Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4) (9 page)

Rose was scratching her head, trying to work it all out. ‘Who’s your captain?’

‘You’re not even in yet and asking me all these questions.’

‘Two hundred quid you want – and I can’t ask how it works?’

‘Do you want to make a thousand or not?’

‘Of course I do.’

Amy laughed. ‘And you told me there’s nothing you want.’ She rubbed her fingers together. ‘Money, that attracts you. You want to be rich.’

‘Well, it’s better to be rich than poor. But you don’t understand, Amy. There’s nothing I want to do with my life. Being rich would give me nice clothes and a decent place to live – but I know I’d be bored, because it’s all pointless.’

‘Oh, you give me the pip! A woman at your age, with your looks, shouldn’t have any trouble. Find yourself a man.’

‘And then get stuck cooking and cleaning for him and wiping babies’ bottoms.’

Amy pointed across the playground. ‘Ian’s heading this way. I think you’d better look active. And if you want to be in Women Fly Women then get me the flight price – and you’re off.’

The two women split as Ian came into the playground. Rapidly Rose had the vac sucking, as Amy strolled about the playground smiling at the users.

Part Two:

The Murder

Chapter 12

Bill stopped for a cigarette, a thin rollup, pre-prepared in his tobacco tin. At the tea break he’d made himself three to last till lunch. If he couldn’t give up, he liked to claim he had enough willpower to limit himself to three prison slims. And so what if they killed you. Living did that anyway.

Zar was forking out the border of alyssums on the flower bed they were both working on, and loading them into a wheelbarrow. Bill had done almost half the snapdragons that filled the centre. The bed looked at its worst, half cleared and trampled, half full of keeling plants, like despairing orphans in a witch’s orphanage.

‘When d’you start your day release?’ asked Bill between puffs.

‘Next Monday,’ said Zar.

‘So who’s going to be doing your work here?’

‘You,’ said Zar with a laugh. ‘You won’t mind that, will you?’

‘I never went on day release,’ said Bill rasping his lips. ‘I learnt on the job. There’s nothing in those books.’

‘There’s got to be something in them,’ insisted Zar, ‘all those words and pictures, on all those pages. Got to be something, Bill.’

‘Nothing that’s useful.’ He stomped the ground. ‘Out here, on the ground is where you learn. Tell me something useful you got from a book.’

‘What’s an F1 hybrid?’ asked Zar.

‘Well, it’s a type of hybrid…’

‘That’s in the name. Anyone could work that out. But what type of hybrid is it,’ pressed Zar.

‘And how’s that useful to me? Why should I waste my time learning it?’

‘You don’t have to. I’ll waste my time learning it for you, Bill. To save you the bother.’

Bill flicked away his dog end. ‘You’ll end up so whooshy clever, you won’t be able to do the spring bedding, so up in the air clever you won’t be here to prune a rose, or trench dig a flower bed. And those without their heads in a book will have to do it for you, and on half your office-wallah money.’

Zar forked the last of the alyssums into the barrow.

‘Did you know there were death stalks in the shrubbery, Bill?’

‘What’s a death stalk when it’s at home?’

‘Poisonous mushrooms. Why don’t you read it up? There must be someone you want to kill.’ And without waiting for a reply, he took the handles of the wheelbarrow, and set off across the grass to the yard.

There was no point arguing with Bill. You could never win. The best thing to do was take the mickey out of him. Undercut him. Though he was a good gardener, but you wouldn’t want to be his apprentice.

Zar came into the yard, past the two piles of bricks, the new and the reclaimed bricks the builder was gradually taking into the yard. At the dump end was Rose with her vac. She was sluggishly emptying the bag of leaves.

‘Liz says it’s your birthday,’ he said.

‘I wish she wouldn’t tell people,’ she said crossly. ‘It’s nothing to be proud of. Being 30. Just that bit nearer death.’

‘You’re in the prime of life, Rose.’

She indicated the leaf dump. ‘Is this really the prime, Zar?’

‘Who knows what the future’s going to bring?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then forget the future and enjoy the present.’

‘Oh God, Zar, you sound like one of those new age hippies.’

‘I was only thinking of buying some cakes to celebrate your birthday and my going on day release.’

