Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  They were scattered like logs from a fallen wood pile.

  The young woman shook her head. ‘Oh, don’t worry, someone’ll pick them up. You leave them.’

  ‘My trolley’s been stolen,’ she said plaintively, catching the eye of this kind young woman.

  ‘Is that it?’ The young woman pointed down the aisle at an abandoned cart.

  Nancy peered. ‘I don’t know. Could be.’

  The young lady patted her on the hand. ‘Probably is. I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘Oh, you are a dear. Thank you.’

  She watched her walk down the row. Oh, she’d been stupid. Fancy taking on that bully. At her age, in her condition. What could she have done to him? But you can’t just let him kick your cat and get away with it. Except sometimes you just have to. What a silly old woman she was!

  She gazed at the child who was licking a lollipop.

  ‘You think I’m a silly old woman too, don’t you?’

  The child held out the lollipop for her to lick. And she laughed.

  ‘Everyone gets old, you know. When you’re young you just don’t believe it will ever happen. But it does. Look at me now. I was as young as your mother once. Believe that if you can.’

  The young woman returned with the trolley. With her was a young black man in a dark brown suit with an official looking name-badge in his lapel.

  ‘She’s had a fall,’ said the young woman indicating Nancy. ‘I wonder if you’d be so kind as to help her.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the young man. ‘I’ll just put these biscuits back.’ He turned to Nancy. ‘And then help you with your shopping, madam.’

  He smiled at her, and she regretted all her thoughts about supermarkets. And how they rip you off. Well, they still did. But there were kind people, even here.

  And nasty ones too.

  Chapter 7

  Jack was in his van on Ham Park Road outside the semi-detached house. On the other side of the road were the railings of West Ham Park, shrubs and trees along the edge. A Muslim woman was coming along the pavement, pushing a child in a pushchair. She was in black down to her feet, just a narrow gap for her eyes. He’d almost grown accustomed to such women, they were common these days. He mustn’t stare. He’d had too many arguments about what people believed and didn’t. At Alcohol Halt, some real fundamentalists there. It didn’t stop them being drunks.

  And there, another woman with her skirt halfway up her thighs, heavily made up. She gave him a bright smile, thrusting out her chest. He waved her off and she grimaced. He wondered how many men she’d had today. And what he’d catch if he joined them. Maybe the burqa wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Lunch time, for saints and sinners. He took his phone out of the glove compartment. He’d left it there while he was swinging his sledgehammer, not wanting to risk damage. A self-employed builder needs a phone. A job might come up anytime. You always have to think where the next one is coming from.

  He leaned back in the seat and wriggled his shoulders and neck. All that hammering and humping. He’d have a good soak tonight. The van window could do with a wash, so could the van for that matter. He switched on his phone. A missed call from Alison, his ex-wife. Best phone back or she’d only get shirty.

  Let’s hope she’s not in a mood.

  He picked her out from his contacts and rang.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  ‘You called?’

  ‘Can you stop buying Mia Enid Blyton books?’

  ‘She says she likes them.’

  ‘She’s outgrown them.’

  ‘That’s not what she says.’

  ‘Then she should have outgrown them. Have you ever read Enid Blyton?’

  ‘No.’ Puzzling whether this was a deficiency in his education she was pointing out.

  ‘Try one. And in the meantime look for something with better vocabulary and characterisation.’

  ‘What can you expect from a Daily Mirror reader?’

  She sighed. ‘Not a lot. I learnt that to my cost. Can you look after her this evening?’

  He thought for a second. It’d mean not going to Alcohol Halt, but that could get pretty tedious with competitive tales of how much I used to drink – what a rat I was to my family, but aren’t I good now! Besides, he could go on Wednesday. The same recovering alkies would be there. He should keep it up.

  ‘Yes, alright. Bring her over. Anything else?’

  ‘I’ve got an interview for a job in Brighton. Deputy Head.’

  That was a surprise. Just when he thought things had settled down.

