Authors: Graham Hurley
I was home by nine next morning. Nikki dropped me off on the way
to work. Inside the door, I found a lett
er with my name on it. I opened
it in the hall, recognising Brendan
’
s
handwriting. Inside was another
cheque and one of the lovely paper coasters Lati
no
’
s have printed
specially. The cheque was for
£500.
On the coaster, above a single
kiss, Bre
ndan had written
‘
Missed you.
’
I let myself into the flat,
glad I
’
d spent the night at Nikki
’
s. The last
thing I needed just now was a late-night doorstep confrontation with
Brendan. Trying to cope at arm
’
s length - letters, phone messages -
was bad enough. Face to face, I just didn
’
t know how I
’
d react. I circled
the flat with water for my plants, wondering just how long Brendan
would sustain this little campaign of his. His attention span was
notoriously short - one of the reasons he
’
d done so well in television -
and real life without yours truly was obviously a tougher proposition
than he
’
d expected. Life doesn
’
t come more real than Sandra and I was
curious to know just how much rope she
’
d be allowing him. She knew
Brendan better than anyone, better - certainly - than I did. Was she
really silly enough to let him out for the evening? Or might they both
have been waiting in Latino
’
s?
To either question, I knew I didn
’
t really want an answer. Between
us, Nikki and I had agreed that icy indifference was by far the best
tactic.
Rekindling an old affair, especially one as intense as this had been, was one of the worst ideas in the world, and my sole responsibility just now was to turn my back and walk away.
The fact that I
missed him didn
’
t matter. The fact that he could easily do it again -
more damage, more hurt - most definitely did. Not only that, of
course, but there were now two of us to think about. After what he
’
d
done to me, would I really be daft enough to trust Brendan with my
baby?
The phone began to ring. I looked at it for a long time, wondering
whether it was wiser not to answer it, but the machine took over and
the caller
’
s voice came on at the end of my message. It was Nikki, bless
her. She wanted to know whether I was OK. She wanted to be sure I
hadn
’
t weakened. I picked up the phone. I still had Brendan
’
s cheque
in my hand.
‘
He keeps giving me money,
’
I told her.
‘
Poor fool.
’
Next morning, the builders arrived. They came in a
battered
old van
and thumped up and down the stairs, ca
rrying stuff in. I watched them
from the front room, wondering what G
ilbert could possibly be up to.
On the side of the van it said
‘
Hackney Construction
’
.
Pretty soon afterwards, the house began to shak
e. The hammering
went on and on.
Alarm
ed, I went out into the street,
looking up at the roof.
A hole had appe
ared amongst the tiles, halfway
between the guttering and the top ridge line, and as
I watched, one of
the guys appeared, head and shoulders through the
gaping space
. He peered
around him, testing the tiles with his hand, then he began to pull them
away, one by one, letting them slide down the roof. The tiles were
heavy and one of them shattered on the low front wall. I stepped back,
shouting at him to stop, and he looked down, seeing me for the first
time. He yelled a cheerful apology and disappeared inside. A minute or
so later, Gilbert stepped out through the front door. He was terribly,
terribly sorry. He hoped I hadn
’
t been frightened. Maybe it would be
better if I came back inside.
He took my hand and I followed him into the hall. What I really
wanted to know was when the work was going to stop. Pregnancy, I
’
d
noticed, makes you very aware of your physical security. The simplest
things begin to matter a very gre
at deal. Were the guys upstairs
replacing the whole roof? Was it leaking? Or was there some other
problem?
Gilbert shook his head, unusually voluble.
‘
Good Lord, no. It
’
s a little panel they
’
re making me, a window, a
porthole if you like. They
’
ll be do
ing one or two other things, too
, but
nothing terribly fancy. Just some floorboards up in the loft and a light
or two, and a couple of bits of insulation. Just enough to give me a bit
of comfort up there.
’
‘
You
’
re making another room? A proper conversion?
’
‘
Oh, no, no.
’
He shook his head again, emphatic.
‘
Just a perch,
that
’
s all.
’
The thumping had started again. One
of the china ornaments on the
hall table was threatening to topple over. I moved it, just in case.