Rose smiled at him sadly. ‘Oh, it’s a pity you’re so young, Zar.’

‘What, not old and worn out like you?’

She punched him on the shoulder. ‘I was going to say because you’re the nicest person in this park, but I’ve changed my mind. Bill is.’

They both laughed.

‘Do you want to come out and get some cakes with me?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She sucked her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Chocolate éclairs or Danish slices? You win. I’m a convert to your religion. Take me to the temple of cake, oh master.’

‘One more load, then we’ll head off.’

Chapter 13

Ian left his office. He straightened his tie. The leaf vac had been parked untidily by the dump, taking up too much room. He moved it to a better position, out of the way. So easy, why don’t people do it? He’d tell Rose off. Or maybe not. She was Liz’s sister, might be his sister-in-law. He’d need to think that one out. How relationships change. Though Rose could be so sloppy.

He was nervous. This lunch. How might it go? Would you invite someone to lunch to give them the push? Didn’t seem likely. But could be a way of getting the best out of him, short of marriage. He must take it step by step, see exactly what she was offering, and never forget that he held the ace. And she must know that he would play it.

The whole point of a deterrent.

In the yard, he noted the builder had piled his reclaimed brick by the new brick pile. Neat enough. He didn’t want another argy bargy with him. Provided he did his work, though he had seen Liz talking to him earlier. About what? That was the thing with women, how much could you trust them?

That was part of what had broken them up. She went out a lot, to various classes, her painting courses. She talked to people for too long – and he got jealous. He couldn’t help it. He saw the way they looked at her. And she was his. He knew what men were like.

He came out of the yard. There was the builder sitting on the wall eating his lunch like he owned the place. To hell with him and his old bricks. He’d be gone soon enough. Cocky so and so, legs spread like he was ready for it. If Ian had a pitch fork, he’d teach him to be ready.

Cool it. This was no way to be. Jealous of a brickie. He was ten times better. This was his park. He had the ace.

Ian turned away from the bricklayer and walked down the drive. Bowling green fine, though the verandah of the pavilion could do with a sweep. Get Zar on it. Tennis courts clear of leaves, but the net was sagging. Get Amy to tighten it. A couple of male pensioners were playing on one of the courts, a lot of talking, not much hitting. The other court was empty.

Ian crossed onto the lawn and looked in the marquee. Liz’s cascade was half out, the frame of it, a sort of staircase thing that would have plants trailing down the edges and water flowing down the middle. She’d had an interrupted morning with that dosser, so excusable how much she’d done, what with her greenhouse work. Perhaps she needed some assistance.

Wednesday had to be pukka. No mistakes, the park looking good, everyone on best behaviour. He would be judged by it and it had to be right.

Ian crossed to the playground but didn’t go in. Clear of leaves, all but the paddling pool. That needed a clearing and hose down. Really, it could do with a cover, or it just collected rubbish. Money, it was all about money. Budgeting drove him crackers.

He turned into the Mayor’s Avenue. The cottages were at the end. There were two rows of oak trees, set in from the drive, six on one side, five on the other; each planted by a mayor of the borough, but this Wednesday the retiring Member of Parliament would add his as well. Two holes had to be made ready, one on either side, totally circular and neat, a post in the centre of each. Tomorrow he’d set Bill and Zar on it.

Ian looked in the rose garden. It hadn’t been vacced. Really, vaccing should be no more than a morning’s work. How she dragged it out! He’d seen her jawing to Zar and Amy… If he wasn’t watching, she’d jaw all day and do nothing else.

But she was his putative sister in law. If things went as he hoped. His stomach was all a skitter. This could go either way. Lunch could mean she accepted the inevitable, saw it was all for the best. She would grow to love him as he became part of her life. As they went places together, foreign holidays and so forth.

She was a vegetarian. Another difficulty last time, his meat eating. A meal wasn’t a meal without a chop, a piece of steak, bacon, a couple of burgers even. He’d have to compromise there, though how much? That was the difficulty. She would have to compromise too. He couldn’t expect her to become a meat-eater; he’d tried that last time and it just ended in too many rows. She was a vegetarian, he would accept that. One hundred per cent. But he was a meat-eater. There was room for both in the world.