  ‘Mia won’t like moving,’ he said. ‘Losing her friends.’ And her dad, he thought but didn’t say.

  ‘She’s already made that clear.’

  ‘You won’t be able to bring her over at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘And she won’t get any more Enid Blytons, and tell me what’s in the Daily Mirror… In Brighton, she can become a solid Guardian reader.’

  ‘Will she still want to talk to me?’

  ‘I doubt it. One learns painfully. See you at six tonight.’

  She rang off.

  She always left him seething. The underlying criticism, some petty point scoring. She was better at it than he was. Her university education or reading the Guardian or just knowing his weak points? Never catch her reading the Mirror, or even eating her fish and chips from it. Should he get the Guardian himself? Upgrade. No thanks. There was so much of it. The Mirror he could read in half an hour. He didn’t want a book, just a quick comic.

  He gathered up his lunch bag, his thermos, his Mirror, gave the latter a flick with his finger to confirm it as his chosen badge, and got out of his van. A little chilly still, but the wind had dropped. He’d eat in the park. He’d considered having his lunch in the garden where he was working but that girl had offered him another cup of tea, a third, and he didn’t want to say no again. Or have her standing over him and chatting while he ate. And then all those windows, the prying eyes of the house and its neighbours, he felt utterly scrutinised. He had to get away for half an hour at least.

  He’d taken off his overalls and given them a shake out to get rid of the brick dust. Half respectable. He’d have liked to wash his hands, but then he’d have had to ask someone, as he’d already done with that childminder to use her toilet. What was her name? Anne. Anyway, it was just sweat, as he’d been wearing gloves to protect his hands; it would add salt.

  As he entered the park, the sun came out from the clouds. The light and warmth lifted him. Horse chestnut leaves lay like discarded gloves on the bitumen path. Those remaining were blotchy yellow and green, fluttering in the sunlit breeze. He picked up a conker; it was new out of the shell, shiny brown as if polished with beeswax. He put it in his pocket. Overnight it would lose the shine, but for now it was magic. He didn’t want to go too far in. A short break, this would be. And seated himself on a bench about sixty yards from the entrance, just far enough to mute the traffic, the cricket pitch in front of him, the wickets cordoned off till play began again next May. A cuboid, noisy machine with a man inside was going up and down sucking in leaves. He thought of going elsewhere to get some quiet, but it was too much trouble. He wouldn’t be here long. To the side was the children’s playground, quiet at midday.

  A man in a turban was cycling through the park. That was against the by-laws, he knew, but there was no one to stop him. West Ham Park had been a regular park of Jack’s ever since he was a youngster growing up in Plaistow. He’d come here with his school and learnt about its history. The park was owned by the Gurneys, rich Quakers, in the 19th century; their London estate. Elizabeth Fry lived here. Then it was sold to the City of London in Victorian times, and had been a park ever since. There was a house once, Upton House, knocked down just after the war. Once in a very dry summer he’d made out oblong markings in this very field which must have been outbuildings, stables and sheds probably. Then there was the time he and some other builders, working nearby, one lunchtime had put down their coats on th
e grass for a kickabout, and had been ordered off by the parkkeepers. It was in the by-laws, they said. Jack and his mates argued – what harm were they doing? And the parkkeepers threatened to bring the police. It was absurd. A kickabout! Why? He’d never trusted the City of London after that. All those bankers and Guilds making stupid rules in an East End park.

  He came here with Mia sometimes. She wasn’t too old for the playground, well sometimes she was and sometimes she wasn’t. They’d come for a picnic on summer Sundays. It could get very crowded. Lots of people breaking the by-laws. So that was the way to do it, in numbers. Then no one got bothered by the City bankers.

  On the seat he laid out his newspaper, lunch bag and thermos. Two cheese sandwiches and an apple, not a lot, but enough to keep him going. You could spend a fortune at lunchtime going in cafes. It mounted up over a week. He could save maybe twenty pounds by making his own lunch, and while it was still warm, it was pleasant to sit outside.

