Seaside

I am not terribly keen on thunder and lightening. I suppose thinking about it, I have never met anyone that is, but its effect seems heightened when sitting in a compact caravan alone, feeling it slightly shudder as the subsequent rain hammers seemingly on all sides. The day has been warm though, the leaves beginning to fall from the poplar trees, the first tell tale sign that Autumn has begun. It was so nice this afternoon in fact that I decided to go on a little drive. A man can only take so much working on his own, that, tiring of lime mortar, yes it is possible, I went to the hilly compagne to the east of here as Jean Pierre told me it was particularly impressive. And so it was. Well wooded with oaks and chestnuts, I drove up winding lanes briefly emerging into the sunlight before plunging down valleys under the canopy of trees, my old Peugeot van chugging as I climbed up again as though complaining at having to go further than the local building merchants. The roads seemed like a labyrinth, and I was almost enjoying being in the position where I was not exactly lost, but not all together sure where I was, when I crested the brow of a hill and was confronted by a lovely view of a lake, framed perfectly by woods and the odd sunlit field populated with a few cream coloured cows. The vista seemed timeless and I pulled over to savour nature at its best, when, listening to the crowing of rooks high in the treetops, I began to realise I had seen a similar view before. The water may not have looked so azure blue and the trees so profuse towards the water’s edge, but in its own way it was as beautiful. It was perhaps thirty years before when my Dad unlocked his mini bus and urged the youngest of us to get inside whilst he talked with the couple of older men out side. Grinning, they climbed into the front three seats, my dad taking the wheel, and after starting the engine he turned to address the men in a manner which he believed evoked the spirit of Henry the fifth before Agincourt. After giving a brief outline of the job we were going to, which I knew was to be at a power station, I was then surprised when he turned to Dave, who was the young apprentice and told him that he was in for a treat as we were working at the seaside. As I began to open my mouth to say that I knew the power station to be only about forty minutes away and that as we lived in the midlands at possibly the furthest point in the British isles from the sea this was impossible, I saw my Dad staring at me with his keep quite look. He then went on to say that as it was a long drive and we needed to get cracking when we arrived, that it would be a good idea if Dave had a little sleep on the way. From being quite sluggish after a night out with his mates though, Dave sat up, grinning like a kid on a school trip. Drives to work in the mini bus usually follow a similar pattern. Different to the drive home when there would be excited voices talking of football, girls and the night ahead, to work it would be crumbles about the weather and the traffic and any number of misfortunes to complain about and this day was no exception. After about half an hour, tired of listening to the conversation of the older men talking of cars I settled back in my seat and looked out of the window at the weak sun lighting up an autumn scene of trees halve shorn of their leaves and realised we were near the reservoir where many times as kids my parents used to take us for walks around the water’s edge and in and out of the woods. About to tell my Dad that I remembered those days, I was surprised when slowing down the hill that presented such a panoramic view of the reservoir, he braked before turning into the small car park that often used to have an ice cream van parked there, much to our delight. "Here we are then young Dave, the seaside." Dave, who had in fact been dozing, suddenly stood up with an incredulous look on his face. I found it almost unbelievable that in this day and age that a young guy like that had never seen the sea before. But as he got out with one of the biggest grins I had ever seen on somebody’s face and rush to the water’s edge with a look of wonder, I realised that there are still people who have perhaps never left the confines of their own towns and cities. Feeling a little sorry for him and thinking it was possibly a little cruel, I got out of the mini bus and started to walk after him. "Leave him," said my Dad. "I will tell him soon enough, let him enjoy being somewhere different." He never seemed to notice the grins and sniggering of the others as he climbed back in, or even that we were driving across a bridge to the other side of the ‘sea’. But later on when I saw my Dad take him aside and tell him that in fact it had not been the sea but a reservoir, I asked him if he didn’t mind.
"No" he said, "I ain’t seen one of them neither."

Fish, Beef and Rabbit

I have a confession to make. Yesterday I bought a couple of tins of cat food. This may not appear to be a particularly revealing confession, or even one that can have the merest modicum of interest to anyone. But to anyone who by chance may be reading this who knows me, it will come as a surprise. After many years of skilful evasion by which I managed to rebuff any request for a pet by my children with a sometimes sympathetic wife, I ventured into my local Leclerc supermarket and purchased the two above mentioned tins. I bought two because, astonished by the array of flavours and musing if cats actually had a preference for one or the other, decided to play it safe and go for a tin of both fish and beef. The reason for all this of course is Tom. Since rescuing him, I have felt like one of those chaps in a film who saves a strangers life and as a consequence the stranger stays close to him forming a bond, a little like Morgan Freeman in Robin hoods prince of thieves from a few years back. He’s fussy though. In the last few weeks he slowly approaches the food I leave for him near the caravan door, nervously sniffs it before taking increasingly smaller bites before hardly touching it now. Cathy might not be surprised, knowing the limitations of my cooking, but feeling sort of responsible for him now, and to be honest, enjoying his albeit limited company, I found my way into the pet aisle of the supermarket with its array of all things pet friendly and a faint whiff of Zoo. I decided to go with the fish, and crikey, did it make the caravan smell like a North Sea trawler. As usual, I put the bowl out before it gets dark, which now is disarmingly around half past eight, and sat down in my spot near the window to see if he likes what I imagine must be his first taste of tinned food. My Grandmother often used to say that you have made ‘a rod for your own back’ when you have done something that will cost you time or money, and I could almost hear her say it as Tom tucked the food away, licking his lips as he finished the bowl for the first time. Oh well, I am not exactly snowed under with friends at the moment, so I will pop off to the supermarket tomorrow and try the rabbit.

