Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  Though she should be with Mummy. So should Cathy. In fact, she hadn’t realised Cathy wasn’t going to be there tonight, before setting things up with Jack. Vicky said she’d be fine. She’d have a quiet house for once. No drunks stumbling in late.

  There was George of course, the uppity caretaker. Surely it wasn’t in his interest to spill the beans. Cathy could be awfully dramatic. It would subside. Just these first days to endure.

  She wouldn’t have minded some wine now. A cool glass of red. She was used to it with food. And with sex. But a whole bottle to herself? No, just as well it was gone. She needed to keep control of her tongue.

  Jack returned.

  ‘My daughter, Mia, had a terrible nightmare,’ he said. ‘She’s crying uncontrollably.’

  ‘She found the body,’ said Ellie, recalling. ‘It’s delayed reaction. I’ve seen it before in kids. They can be fine for a few hours after some crisis, then it hits them. Wham!’

  ‘I’ve got to go over there,’ he said, a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sorry.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘It’s not every day my daughter finds a dead body. I’ll be back. I won’t stay any longer than I need to. Eat, watch TV, read my magazines…’

  ‘Buzz off,’ she said. ‘And hurry back.’

  He grabbed his jacket and left. His feet padded down the stairs, the street door banged.

  She sighed. Abandoned. With all that food. But her appetite had gone, swept out the door with Jack. Energy too. She felt sunk into the ground.

  Sex was rarely simple. Life intervened. She and Clive had met on holiday in the south of France. Sex and beach, more sex, more beach, wine and good food. Then, but only then, it was simple. Until they came off holiday and moved in together. Then moods and demands took over. Work. His bloody mother.

  She felt drowsy again. Maybe she’d have a nap. She hoped Jack wasn’t long. She needed warmth. Flesh. Words to match her words. Connection.

  She couldn’t face her own company.

  Chapter 43

  Mia was in winceyette pyjamas that his mother had borrowed from a neighbour. She looked younger on the sofa at his side, huddled round her cocoa. His mother was in her long dressing gown and slippers, her grey hair frizzy.

  ‘She came running into my room,’ said his mother. ‘Screaming and yelling – my mother’s dead! My mother’s dead! I couldn’t quieten her down. Crying. Oh, what a state you were in, poor thing.’

  ‘It was a terrible dream, Daddy.’

  He put his arm round his daughter. ‘Tell me about it.’ Wasn’t that the thing to do? Talk about the thing bothering you. Or alternatively talk about anything but.

  ‘I saw a body in a lake,’ she said. ‘In the dream. And I went down the hill towards it. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to. But I had to. And just as I got to the side of the lake, there was this big wave on the water, and the body turned over. And it was Mum. She was all horribly white with a snail on her cheek.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a dreadful dream,’ exclaimed Jack. It barely needed interpreting. All the things that were worrying her.

  ‘She is alright?’ said Mia. ‘Mum?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Jack. ‘I spoke to her earlier.’ He hadn’t, but it was a comforting lie. There was no way they could phone the hospital now. ‘You can phone her in the morning.’

  ‘I prayed,’ said his mother, ‘when I couldn’t calm her down. And that told me to phone you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ he said, thinking of Ellie back at his flat on her own. But what could he do? He wasn’t the best of fathers. It had been a screw up this morning, which was why he’d come running over.

  ‘That lady was in my dream,’ said Mia.

  ‘What lady?’ said Jack. And at once, in the presence of his mother, regretted asking.

  ‘The one I saw at the lake yesterday,’ said Mia.

  ‘I don’t understand you, Mia. What lady, where?’

  ‘I saw this lady down by the lake,’ she said.

  ‘Is this the dream?’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes, in the dream, but also real. When I went out for a wander this morning, I was up the hill looking down on the lake. And there was this lady. She had a board in her hand. And when she saw me, she ran away. It was then I went down to the shore and saw the body and phoned you.’

  ‘You never told me about any lady,’ said Jack.

  ‘I was angry with you,’ she said, ‘about you know what. So I never said.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘No, I forgot.’

  ‘What d’you mean you forgot?’

  ‘They didn’t ask me. And I forgot to say.’

  ‘You can’t just forget something like that, Mia.’

  Mia cowered and screwed up her eyes.

  ‘Jack, please,’ said his mother.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack. ‘It’s alright if you forgot. It’s horrible seeing a body. Anyone might forget. I bet I would.’ He mustn’t shout at her, poor kid. She’d had a nightmare for heaven’s sake. ‘What did the lady look like, Mia?’

