Fixing It For Fergal

I’d inherited a practical nature from my dad, and at times it came in very handy!

IHAD expected to move into the house in the early New Year. But the way things turned out, it was nearer Easter. Still, maybe that was better. The nights were lighter and you could get things done.

I was outside, putting some WD-40 on my squeaky gate, when I first met Marieke who lived opposite. She was painting her garage door and we got talking.

I liked her immediately. She was about my mum’s age, with a slight accent, and I learned she came originally from the Netherlands.

We exchanged potted life stories – hers significantly more interesting than mine – and as we parted I asked what my other immediate neighbour, who I had not yet seen, was like.

There are seven houses in the cul-de-sac, with Marieke’s, mine and another together at the end. Ours are newish but the third in our little trio is older, mid-victorian. She smiled. “Fergal. If you’re worrying in case he’s the sort to have noisy parties, don’t – he’s not like that at all. He’s a professor at the university.”

An image of Brian Cox from a recent TV programme went through my mind. Hey, I wouldn’t mind him next door!

But next day I caught sight of Fergal coming out of his house. Let’s just say he was more like the traditional image of a professor. Grey hair – longish for a man of his age, for he assuredly was not young – and baggy tweed jacket.

He was very quiet, though, Marieke had been right about that. I actually felt guilty about disturbing his peace a few days later by knocking on his door with a parcel I’d taken in for him.

It weighed a ton and had on it the sender’s address – some dealer in rare books.

Fergal answered quite promptly and peered at me through the darkness in his hall, which was totally unlit, Although the days were getting longer, it was by now well into the evening.

“Apologies for the gloomy reception,” he said in rather a nice voice, as he took the parcel from me. “The light appears not to be working. I’ll get an electrician out to it.”

“Just your hall light?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“It isn’t just that the bulb has gone, is it?”

It seemed silly that he wouldn’t already have checked that. And yet, close up, he really did look the stereotypical absentminded professor. Thoughts always on higher things, as it were.

“It may be that, yes.” He nodded. “The electrician will be able to sort it out.”

“You mean you can’t change a light bulb?” I’m afraid I laughed as I said it.

Fergal didn’t seem offended.

“I am not of a practical nature,” he said, already opening the parcel.

I’d been right – it contained great thick books.

“Let me have a look at it,” I offered. “I am of a practical nature.”

I take after my dad, who is really handy. He’s the first port of call for neighbours if anything goes wrong. A blocked sink – see if Ken can sort it.

Car won’t start – get Ken to have a look.

And he had passed down his skills to me, his daughter. My brother is interested only in football.

Of course, Fergal didn’t have any spare bulbs. Or a stepladder. But I had both, and in no time . . .

“Rejoice!” He threw his hands up in admiring delight. “There be light again!”

Next day there were two bottles of wine left on my doorstep and a thank-you note. And thus I started to emulate my dad in becoming the local handyperson.

Fergal quickly became my favourite neighbour and a good friend. Maybe because we were so different, me being practical, he not one bit – poetry was what he knew about – I found our conversations over the garden fence fascinating.

We were happily chatting one Saturday afternoon when I saw it.

“That plant, Fergal.” “Coming on brilliantly, isn’t it? I swear it’s bigger every day.”

“It probably is,” I agreed, “but it’s not brilliant. I think it’s knotweed.”

Seeing that this seemed to mean little to him, I explained how it would soon take over the cul-desac if we didn’t get rid of it.

“Fortunately it doesn’t look to be well-established yet,” I finished. “Are you in on Sunday afternoon?” He confirmed he was. “Right, I’ll come and cut it back.”

“I’ll help,” Marieke, who’d come out into her front garden and heard us talking, called. “I don’t want it growing rampant over my property.”

Marieke is a keen

gardener and justly proud, particularly of her rockery.

On Sunday we’d just about got it cut – or rather, hacked – down when a young man came in through the back gate.

“Mark!” Fergal greeted him. “I wasn’t expecting you, but good to see you.”

He turned to me and Marieke.

“Mark’s a colleague of mine.”

Mark looked a different type altogether from Fergal, and he proved to be quite knowledgeable on horticultural matters.

“You know knotweed can grow to thirteen feet?” he said, terrifying us.

He then recommended we put the cuttings in an old, concrete-floored greenhouse at the bottom of Fergal’s garden.

“Leave it there to dry, then best to burn it.”

Fergal had brought coffee out for us and Mark paused to take a cup before continuing.

“You need to bear in mind that knotweed has very extensive roots. You will have to keep a close eye on it for new growth for some while.

“It can be years, in places where it’s really become established, but I don’t expect it to be like that here. However, as soon as anything pokes its head above the ground, you must get rid of it.” He thought a moment. “Perhaps you could check it every week and, if there’s anything, pull it up. It’ll only take a few minutes but it’s persistence that pays off. You must keep at it.”

