Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4) (2 page)

She washed her spoon, bowl and coffee cup, and left them to drain on the rack. She’d be back for lunch, listen to the radio for half an hour, perhaps sketch. Her enclosed life. Rose’s one success was in making her feel lonely. Rose attracted company like hanging meat, mostly the wrong sort for the wrong reasons, completely out-decibelling Liz.

In a cottage, in this lovely park. But alone.

She could try online dating. Wasn’t that what the isolated did? But the strain of it, sending photos into the ether, to end up in the mailbox of someone hiding behind an avatar, a made up identity to be deciphered and only arduously rejected. Oh, give her real people in real places.

Monday’s resolution.

Liz went into the hallway and sat down on the low stool by the door. There, she took off her slippers, put them neatly by the wall and slipped into her overalls. Under them, she wore shorts; trousers were too hot with overalls in her greenhouse. She did up the bib. And then put her veggie boots on. She would not wear the skins of dead animals. These were a plastic, simulated leather, that the makers swore was breathable. Whatever that meant.

Liz put on her jacket but didn’t zip up. She merely had to walk across the grass to the park compound. As she opened the front door, it occurred to her she must change the locks. Rose still had a key. She’d get that off her, but, to play safe, also change the barrel of the lock.

The morning hit her, as it always did, hardly believing the luck of living here. So much sky, the greenery, the trees, the bank of clouds, white and grey and cream. A magpie and pigeons were searching the grass, there was a breeze fluttering the fallen leaves. So mild for mid October.

Rose rolled her sleeping bag up tightly. She cursed. It was such a bastard getting it back in its bag. You had to roll it ultra tight, make sure it stayed tight and then force it in. Why didn’t they just make the bags bigger? Later, she’d have to sneak over to Liz’s place and get some of her clothes. Maybe ask big sister nicely if she could use her washing machine. She must find a room somewhere but it was such a chore. All those poky rooms, so expensive; they wanted deposits. And all those soppy rules about noise and visitors.

Why was living so difficult?

You had to work to buy space. Every square yard had a price tag on. And those who had it, had too much of it, locked their doors on you. She was 30 today. Well, she wouldn’t be buying any cakes. Only Liz knew and they were barely speaking after Friday’s row. Her sister had that whole house for just one person, while she slept in a cupboard, overalls for a mattress and bundles of paper towels for a pillow.

Saturday, she’d tried the shower. Totally cold. Not again. Today just a crude wash. Everyone stank at the music clubs anyway. You covered the sweat in a patina of scent and deodorant. Though she couldn’t do that forever. She’d have to suffer the hell of this shower again.

Just not yet. It was a work day. And she knew the bastard would have her vaccing again.

Rose locked her stuff in the cupboard and pocketed the key. There wasn’t a mirror but she assumed she looked alright. Bit scruffy, but so what? This was a park, not a dress shop. She was hungry but would have to hang out until lunchtime. She’d go to Greggs down the road for something, unless she could cadge a bite from Liz – and perhaps put some laundry in at the same time and get some clothes. And even have a shower there.

It might be possible to move back in. In stages.

Small stages. Or risk another almighty row with her sister, who could be worse than their mother. Not that she’d seen her mother for eighteen months. Lord God save her from those third degrees in the suburban semi.

When do you stop being treated like a child?

Carefully, she looked out of the window. Across the bowling green was the entrance of the park compound, now open. There was a man out there working on the broken wall. Damn. Not that he mattered, but she couldn’t simply come out of the pavilion, too likely she’d be seen by one of the park’s staff coming in to work. The way, she’d worked out, was to climb out through the back window, not the front door, too public, then duck down and sneak along the hedge and on to the drive. She’d have to wait until everyone was in. A little while yet. Oh, there was her sister. She pulled back in.

Liz had crossed the main lawn and was nearing the bowling green, where the builder was knocking at the mortar between the bricks with a hammer and chisel. He was wearing a yellow hard hat and safety goggles.

‘Lovely morning,’ he called, raising his hat slightly.

‘Beautiful,’ said Liz. ‘We haven’t had a frost yet, though I like the sharpness.’ She looked over his work. ‘Are you going to put the old bricks back?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Jack. ‘The bricks in the yard are the wrong colour.’

