Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  She pulled in to the roadside café. She brushed her hair in the mirror and renewed her lipstick. Smart, well-dressed, attractive – who would know of her tantrum? If only you could wipe away such things, instead of carrying the bruise. A bruise on a bruise. Peel off the crust, how far down could you go before you found virgin cells? She had a friend who had done ten years of psychoanalysis and to Cathy’s eyes seemed no better. Though her friend said she would be even worse without it.

  She took her briefcase and got out of the car. She smoothed herself down and locked up. For an instant she stayed on the spot. A good car, a well tailored suit. Walk like it was meant to be.

  Everything was an act.

  Her mother, seated at the window, waved to her.

  Chapter 8

  Jack came to the gatehouse, and felt quite envious. It was a two storey, red brick house with high chimneys. There was a low, trimmed box hedge in front, and dahlias and chrysanthemums lining the crazy-paving path to the open front door. He walked down the path and looked in the open doorway. The hall was full of tea chests, cardboard boxes and plastic bags tumbling out with clothing, bedding and miscellanea.

  He called, ‘Hello? It’s Jack. The builder.’

  The caretaker came out of a back room to greet him, edging his way between the boxes. He was a middle aged man, muscular with a suggestion of spread about the middle. His face was weathered, and he had short receding hair, dyed too brown.

  ‘Excuse the mess, Jack.’

  Jack had met him earlier when he’d first come. They had a mutual friend in Bob. The caretaker had shown him the work to be done. And invited him over later for tea break.

  ‘I wouldn’t have come, if I’d have known you were so busy, George.’

  The caretaker held his hands up. ‘It’s OK, mate. It means we can stop this packing lark for fifteen minutes. Come out back. It’s civilised there.’

  He led Jack along the hallway, through the kitchen which was just about a kitchen with the essentials still there. But Jack noted a sitting room in passing which was stripped, shelves empty, and bare light bulbs. They went out the kitchen door to the garden. On the patio was a round iron‑work table with four chairs to match. On the table were tea things, with a pile of toast and jam and a plate of buns. Seated at the table was a very harassed woman, hair straggly and a dust streaked face.

  ‘Please sit down, Jack,’ she said. ‘Bob told us all about you.’

  He sat down, wondering what Bob had said, presumably favourable seeing the spread. He couldn’t avoid the obvious.

  ‘You’re moving.’

  The caretaker laughed, but with little merriment. ‘You noticed?’

  She frowned. ‘Oh what a pain! You would not believe what we’ve accumulated in seventeen years… I’ll pour the tea.’

  She poured three mugs. Jack added milk to his, hungry enough for this unexpected feast.

  ‘Bob said treat you well,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a good mate, Bob,’ he said. ‘Stood by me when things were rough.’

  ‘He’s helping us move,’ said the caretaker. ‘Driving the lorry on Saturday.’

  ‘Got somewhere to go?’ A silly question, he instantly thought, or why drive a lorry.

  ‘Some hole in the wall place,’ she said angrily. ‘Thank God the boys are at my mother’s.’

  ‘New job?’ said Jack.

  The caretaker shook his head. For a second he didn’t speak, buttering the bun on his plate with some deliberation.

  ‘One month’s notice,’ he said. ‘Seventeen years and we got one month’s notice.’

  ‘I hate those DeNeuves,’ she said fiercely.

  The caretaker held a hand up. ‘Jenny!’

  ‘I don’t care who knows it. And he’s a friend of Bob’s anyway. Mr DeNeuve,’ she poked out a tongue, ‘Mr do this, do that. Now!’ She growled, her hands clawing the air. ‘I’m catering manager, as was. Miss Catherine DeNeuve. Miss Hoity Toity, nose in the air, can we have Colombian coffee? As if I didn’t know her when she was a spotty twelve year old…’

  ‘Ellie is alright,’ said George.

  She sniffed. ‘To you maybe. Though why Head of English should have anything to do with catering…’ She stopped herself. ‘Oh, what’s the point going on? We’re out of here. That’s the one good thing. We are leaving Bramley forever.’

