Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  She grabbed the handset. Was it the red or the green button? She was always getting them wrong. Red, no, green. Green for go. She pressed green.

  ‘You are due thousands of pounds in repayment of your payment protection insurance…’ began an automated, well-spoken woman’s voice.

  ‘No, I’m not, you stupid cow!’ she screamed into the phone and before the automaton could reply, thrust the phone back on its seating.

  Nancy sat back on the floor exhausted, a veined hand, covered in kidney blotches, pressed against her lifting chest. These nuisance calls drove her mad. She knew it was stupid to yell at them, but their endless calls, lying messages… How could they possibly know what she had or hadn’t?

  There was a timid rap on the door.

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Home,’ came Bessie’s voice. ‘Come to do the litter.’

  ‘Won’t be a minute, darling,’ she shouted back, pulling herself to her feet on the arm of the sofa. Resting a second, then drawing herself along the back of the sofa. ‘Coming, Bessie love.’

  The phone rang again.

  Chapter 4

  Frank was drinking his tea splayed out in the armchair, his feet on a wooden chair. He’d undone the laces in his shoes. One hand was on the mound of his stomach as if trying to press in the pie from his rest stop that morning at the tea halt at Whipps Cross pond. He’d undone his belt, the zip dropping a few inches down his flies. A Union flag and rampant lion were tattooed on one bare arm, the other had a galleon with cannons blasting, a St George flag on its main mast.

  Bessie was cooking a fry up in their tiny kitchen. The sausages and onions were turning his stomach over, his tongue welling saliva.

  ‘How much longer?’ he yelled.

  ‘Nearly ready,’ called Bessie from the kitchen.

  ‘Nearly bloody doomsday.’ Under his T-shirt, he scratched his belly button which was itchy with sweat. ‘I phoned. I expect it on the table when I get in. You’ve nothing else on but a few errands for that geriatric busybody. Move it! Or get me belt.’

  He’d come back early. Hardly any work on. He needed another firm, with all the Pakis taking over. His office had taken on half a dozen, most of them could hardly speak English – and now, just as he’d said, there wasn’t enough work to go round.

  They buckle down, his boss insisted. Do unsocial hours without argument. The English are lazy. That got Frank so angry, he couldn’t speak. If he had’ve done so he’d have been sacked on the spot. Niggers, Pakis, Poles taking work away from the English workman. Whose country is it? Who fought in the war? His family. All these bleeding liberals, opening the gates wide. Come in! Come in! Here’s family credit – have lots of kids. Need a Council flat? Jump the queue, my brown skinned friend. AIDS, TB – the NHS is all yours, please have a bed.

  Whose country? The question was an obsession. With only one answer. But it was being stolen as he watched. Paki shops opening all hours, Poles, Russians, Turkish, taking over the high street. Women in black robes with slits for eyes crowding the supermarkets. It made him furious, the tearing away of his birthright. Just look at Green Street, round the corner, a total Paki takeover, hordes of ‘em shopping and just up from the Hammers ground n’all. All over the town they were. He saw them in his cab, where he had to be polite, yes sir, no sir, what’s the address of your drug dealer? And here, when he came home to what should be his castle, right here in this house, a mongrel couple breeding. A half caste growing in her belly.

  Bessie brought him out his plate and put it on the table on a place mat. Two sausages, bacon, two eggs and fried bread. She went back out again and brought in the bread and butter. Out again for the sauce and mustard. And then out once more to bring her own in.

  ‘I’ve put the kettle on for another cuppa,’ she said.

  ‘Is that all you’re having?’ he said, now at the table, indicating her single sausage and egg.

  ‘Plenty for me,’ she said, sitting down opposite. ‘How’s your day been?’

  ‘Not enough work, too many Paki drivers,’ he said, mouth full of sausage, yellow teeth and gaps to match his daughter’s.

  His hair was greying and receding quickly. He combed it forward in an attempt to fool the world that he had more than he had. He was clean shaven, shaving twice a day. Beards were intellectual, liberal, like sandals and muesli, anti-English.

  She said cautiously, ‘Are we going to the meeting this evening?’

