Confessions of a Plumber's Mate Page 6

  ‘There can’t be anyone behind a false wall,’ says Sid. ‘Unless –’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Sid. ‘Unless there’s somebody bricked up behind there.’

  ‘Strewth!’ I say. ‘It’s like that story.’

  ‘It’s like all those stories,’ says Sid. ‘Thank God we were here. Listen to that poor devil trying to attract our attention.’ The sound of banging is now becoming almost frenzied. ‘Hang on, mate. Relief is at hand.’ Sid starts battering away at the wall like a madman.

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ I say.

  ‘Could be the old bag’s sister, couldn’t it? That’s how she came into the money. Bricked her up and said she’d snuffed it.’

  ‘It’s usually a lover in the stories,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t reckon it,’ says Sid. ‘Not with a mug like that. Even your dad wouldn’t have a go at that.’

  ‘Might be the sister’s lover,’ I say.

  ‘Might be the two of them,’ says Sid. ‘There’s enough noise, isn’t there?’

  ‘They don’t sound too weak,’ I say.

  ‘Probably a last desperate frenzy before the oxygen gives out,’ gasps Sid. ‘Come on, you have a go. I’m knackered.’

  Sid has done a good job in the last couple of minutes but we still haven’t got through the wall. ‘I wondered why it was so thick,’ I pant. ‘Now it’s obvious, isn’t it? What a terrible way to incarcerate somebody.’

  ‘You don’t reckon she’s done that as well, do you?’ says Sid. ‘Blimey, what a diabolical old woman!’

  I take another bone-jarring swing and Sid cries out in triumph, ‘You’re through! I can see a chink of light.’

  ‘A chink of light?’ I say.

  Sid applies his cakehole to the scene of the action. ‘Stand back, missus!’ he shouts. ‘We’ll have you out in a jiffy.’ From behind the wall I can hear muffled shouts and what sounds like somebody swearing viciously.

  ‘She’s beside herself,’ says Sid. ‘Give us that pick. If I can just lever it in this crack – come on, all together! Heave!’

  There is an ominous rumbling noise and an enormous slab of wall falls to the floor – not only to the floor, but through it! It plunges into the gap where the floorboard used to be and disappears from sight accompanied by a sound like someone karate-chopping their way through a stack of wafers. Hardly has it vanished than there is another noise. This time, like a piece of heavy masonry crashing on top of an open piano. I glance through the gaping hole at my feet and – yup! As the cloud of dust clears I can see the stricken piano. The chords are still vibrating.

  ‘We were lucky there, weren’t we?’ says Sid. ‘There could have been a nasty accident. That thing only missed my feet by inches.’

  I think that Miss Murdstone could well have a nasty accident when she sees what we have done to her piano. In its present condition, you would be pushed to use it for laying out Christmas cards.

  ‘You dirty rotten scum! You’ll never get me out!’

  These do not sound like the words of a woman about to be rescued from a fate worse than death and Sid steps forward to stick his nut through the hole in the wall. He staggers backwards, seconds later, clutching his bonce. ‘The woman is round the twist!’ he says. ‘She’s just chucked a brick at me!’

  A glance through the hole shows me a woman in late middle age shaking her fist and using the kind of language that you would be pushed to get passed on a BBC Play of the Month. She appears to be sitting in a modestly furnished sitting room. Miss Murdstone can’t be too bad. There is even a television set. If she walls you up, she obviously makes it nice for you. What I can’t understand is how the space behind the false wall can be so big. Crispin said it was a couple of – oh my gawd! ! I look at Sid and Sid looks at me and we are both looking at each other.

  ‘This is the bleeding house next door!’ says Sid. ‘You started on the wrong wall!’

  ‘You dirty swines!’ screeches Miss Murdstone’s enraged neighbour. ‘You’re worse than Rachmann!’

  ‘I wish he was here now,’ says Sid. ‘Him and his little friend, Robin.’

  ‘She said Rachmann, not Batman, you berk!’ I scream. ‘Stop her! She’s throwing things.’

  As if we did not have enough problems, the woman next door is chucking all kinds of rubbish over Miss Murdstone’s posh drawing room. ‘This is my flat and I’m staying here!’ she yells. ‘You’ll never force me out!’