  He was finishing the second cheese sandwich when he saw her enter the park. The two toddlers were on leads while the baby was in a pushchair. Quite an obstacle course, he thought, getting across the road with that trio.

  As she approached, she waved to him.

  He waved back.

  She wore a light jacket, bright red, almost overpowering in its brightness. She was coming slowly, the two children tugging at different angles to be free, while she pushed the pushchair at a regular speed no matter what, the leaves catching in the wheels and swishing out. His blood fizzed. It wasn’t fair, how he could be taken over like this. Eating his lunch, cursing at the City, and whoosh. Hormones.

  She stopped when she got to him. The baby grinning, waving at him, the two toddlers backing into Anne shyly.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘we’re just going to the playground.’ She smiled brightly, her eyes widening. ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘Aren’t I a bit old for the seesaw?’

  ‘These three are our entrance ticket.’

  ‘Then I’ll come.’

  He grinned and rapidly packed his things. Such invitations didn’t come often enough. And you never know.

  ‘You’re getting on well with that old wall,’ she said.

  ‘Sooner it’s down the better. Tedious job, breaking it up and carting it away. Feels like the Great Wall of China, never ending. Any idiot could demolish it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not an idiot,’ she said earnestly.

  ‘My ex thinks I am. I read the wrong paper and give my daughter Enid Blyton books.’

  ‘Famous Five or Secret Seven?’ she said.

  ‘Famous Five,’ he said.

  ‘There’s only 21 of them. I read them all when I was 9 or 10, maybe three times. And then I’d had enough. Blyton phase done with, and then never read another one. Try the Narnia books or E Nesbit. I don’t think your ex will complain about those.’

  ‘You can be my literary consultant,’ he said.

  ‘Pleased to.’ She mock bowed.

  He accompanied her into the playground where they headed for the swings. There were only a few others there, mostly young children with their mothers, though there was an elderly Sikh pushing a boy on the roundabout.

  They took over the baby swing section, which they had to themselves. The two toddlers were put in a swing and secured, and then the baby taken out of the pushchair and put in one too. Jack joined her pushing them, the baby hardly at all, just the slightest of arcs, but the twins enjoyed the to and fro of gravity’s play.

  ‘How did you get into childminding?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I had some trouble with my ex. Hell more like. And came down south. And couldn’t get a job. So after countless rejections, I decided to work for myself. And thought childminding can’t be difficult… so I did some volunteer work in a nursery for a few months. Then had my place done up with some money I still had. Passed the inspection. And advertised. And here I am, six months later.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Sometimes. Depends on the kids, depends on me. We have our moods.’ She laughed. ‘I have a routine. We come to the playground every day, weather permitting. We draw and paint, I read to them, sing even.’ She flapped her hands and laughed at herself. ‘They don’t know what a bad voice I’ve got. They’re very appreciative. It’s the parents can be difficult. I need a regular income, and they keep changing the rules. And the trouble is I’m too soft. Then I lose money.’

  ‘That’s the problem of being self-employed,’ he said. ‘Getting paid.’

  ‘I should have a fourth child,’ she said ruefully, ‘though three is a handful. I’ll stick with that till I’m better at it. I’ll tell you one thing though…’ She sighed as she gave the baby a little push. ‘I get desperate for grown up company. All day with toddlers and babyspeak – and I am dying for an adult conversation. Someone to listen to me. To say long words. If there’s no one else, I go to the pictures. Twice a week sometimes. There’s a confession.’

  She turned to him. He was pushing the boy twin who protested at going too high, so it was a light role. It needed precision.

  ‘Do you want to come for dinner this evening?’ she said.

  Almost overwhelmed by the offer, he couldn’t hide his eagerness. ‘Love to.’ Then a second later, with a sag of frustration, he recalled his earlier booking. ‘Can’t. Sorry. I’ve got to look after my daughter this evening. Twenty minutes ago, I told her mum I would.’

  Her face fell, though she worked to hide it. Could he get out of having Mia? Too much hassle, he had agreed to it.