‘
Why?
’
I said.
‘
Why do you need a perch?
’
‘
I
’
m installing an
observatory,
’
he said at last.
‘
I
thought I
’
d
mentioned it.
’
The building work carried on all day. My knowledge of the lease was
pretty sketchy but I thought, at the very least, that I should have been
consulted about something as major as this. The guys upstairs looked
like
cowboys
. What would happen if they wrecked the roof and it all
went wrong? Were we insured? Could we claim damages? And what
about the local authority people? Weren
’
t you supposed to get
planning permission for something this big?
At lunchtime, I phoned poor Nikk
i again.
One of her many virtues
was a worldliness I lacked. She seemed to have been living in flats for
most of her life. What, I asked her, should I do?
‘
Talk to the landlord,
’
she said at once.
‘
Before it goes any further.
’
I
’
d had similar advice from Mark, the estate agent, but I
’
d done
nothing about it. This time, I told myself, I had no choice. I rummaged
around for the file I
’
d kept from the
purchase and phoned my mother
’
s
solicitors down in Petersfield. The o
ne who
’
d represented me was the
senior partner. I
’
d found a name on the le
ase and he confirmed that
Webb, Clewson were indeed the fr
eeholders. They had a Sherborne address. Sherborne is in Dorse
t.
‘
Why down there?
’
I asked him.
‘
God knows. They
’
re solicitors.
’
‘
And they own this place?
’
‘
Yes, though they may be fronting for someone else.
’
He explained that leased properties w
ere often made over to firms of
solicitors by the freeholders. When I asked why he said there were
dozens of reasons but sheer convenience was the most common.
Shielded by the solicitors, the real owner coul
d be protected from the
attentions of anyone from the Inland Revenue to angry lessees.
Throughout this conversation, the building work was audible in the
background. More thumping. Another shudder.
‘
So the guy upstairs would have needed their permission?
’
‘
Of course.
’
‘
And mine?
’
‘
Not necessarily.
’
‘
But definitely theirs?
’
‘
Yes,
’
he laughed as a particularly loud crash shook the whole
house.
‘
Why don
’
t you give them a ring if you
’
re worried?
’
I was, and I did. The first time I got though, the person I needed to
talk to was still out at lunch. Forty minutes later, Mr Clewson was
back at his desk. I gave him my name a
nd explained the situation. The
moment I mentioned Gilbert, he became slightly defensive.
‘
Is there a problem?
’
he asked at once.
I repeated my line about the builders. The fact that they were there
at all was obviously news to Mr Clewson.
‘
You don
’
t know about any of this?
’
‘
As it happens, we don
’
t.
’
‘
But shouldn
’
t someone have asked you first?
’
‘
Not necessarily, no.
’
This answer made no sense. My own solicitor had told me exactly
the reverse.
Wasn’t Gilbert obliged to ask for the landlord’s permission?
Wasn
’
t that the real legal position?
Mr Clewson wouldn
’
t give me a straight answer. He still wanted to
know what the builders were up to. I did my best to describe progress
to date. Half the roof was in pieces in the street arid non-stop Radio
One pounded through the floorboards above my head. Over the
phone, I could hear Mr Clewson
chuckling.
‘
I
’
d better give him a ring,
’
he said at last.
‘
Just to make sure.
’
‘
Make sure what?
’
‘
He knows what he
’
s doing.
’
I put the phone down and - on cue - the builders reached for their
hammers. I listened hard for the sound of Gilbert
’
s phone ringing but,
given the other noises, I was hopelessly optimistic.
It wasn
’
t until the evening that I remembered the note I
’
d found in
the hall, the one about Mama from some relation of Gilbert
’
s who
’
d
signed himself Tom. My phone call to Mr Clewson hadn
’
t filled me
with confidence. Supervising major structural alterations from
a hundred
miles away seemed less than satisfac
tory and his willingness to let
Gilbert get on with it frankly baffled me. I thought there were
procedures here, hoops we lessees had to jump through? How come
my eccentric friend upstairs was simply allowed to get on with it?