Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4) (11 page)

‘That’s really good, Liz.’

‘A first sketch,’ she said, adding touches to her rough. ‘Let’s give you a clipboard.’ She pulled one out and put the sketch into it, and handed it to Zar. ‘There. You look thoroughly official. Now go round with your tree book, put all the trees in the park on the plan and label them.’

‘And pick up any death stalks I see.’

‘Exactly. Don’t tell anyone. This is a tree inventory.’

‘I could wear my backpack,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘have my tree book there, and hide any mushrooms in it.’

‘That’s the idea. You fill in that rough sketch. And I’ll make it into an A1 park plan for the ceremony, with watercolours for the various areas. I could do it tomorrow night… Back it onto card and we could put it in the marquee on an easel. Give you credit for the inventory.’

Zar clapped his hands. ‘Great.’ He looked over her sketch on his clipboard. ‘I’d better get going.’

‘Don’t tell anyone the real reason. You know what a gossip factory this place is. No panic. Trees, that’s the excuse. Give the mushrooms to me and I’ll burn them in my back garden.’

‘Will do.’ He was about to set off, then turned to her. ‘Oh yes, you have to come to the mess hut at three. There’s cakes for Rose’s birthday and for me getting on day release. I know sometimes you don’t come at tea breaks.’

‘I’ll be there, Zar. Promise. I’m really pleased you’ve got on day release. You deserve it. Now, off you go, before anyone else notices the you know what. Or children pick them, and then there’ll be an awful fuss. You get to them first.’

Chapter 16

Rose was vaccing the rose garden. She minded it less here, being out of sight of the compound, and she could see anyone coming. Well, Ian. So as long as she kept the machine on, he would assume she was working. And, well, she might be, and she might not.

Did it matter? The leaves she didn’t get today, she’d get tomorrow. There was a tedium in this work. Keeping a park tidy. If it was down to her then she’d leave it to nature, let her go her own way. But, of course, this was a city. The park would fill with rubbishy things, dumped by rubbishy people.

The rose garden was here to give the park a bit of class. A level above the usual municipal dog walk. And as such, the litter had to be continually cleaned up. She’d done more than her share of that. How come Amy always got off it? It wasn’t fair.

Over there. Queen of the playground. Look, taking money off a woman. If that’s four today, then Amy’s cut is £80 – and the day’s not over yet. Rose couldn’t make out how it worked, Women Fly Women. Where the money went, how it came back. Not that she could get in on it; she didn’t have the £200 to buy in. And even if she had, she’d need it to find a flat, what with deposits and agent’s fees.

Tonight, at least she had something.

Pity he had a date. But there you go, a warm room couldn’t be complained about, especially when she thought of last night. So cold in the bowling green pavilion. She must get somewhere permanent, but it was such a chore, and such seedy rooms for such astronomical prices. Even in Newham. Well, everyone came here now because it was cheap. Except it wasn’t. Nothing was. And as for Stratford… Well, the Olympics and Westfield had made that strictly no-go. She’d love to get into the Olympic village, but Newham had twenty thousand on its waiting list. And it would do her no good going on it unless she had six kids, half a kidney and was in a wheelchair.

Private landlords simply fleeced those who couldn’t afford to buy. And some of the squalid rooms she’d seen, you wouldn’t put a dog in them.

Forget it for now. Too depressing, the whole rip-off scene. Tonight she had a room. Let tomorrow look after itself. Better do something.

There were only a few blooms left on the roses, dotted here and there, most of the foliage fallen. The blooms were the centenarians, hanging on in there like ultra wrinklies in an old people’s home, everyone dying around them, and on they go to more birthdays, garnering up congratulations for simply living so long, forgetting everything in the present, but remembering so clearly all that happened a hundred years ago.

But in a few weeks, the last blooms would go, forgotten like all the rest. Don’t kid yourself, she flicked a bloom. We come, we go and we are walked over. She’d made a song list for her funeral. That kept you in mind a little longer, some bouncy music, plus a good spread. She’d like an amusing epitaph on her gravestone, something people would stop and point out. As she vacced she considered these last words. Important, as she didn’t have long.

‘She played fast and loose. And in the end lost it.’ Not bad. How about: ‘Do not disturb. Having a long lie in.’

That amused her, like a message on a hotel room door. Except it wouldn’t be allowed. She’d have to write it in Latin or Serbo-Croat. But then what would be the point of that, if most people couldn’t read it? Maybe just burn and go. Leave nothing but a few ashes to be thrown in the gutter.

