’ he said, rubbing one of them. He was delighted.
Rob was just happy that Ray and Terry were happy.
By lunchtime, they’d taken the bricks from the cottage and the coal shed over to the wall for an afternoon of masonry work.
Terry mixed the mortar on demand and laid out bricks as Ray hurried up and down the wall with either bricks or a hawk loaded with mortar. The majority of the work was in building up the areas that the ivy had destroyed. These two places would need at least one hundred bricks each.
The area behind the drain was bad, but it would only need remedial brickwork, taking a further fifty or so.
Rob put himself to sanding and cleaning the metalwork. The two drainpipe pieces were placed on a few bricks on the lawn and painted there.
The gutters he got at from a ladder. These needed a quick sand and dust for a coat of metalwork paint.
At four-forty, they packed up their mess and left to go home.
With the two gaping eyes almost closed up, Ray was beginning to think more positively about the wall.
Apart from the ivy among the beams of the roof, the wall had ceased its fight.
Ray and the lads had won. They’d remedied the problem by ridding it of the very thing that was strangling it, the thing that the public cherished most and that which the Trust had lazily enjoyed profiting from.
Ray and Terry took the bus back to town together and chatted quietly about the wall’s progress while Rob took the scenic route through the fields.
Election night came and went without a whimper.
The people of Britain had cast their vote and would know the outcome soon enough.
Ray couldn’t give two hoots which party won. As far as he was concerned, it was all for nothing.
If his predictions were correct, they would all be gone in a few short years and the world would be changed forever.