‘Most of those could be reused,’ she said, indicating the bricks he’d knocked out.

Jack picked up a brick and shook his head. ‘It would take me ages to knock the mortar off all of them.’

‘But it would look so much better,’ she insisted.

He nodded. ‘It would. But the manager wants…’

‘Knocking on the head,’ she interrupted with a laugh, ‘with that hammer.’

Jack smiled. A long smile that faded into the intensity of his stare.

She held the look, thinking: Oh. His eyes, the curl of hair sticking out of the helmet, his hands on the hammer and chisel. A hit out of nowhere. She wasn’t used to this. Not for a long time. Had Rose made her vulnerable?

‘Do you work here?’ he said at last, without looking away.

‘Yes,’ she was able to manage. ‘There.’ She pointed, her arm still able to move. ‘In the greenhouses.’

Neither spoke for a few seconds, eyes liquid light. In slow motion, he put the hammer onto the top of the wall.

She said hesitantly, ‘You can come over when I open up. No, come for a tea break. Ten thirty.’ She took a couple of steps away and gave him a shy wave. ‘I really must go, the manager gets shirty if anyone’s late.’

‘I’ve met the creep,’ he said, almost normally. ‘See you for tea.’

She turned away, crossed the drive and went into the yard, her stomach swirling like a roll of tumbleweed.

Chapter 3

The job was simple enough. Begin by separating the broken wall from the good wall and then, when the broken wall was isolated, knock it down and take it away. Then build a new section in the space. Easy enough in theory.

But what bricks to use?

The sun had come out again. Looking up at the skittering cloud, he guessed it would be going in and out all day. Sunshine always enlivened him. Fallen leaves drifted along the drive in the easy wind. Jack had rolled up his sleeves, warm enough with his steady chipping.

A young woman suddenly appeared. Had she come out of the hedge? He dismissed the thought. He just hadn’t been looking. She was pretty, slim with blonde hair emboldened with red streaks. Tight jeans.

All these distractions on a Monday morning.

‘Where did you come from?’ he called as she approached.

‘I’ve just been born,’ said Rose, giving him a broad smile. ‘Aged 30. Isn’t that clever of me!’

‘What, 30 years in an egg?’ he said with mock surprise. ‘How did you learn to walk and talk? Where did you get clothes from?’

‘Actually, I was born yesterday,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I nicked these clothes from a charity shop, and I’ve spent all night reading an English dictionary.’

‘You’ve done well,’ he said. ‘Bit of a cockney accent… that’s surprising.’

‘It was a cockney dictionary,’ she said.

‘Are you really 30?’ he said.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, eyebrows raised, ‘I’m not under age. That’s if you were thinking of taking me out for a birthday treat.’

Jack’s legs hollowed. She was looking at him as if she wanted to eat him up.

‘Where would you like to go?’ he said.

‘Your place.’

‘Mine it is,’ he said, the chisel sweaty in his hand.

‘I shall keep you to it.’ She tapped him lightly on the nose. ‘Must go. Work to do. But I won’t forget. Your place. Tonight.’

She turned, she waved. And was gone into the yard.

Jesus Christ. What was going on today? Two offers in ten minutes. He shook himself. Was there something sexy about a yellow helmet and hammer and chisel? An aphrodisiac combination.

He hadn’t even thought to get a name from either. The last one didn’t hang about. Rather tarty, but a body that sent ships sailing. The first more classy, though. Something about her, the way she looked at things. And the look between him and her, not simply sex, but a flash of discovery, like a rocket going off. Freckles and red hair. They’d locked, he was sure of it. The essence of speed dating. Of course, as likely to be wrong as right. But then you had to make sure. In her greenhouse, she’d said, for tea. Hot and steamy under the fronds.

He always ran on like this. A look could do it. And then he was in bed. Then with a flash, it could be five years later. Happiness and security, as in a fairy tale.

It hadn’t worked that way with Alison. There’d been love to begin with, but that had fizzled out with his drinking. Drowned, like one of those villages with just the church spire showing above the lake. He’d been like the tractor driver, smashing into his life. Divorced, on the streets, robbed and beaten up, before he staggered into Alcohol Halt.

Two years ago.

