I am in the kitchen, watching Kitch the electrician put a new light in the ceiling. Embarrassingly, I had to call him because I couldn’t figure out how to change the bulb, but he says it’s not my fault.
“These bulbs don’t come out,” he says. “The whole fitting has to be replaced.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, feeling vindicated.
“When you’re done, I’ve got a garden light that needs installing,” my wife says.
“Next time,” Kitch says. “Too dark now.”
I like watching other people work. I could easily spend a whole afternoon looking through a peephole in the hoarding surrounding a construction site. To me, the appeal is obvious: all the satisfaction and accomplishment of work, without the work.
It is, however, a little unattractive. I spent most of August standing at my bedroom window watching four men paint a school, ducking out of sight whenever one of them turned around. For two days in November, I sat in the kitchen looking on while my garden office was constructed. Two months later, I sat in my new office watching a man called Tomasz lay a brick patio.
“It is a good day to work!” he said to me each morning as I crossed the garden.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
My office is a glass-fronted observation booth. I can watch my wife mop the kitchen floor from my desk. But it means that when I’m observing, I am also observable.
On Thursday, a load of plants arrive. Our friend Anna, who is a garden designer and knows about these things, has come to show us where to stick them. The middle one, just home from university, is being paid to help out. I see them as I cross the garden in the morning, coffee in hand, on my way to my computer.
“Are we going to be disturbing you, digging and planting while you’re trying to work?” Anna asks.
“Nope,” I say.
“Disturbing him?” my wife says.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m used to it.”
“If you think you’re going to sit in that box all day watching us do everything,” my wife says.
“Actually, I have business in town,” I say.
“What business?” she says.
“Business business,” I say.
“He’s got a lot going on, your husband,” Anna says.
“He doesn’t,” my wife says. “He’s lying.”
My business – technically more of an errand – takes about an hour. When I get back, all the plants are still in their pots, although they have been set in their positions along the empty beds. “Looks good,” I say. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“What are you talking about?” my wife says. “You’re helping.”
I am assigned the northern end of the left bed. My first strike with the spade hits something hard, causing my fillings to vibrate like tuning forks. I fish up the broken corner of a concrete paving slab, followed by the rest of the paving slab, followed by the paving slab next to it. My shoulder blades burn. Sweat runs off the end of my nose. It’s tough work, I think, but honest.
“Why are you making those noises?” my wife says.
“What noises?” I say.
“The grunting and wincing,” she says.
“I hit a slab,” I say.
“No one else is making noises,” she says. “Anna’s not sighing and groaning.”
“It’s all construction rubble at this end,” I say.
“Your son isn’t muttering and swearing under his breath,” she says.
“He’s planting peonies,” I say. “I’m excavating a Roman villa.”
“You are making a lot of noise,” the middle one says.
“Stop listening to me work,” I say.
“We can’t,” my wife says.
A week later, I’m in my office when I catch sight of my wife crossing the grass with Kitch the electrician, here to install the outdoor light. She pulls open the door, and I stand. “Coffee, two sugars,” Kitch says. “Your missus can’t work the machine.”
“Just finishing some business,” I say.
“We could see you,” my wife says. “You were sitting there reading a book.”
“That’s not true,” I say. And it isn’t. I was sitting there holding a book, fast asleep.