  ‘Both of you have lost your jobs,’ said Jack, somewhat exhausted by the thought. ‘And the house too?’

  ‘Oh, I shall miss this place,’ she said, her arms indicating the house and garden. ‘All my vegetables. My autumn planning about to begin, each garden year with the catalogues, sowing the seeds… It was totally run down when we moved in, and year by year I’ve added to it. Made it.’

  Behind her Jack could see beanpoles, cabbages, tomatoes – a full summer’s growth of leaf and fruit.

  ‘He was half pissed,’ said George. ‘Came up and gave me an envelope. I didn’t know what it was, so I left it a while. Then when I read it, I couldn’t be sure what I was reading… I ran up here.’

  ‘One month’s notice,’ she said. ‘On the house and on both our jobs. Seventeen years all over in one fell swoop. Damn the DeNeuves.’

  ‘Clear your things and get out,’ he said. ‘All settled here, with a family. It’s an earthquake.’

  ‘Such a beautiful house,’ said Jenny. ‘Roomy. Great for the kids. No travel. Garden. I’ve got a workroom for my sewing and knitting.’

  ‘Not quite heaven,’ said George. ‘Always on beck and call. Evenings, weekends, specially with the DeNeuves just a hundred yards away… But could I get a better place than this?’ His hand swept about the garden and house.

  ‘I always knew it would come,’ exclaimed Jenny. She put her hands to her face and closed her eyes. Then remembered her duties. ‘More tea, Jack?’

  ‘Thank you, Jenny.’

  She poured. ‘Tied house. Great when you get it. Couldn’t believe it when we first saw it. Lovely place in all these grounds. We decorated every room, painted. Created the garden. Then when I had the boys, still plenty of room.’ She stopped. ‘But it was never ours. They always had it over us. Lose the job, then you lose the house… It’s been my nightmare.’

  ‘But they’ll still need a caretaker and catering manager,’ said Jack. ‘Surely?’

  ‘Oh, some company is taking it all on,’ said George through gritted teeth. ‘Shag ‘em and Wag ‘em something or other Services. I don’t know what it’s bloody well called. They bring in some underpaid flunkies…’

  ‘Then see how the ugly sisters are going to moan,’ added Jenny.

  ‘There’s a dodgy boiler,’ said George with a smirk, ‘in the basement, supplying all the hot water and radiators. Took me months to learn how to handle it. They won’t know. Probably have a different guy in each week.’

  ‘They’ll be phoning you up,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I’ll tell them where they can stuff it,’ retorted George.

  ‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘You’ll need a reference.’ She put down her mug. ‘They still have a hold on us. I want to strangle them. But it’s still yes, Mr DeNeuve, thank you very much Mrs DeNeuve. Please kick us some more.’

  ‘Just wait,’ said George. ‘Wait till that boiler packs in. And see what parent’ll pay fifteen thousand a year for a cold school…’

  ‘And lousy food,’ added Jenny. ‘They are that fussy. Them DeNeuves.’

  ‘Fifteen thousand!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘It’s clear enough why,’ said George. ‘Not that I blame you.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘One man band, that’s you, right?’

  ‘Well, I work on my own. Mostly.’

  ‘You’re cheap, Jack. I don’t mean to demean your work. But cheap is the name of the game round here.’

  Chapter 9

  Cathy looked at herself in the mirror of the café and frowned. The same face she always saw. The one she was stuck with. Ellie’s too, the constant
reminder of the split ovum. Neither had taken the cuckoo’s chance and removed the other.

  She had slipped off her shoes under the table. When she was at school, she changed into flats, ditto when she was driving. Quite stupid really, these shoes. As if she was always on stage, always in the spotlight. She had too many costumes, too many shoes. A frequent, unremarkable neurosis.

  She must stop looking at herself in the mirror.

  They were on their second coffee and cake. She’d read her texts, they were still coming. And had listened to her voicemail. Vicky had picked up hers too. Neither of them were replying.

  ‘He’s had his chance,’ said Vicky.

  ‘He’s had a hundred chances,’ said Cathy.

  ‘If we leave it to him, we lose it – and that’s that. Bramley gone, tradition or no tradition.’