Zar caught her attention. He was in the shrubbery with a clipboard. What was he up to? He gave her a wave. She waved back. A nice kid. Bought her some lunch and paid for the cakes. She really shouldn’t be so spendy. That came of living with Liz who could be relied on to pay for everything when Rose fell short, as she mostly did. Clubbing was costly. You needed the gear, plus cash for drinks and the dope… if you couldn’t get them bought for you. Not forgetting the ticket.

Zar was at the back of the long shrubbery. The key was in his pocket for the bowling green pavilion which he’d been due to sweep out, but had been interrupted by the change of priorities. He’d get round to it later this afternoon most likely.

Or not. He shrugged. So what? This was so much better. He’d stopped by an ash, most of its leaves scattered about its foot, the buds sooty black. Unlikely to be any death stalks here. Mostly around beech and oak, the mushroom book said. But he liked the ash, the bark close ridged as if you could strike a light on it from its gunpowder buds. He rubbed his finger up and down, enjoying the crumbly texture. He couldn’t believe it; he was getting paid to do this. Do a tree inventory. Any day of the week. And while you’re at it, see if you can find any death stalks. Take as long as you need.

Nice one, Zar. Doing what he wanted to do, as work. Better bag this one. Look busy. He drew a circle on Liz’s sketch and wrote by it:
Fraxinus excelsior
, and in brackets, Ash.

Best not take liberties. He owed it to Liz; she was trusting him. But the fact that he knew about trees and mushrooms was because he’d gone over the park with a book or two. Nature enthralled him, the variety of growing things, how they connected. Like the oak using the underground mycelium of the death stalk to make nitrogen. Or was it the other way round? But then it had to be both. Symbiosis. He’d have to check it out.

He crossed to a nearby beech. This one was legit. Death stalks grew around the roots of such trees. But not up in the air where he was looking. Such a muscular tree. Quite sexual, like a man’s leg or a powerful arm. It was almost perverted looking at it.

Were other people turned on by trees? They did hug them, so maybe. Besides, it was harmless enough. He wasn’t about to drop his trousers and stick his knob in a knot hole.

He strolled round the wide trunk, stepping carefully over the thick ropy roots. Ah! There was one poking out of the leaf mould. He knelt down to scrape the leaves away, and smoothed the soil away from its base with his fingers to show the cup-like volva that the stalk emerged from. No mistaking what it was. The volva was the clincher. Funny word. Like vulva, women’s fannies. You could say fannies were like a cup, he supposed. Not his thing anyway. He was more turned on by the beech limbs. Though Rose had been trying it on at lunchtime, fluttering her eyelids at him in the café. He actually had to tell her to stop and she was quite offended for two minutes. Until the food came and she forgot.

He liked her, but she could be pretty heavy, when she wasn’t trying to pull. She was so up and down.

Or like Volvo. Weird when you think about it. A Swedish automobile reminiscent of a poisonous mushroom, reminiscent of a fanny. You wonder what was in the car maker’s head. Unconscious most likely, but sex, they say, is in everyone’s head, all the time.

He dug his trowel under the mushroom and levered it out. What a beauty! Yellow cap, a hint of green, the gills underneath as soft as a flower petal.

He took the carrier bag out of his backpack and put the death stalk in, to join those already there. Then thrust the bag deep down in his backpack. Back to his alibi. He drew a circle on the plan, and by it wrote:
Fagus sylvatica
(beech).

Chapter 17

It was getting near Jack’s tea break. Mustn’t leave his tools out. Best to get these bricks in too, though he’d noted some barriers in the tool shed. He could put them round his workings. This being a park, he had to be more careful than he normally might be.

He filled his barrow with reclaimed brick, and laid on top his tools. And wheeled off into the yard. Past the tool shed, to the area by the dump where he’d already begun stacking his bricks. And added these to the pile. He left the barrow and tools there, to be picked up after the break. Then went to the tool shed and took out two wooden barriers. They were awkward to carry, and he reflected they would be easier on the wheelbarrow, but it wasn’t far to go.

As he humped them across, he thought: this is the way to get back trouble. Too much trouble to use the wheelbarrow. It would take thirty seconds of his so valuable time.

Back at the wall, Jack placed them to protect the gap in the wall, now down to the last couple of courses. There was a pile of bricks he’d yet to knock the mortar off. Could he leave them out? It was a hassle to get the wheelbarrow, just to bring them out again after the break to work on them.

