Tom

Still on my own, and with the villages and towns full of smiling tourists, it all feels a little hollow to me. Maybe that's why I started this blog, but does anybody actually read them anyway? I have been thinking about not bothering to write anymore when I met Tom. When I say met, I mean I heard a faint gurgling meow kind of noise in the old lime tree that grows over the roof of the caravan. To be honest I am not even sure he's male, but when I looked in the dense foliage about an hour ago, I finally spotted what looked like the Cheshire cat grinning down at me. He seemed to be just happily sitting there, his ginger and white fur  a good camouflage amongst the shadowy leaves, but after a couple of minutes and me opening a carton of milk and pouring him some out into a bowl, I felt something was wrong. Fetching my ladder, thinking he had bitten off more than he could chew, I leaned it on the branch he was on and tried to coax him down. Still he did not move. So slowly climbing the rungs, I decided to attempt a rescue. Halfway up, I noticed some grubby floral fabric near his head which on closer inspection I found was a long makeshift collar that he had entangled in the branch until it held his neck tight to it. His Cheshire cat grin was of slow suffocation. He didn't move, I expect through exhaustion at the struggle to free himself, as I tried to release him, but the fabric was strong so I went back down to fetch my Stanley knife. Gently sawing at the fabric and with soothing words I cut through it and was surprised when he still sat there. Backing down the ladder, I pulled up my plastic chair and watched as he opened his mouth a few times and moved down the branch a little. Nudging the bowl of milk a little closer to the base of the tree, I was glad for the first time since being here that I was on my own, as the sight of me crouched down talking in a high pitched voice, tool belt dragging on the floor must have looked a picture. Eventually he made his way down on to the roof of the caravan before tentatively dropping down and under the caravan. He is still there now, still shy of venturing out, but it has given time to think abut what idiot what make a collar for a cat with a piece of fabric over a meter long and knotted round his neck. Surely not Jean Pierre? He seems so common sense like, but there is no one else here for over half a mile! Oh well, we will see what happens, and hopefully he will still be about when the kids get here as they have always wanted a dog or cat. That's if I can coax him out from under the caravan.

Martyn Walker is the author or Stopcock, available on Amazon

Dragonflies

I don't know what it is about rivers that make me feel a little thoughtful. If anyone tells me its because they are reflective I will throw something at them. No, maybe it's the way the water flows non stop like life itself, supporting a whole host of life forms as it makes its way to the sea. Sitting this afternoon on a small pebble beach after giving up trying to work in this heat, I was taken by the dragonflies in huge groups flitting over the surface of the water, landing on the smallest scraps of plant life, their only thoughts I suppose, procreation and food. A bit like Danny. After walking some way upstream in the shallows, I then hopped on to one of the large rubber rings I bought for the kids. With my hands and feet trailing in the cool water and my bum stuck in the middle so the water crept up to my chest, I floated silently back round the bend in the river towards where I left my towel and bag. A couple of vibrant blue dragonflies landed on my knee and through half closed eyes watched as other birds and fish came close, my motionless sprawl giving them confidence. Its funny when at times like these, with no other person in sight or sound, the trickling of the water the only background to the screeing call of the buzzards, where your mind takes you. Transported maybe thirty years, I thought of the rushing dark waters of the river Trent, and my brother and I, leaning against an old wall that divided the garden of a manor house we were working on in Nottinghamshire from the small lane that led to it. We were lime rendering the old outside walls, and as we finished an elevation in a day so as to have no joints, it meant a long day and it was about seven o'clock and we needed a break before the last push. The wall was only chest high, so we sat, chewing the fat about what we were going to do with our lives and sipping form a coke bottle whilst flicking stones into the river, when we heard the noise of a lorry roaring closer before pulling up nearby. Surprised that a lorry would even drive down this small lane off the beaten track, we decided that we didn't want our break interrupted by a lost driver asking for directions, so kept our heads down, certain he would ask at the manor. Both of us jumped though when a loud clattering sound followed by excitable voices and the crunching of boots on gravel made us more than curious. when the voices came so close that they were on the other side of the wall where we sat, I thought it time to take a peek. Standing up; I came face to face with a grinning miner, who with many of his colleagues was peeing up the wall. "Alright mate," he smiled before zipping up and turning towards the lorry. I stammered something which seemed to make many of the miners laugh as they made there way back, some with pick axe handles in their hands. These were the days of the miners strike, and I mused later on this group of men, who looked for all intents and purposes that they were on a jolly day out somewhere, mates together, instead of being embroiled in industrial strife.
Walking back home down the track, over shadowed with maize growing each side I noticed that the rubber ring started to deflate. Should I repair or replace it? Oh well, I have a few days to decide before the kids get here.