  ‘Your figures are clear enough.’

  Cathy had a copy of the budget in front of her. The story was easy enough to read with a little competence in these things. And Cathy easily had that.

  Vicky wiped the cream off her top lip with a finger. And licked it clean.

  ‘The only show in town is Lady Margaret’s,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure we can trust her?’

  Vicky shrugged. ‘Pretty sure. Can I say one hundred per cent? No. But she’s an old girl, wants Bramley to continue. And she’s offering a generous leaseback.’

  ‘It will never wash with Daddy. We won’t own Bramley. That’s all he’ll be able to see.’

  ‘We’ll still be living there, in the house, in the grounds. And Lady Margaret says we can buy it back gradually with future profits.’

  ‘If there are any profits.’

  ‘There has to be,’ said Vicky. ‘Your father must step down.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘The three of us must confront him.’

  ‘Three of us?’

  ‘Eleanor has to be part of this. We must be of one mind.’

  Cathy shuddered and shook her hands. ‘Me and Ellie agreeing? Working together?’ She gave a half laugh. ‘When the Sun explodes.’

  ‘It has to be. If we want Bramley in any shape or form.’

  ‘Suppose then, just suppose we depose Daddy… Who becomes Head?’

  Vicky looked her daughter in the eye and gave a tight-lipped smile. Her daughter’s thoughts and fears were too obvious. She could feel the hell of the years to come, but there was only one way.

  ‘Me,’ she said. ‘I will be Head.’

  Cathy was caught open mouthed, half chewed cake on her tongue. Realising, she covered her lips and swallowed.

  ‘You have no teaching qualifications, Mummy,’ she blustered.

  ‘I don’t need them,’ she said. ‘Bramley is a business. It needs to be run as a business.’

  Both were silent, drinking coffee, watching the comings and goings in the car park. Plotting the revolution and imagining the aftermath.

  ‘I have been to hundreds of staff meetings,’ said Vicky. ‘I know the drill. I won’t be doing any teaching. There’ll be a gang of three to run the place. As a business.’

  ‘He won’t agree. And Bramley is his.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to take another course. But whatever we do, we need Ellie on board.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ moaned Cathy. ‘Another bloody family meeting.’

  ‘The three of us. And no walkouts.’

  Cathy’s eyes went to the figures in front of her, as if there might be an algorithm that had been missed. Some x that could be pretending to be a y. But it was too simple. Student numbers. Their heaven and their hell.

  ‘Where do we meet?’ she said.

  ‘The house.’

  ‘Suppose he comes back?’

  Vicky shook her head. ‘He never comes back these days. Stays in the school all day. Likes to look busy even when he’s doing nothing. The portraits looking down on him, his closed office door… He can pretend he’s a Head.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Say two o’clock. I’ll phone Eleanor.’

  ‘Will she come?’

  ‘I’ll tell her her future depends on it.’

  Chapter 10

  Jack had been invited back to the gatehouse for lunch, but the place depressed him. The garden was pleasant but the hardship of the caretaker and his wife was inescapable. And it was all they could talk about. He told them he was just taking a short break for lunch, wanting to get as much done as possible.

  That was true enough. He wanted to be away, feeling uncomfortable in this environment. Fifteen thousand a year to swim in the lake, play on the fields with hockey sticks and cricket bats. Out here in Billericay. You’d never think it. Though some of the houses he’d passed coming in… Yes, there was money here. Golf courses and lakes.

  He was sitting on the edge of the copse above the lake munching a sandwich. There was an island in the middle of the lake so he could not make out where it ended. To his right were the playing fields. A flat expanse of privilege. All this space. Small classes. How the rich gave their offspring a heave up the ladder. He felt itchy, like a heretic in a church. As if somehow they would know and turn on him as a comprehensive school boy.

  There was a breeze breaking up the surface of the lake. Near the boathouse and its landing stage, ducks were swimming, oblivious of costs and ownership. He could imagine a regatta with long, slender rowing boats being carried out of the boathouse, children and parents cheering, bunting flapping. Strawberries and cream.

  And cash tills ringing.