  ‘In the mongrels’ flat?’

  She nodded, knowing who he meant, correct or not.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said, as he dipped fried bread in egg. ‘Have some bread.’

  ‘I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Have some or get a slap.’

  Bessie rapidly took a slice and bit into it to show willingness.

  ‘It’s a lot of money. Too much,’ he went on with his former thread, ‘but do we want to go into their flat? She’s white for God’s sake!’ He thumped the table. ‘White men not good enough for her?’

  ‘So we’re not going then?’ she said carefully, taking a dainty bit of sausage and remembering a bite of bread.

  ‘I want to know what their flat looks like.’ He smiled at her. ‘Know your enemy and all that. And I don’t want to pay all that out.’ But the economics didn’t hold him long. ‘She’s a good looking woman. A teacher – for God’s sake. I can’t make it out, with that nignog.’

  ‘Some teachers…,’ said Bessie, not sure what she was going to say or what she meant, but feeling the necessity to agree with him.

  ‘He comes out in the morning, wearing a suit. Just down from the trees. And has the cheek to wear a tie. It makes me laugh when I don’t want to cry.’ He took a slice of buttered bread and through a mouthful added, ‘But we’re going. It’s good manners, and neighbourliness to our mongrel pair.’

  ‘Mrs Home and Anne will be there.’

  ‘So they will,’ he said. ‘White backup.’ He wiped the egg on his plate with the slice. ‘One of our lot should have called the meeting. Strategic mistake. But let’s make the best of it and case the enemy’s joint. You never know.’

  And he smiled to himself as he chewed the last bit of bacon. Yes, Anne would be there. He knew that for certain as he’d met her first thing that morning, when he was going out for work and she was putting her rubbish in the bins. They’d discussed the maintenance charge and the meeting. She said she was going, and on the spot he’d decided he was too. Ample flesh in the right places, he’d like to get some of that. White of course.

  He was light and charming to her, or so he thought, agreeing that the charge was too much and it wasn’t right, and something should be done. And they, as neighbours, should support each other.

  Chapter 5

  Jack returned with the empty wheelbarrow. The fallen chunk of the wall had gone into the skip. Heavy work, sledgehammering and chucking the bricks into the barrow. Some club hammer and cold chisel work, but limited skill all in all, just graft, knock it down, take it away. Now the rest of the wall on either side of the gap was leaning twenty degrees or more. Big storm, and that could come down too. He wriggled his neck and shoulders, building up quite a sweat hammering and carting away, the goggles itchy.

  He needed to phone that girl. Get her to take her plants out in front of the first bit he was going to knock down. He regretted he’d promised her. It could be all hassle if she wasn’t in. But he’d done it now.

  The French windows opened and a tall, slim woman beckoned.

  ‘Mr Builder, can I have a word?’

  Nice looker, good figure. Yes, he’d give her a word gladly. About his own height, wearing green jeans and an orange T-shirt. She had a couple of toddlers behind her, one pulling at her legs. He crossed to her.

  ‘Yes, madam. What can I do for you?’

  She smiled at him, then broke off. ‘Stop it, Dominic.’

  ‘Lisa took my biscuit,’ moaned the little one pulling her jeans.

  ‘It was mine!’ wailed the one behind.


  She held up a hand to Jack. ‘Just let me sort these two out. Won’t be a sec.’

  And she went back in, ushering the two toddlers into the room. Jack might have followed if he wasn’t covered in dust. Curious, he gazed into the room. Toys were lying about on a PVC tiled floor, made up of red, white and blue squares. There was a rocking horse and a playpen, and on the walls brightly coloured nursery rhyme posters with an assortment of people, children and animals gambolling cartoon style. The woman sat the two children in red toddler-size chairs by a toddler‑ size table with milk and biscuits. And then came back out.

  ‘They yours?’ he said.

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, they go home, thank goodness. I’m a childminder.’ She hesitated. ‘I would offer you a cup of tea, but it’s difficult at the moment…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve a thermos. And I can see you’ve got your hands full.’