  ‘She was wearing a baggy track suit. It was much too big for her. She looked a bit like that lady, you know. But it can’t have been her. Can it?’

  ‘No,’ said Jack quickly, knowing exactly where Ellie had been.

  He should phone the police. But he’d come here for Mia. And Ellie was waiting back at his place. This had to be one hundred per cent fatherhood. Forget anything else.

  ‘Your mother is fine,’ he said. ‘And the police are investigating the body in the lake. We’ll leave that all to them.’

  ‘There were three bodies in the play we saw,’ said Mia.

  ‘What play?’

  ‘The Agatha Christie we saw. I told you. Anyway. One was poisoned, one was stabbed and the third was hit on the head with a candlestick.’

  ‘What a suitable play for you!’ exclaimed Jack.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said his mother. ‘I just didn’t think.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Jack. ‘That’s a lot of bodies for an eleven year old. But at least three of them were only acting.’

  ‘It must be difficult to act dead,’ said Mia. ‘Do you have to hold your breath?’

  His mother laughed. ‘No. On stage you can breathe. The audience can’t see that close. But in a film, you have to hold your breath when the camera’s on you.’

  ‘But you have to stay absolutely still on the stage,’ said Mia. ‘I was watching the man murdered in the library. He was lying there with a knife in his back for ages and ages. And I was watching and watching to see if he moved. And he didn’t, not at all.’

  ‘I bet he really wanted a speaking part,’ said Jack.

  ‘He did have a speaking part,’ said Mia. ‘To begin with. He was this nasty colonel, shouting at everybody, especially his daughter. I’m glad he got murdered.’

  Jack smiled. He looked at his mother who was also smiling.

  His mother said, ‘Isn’t it odd, how we like murder in a play or a film. A good gruesome killing. But we’d hate to come across it in real life.’

  ‘Well, no one died tonight at the theatre,’ said Jack. ‘And I think it’s time we got off the subject. We’ve done it to death, you might say. How are we going to get this one back to bed?’

  ‘You could read to me, like you used to,’ said Mia. She picked up a book beside her. ‘I borrowed this from the school library.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ He took it from her, a little shocked. It was a thick Harry Potter. He opened it. Inside was printed Bramley Independent School. He shrugged, well, it was the least they could provide, given Mia’s experience at the school.

  He took his daughter back to her bedroom. And there by the light of a reading lamp, he read a few chapters of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. At which point, Mia was very drowsy and asked him to turn off the light. He kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Sleep well, love.’

  Jack stayed for another half an hour, and checked that Mia was asleep. And left, his mo
ther agreeing she’d likely be fine now.

  Driving back from Plaistow, he thought about the woman in the baggy tracksuit who Mia had forgotten to tell anyone about. The one who looked like Ellie, but couldn’t be Ellie, as Ellie had the perfect alibi because she was with him in the stock cupboard.

  Chapter 44

  When Jack arrived home, he found Ellie asleep on the sofa. She was seated, her head back, an astronomy magazine on the floor at her feet, which had probably fallen from her lap. Beside her was Jack’s Daily Mirror, half the crossword done. The food from their dinner was still out on the table. Not so appetizing in its cold state, the fat congealing. But Jack was famished. He hadn’t eaten much of it before he’d had to rush out to his mother’s. In a plastic microwave food tray, he gathered some curried beef, mutton dopiaza, various vegetables and rice. He went into the kitchen and put them in the microwave.

  While he was waiting, he put the kettle on to make tea. He should keep the surplus food for tomorrow. If he had cling film he’d cover the trays but he didn’t. So that was that. And quickly he bundled most of the open trays into the fridge. Tomorrow’s supper organised.

  Heating done, he settled down at the table to eat, with a large chunk of naan. The concoction hit his taste buds, while his stomach gurgled at the coming feast. He was eating too quickly, shovelling it in as if he were working on bonus. He wasn’t going anywhere, there was no foreman watching, so he slowed to enjoy the food, the subtleties of the spices, the texture. It was exactly what the inner man demanded. Or rather, if there was to be no sex on offer, then his number two was an Indian meal.

  Or a night out with the telescope? He oscillated on this. Choices. And decided it depended how hungry he was. And what was on view in the heavens.

  Ellie moaned and threw out an arm, but was still asleep. He’d rather she was awake, but it did mean he didn’t have to talk to her about her sister’s morning activity. Mia had seen Cathy with a board by the lake. Presumably to wipe away footprints. There couldn’t be any good reason for doing that. Jack had only had a brief glimpse of the body, but recalled the jellied face. It must have been in the water quite a few hours, so Cathy was tidying up after a night time activity. Somewhere too, George was involved. He couldn’t think how, the two of them being utterly unsuited, but he was sure the caretaker, one way or another, fitted into the dirty work. Enemies can come together in common cause.