  Sid clears his throat and puts on his most genteel voice. ‘Ah hem. Excuse me, modom,’ he says. ‘You seem to have been the victim of a slight misunderstanding.’

  ‘Slight?!’ says the woman. ‘I should cocoa. Have you seen the damage you’ve done?’

  ‘Have no fear,’ says Sid. ‘We’ll make good any damage. Timmo, step through the hole and take down the lady’s particulars. I’m nipping out for a bag of cement.’

  ‘If you think you’re coming in here, you’ve got another think coming, mate!’ says the lady, accompanying her remark with a neatly aimed half-brick that catches Sid on the side of the bonce.

  My bruised brother-in-law draws me to one side and winces as he speaks. ‘You’ll have to handle this,’ he says. ‘Promise her anything. We can’t afford any trouble at this stage of the game.’

  ‘What are we going to use for money?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ll use the cash I got for selling your lorry.’

  ‘Can you spare it?’

  ‘I’ll take it out of your salary.’

  ‘Thanks, Sid.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. Now get in there!’

  Sid practically throws me through the hole in the wall. It is amazing how the thought of losing money gives him the strength of ten – the strength of tenner, in fact.

  ‘You lay a finger on me and I’ll scream the place down!’ says the old bag.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘If I lay a finger on you – I’ll scream the place down. Now, let me set your mind at rest. The damage to your property was totally unintentional. My mate and I lost our bearings and started to dismantle the wrong wall. It could have happened to anyone.’

  ‘Round here, it does happen to anyone!’ says the woman. ‘The property developers are trying to get vacant possession of all the houses. If you’re a sitting tenant, they offer you money and if you won’t take that, they rough you up or make your life misery. They took the roof off one of my friend’s flat. Said it was leaking and that they were going to take it away to check the slates. Five minutes after they’d gone it rained for two weeks.’

  ‘That’s not very nice, is it?’ I say, soothingly. ‘Well, don’t worry. You won’t have that problem with us. We’ll make it good as new. Nice new wallpaper –’

  ‘Where’s he going?’ interrupts the old girl. She is looking at Sid through the hole in the wall.

  ‘He’s going to get the materials to do the job,’ I say. ‘Hey, Sid, while you’re at it, you might as well get the rocks out of the piano.’

  ‘Give us a chance!’ complains Sid. ‘I’ve only got four pairs of fingers.’

  ‘I’ll go with him,’ says the woman. ‘I know what I like. You can start cleaning up.’

  Before I can say anything she has started scrambling through the hole. ‘Careful!’ I say. ‘There’s a –’

  I am about to say ‘hole’ but it is not necessary. Miss Murdstone’s neighbour finds it for herself. There is a wild scream and she disappears through the floor. ‘Oh my gawd!’ shouts Sid. ‘Now you’ve done it.’ I would like to query his use of ‘you’ in the last statement but there isn’t time. We race down to the basement and find the unfortunate lady lying on the remains of the wrecked Steinway.

  ‘… accompanied on the piano by …’ I murmur.

  ‘Come to finish me off, have you?!’ screams the victim of an unhappy morning’s work. ‘Murdering bastards! You’d stop at nothing, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘My good lady!’ says Sid. ‘You don’t think that was intentional, do you? Oh dea
r, that’s terrible!’ He looks round the room and his eyes light on a silver tray with a decanter and some glasses on it. He nods me towards it and starts to help the woman off the piano. Every time she moves, it sounds like Radio Four. I sniff the contents of the decanter and it smells like brandy. Just what the doctor ordered for a serious shock case. I slosh in half a tumblerful and raise it to my lips –

  ‘Not you! Over here!’ shouts Sid.

  ‘Rat poison, is it?’ says the woman.

  ‘He’d be dead if it was,’ says Sid. He takes the glass from me and hands it to the woman. She sniffs suspiciously and – whoosh! You can almost hear her epiglottis vibrating as the booze belts past it down her hairy goat.

  ‘You curl up with this, mother,’ says Sid, pushing the decanter into her willing arms and settling her in a convenient armchair. ‘We’ll go and sort things out and be back later. Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine.’

  I have my doubts about the truth of Sid’s last remark but it seems the wrong moment to say anything. As we go through the door, the old girl is filling her glass again.