  Jack wasn’t hungry, eating out of duty. The tea break at the gatehouse had gone on rather long, and he’d been offered more buns and toast every time his plate emptied. But for lunch, it was not so much the eating, he’d wanted a break from the classroom. He felt trapped in the school, diminished, with imagined teachers shouting, telling him he had no right. No right at all. To what, a little vague. Some original sin in being working class.

  Not that he’d liked school. Found it crushing. And got out as soon as he could, with damn all in qualifications. This place was a reminder of his failure, with the added chorus of the ruling class saying it would never be different.

  It was work. He couldn’t afford to be fussy. Do the job and go home to the hoi polloi in Forest Gate. Don’t fight the class war. Saw, bang in nails and put in new glass.

  He would need to tell the caretaker to paint the window beading in a couple of weeks. Then remembered the caretaker wouldn’t be here. And wouldn’t give a damn if the window beading was painted or not. He’d leave a note. Tell Ellie.

  Then he saw her coming down the hill towards him. Slim, a fine figure. He had the feeling she had been eyeing him up earlier. He’d certainly been looking her over. But she was out of his class… Jenny hated her. Along with the other DeNeuves.

  Posh totty, Bob might have said.

  Anyway, whatever his hormones compelled, he had Mia to pick up this evening. Love life on hold.

  She had a sandwich in one hand, a bottle of water in the other, and a red handbag on a long strap over her shoulder, as she sauntered towards him along the line of trees on the crest of the hill. Her pony tail bounced on her back. As she came in, he saw she was wearing sandals, and her toenails were painted red.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she said with a bright smile.

  ‘I should ask your permission to be here.’

  She sat down. ‘It’s not exactly crowded today.’

  She unwrapped her sandwich, brown grainy bread with ham, thick with salad poking out the edges.

  ‘Our family meeting was a waste of time,’ she said. ‘As usual. But I note you’ve done better. The window’s in.’

  ‘It’ll need painting in a couple of weeks. When the putty’s set. I’ll work on the door this afternoon.’

  ‘Quite a mess they made of it,’ she said.

  ‘Burglars don’t care,’ he said, and took a last bite of cheese sandwich. Save the other one for mid afternoon. He poured some more tea from his thermos into the cup. ‘I would offer you…’
>
  She shook her head. ‘Water’s fine. Purifying.’ She took a swig, then wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. ‘I was offered the deputy headship today.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  She laughed. ‘My sister went bananas. We’re twins, you know. I used to read about twins when I was a kid here. The ones who did everything together. Best friends, bosom buddies. Inseparable.’ She reflected. ‘I suppose we were inseparable. It’s this damn place. Couldn’t get away from each other. Teachers always comparing us to each other. Other kids doing the same. And then like a couple of homing pigeons, we both came back to Bramley to teach.’

  ‘Plenty of other schools,’ said Jack. ‘Why here?’

  ‘Look at it,’ she said.

  ‘I have,’ he said, though perhaps he was looking at her more.

  ‘Neither of us wanted the other to get it. So if she was here, I had to be. Simple. And quite stupid.’ She flapped a hand dismissively and then went on. ‘Daddy’s health is bad. So one of us is going to take on the mantle fairly soon.’ She turned to him and shook her head. ‘It’s not yet decided who that will be. Today, I had to decline the deputy headship. For family peace.’ She bit her lip. ‘I think one of us will have to kill the other to settle it.’ She smiled at him, as if it was all light hearted banter. ‘Your family any better?’

  ‘I haven’t seen my parents in two years,’ he said. ‘I had a drunken phase and got quite out of control. I keep meaning to phone my mother, then I don’t.’

  ‘It seems a pity not to,’ she said, and then added after a pause, ‘but I don’t know what you did.’

  ‘Stole fifty quid out of her purse and got drunk for four days.’ He didn’t know why he was saying this to her, except his mother had been on his mind, and maybe he wanted someone to tell him it wasn’t so bad. Or maybe square up to her family dysfunction.

  ‘She didn’t call the police?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said looking out across the lake at a heron in a tree. ‘But I’ve felt so guilty… Stealing money from my mother.’