  She smiled again. He liked her freckles, lightly sprinkled about her cheeks and forehead. Her hair was short with a slight fringe at the front. He was aware of staring, a little gormlessly, though she didn’t seem to mind. He looked into her eyes, and felt a snatch of electricity. She didn’t look away.

  ‘Nice setup you’ve got there,’ he said.

  ‘It works,’ she said, her eyes continuing to hold his.

  Jack thought – is she playing, or what? He’d been caught out before, mistaking a little flirting for something more.

  She turned away and indicated the wall.

  ‘I normally bring the children out into the garden to play. But I can’t do that with you swinging a sledgehammer.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss is it?’

  She nodded. ‘Miss. Anne.’

  Good so far, single. He said, ‘Jack. Best keep the kids in. All the dust and bricks, no good for little ‘uns. I should be a couple of days knocking the wall down and carting it away. Then you can come out again while I put the new fence in. Sorry for the inconvenience.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Jack.’ And she touched him lightly on the arm. ‘You’ve a job to do. And that wall is dangerous.’ Then she hesitated. ‘Do you mind me asking you a personal question?’

  He smiled. She’d used his name and touched him, and now a personal question.

  ‘Depends what it is,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve a meeting this evening,’ she said. ‘We’re all leaseholders. And the agents are charging us for your work… So I wondered, if you wouldn’t mind saying, how much you were getting?’

  ‘You think the agent might be overcharging?’

  She nodded.

  He hesitated, then what the hell – she wasn’t a tax inspector.

  ‘£970 and that includes materials,’ he said. ‘That’s for knocking down the wall, getting it taken away in skips and putting in a fence. I know you’ve got another builder coming in. I don’t know why two of us…’

  ‘Because I complained about that wall,’ she said. ‘I told them it was a danger to my children. Said I’d call a solicitor if they left it in that condition.’

  ‘That accounts for it,’ said Jack. ‘It was a last minute job. The other builder probably wasn’t free. I was. And got this dog-end.’

  ‘They’re charging us two thousand each,’ she said, her lips tight. ‘Eight thousand in all.’

  ‘I can only talk about what I’m contracted for,’ he said. ‘Not the total. So I can’t tell you whether that’s fair or not.’

  ‘It never stops,’ she said, suddenly blowing a squall. ‘It cost me a fortune getting my flat up to standard for childminding – and now these bastards want another two thousand…’

  There came a wail from inside, and then another.

  She touched him on the arm again. ‘Sorry, Jack. You don’t want to hear my moans. I dare say you’ve got your own. I’ll invite you in for a cuppa when I’m a bit freer.’ And as she went inside she added, ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘And you too,’ he called after her.

  There was someone he’d like to have a cuppa with. And biscuits. A Miss, good sign. Own flat. But might there be a boyfriend? There usually was in his experience. Sort that out before going overboard.

  Now he’d better phone that daffy girl.

  Chapter 6

  She leaned on the supermarket trolley, her stick and handbag inside. She was breathing heavily, her legs aching. These aisles at Morrison’s were so long and they kept moving things. She was sure the soap powder was here last week. Now what had they done with it?

  She rested against the trolley. No rush. Dial-A-Ride wouldn’t be back for forty minutes. And the driver was often late with all the traffic around Stratford. Mostly she had quite a wait when she’d finished her shopping, not that she minded, she could watch all the comings and goings. And there was the tea shop. And they had a toilet here. She was always curious what people had in their trolleys. All that bottled water, big bottles of it. What was the tap for? And really, she wanted to say, don’t buy your meat here, go to your local butcher. It’s better and cheaper. When you get to my age you don’t have the choice, but you youngsters do.

  She hated the two for the price of ones. They were a swindle. She didn’t want two, the second lot would only go off. So she felt ripped off if she bought just the one, but when you live on your own – you have to. They don’t care, these supermarkets. Pretend they do. Valued customer and all that rubbish.