Behind the wall, he thought. And opened one of the barriers, and placed the bricks behind a good section of wall. Then put the barrier back. They should be safe there; they weren’t visible and kids were still in school.

All this tidying up for a fifteen minute tea break.

As he was going in the yard, he saw Zar crossing the lawn heading his way, and Rose coming down the drive pushing her leaf vac. Liz was locking her greenhouses. It was as if a siren had gone off. Tea break! Eeeeeh! Bill had joined Zar on his way in. That just left the big lady, what was her name, anyway, her, but she wasn’t coming.

Jack went in the mess hut. The urn in the corner was steaming away; he might have made the tea, but not being sure where everything was, and just a guest anyway, thought it best to leave it to the regulars. He washed his hands at the butler sink and took a seat on a side bench as the others came in. They quickly washed their hands in a huddle round the sink.

‘Who invited him?’ said Bill indicating Jack.

‘Me and Rose,’ said Zar.

‘The place is hardly big enough for us lot.’

‘The more people, the warmer,’ said Liz with a broad smile.

Zar took up the tea pot, and set to making tea. Rose went to the china cupboard and removed two large plates and half a dozen smaller ones. She then went to the fridge and took out two cardboard boxes of cakes. She was plainly enjoying being the hostess. From one box, she slid out a cream and jam sponge cake, and from the other, a chocolate cake.

‘Just for looking at,’ she said to her audience. ‘Like me.’

‘Congratulations to both of you,’ said Liz.

‘Nothing special for me, another birthday,’ said Rose dismissively. ‘I just had to keep feeding myself.’ She reflected on what she’d said. ‘Well, all considering, that takes some doing, day in day out, what with all the other things you can spend your money on.’

‘Can’t you just accept a happy birthday?’ said Zar.

‘Nope. Though I’ll have some cake. Consolation for the fact that today I am 30 years nearer to my death.’

‘Were you like that when you were 30, Bill?’ said Zar.

‘I was working in a stately home,’ he said. ‘They worked you hard there, I can tell you. No skiving off with the leaf vac, and going round looking at trees.’

‘I’m doing an inventory,’ insisted Zar, putting out a row of mugs by the large tea pot.

‘And how’s that going to keep the park tidy?’ retorted Bill.

Liz leaned in to Jack. ‘How’s the wall going?’

‘I hope to have it down by the end of today,’ he said. ‘Start laying bricks tomorrow.’ He indicated the room. ‘There’s one of you missing.’

‘Amy,’ said Liz. ‘She doesn’t come over for afternoon tea. The kids are coming out of school soon, so she stays in the playground. Makes herself tea in the hut. Save Amy some cake, Rose.’

‘I’ll take it over later,’ said Rose. She had cut each cake into eight slices. ‘That’s two each. One of jam sponge, one of chocolate.’ With a slice she set to, putting two on each plate and passing them out to the salivating group.

Ian entered, obviously pleased with himself from the broad grin on his face.

‘This all looks very jolly,’ he said. ‘What are we celebrating?’

‘My death,’ said Rose.

‘Her 30
th
birthday,’ corrected Liz.

‘Same thing,’ said Rose. ‘It’s all a matter of perspective.’

‘And me getting on day release,’ said Zar.

‘Well, I’d like to congratulate both of you,’ said Ian. ‘30 is a milestone. A time of maturity.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Rose.

‘A decade when we are more sure of ourselves, when we consolidate…’ he went on.

‘No more,’ said Rose, putting her hands up to protect herself. ‘I can’t take it.’

Jack was unsure whether this was put on or not. Maybe half and half.

But Ian had taken the hint. ‘And well done to Zar. You’ve impressed everyone in this park with your enthusiasm. Your thirst for knowledge. May I on behalf of everyone wish you well on your day release.’

‘Hear! Hear!’ chipped in Liz.

‘It’s a day of good news all round,’ said Ian, beaming like a vicar looking in at the village fete.

Chapter 18

Zar had been around the park again, through all the shrubberies, back and forth. He’d put every tree in the plan and found a couple more death stalks, and thought there couldn’t be any more. The problem was, though, they came up overnight. Most of the fungus was underground, feeding off the tree roots. The mushroom was just the fruiting body, and they’d keep popping up, so long as the mycelium was feeding. The beginning of the month had been wet and now with this warmth, perfect for growth. Cold would halt its munching. Heavy frosts would see the end of mushrooms, until the spring.