Confessions of a Plumber's Mate Page 5

  When Sid comes round to Scraggs Lane, his grim face is looking even grimmer than usual. ‘This is it, Timmo,’ he says. ‘We’re right back to where we started. The money I’ve got here is hardly enough to buy us a set of tools – in fact, I think I’ll buy a jemmy just in case we come really unstuck.’

  ‘What do we do?’ I say.

  ‘We wait for the word from Crispin,’ says Sid. ‘He’s got so much on his plate he doesn’t know what to do with it. When the right kind of job comes up, he’ll introduce us to do the physical alterations. He’ll lay down the colour scheme and all that.’

  ‘There’s a few jobs need doing around here,’ says Mum. ‘That doorbell for a start. Your father’s taken the loss of his chimes very hard.’

  ‘He’d have lost his chimes a long time ago if I’d had anything to do with it!’ says Sid savagely. ‘I’d have played “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” on them with a tent mallet.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says Mum. ‘I’m suggesting that you might like to fix that doorbell.’

  ‘That’s electrical, isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s probably dead simple,’ says Sid. ‘I think one of Jason’s kiddies’ encyclopaedias shows you how to do it. You shouldn’t have any problem.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have any problem?’ I say.

  ‘Definitely,’ says Sid. ‘You’ve got to be able to do these things so that it becomes second nature.’

  ‘What about you?’ I say.

  ‘I’m a broad concept man,’ says Sid. ‘I can’t become embossed in too much detail. I’ve got to see the whole picture.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ says Mum. ‘I’ll miss the start of Spring in Park Lane if I don’t get a move on. Ooh, I love those Anna Neagle films. She was so refined, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I used to prefer Michael Wilding,’ says Sid. ‘Is that all right, Timmo? Can I safely leave everything in your incompetent hands?’

  ‘Then there’s the washer on the bathroom tap,’ says Mum, switching on the telly. ‘That’s been dripping for so long it’s worn away the enamel.’

  ‘That’s Timmy having a wee wee when Dad’s locked himself in the karsi for the afternoon,’ says Sid.

  ‘Sidney! What a terrible thing to say!’ Anna Neagle’s mug has just appeared on the screen and Mum turns the set off immediately as if to spare her suffering.

  ‘I’m not a blooming plumber, you know,’ I say.

  ‘I know you’re not,’ says Sid. ‘You’re a plumber’s mate until you get the experience. When you’ve finished around here, we’ll see if you deserve to be promoted.’

  I am sorry to have to say that Mum never gets to see the whole of Spring in Park Lane. The first interruption occurs when I get confused about which way I am supposed to be twisting the bathroom tap and the whole bleeding issue comes off in my wrench. I suppose I should have checked where the stop cock was before I started out. It certainly does splash about a bit once it hits the ceiling. Mum gives me a hand to lash a towel round the mangled pipe end and I get on with the front doorbell while we wait for the plumber. It is just as well that he arrives when he does as it gives Mum and me something to watch while we wait for the electrician – yes, I have a little accident when I am trying to connect these pieces of coloured wire to the right screws. They are confusing, aren’t they? And so fiddly, too. It is not surprising that people have accidents.

  The one thing that the whole unpleasant experience teaches me, is that Sid is right. There is an opening for a switched-on, technically knowledgeable Jack of all trades. The only problem is that I don’t think that I am that bloke.

  When Sid sees the results of my labours he is prepared to agree with me. ‘We’ll have to hire specialist skills when we need them,’ he says. ‘I’ve got this Indian carpenter bloke lined up. I hear he’s very good if you like the Taj Mahal.’

  ‘That’s that curry place in the High Street, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘He did that, did he? I must say, I never thought it was anything special.’

  Sid screws up his face. ‘I was referring to the original Taj Mahal, wasn’t I? One of the most spirit-enriching examples of Indian architecture, built by Shah Jehan to the memory of a dearly beloved wife.’

  ‘Who was she married to?’

  ‘To him, you berk! To him! Really, Timmo, your cynicism about the marital state is very disturbing. I don’t know where you get it from.’

  Just as well, I think to myself. ‘Sorry, Sid,’ I say. ‘I’m certain this Shah bloke will be very useful. It’s just that I haven’t got used to the idea of them doing anything else except sitting on elephants waiting for the rains to come. I suppose it’s all the fault of Kipling.’