Dead heading. After the rose garden had been vacced, Rose could do that.

He’d stopped, halfway up the drive. He didn’t know what he was walking into. Was she really in any position to say no to him? And he wouldn’t stand for any prevaricating. If it was on, it was on. And no messing him about.

He took a deep breath and strode out smartly. She might be looking out of the window, he must appear confident and in charge. He held the big trump. And she knew it.

He opened the gate of her cottage and walked down the short path. She was in the kitchen and waved to him through the window. So no need to ring. He stood at the door, breathing regularly, his shoes smartly together as if he were courting.

She opened the door and gave him a nervous smile.

‘Come in, Ian.’

He wiped his feet on the mat and she led him into the kitchen where food was spread on the table.

‘You have been busy,’ he said.

‘I left a little early,’ she said, ‘as this was rather important.’

She held out a chair for him and he sat down. She took her place opposite. It was a small table, just large enough for two. And she had prepared a plate of food for them both with pie and sauce, lettuce, spring onions, tomatoes and a rice salad.

‘This looks awfully nice. How did you prepare it so quickly?’

‘The salad I had anyway, and the pie I just added to and microwaved. And sauce is only a few minute job. A mushroom, walnut and tahini quick fry.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He tentatively tried the pie. ‘It’s very tasty.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘I know you’re a good cook, Liz.’

He was on careful ground. No threats. She poured them both a glass of white wine. He noted her hand was shaking. What could that mean? She raised her glass.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ He raised his to hers and they clinked.

It could go either way, he thought, the meal a sort of consolation prize. But he mustn’t bull into it, that would be asking for trouble. He saw she was nervously eating, trying to smile, not too successfully. She’d changed into a dress, a summery affair, a paisley design, shapely. She was beautiful out of her overalls, though even in them, saggy things, she had a feminine presence.

The pie was good, he wasn’t just saying it. It almost tasted meaty. The sauce lovely. He didn’t want to talk shop with her, the Mayor coming and all that. Nor yet get down to their real business, much as he wanted to know what she’d decided. Chat. Not something he was good at, but try.

‘That’s a lovely dress,’ he said.

‘I thought overalls wouldn’t do,’ she said.

‘Is the salad from your garden?’

‘The tomatoes are, as well as the spring onions and the spinach in the pie. That’s the last of my lettuce.’

‘Home grown food tastes so much better,’ he said. ‘The tomatoes have flavour. Some of the supermarket ones, well they look like tomatoes, but they lack sweetness.’

‘The big vegetable growers simply go for big croppers,’ she said. ‘They look good, like a tomato or carrot, but taste pulpy. Whereas in your own garden, flavour is number one. A tomato that tastes like a tomato.’

‘Exactly.’

This was going well, fairly easy conversation. He took a sip of wine. They could eat together, so important for any future. He didn’t mind at all there was no meat in the lunch. He could compromise. And surely she could.

‘More pie?’ she said.

‘Yes, please.’

She gave him a slice and poured sauce on top from the jug, her hand a little shaky which endeared her to him. She needed his protection.

‘The trick to a good meal,’ she said, ‘is the colours. It’s like a painting really. If it looks attractive, contrasting colours, then you want to eat it.’

‘This is very good.’

She beamed at him. At last. Well, it was time then. The big question had to be broached.

‘Have you thought about my proposal?’ he said carefully, as nervous as if he were about to go on stage.

‘I have,’ she said. ‘And there’s a few things to clear up before I give my answer.’

‘Go ahead.’ He took a forkful of pie, hardly aware he was doing it, simply needing to be doing something.

‘Suppose we got married,’ she said, ‘and it didn’t work. What then?’

He cut the pie on his plate into manageable pieces, aware his hands weren’t steady. Important question, and in the right direction.

‘You’d have to give it a fair go, Liz, before calling it a day,’ he said. ‘Let’s say after five years. If it isn’t working, then we could separate.’

He watched her keenly. She nodded. Good. He worked to even his breathing.

‘And you wouldn’t expose me?’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Even if we divorced?’

‘No. Even if we decide to divorce. We will have given it a fair try. Five years. I can’t ask more of you than that.’