  ‘I’m free tomorrow,’ he said hopefully.

  She clapped her hands. ‘That’s fine. Let’s do tomorrow,’ she said. ‘There’s a leaseholders’ meeting tonight, so dinner would’ve been late anyway.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Make it 7,’ she said. ‘Flowers’ll be nice, a bottle of wine – or is that cheeky of me?’

  He shifted in his collar. ‘I don’t drink,’ he said. And took a deep breath, but it had to be said. ‘I’m in recovery,’ he added, feeling himself going bright red. It was like confessing to child abuse. ‘I’ve been off the juice for over a year now. And it has to stay that way.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said.

  ‘You can drink if you want,’ he said. ‘It’s just I can’t.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I won’t. So you won’t be tempted.’

  He wondered how she felt about that. If she regretted asking him. Well, he’d told her, and there was no way out of that.

  ‘My life depends on me staying dry,’ he said. He knew it was a desperate thing to say, too much at a first meeting, but it was true and better said than not. ‘Drink kills everything.’

  Visions of hangovers and vomit, waking up in strange places, rows with Alison, jobs lost…

  ‘I’m sure we can have a great evening without booze,’ she said.

  He hoped she meant it. But there it was, out in the open. And had to be. Much better when you knew where you were, and there were no surprises.

  She’d gone silent, and he wondered whether he’d been a bit heavy. But what do you do? Hide it? And then she pours two glasses and assumes… No. Alcohol Halt said there would always be surprises, but avoid whatever you can.

  ‘Who else lives in the house?’ he said, eager to get the subject off his weakness. ‘I’ve met Bessie. She keeps making me tea. It’s too weak for my liking, but she means well. And she has to come out all the time to move her plants in case I drop a brick on them.’

  ‘Her dad bullies her,’ said Anne. ‘Frank. He keeps trying to chat me up. I have to be polite but he won’t take a hint. I know we’re going to end up enemies. Then there’s Nancy, the old woman. She wants my flat, I can tell. I do feel sorry for her, all those stairs, but I need the ground floor for childminding. Then up top there’s Maggie and David. She’s a teacher, very nice, and David manages a coffee shop. Rather wrapped up in each other.’

  ‘They must be in love.’

 
‘They’ll get over it.’

  ‘So cynical, so young.’

  She was pushing the swing, deliberately not looking at him. He wondered about her ex, about the hell. Keep it light, keep it frothy. He kicked some leaves. There was always hell.

  ‘This used to be a big house for toffs once, the park,’ he mused, ‘The Gurneys…’

  ‘Quakers,’ she said. ‘They didn’t drink either. Porridge oats and chocolate.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a big box,’ he said, and looked at his watch. ‘Must get back. I hope my conversation has been adult enough.’

  ‘Fair to middling,’ she said with pressed lips. ‘I will feel grown up till tea time. And thank you for pushing a swing.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me to dinner.’

  He put a hand over hers as she held the chain of the swing. She gave a sharp intake of breath as if his fingers were hot but didn’t pull her hand away.

  A little damp hand came over theirs, a twin protesting at the slowing swing. They untwined, and grinned shyly at each other.

  He began to back away. ‘Someone has to knock that wall down.’

  ‘Someone has to push the swings.’ She blew him a kiss.

  He didn’t want to go, but didn’t want to be seen as needy. Let it come at its own pace, if it came. Blundering in never works. He walked out of the playground, glancing back as he took the path to the Ham Park Road gate. She was busy with the threesome, singing them something, now that he was almost out of earshot.

  Chapter 8

  The rest of the afternoon he worked on the wall. His aim was to complete the half going to the back fence today. Get that all knocked down and taken out to the skip. The full skip was being taken away in the morning and an empty one dropped off. Tomorrow’s plan was to knock down and cart away the other half, the length of brickwork going to the house. The weather was holding, but you never knew with outside jobs. Though it wasn’t dangerous work, so he’d work on through rain unless it was a real thunderstorm.