  ‘Kipling?’ says Sid.

  ‘Yes, Kipling. You know all about Kipling, don’t you Sid?’

  ‘Is it another word for jerking yourself off?’ says Sid.

  A couple of days later, Crispin gives Sid a ring and they announce their engagement – no, just my little joke. He gives Sid a ring and tells us to report to one of the houses on the west side of Clapham Common. I am expecting something pretty posh and I am not disappointed. It is semi-detached but enormous. The kind of place you would expect to find broken up into self-contained flats. In fact, as Crispin tells us, this is not the case. ‘You’ll have to be wary of Miss Murdstone,’ he says. ‘She’s a bit of a martinet.’

  ‘Likes the bottle, does she?’ says Sid. ‘A lot of the old ones do, don’t they?’

  ‘Never touches the stuff,’ says Crispin, plucking at his bright green cravat. ‘She’s teetotally inimical to any form of alcoholic imbibation.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Sid. ‘That can be the case as well, of course.’

  ‘Her sister has just died and left her a very wealthy woman.’

  ‘I wish somebody would leave me a very wealthy woman,’ I say.

  ‘Shut up!’ says Sid.

  ‘She’s thinking of having the house redecorated from top to bottom. It could be a very sizable contract.’

  ‘Great!’ says Sid, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s get at it!’

  ‘Just a word of warning,’ says Crispin. ‘She’s not an easy woman to get on with. If I do all the talking and pass on the instructions for you to jot down, I think that this could pay dividends. It would make everything look more professional somehow.’

  ‘Say no more,’ says Sid, tapping his nose. ‘Your word is our command, eh?’

  ‘Right,’ says Crispin. ‘And I think it would be a good idea if we spruced ourselves up a bit. Make sure the old boots aren’t dirty and all that kind of thing.’

  Beside the front door is an old-fashioned shoe-cleaning gadget made up of two circular brooms that revolve when a handle is turned. You put your foot on one of the brooms, turn the handle and the mud is brushed off faster than Denis Healey cutting in for the last waltz at an Institute of Directors’ Bankruptcy Ball.

  ‘It’s blooming stiff,’ says Sid.

  ‘Hang on. You hold your foot there and I’ll do it.’ Ever the helpful Timothy, I take a man-sized pull at the handle and watch Sid’s shoe disappear through the brushes.

  ‘You stupid berk!’ snaps Sid, wrenching free his stockinged foot.

  ‘You don’t have to get it out,’ I say. ‘If I reverse the brushes –’

  ‘Don’t bother!’ says Sid contemptuously. He drops to his hands and knees and starts trying to insert his hand between the brushes.

  ‘Sid! You’ll get yourself filthy,’ I say, ‘Let me just –’

  Sid thinks that I did it on purpose, I know he does. He never understands how flustered he makes me feel – especially in front of other people. Also, all the cogs get me confused. I don’t mean to turn the handle and drive his arm so far through the brushes that he finishes up looking as if he is trying to clean his teeth on one of them.

  It is unfortunate, too, that Miss Murdstone should choose that moment to open the door. Her reaction to finding a strange man stretched out on her front doorstep
with his nut wedged between the brushes of her shoe-cleaning machine is, not unnaturally, one of surprise. ‘What is going on here?’ she says. ‘Mr Fletcher, please explain yourself!’

  ‘My dear lady,’ soothes Crispin. ‘I hesitate to try and explain the exact nature of Mr Noggett’s predicament. I think the event is best described as an accident.’

  ‘Is the gentleman accident prone?’ says Miss Murdstone, underlining the last word.

  Fletcher’s reaction to this little jest could be played behind a TV sit-com as a substitute for audience applause. While he is holding himself off the ground and Sid is scrambling away from it, I take a gander at Miss Murdstone. She has a face like an inverted belly button and a nose that could be the largest two-holed wart in the world. I have watched some bad second features in my time but these are ridiculous.

  ‘Delightful,’ says Crispin. ‘Quite delightful.’

  ‘Who are these men?’ says Miss Murdstone like she is already planning to send cook out for an extra order of rat poison.