  She’d read a dairy farmer’s tale in one of her magazines, how the supermarkets paid them less than it cost farmers to produce the milk. Take it or leave it, was their motto. She’d pay a few coppers more if she knew it went to the farmers. Always bought free-range eggs; chickens should have ground to run and peck on. Her mum kept chickens during the war, had a little run in their backyard, half a dozen they had. She loved finding the new-laid eggs in the morning when Mum sent her out to feed the chickens. Though she was afraid of the cockerel. She kept back from him. Sometimes he’d stride right up to her. Shoo! shoo! she’d shout and wave – but he wouldn’t go away.

  Fancy remembering that.

  Which cornflakes? All these fancy cereals. You’d never believe there could be so many. All stuffed with sugar. No wonder the kids were losing their teeth. Own brand was cheaper. Biscuits? Well, she did like one or two with her tea, and so did Bessie. Millie was coming tomorrow. She liked shortbread. Own brand? Go for the posh ones for Millie. She’d probably bring a cake. Usually a walnut cake. They’d only have a couple of slices, but she and Bessie could finish it.

  Bessie was a nice girl. She should look after herself better. It was that father of hers she blamed, the bullying man.

  And as if she’d called him up, like a sorceress, she saw him. There, in the biscuits and crisps aisle, was Bessie’s father. She was sure of it. He hadn’t seen her. If she could run, she’d hit him smack in his fat belly with her trolley, and say – that’s for kicking Tickles.

  She approached him. She would not let him get away with it. He was picking through custard creams, deciding how big and sugary he wanted the pack. Very, it seemed. Two big, cheap packs he was weighing up.

  She couldn’t wait for his coronary, and tapped him on the shoulder with her walking stick.

  ‘I want an apology from you.’

  He turned, startled. And grabbed the stick, pulling it off her.

  ‘Oi – give me that back,’ she declared.

  ‘Like hell I will.’ He smirked at her and smacked his open hand with the stick.

  ‘You kicked my cat deliberately,’ she said, standing her ground.

  ‘Was it yours?’ he said nonchalantly.

  ‘You know very well it was mine.’

  ‘I thought it was a stray. And I thought a good kick and it won’t come back.’

  He was resting on her stick like a gent, teasing her. She shouldn’t get angry, but he was such a rotter. And shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

  ‘It’s not the first time,’ she retorted. She wasn’t absolutely sure, but suspected it. Her cat had
come back bruised before.

  ‘An animal needs to know who’s the boss,’ he said. ‘Just like you do. You silly old cow.’

  ‘How dare you, you rude, insolent man!’

  She was making her way round the trolley to him, hand by hand. That pink, fat face needed a slap.

  ‘Your cat’s so fat, it can barely waddle,’ he said. ‘Never mind a kicking, a mercy killing. And you too, just taking up useful space. Your flat’s full of rubbish, all to be taken to the tip when you’re gone.’

  She lifted a hand to smack him but he grabbed her wrist. And jerked her away from the trolley. He threw the stick in the cart and began wheeling it away. She tottered and grabbed at a shelf of biscuits, pulling at a cluster that fell, leaving her holding air and staggering. Completely unbalanced, she went down.

  Frank, a few metres away, stopped and turned about, and grinned at his elderly neighbour. She was splayed out on the supermarket floor, surrounded by packets of garibaldi.

  He rattled her trolley. ‘You won’t need this anymore.’ He lifted a can out. ‘Especially not the cat food. I’ll put it back for you. Save your cash and starve the moggy.’

  And he headed off with the trolley. She scrambled on the ground, crawling after him along the floor of the aisle, flapping like a seal that had just come out of the sea.

  ‘Come back! Stop thief!’

  He took no notice, and continued down the aisle. She watched him helplessly. Then sat up and began to weep. She was just a stupid old woman. He was right. She had lived too long. The world took no notice of her. Oh, she wished she was with John in the grave reserved for her.

  ‘Are you alright, Madam?’

  A young woman put a hand on her shoulder. She had a shopping trolley with a child sitting and facing her. She bent down and helped Nancy to her feet. Nancy held her shoulder as she rose.

  ‘Thank you, young lady. You’re very kind.’ She let go of her shoulder and held on to the trolley, catching her breath, burning off the humiliation. ‘Oh, look at all those biscuits. I should put them back.’