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

Fifty Sheets of Plasterboard

Nice today without being baking hot. Perfect for finishing the wattling in between the huge oak studs in the partition that divides the kitchen from the big sitting room. Weaving the hazel rods in and out of the horizontal oak staves is quite tough, but now it is finished and awaiting its daub of earth it looks great even as it is. Which is a good thing as the earth is baked hard with the heat. Even though Cathy sometimes sighs with exasperation, I like to use the traditional methods when working on old buildings. I remember my Dad telling me that when his Dad first saw plasterboards being used on a job, he solemnly shook his head as a master plasterer and said that they would never catch on. I remember plasterboarding a laboratory ceiling years ago. It was massive, and Danny and I had to carry a great stack of eight foot by four foot plasterboards, two at a time off the lorry and through the corridors to the Lab. Only Danny's constant joking and impressions of the people we knew kept our heads up, and with many sheets in we started to pass them up the scaffold. Lifting them up, we would then press them up with our heads before nailing them with galvanized clout nails, this being before the advent of screws for boards. The trouble was, as the work progressed and we became tired, so Danny's antics became funnier, and with us both straining under the weight of nearly the last board with tears in our eyes, Danny's arms gave way and the board crashed over his head. Lowering my end, I was worried he was hurt, but the sight of his dusty white head with a collar of broken plasterboard round his neck, made us both roar so much we could only push the board over the edge and let it smash to the floor. Unfortunately just at that moment the sour faced project manager walked in and started on about how much the boards were, but as I had paid for them I couldn't see what his problem was.
Just had a call from Cathy. she says they are not coming tomorrow, it will be later in the week. Got so much to show her and loads of food in my little fridge too. Oh well, C'est la vie.

Martyn Walker is the author of Stopcock available globally on Amazon

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

Confetti

This is what I thought I was waiting for. After months of intermittent rain and wind, the sun has arrived, but instead of being able to push on with the floor boarding, the tower has become a furnace limiting work to early morning. When at the end of May Jean-Pierre told me the heat would hit us in July, I assured him that working in high temperatures held no fear for me. But now, sitting in the shade next to the caravan which has become unusable due to its cauldron like properties, I must decide on what to do for when Cathy comes over at the beginning of the school holidays with the kids. Looking around my corner of a foreign field that I thought would be by now beginning to look something like the idyll I had planned, the shimmering heat has begun to blur the lines of reality. The mixer and wheelbarrow seem to melt against the stone and the rest of my tools disappear amongst the wild flowers, their inanimation mocked by the fluttering butterflies. Surveying this scene of arcadian inactivity, I look up the field of silent, golden wheat to the spire of the distant church. It reminds me of a church I once worked on in England. The stones a different colour and the carvings are earlier of course, but essentially it's quite similar. One day, years ago, with my Dad and Danny, our labourer, we were standing opposite the church with Bill, the old school foreman, in the new village hall which had just been completed when the church bells started ringing. We walked to the window where we had a panoramic first floor view of the side of the church with the path leading in our direction towards the gates with headstones crowded either side. Staring at this scene of nuptial bliss as they started down the path amidst a flurry of confetti, Danny's comments that the groom's best days were behind him became overladen with a distant chugging noise. Bill immediately recognised this as the dumper truck that Eric had driven for years on sites and that he had been told to use later to clear up the mess around the new vestry. To Bill's increasing horror, he appeared into view and was making for the church gates. Looking with wide eyes he turned to me and asked what he was doing, to which I could only shrug and suggest he was ahead of his schedule. Nimbly for a man of his advanced age, he turned and made for the door shouting fruitlessly for Eric as he went.

As Eric spun the dumper effortlessly up the couple of steps and between the ancient gate piers each side, we knew Bill's dash would be futile. Once on the path, Eric must have known quickly his error, but for whatever reason, call it panic or just blind stupidity, he just carried on. I remember an illustration at primary school that showed Moses parting the red sea and that's pretty much the effect Eric had on the congregation. The first to notice was the happy couple, their heads leaning either side of the photographer who was backing down the path snapping away. Then a scene from Benny Hill ensued as against a backdrop of bells mixed with the chugging of the invading truck, the bride and groom, followed by their guests spilled either side amongst the headstones, the photographer’s face a picture as he spun round and to his credit I heard later, taking a shot of Eric's panic stricken face as he went by. Surveying the scene from our grandstand view, we could only just see Eric as he dismounted the dumper at the church and made a run for it through streaming eyes.

The church above the wheat now disappears in the tears of recollection, and I begin to wonder if I should have bought that hammock I saw in the supermarket the other day. 

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