Throwback Thursday: ‘The Highwayman’s Deception’ by Mel Anastasiou

When it comes to fixing up a terrible old building on the side of a canal, I’m the last man on earth to brag of any kind of do-it-yourself ability. A Canadian expat since the age of twenty, I’ve lived in London ever since. And in London, there was no do-it-yourself. For example, if you could afford a garden, which I never could, you employed a gardener. If you want an update in your loo design, you call a fellow in to shift the pipes around and knock out the plaster and then eagerly paid somebody else to put the plaster back in the walls after it.  

But there are a few things in this good old world that absolutely anybody can do. Dab paint on dirty brick is one of them. So, I stood on the canal side of the derelict Seven Swans, where my handiwork was most likely to be enjoyed by passing narrow boats. A herd of friendly hanging baskets from Wilko clustered about my feet, I dabbed at the plastered brick and felt myself master of my demesne.

As the dirt disappeared beneath my brushwork, I fancied myself alone, but an intake of breath from behind me proved me wrong. I turned and greeted Stan, the aging angel who had agreed to come out of retirement to help me fix up the place.  

His pal Eustace turned his head atop his skinny neck to and fro in a sorrowful no. “You can’t do that, old son. Not and keep to the law.”

There’s always somebody who wants to tell a man his dreams are impossible.  

I gave Eustace that business-like rictus that passes for a smile from a man heavily occupied with important affairs and kept dabbing. Eustace, I reminded myself, never seemed to know much of anything. He was more of an agree-er. Stan was the man with the knowledge. I took Stan’s silence for approbation.  

Then Stan spoke. “Where did you get that paint?”

“Wilko,” I said. “Their best line,” I lied.

“Ah.” Stan nodded. “Well, you’d best scrub it off then.”

“You might return that paint,” Eustace said. “But your paintbrush was soiled touching the wall, so there’s some dirt in it, isn’t there?”

“Indeed.” Stan stared glumly into the paint can.  

I gazed from one old fellow to the other. It was clearly a case of two men standing about a building project and predicting negative outcomes. Not unusual in the UK. To be expected, in fact.  

“It’ll be all right, I’m sure,” I said politely. “I’m just freshening the place up. Cheap and cheerful, isn’t that what you say here?”

“Oh, yes,” Stan answered.

Eustace added, “But this building is Tudor.”

“From Tudor times, in fact,” Stan clarified. “From the time of Good Queen Bess.”

I remembered her. My princess, when I lived the dream of a labourer and solved a mystery that saved her lovely life. “That’s why I’m freshening it.” It was almost the truth. “In her honour.”

“I’m sure she’d like it,” Stan said, “as would Her Majesty nowadays. But the fact is that this building is listed.”

I dipped my paintbrush into the middle of the pot. Outdoor acrylic, middle range low gloss. A classic Victorian cream. Not shiny. Tasteful and understated. It would look well with the petunias in their hanging baskets. I said, “Listed, eh? To the right or to the left?”

“Ooh, cheeky,” Eustace observed.

“He’s young,” Stan said. I was sixty, but in the midday sun, with a paintbrush in my hand, rebelling against the advice of those older than I was, I felt young.