Skellig

Chapter 45

THAT SATURDAY THE BUILDERS CAME to sort the garage out. There were three of them, an old man in a cap, Mr. Batley, and his two sons, Nick and Gus. They thumped the walls and watched them sway and tremble. They heard the roof creaking and sagging. They scratched the bricks and watched them flake easily away. They yanked Dad’s planks off and peered inside.

Mr. Batley took his cap off and scratched his bald head.

“Wouldn’t get me in there even for extra money,” he said.

He pondered. He shrugged and twisted his mouth and looked at Dad.

“Know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” he said.

“Suppose so,” said Dad.

“Nothing else for it. Knock it down and start again.”

Dad looked at me.

“What d’you think?” he said.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Easy choice,” said Mr. Batley. “Knock it down or sit and watch it fall down.”

Dad laughed.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Get the stuff out from inside and knock it down.”

They put steel props up to keep the roof from falling in while they worked inside. They brought the junk out and laid it around Ernie’s toilet in the backyard: all the ancient chests of drawers, the broken washbasins, the bags of cement, the broken doors, the tattered deck chairs, rotted carpets, the ropes, the pipes, the newspapers and magazines, the coils of cable, the bags of nails. Dad and I went through it all as they brought it out. We kept saying, “This’ll come in useful,” then saying, “No, it won’t, it’s just a piece of junk.” A truck came and left a huge Dumpster in the back lane. We chucked in everything. We were all covered in dead bluebottles, dead spiders, brick and mortar dust. When it was empty, we stood around drinking tea and laughing at the mess.

I went to the door alone and stared in.

“Michael!” said Dad.

“Yes,” I said. “I know. I won’t go in.”

He told the builders about how desperate I’d been to get in there after we’d moved in.

“Just like these two used to be,” said Mr. Batley. “Show them something dark and dangerous and it was the devil’s own work to keep them out.”

I kept on staring. Just rubble and dust and broken pottery, and in the far corner a couple of take-out trays, some brown ale bottles, a scattered handful of feathers, the pellets. I sighed and whispered, “Goodbye, Skellig.”

Then the builders and Dad were at my back.

“See,” said Mr. Batley, pointing past me. “Looks like you’ve had a vagrant spending a night or two in there. Lucky the whole lot didn’t come down on his head.”

Then we finished the tea. Mr. Batley rubbed his hands.

“Right, then, lads,” he said. “Time for a bit of knocky down.”

It only took an hour or two. We stood in the kitchen and watched them work with crowbars and sledgehammers and saws. We bit our lips and shook our heads each time a bit of roof or a bit of wall fell with a massive thump. Soon the garage was just a great pile of bricks and timber and dust.

“Bloody hell,” said Dad.

“Least we’ll have a nice long garden for the baby to play in,” I said.

He nodded and started talking about the lawn he’d lay, and the pond he’d dig, and the shrubs he’d plant for the birds to build their nests in.

“Ha!” he said. “A little paradise for us all.”

When it was over, Gus and Nick stood proud and happy with their hands on their hips. Mr. Batley, white as death with dust, gave us the thumbs-up and we went out with more tea.

“Bloody lovely, that was,” he said.

“Aye,” said Gus. “You cannot beat a bit of knocky down.”