  ‘Bastards!’ she shouts.

  ‘Is she going to be all right?’ I say. ‘Hadn’t we better get a doctor?’

  ‘She’s all right,’ says Sid. ‘What we need is a piano tuner.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I say.

  ‘Keep our heads,’ says Sid. ‘That’s vital. “If you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs then you’re a man, my son.” Surely you’ve heard that?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I say. ‘But what about the hole in the wall?’

  ‘Our first problem,’ says Sid. ‘We’ve got to fill it in so that Fuzz-face doesn’t know that anything has happened.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ I say. ‘What about the wallpaper? Even if we could fill it in, she’d notice that.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ says Sid. ‘That room is chock–a–block with large pieces of furniture. We’ll move one of them, use the wallpaper that’s behind it, and move it back again. That thick paper peels off a treat.’

  ‘Then there’s the hole in the floor,’ I say.

  ‘It’s only plaster,’ says Sid. ‘We’ll put the floorboard back and tackle that from below.’

  ‘And the piano,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t reckon anyone ever plays it,’ says Sid. ‘We’ll put a splint on the leg and lay the top back on it – marrying the pieces up as best we can, of course. It’ll look as good as new.’

  ‘Sid,’ I say. ‘Do you really think we’re going to get away with it?’

  ‘Naturally,’ says Sid. ‘There’s nothing very complicated is there? The time factor is the only worrying thing.’

  When you listen to Sid you can understand how we get stuck with the Concorde, can’t you? It only needs a few like him and a couple of dying aircraft industries. We dash back into the room and Sid’s eyes rove like a spilt bag of ball bearings. ‘That’s the one,’ he says.

  ‘You mean the enormous sideboard covered in what looks like very rare and expensive plates?’

  ‘Just edge it along the wall a few feet and we’ll be in business,’ says Sid, cheerfully.

  ‘You don’t think it’s a bit heavy, do you?’

  Sid starts to make ‘tch’ noises. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you today,’ he says. ‘Everything’s too much trouble, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not that, Sid,’ I say. ‘It’s –’

  ‘Come on!’ Sid positions himself at one end of the sideboard. ‘You pull and I’ll push.’

  ‘Watch it,’ I say. ‘The floor’s a bit rotten. If we get one of the castors on a manky bit, it could –’

  ‘Push!’ says Sid.

  The castor scrapes along the floor for a few inches and then goes through a rotten board like it is a bit of toast. Thrown off balance, the sideboard lurches forward and slowly topples on to its face. There is a loud shattering noise as about thirty plates go for a burton and the whole room shakes.

  ‘Right,’ says Sid. ‘Now we need some glue as well.’

  From the basement come a series of frenzied screams.

  ‘What’s she on about?’ says Sid.

  I walk over to the hole in the floor and look down. Miss Murdstone’s neighbour, like most of the room, is covered in a fine pall of dust, no doubt sustained when the sideboard fell over. ‘All right! All right!’ she screams. ‘I’ll move! I’ll move!’

  Outside, there is the sound of a car crunching to a halt on the gravel and Miss Murdstone herself climbs out and starts to move swiftly towards the front door.

  ‘She’s back early, isn’t she?’ says Sid.

  ‘Very,’ I say.

  Sid looks round the room. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘In the circumstances, I think there’s only one thing to do.’

  ‘Exactly, Sid,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you, Timmo. Don’t forget the pickaxe. We don’t want to get a reputation for leaving our tools around.’

  I follow Sid through the hole in the wall as the door opens behind me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I must say,’ says Crispin. ‘I find it a very distressing start to our relationship.’

  ‘Too true, squire,’ says Sid.

  I am watching Imogen. Sid, Crispin and I are having what Crispin calls ‘a little chat’ round at his place and she has just come into the room. The room. The room where it all happened. I look at the lantern, now high against the ceiling, and I feel a tender tingle tango down my tonk. Could I actually have had it away with that gorgeous creature? Surely I must have dreamt the whole unforgettable experience? Our eyes meet.

  ‘Good morning,’ Imogen nods briefly and rests her arm on her old man’s shoulder. ‘Zack’s running me over to the Whitechapel Gallery. I want to have a look at the Rothkos.’