Chip mortar, take out a brick, put it on the heap. Take apart and build again. Which of the two women? A delightful thought. Might be neither, but let’s begin the week hopeful. One, not both, that wouldn’t work. Though which? He’d have to play it along, until one sang true. Come and see me in my greenhouse. The starter for ten. How could he refuse? Not that he knew much about plants. He imagined her with a watering can, a sort of Mary, Mary, midst banana palms and pineapples, coconuts and rubber trees. There he was again, making a video of her and him, wearing pith helmets in the undergrowth, parrots screeching and monkeys dangling from the branches.

And then the second, inviting herself back to his place. That must have been a joke. A tease she said to everyone. He’d best be wary there. Do not assume. Get confirmation in lipstick.

The manager had come out of the yard and was at the gate, standing hands on hips, frowning, looking in one direction up the drive and then the other as if waiting for someone. Jack, as if observed by a teacher parading the classroom aisle, became conscious of his work, though he’d been getting on with it anyway. Of his hands, his tools, of the chipping and the bricks, and the man just a little way off with the power.

Next time he looked up, the manager had gone, presumably back into the yard. Jack stopped for a second, relieved not to be watched. That fierce sternness. You knew he was looking for a criticism.

But what to do about these bricks? Reuse the old ones, or go for the new? Two days.

Chapter 4

The mess hut was full. All the workers were seated, some already in their green bibbed overalls, Ian at the head of the table with the signing-in book in front of him. He always came in at 8.00 precisely and drew a line across the page. Anyone signing under it was late.

There were tall lockers along one wall. A deep butler-sink in the corner, a shelf for an electric kettle and a microwave, with a fridge underneath, and above the china cupboard. And that was it apart from the central table with benches along the sides and a couple of separate chairs at either end.

There was one name under the line. Ian would rather let it go, but he had to give a reprimand or be seen as unfair.

‘Bill,’ he said. ‘You were late this morning.’

Bill was in his 50s, with little hair, and what he had greying. When outside he wore a flat cap which was on the table under an arm, a rare occurrence as he mostly wore it inside too. But he was breathing heavily, having come at quite a pace.

‘Sorry, Ian.’ He shrugged uncomfortably. ‘First, had to fix a washer at home, dripping tap. Couldn’t leave without fixing it. Then on the way here I had a puncture. You know that bloody bike. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. And so I had to walk in.’

Bill was pally with the manager, too pally most thought, and they watched, pleased to see him picked on for once.

‘We don’t pay you to have punctures,’ said Ian, tapping the book with his pen. ‘Be here on time tomorrow.’

‘Everything happens at once.’

‘I don’t expect it of you, Bill. At your age, you should be an example.’

He stopped, he was making too much of this. Bill was rarely late. Ian was pretending a calm he didn’t feel. The morning was bubbling over; she was here, almost directly in front of him. He could hardly avoid looking at her. He had things to say to her, but business first. The builder was working on the wall, good, but the marquee hadn’t arrived. He’d gone out to look for them, but no sign.

‘Your job starts at eight o’clock prompt,’ he went on, unable to stop himself. Liz’s eyes were rolling. Didn’t she realise, he had to be the manager? There must be standards. Anyone other than her and he’d have them for silent insolence. She knew she could do it because of what had been between them. Got her sister a job, then broke it off with him.

The circle of workers were waiting. He forced himself to calm down. Stress, the doctor had said; it’ll kill you. But things happened. Even Bill this morning. You wonder who you can depend on.

There was a knock on the door.

Bill, the nearest, rose to open the door. There stood a well built, youngish black man with a docket in his hand. He poked his head round the room and gave them a smile.

‘Your marquee,’ he said.

‘You’re late,’ said Ian, tapping his watch.

The man shrugged. ‘Traffic.’ And dodging a further reprimand added, ‘Where’d you want it?’

Ian bit his lip. Insolent, but then he didn’t employ him, and everyone was watching. Get him out and moving.

‘Unload your gear by the tennis courts,’ he said. ‘I’ll be out in five minutes and tell you where to put it.’ And, as an afterthought, added, ‘And mind your manners, or I’ll report you.’

The man gave a mock salute to those at the table. ‘Up the workers.’ And left them.