High

Usually I'm fine working on scaffolds. But today, I have decided to finish and climb back down the ladder and put the kettle on. I don't know if it's because Cathy and the kids have been unable to come, but high up on the scaffold, repairing the broken roof tiles that are on the over hang that shoots rain water away from the wall, it felt kind of lonely. Maybe being so high, without the sight or sound of anybody except the gentle breeze that swirled around my head as it came over the roof from the west, it made me feel removed from the normal flow of things. I suppose the fact that the scaffold had to be erected over a metre away from the wall because of the over hang made it worse. Although I had tied it off around the bars of the renaissance window half way up, it was rather wobbly and added to my sense of unease. Coming down the ladder though, I had to smile to myself. Triggered by the wobbling and the sound of Jean Pierre's cockerel crowing, as he does sporadicaly day and night, I thought of a similar scene years before when with Danny I was rendering a chimney on a cottage down a little country lane. It had been raining on and off all morning, but after lunch it brightened up, so scaling back up the ladder and taking the bucket of lime plaster off the pully that Danny had sent up, I started to second coat the chimney. At first it was very subtle, an almost imperceptable move away from the wall. But just as I was thinking it was more of a stretch for me to reach the top corner than I'd remembered from yesterday, I instinctively  dropped my trowel into the bucket, and with a good chunk of my heart in my mouth, grabbed the corner of the chimney stack and wrapped my legs around the safety barrier of the scaffold. Danny, thinking I had gone mad as it looked like I had joined a hug a chimney society, started to yell up some admittedly funny obsceneties that are a feature of chaps in his line of work. But soon after deciphering help from my straining grunts, he realised that the back legs of the scaffold were sinking in the newly dampened earth. With an admirable quickness of mind he shouted up that if I could hold on for a couple of minutes, he had noticed that the woman of the house had an old wooden ladder in the chicken run and he could use it as a wedge to stop any further movement whilst I climbed down. Relieved he'd got a plan I hung on for dear life until I heard the noise of chickens almost barking their anger followed by a familiar stream of Danny's invectives. Sensing that the slipping scaffold had stopped, I strained my head to see Danny, the crotch of his jeans snagged on the wire fence as he tried to straddle it, swinging at an irrate cockerel with a long cumberson old Ladder. The more he swung, the more snagged he became and the cockerel, easily evading his clumsy defence, moved in to attack the leg remaining in his territory with claws and beak. Dropping the Ladder it broke, its years sitting unused in the run, contributing to its rotting demise. It seemed an eternity scaling down the poles nearest the gable end of the cottage, expecting to have to jump at any time, but I made it, the scars of the day belonging to Danny, both on his leg and being bettered by a bird. Sipping my tea and listening to Jean Pierre's cockerel, I went and pulled at the scaffold pole in the same way I have done ever since that day, and gave a little stamp on the sun baked earth.

Tea

As Danny passed me a quarry tile and I pressed it into place, the man's head appeared round the corner again.
"You lads sure you won't 'ave a cuppa tea?"
I looked at Danny and gave a little sigh. When you work in prisons you are not supposed to take anything from inmates, but the old chap seemed so eager to make one and it was about the fifth time he had asked that day that I shrugged and said okay. As he shuffled off down the corridor to his cell, I stood up and stretched to see Danny looking at me with a little grimace.
"I know," I said, but it couldn't do any harm and I was ready for one anyway.
Standing in the doorway of his cell, I was surprised at how big it was, with an armchair and a television which had horse racing on, but as he was elderly I supposed they gave him a little slack.
"I love my racing," he said, then as the tea was mashing began to tell me about his illnesses and how little he saw of his family before pouring the tea and handing it to us.
The tea was hot, so I held the mug a while whilst he sat in his chair continuing with his life story and that he had been inside for fifteen years. Taking this as a cue and thinking he had taken us into his confidence I asked what his offence had been. Danny, tiring of the conversation began to sip his tea when he said casually,
"I poisoned three people."
Convulsing backwards, Danny spit his tea up the wall and shot out into the corridor. Bumbling some excuse, I followed him and we both poured our tea ceremoniously down the sink in the toilet. Surprisingly, we were not asked for tea again.
This tea tastes great though. Even though it is very hot sitting in the shade of the caravan in the old deckchair, nothing else hits the spot for me. A couple of digestives compliments it nicely, and as I look up at the window I have put in today which basically finishes off the kid's bedroom, I feel a little relaxed thinking they have somewhere to sleep when they get here on Monday.