  ‘Mr Noggett and – er, Mr Lea will be undertaking any conversion work that is necessary,’ says Fletcher smoothly. ‘I thought it advisable that they came in on the ground floor so to speak.’

  ‘Ho, ho,’ says Sid. ‘Charming, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ says Miss Murdstone, coldly. ‘However, the choice of artisans is in your own, I hope, capable hands, Mr Fletcher. Come, let us to work.’

  ‘Did you hear that?!’ I mutter to Sid as we stumble across the threshold. ‘I’m not digging any bleeding wells!’

  ‘She said artisans, not artesians!’ scolds Sid. ‘I can see the kind of magazines you read when you go to the dentists. You want to try something a bit more educational. There’s always a few Observer Colour Magazines buried under the photographic stuff.’

  ‘I always go for the photographic magazines, myself,’ I say. ‘It’s the nearest you get to a bit of tit, isn’t it? Naomi greets the dawn with a 1/125 exposure and her left knocker hanging out.’

  ‘Did you get that?’ says Sid.

  ‘No, I tried to, but the receptionist saw me tearing it out.’

  ‘I mean, what Crispin is saying!’ hisses Sid. ‘For heaven’s sake, pay attention!’ He turns to Crispin and makes a throat clearing noise. ‘Excuse me, could we have that again? My mate is having trouble with his fibre tip.’

  ‘Certainly,’ says Crispin. ‘I was saying that we’d have the Regency stripes horizontal rather than vertical. I think that will give the room a feeling of bonded intimacy. A kind of Marcel Marceau cage holding in that which is not there in the first place.’

  ‘Put the wallpaper on its side,’ says Sid. ‘Got that? Good.’

  ‘Won’t that make the room seem rather small?’ says Miss Murdstone. ‘I can’t abide little rooms.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ says Crispin mysteriously. He is running his hands over the wall at the far end of the room like he is touching it up. ‘Yes, I thought so. You have a false wall here. Built in an age when symmetry was all-important.’ He peers out of the window. ‘You see how the wing goes off at an angle while this wall is at right angles to the end of the building?’

  ‘Good heavens,’ says Miss Murdstone. ‘I never noticed that before.’ She is clearly impressed and Sid winks at me and nods towards Crispin in a ‘we’ve found ourselves a winner here’ gesture.

  ‘If we take that wall down, it will give you a few more feet and open up the room.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ says Miss Winkle-bonce. ‘That does seem like a good idea. Do it, do it.’

  ‘Have you got that?’ says Sid, turning to me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Remove false wall …’

  ‘You want to get yourself a proper pad,’ hisses Sid. ‘It looks ridiculous taking down everything on the back of an envelope.’

  By the time we get up to the attic, I have covered every inch of that envelope in writing. I start off trying to make a plan of each room but this soon proves impossible as the tidal wave of specifications and materials pours out of Crispin’s cakehole. I can see what Imogen meant about him being wed to his vocation. He can hardly tear himself away at the end of our visit. ‘Look at him,’ says Sid admiringly. ‘He’s got her eating out of his hand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy that,’ I say. ‘She looks as if she could eat your fingers as well.’

  ‘Don’t let’s have any of that,’ says Sid sternly. ‘You’re going to have to curb your unfortunate tendency to antagonise people if we’re going to get anywhere in this business. All the customers aren’t going to look like Gayle Honeychops, you know.’

  Before there can be further discussion on the matter, Crispin favours Miss Murdstone with a farewell flash of his Teds and turns to us. ‘OK chaps. Did you get all that? I’ve got one or two other spots of business to follow up, so I suggest you start with the basic structural alterations and we’ll polish up on the detail later.’

  I am relieved to hear Crispin make his last statement as I am having difficulty understanding anything on my envelope.

  ‘Right,’ says Sid. ‘Let’s get down to it.’

  ‘I have to go out to my bridge club,’ says Miss Murdstone. ‘Can I safely leave your employees to proceed with the minimum of disturbance and mess?’

  I can see that Sid is not very happy about the ‘employees’ bit but as long as we get some money out of the deal I am not too fussed. Whatever they call me, I always end up doing the same job.