With Marieke gone by then to meet a friend, Mark was looking at me. He was clearly as aware as I was that Fergal was unlikely to do this efficiently. A poem or whatever was bound to get in the way!

“Every week? OK, I live just next door. I’ll pop back next Sunday.”

This I did, and there were indeed signs of a comeback. As I was pulling up the new growth, Mark again appeared.

I was delighted to see him. I liked him, simple as that, and I wondered if he was here today because the feeling was reciprocated.

It was a question I was going to ask myself constantly over the next few weeks, then months.

Mark had been right – the triffid, as Fergal called it, had impressive determination. Every Sunday, I thought: maybe this is it, maybe there won’t be anything new coming up.

But there always was. Whilst Mark nearly always turned up, too, and I liked him more and more, it was impossible to say whether it was to see me. Sometimes I thought it was.

Sometimes he was quite flirtatious and I’d catch him looking at me in a particular way that made me catch my breath.

But that almost always seemed to be followed by a drawing back, a closing of the briefly opened curtains. Occasionally he could be really quite offhand.

It was just like the wretched plant, I reflected gloomily. One minute I thought I was making progress, then I got knocked back.

One evening, round at Fergal’s, seeing to a dripping tap, I decided to try to find out more about Mark.

“I know he isn’t married,” I said, as I’d established that much from our conversations, “but does he have someone special in his life?”

I then tried to cover my personal interest by gibbering on about how he seemed a “couples” sort of person.

“Mark did have someone,” Fergal told me, “but she, well, she quite broke his heart.”

He thought for a while. “I think you are right – he is a couples person. But I suspect he’s scared ever to risk the same hurt again.”

The walls of Fergal’s house were almost entirely covered with bookcases. But one alcove was volume-free and in it were a few framed photographs. One of them was of a woman with long red hair. I’d noticed it before but hadn’t asked who she was.

Fergal was now looking at the picture with a faraway and tremendously sad expression on his face. I wondered if she, whoever she was, had been special to him. Perhaps she’d even broken his heart?

I was pleased I’d raised the subject, though. It shed some light on Mark’s behaviour. Maybe he did kind of like me. But not enough, it seemed, to overcome his wariness.

“I suppose it’s understandable that he’s cautious,” I said to Fergal.

“Yes,” he finally agreed. “But the years pass and I hope he doesn’t make the same mistake . . .” He’d turned away and I didn’t quite catch the last few words. But I suspected it was “the same mistake as I did.”

I went home, unsure what to think. Then, the next Sunday, it happened – there was no new growth to pull up! I shouted to Fergal to come and see, and to Marieke, too.

“I guess this might not be the end,” I told them. “We’d better still keep checking. But I reckon it’s the beginning of the end. We’re winning!”

I was looking forward to seeing Mark. Well, I was looking forward to seeing him anyway, but additionally keen to update him. But he didn’t appear.

The next Sunday I went back. Again there was no new growth.

But no Mark, either. “Mark’s OK, isn’t he?” I asked Fergal, trying to sound casual.

“Yes. I’ve seen him at work, though not to talk to. Oh, yes, I think he’s fine.”

“Good,” I replied, still aiming for casual.

There was nothing else to say. Even if he did like me a little, clearly Mark had decided to stay as he was, instead of risking being hurt again.

I missed him. It was crazy – I’d only ever seen him for an hour or so on Sunday afternoons – but I did.

Then, one evening during the next week, I was in the house when the doorbell rang. It was Mark.

“I’ve been trying to raise Fergal,” he said, “but his doorbell isn’t working. I haven’t got his phone number with me. Do you have it?”

“Come in,” I said, telling him to sit down as I rummaged through several drawers. “I do have it somewhere.”

We got talking. He said the pasta dish I was cooking smelled delicious.

“I’ve made far too much,” I told him. “Have you eaten, Mark?”

In truth, I knew Fergal’s phone number off by heart. But I also knew that, although Fergal’s doorbell had been faulty, as Mark knew from his Sunday visits, it now chimed out like Big Ben! For I’d installed a new one for him a couple of days before.

Which could only mean Mark was really here wanting to see me!

I liked Mark, but he kept blowing hot and cold

I’ve already said what a lovely neighbour Fergal is. But I’m soon to be upping sticks. Most of my stuff is packed, ready for the move into our new home. Mark’s and mine.

If you’re worrying about how Fergal will survive without me next door, don’t! Over those Sunday afternoons in the garden, he and Marieke got pretty friendly as well.

These days I’m constantly seeing them coming in and out of each other’s houses. And Marieke, well, she’s a fairly handy-type woman, too. n