Martyn Walker is the author of Stopcock, available globally on Amazon

Bubbles

The hammock is perfect. Slung between the old elder trees that I very nearly cut back a few weeks ago when everything was growing like mad in the rain, it's perfect for musing on life and cradling the laptop. I start the day early now, getting up at six and working until about one when it's too hot to work. The floor's finished, so it's onto some plastering tomorrow and maybe when Cathy gets here next week it will look like I have made some progress. With a room plastered out, it looks like it's nearly finished. The early start was difficult today though. Last night in the local town there was a fete. I had seen it advertised on a poster outside the boulangerie last week, and bored with the sound of my own hammering and tinned food in the caravan, decided to see what the poster meant by a mousse party. Standing on the edge of the square, brightly lit stalls linked with garlands of light bulbs, I was intrigued by a big contraption that was set up on the stage next to the DJ's podium. As the sunset faded away and I started to tuck into my sausage in a baguette that the latex gloved man on the food stall handed to me like a prized possession, I watched as groups of friends, mostly young people but with more than a smattering of children and their parents, move towards the stage at the urging of the DJ. As the music level increased, so the mystery machine cranked into life spewing huge amounts of mousse, or to my eyes at least, a type of foam that looked like everyone was indulging in a giant communal bubble bath. Soon most of the teenagers had disappeared as they had surged to the front, but they were quickly followed by the children, darting in and out, throwing foam at their smiling parents. To see people of all ages in a community having such innocent fun made me smile, but I did see one young chap emerge from the foam mountain grimacing as he limped away rubbing his knee. The way his face sagged and his sodden shorts clung to his thighs reminded me of Jack. I was working at a courthouse repairing tiles with my Dad. It was in the Edwardian toilets just off the main entrance and all was progressing well when we had a call asking us to re-grout the joints in the long urinal with epoxy grout. Well you can imagine what we thought of that. Still, my Dad said he'd had worse jobs and we were just to get on with it. He boiled some water to clean what in fairness was a clean area, but before we could start we needed the flushing water switched off. Finding the valve rusted solid I phoned the main contractor for a plumber and was told he would be there as soon as possible. Twenty minutes later in walked Jack. Jack was a nice chap, but he was a joiner. In his eagerness to please his boss whose plumbers were overworked he had volunteered to help us as he said he was au fait with all things plumbing. Soon coming to the same conclusion as us that the valve was stuck he went to ask a court usher if he could turn the mains off. They were reluctant, so not wanting to be a nuisance he said he'd manage.
"You must be joking," said my Dad as Jack outlined his proposal. He said that he would cut the pipe in a discreet area and slip on a new valve excepting that he would get a little damp but that as all the walls and floor were tiled the spilled water would soon mop up. His smiling face of confidence was met with our scorn but if we wanted to get the job done he said, it was the only way. Stripped off to the waist, he stood on his saw bench and asked me to pass him the relevant tools as he required them. With his hacksaw he made quick progress as I watched, my Dad in a cubicle, determined to play no part in Jack's scheme. As the water came screaming out of the severed pipe, Jack could not have known that it's source was a huge tank on the roof of the police headquarters seven stories high next door, but as the water gushed onto the opposite wall before splashing in all directions he could have done better than to collapse down with a look of horror on his face. Seizing the valve off him I jumped up and attempted to push the new valve on. A difficult task was made impossible when I found he had got the wrong size valve and I urged him in quite forthright terms to pass me another. Staggering like a shell shocked soldier, he told me that he hadn't got one, whereupon I coaxed him with some not too soothing words to fetch one. Holding my thumb over the pipe in an attempt to stem the flood like a soggy little Dutch boy, I watched him leave the room and saw that my Dad had taken the broom to the door and was brushing the tide away back towards the urinal.
"Grab this quick," he called and was gone as I swept like one of those brush hands in the Curling event. Just when I thought that my efforts were about to be overwhelmed, the water suddenly slowed then stopped. My Dad then appeared smiling, explaining that with a little bit of charm he had persuaded the usher that he would only need the water turning off for a minute or two.
There was just room for the both of us to stand on the saw bench and look through the window to see Jack's van come screaming round the corner on his way back from the builder's merchants. Pulling up on the space reserved for emergency vehicles, he came dashing in with the precious valve. My Dad back on the brush and me with my thumb over the end of the pipe, I growled,
"Get up here quickly."
Jack jumped up like a man possessed and I told him in dramatic fashion that when I counted to three I would let go and he was to force the valve on. Reaching three I released my thumb, and as a tiny trickle emerged form the pipe, his face registered first shock and then relief as he stepped back off the saw bench and then sat on the floor.
After he had finished, I watched him walk back to his van rubbing his knee like the lad at the mousse fete, and was impressed for the first time with him that day when the usher approached him and asked if there had been a problem.
"No," he soggily replied. "You get a bit wet sometimes in this game."

Martyn Walker is the author of Stopcock, available globally on Amazon