  ‘I wonder what you do at a bridge club?’ muses Sid as we get the gear out of the back of the van. ‘Swop dentures, I suppose.’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy getting hers,’ I say. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  ‘Start with that false wall, shall we?’ says Sid. ‘If we get that down nice and tidy, the old girl should be well pleased.’

  We both incline our heads as Miss Murdstone drives past down the drive. I notice that she has a ‘Bring Back The Cat’ sign on her rear window.

  ‘Doesn’t look like an animal lover, does she?’ says Sid. Sometimes, I don’t know whether he is joking or not. We go into the house and Sid turns to me. ‘Right, you’ve got the plan. Where is it?’

  ‘Er – blimey. There’s so many doors, aren’t there? I think –’

  ‘It’s in here,’ says Sid, flinging open a door.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say, replacing the vacuum cleaner that has fallen down. ‘It was a bit bigger than that.’

  Sid closes the cupboard door and grits his teeth like he is trying to crack a walnut with them. ‘Don’t try and be funny with me,’ he says.

  I open another door and stick my head inside. ‘Was this the one? They all look alike with that antique furniture.’

  ‘Course it was, you berk!’ snaps Sid. ‘I recognise the candleharbour.’

  I take a gander at my envelope but it doesn’t help any. ‘Lovely wallpaper, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I reckon it’s thicker than the walls back home. Seems a shame to have it down, really.’

  ‘We’ll be putting up a new lot,’ says Sid. ‘Don’t start getting sentimental for gawd’s sake.’

  I tap the wall. ‘That’s funny. It sounded hollow when Crispin did it.’

  ‘That’s because he’s got the knack,’ says Sid. ‘It’s like water divining. You and I could hold one of those little sticks over the Atlantic Ocean and we wouldn’t get a wiggle.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ I say. ‘Well, here we go.’

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ Sid grabs my pick as it passes my earhole on the back swing. ‘We’ve got to put down some dust sheets, haven’t we? You remember what the old girl said about making a mess. We don’t want to start off by creating a bad impression.’

  ‘You’re right, Sid,’ I say. ‘You do well to castigate me.’

  ‘The thought has flashed through my mind on a number of occasions,’ says Sid. ‘There’s nothing in the van, is there? We’d better have a look round.’

  But though we have a very thorough shufti, we don’t find anyth
ing resembling a dust sheet. ‘We could take some of the sheets off the bed,’ says Sid. ‘They’re not going to get very dirty.’

  ‘Better not,’ I say. ‘Just in case we have an accident.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Sid. ‘We don’t want to take any chances. Tell you what. We’ll peel back the carpet so that we don’t get it dirty and it’s easier to clear up afterwards.’

  ‘Good thinking. Sid,’ I say. Sid’s businesslike approach has got through to me and I am feeling almost enthusiastic as we whip back the carpet.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ says my dynamic brother-in-law. ‘I’ve got an even better idea. This floorboard’s a bit loose. We’ll have it up and sweep everything out of sight, nice and tidy. Give us that pick a moment.’

  Sid prises up the board and there is a very handy cavity underneath. ‘Right,’ I say, taking the pick. ‘All systems go.’

  ‘Mind how you swing that thing,’ says Sid. ‘If it’s a false wall it will probably collapse with a couple of bashes. Better let me have a go.’

  I stand back respectfully and Sid spits on his hands and grabs the pickaxe like a real pro. ‘The whole knack is to get the swing right,’ he says. ‘Don’t hurl yourself at it. Just back and – oooooooh!’

  Sid swings at the wall and the point of the pick bounces back like it has hit steel plating. The vibration passes through Sid’s arms and dies out just above his knees.

  ‘Tough, is it?’ I say.

  ‘You’re not kidding! By the cringe, they knew how to build a false wall in those days. It’s just like the real thing.’

  ‘They were craftsmen, then, weren’t they?’ I say. ‘Mum always reckons so, anyway.’

  ‘It was all right for them,’ says Sid. ‘They didn’t have to knock them down, did they? Here, you have a go.’ Sid pushes the pick at me and starts massaging his mitts. It certainly is tough, there is no doubt about it. I take a couple of swipes and hardly make a dent.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ says Sid. ‘Do you hear anything?’

  ‘Blimey!’ I say. ‘It sounds like somebody knocking from the other side of the wall.’