  Outside in the street, a hairy-looking geezer is leaning against a Porsche. He looks what I have always fancied being – working class arty. Getting all the crumpet but being mean, moody and uncouth with it.

  ‘All right, dear.’ Crispin pats her hand and she goes out without even a glance in my direction.

  ‘Every business has a few teething troubles,’ continues Sid. ‘It’s probably a good idea to get all the buggers out of your system in one go.’

  ‘Bugs,’ I say. Out of the window I watch the way Hairy Bonce gives Imogen’s arse a crafty feel-up as he guides her round the front of his motor. I bet they are going straight round to his pad. How could she do it? I thought that we had something special. Something different.

  ‘But you told me that you were both skilled craftsmen,’ whines Crispin. ‘I have a reputation to uphold.’

  ‘But we are skilled craftsmen,’ says Sid. ‘We don’t know nothing – I mean, there’s nothing we don’t know about renovation and all that. It won’t take us a moment to get Miss Murdstone’s place tidied up.’

  ‘Miss Murdstone has made it clear that she never wants to see either of you again,’ says Crispin, grimly. ‘Really, I hesitate to give you another assignment.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Crispin,’ soothes Sid. ‘We’ve been involved in much bigger cock-ups than that, haven’t we, Timmo?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘That wasn’t a typical example of what we can do.’

  Crispin groans and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Wallpapering,’ he says. ‘Can you wallpaper?’

  ‘Well –’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ says Sid. ‘We can do it on our heads.’

  ‘I’d rather you did it on the walls,’ says Crispin. ‘I’ve got a client, small flat, couple of rooms plus mod cons, won’t take a jiffy. Only needs one of you.’

  ‘Timothy,’ says Sid. ‘Just his cup of tea. He’ll do a lovely job for you.’ Crispin looks at me expectantly. Sid looks at me threateningly.

  ‘What’s the address?’ I say.

  I don’t feel like a lot of argy-bargy because I am dead choked about Imogen. Birds have given me the elbow before but they don’t usually get in quite so
fast after the main feature. It makes me think that my tender, innocent young body was being used. That is the worst of being sensitive. You leave yourself open to exploitation.

  Bargrave Villas looks like a Victorian railway station and lives in North London. Parcels of flats are grouped around various staircases and number fifty-one is on the third floor. The bell-push is in the middle of the door and since I have my arms full with rolls of wallpaper and a bucket, I attempt to lean forward and press the bell with my forehead. As I do so, the door opens and I nearly kiss the top of the head of the bird who opens it.

  ‘Oh!’ She starts back nervously which is perhaps not surprising.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, dropping half a dozen rolls of wallpaper. ‘I was trying to press the bell with my nut. I’m from Home Enhancers. Is it all right if I get cracking?’

  The bird is slim and has black hair and red eyes. I think she must have been crying. Maybe Miss Murdstone rang up and told her I was coming.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘Yes. I suppose you might as well do it. It’ll add to the value of the property, won’t it?’

  ‘Definitely!’ I say. ‘It’s a very nice pattern you’ve chosen.’

  ‘I didn’t choose it,’ says the bird. ‘It was my – my husband. Too bad he’s not going to be here to enjoy it!’ She looks as if she is about to burst into tears.

  Oh dear! Don’t say I’ve put my foot in it, seconds after getting through the door. ‘I’m sorry. Is he – er –?’

  The girl nods. ‘He’s left me. Gone off with another woman.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness for that,’ I say. ‘I mean – I thought he might have been dead.’

  ‘No such luck!’ says the bird bitterly.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well – er, I guess I’d better get on with it. I’ll try not to disturb you too much.’

  The girl looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Very well. Let me know if you need any help. The kitchen is at the end of the passage.’

  ‘Ta,’ I say. The bird takes another long gander at me and goes into a bedroom.

  Normally, I would be interested in any interest she showed but I am still recovering from my experience at the hands – and other things – of Imogen. Even at this moment she is probably – no! I can’t bear to think about it. I must bury myself in my work and shut out all thoughts of Hairy Bonce slipping his sizzling sausage into Mrs Fletcher’s fun-bun and turning himself into a hot dog with a side order of nature’s mustard.