  Jack came out of the kitchen with his tea, when Ellie woke.

  With a yawn and stretch, she said, ‘You were away ages. How’s your daughter?’

  ‘OK now,’ he said. ‘But she’s had a trying day. Her mum’s in hospital, she found a body in the lake and then her granny took her to an Agatha Christie play stuffed with corpses. No wonder the poor kid had a nightmare. Hopefully, she’s fast asleep now, and not dreaming of floating bodies.’ He sighed, ‘But I’d best keep my phone on in case…’

  ‘Come here,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No. Just you. With two spoonfuls of sugar and no milk.’

  As he crossed the room, a mist of a thought about her sister floated between them. But his body evaporated it like the rising sun.

  Chapter 45

  Vicky rose from her bed. Her body was heavy and saggy; there was no hope of sleep, although she was thoroughly weary. She’d felt hopeless lying on her back, as if she were about to be sacrificed by events. She must take control. Always she was stronger on her feet, facing oncoming traffic. She shuffled into her slippers and put on her dressing gown, though there was really no need for it. It wasn’t cold, no one was around, and it was not as if her nightdress was immodest. She was way beyond that stage of her life.

  Already she felt better, standing up.

  She left the bedroom, came out onto the landing, and made her way slowly down the stairs. There was no rush. No one was about to admonish her, or had left a mess for her to clean up. She thought, I’ve been a widow for 24 hours. It was an odd sensation. She would not find him slumped on the sofa, or head on the desk in the home office, his mouth open, or find a puddle of vomit by the toilet. Graham could fill the house, with his noises and smells, his demands. And in a way was still here. Guilt paints strong pictures.

  But they will fade, she told herself. They will fade.

  In the vestibule, she stopped and looked at the portraits of the various DeNeuves. All the self important headmasters. Well, now a change. They would have to make space for her. A headmistress. The pipe-filled testosterone, the male certainty of the dais – would have to shuffle along, make a space. One or two stalwarts would have to endure the dust of the attic.

  And there was Graham DeNeuve, his second best portrait, the other in the school foyer. This one proud in a black gown, perpetually holding a scroll with a blue ribbon tied round. The painter had given him a determined, benign expression. And more hair, and less ruddiness on his cheeks.

  ‘You would not face the world you made, Graham,’ she said aloud to the painting. ‘Any problems you’d scream at, browbeat and drink away.’ She pulled the cord of her gown a little tighter and shifted on the marble floor. ‘I could see what was happening five years ago. I told you. And you told me to change the figures and go to the bank…’ The blue of his eyes held her; they had that trick of following you wherever you stood in the vestibule. ‘Why didn’t you die in last year’s heart attack? We could have mourned you dutifully. Instead, you came back from hospital like a jubilant Napoleon, back from exile, insistent on your next campaign. With hectoring and drinking filling in for the big guns.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘I dread your funeral. The sympathy that will be lavished on me as grieving widow. The rubbish everyone will say about you, how you died in harness, what you gave to the school – when it’s we who’ve been running it the last few years. You were simply in the way, creating needless obstacles. And in the end, what choice did we have if the school was to be saved? Your school.’

  She left him, the failed guardian of the flame, and went into the kitchen. That was the portrait she’d most like to remove. But it would be too obvious. She must suffer him a year or so longer. Or there would be comments. What have you done with Graham?

  She filled the kettle, switched it on and prepared the tea things. The conversation with Lady Margaret had gone well this afternoon, she reflected. After her commiserations, Lady Margaret had agreed a bridging loan – and would finalise the lease-back after the inquest. The Deneuves would continue running the school as per usual, and pay her back out of future profits. Of course, there had to be future profits. No more messing around with make believe figures. Real profit. They had to bring in more students.

  So simple. Why wouldn’t Graham see the obvious? Instead, he would have fought all the way to the bankruptcy court.

  Fought them too, no doubt.

  The police had been sympathetic today. And she let them do their business without obstruction. It would be pointless standing in the way. They would’ve done their investigations anyway, and perhaps been more searching. She had the feeling it would all come out right. A drunken man stumbled in the lake and drowned. Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation is the most likely.

  A few weeks into the school year, the money would all be in then, and she’d be firmly in place before all those shaking heads had time to say I told you so. She must be the Head, so thoroughly that no one would dispute it.

  She would be good. She would be remembered. And then hand the baton to her daughters. Which she would not worry about for a while.

  She poured the tea into the pot and stirred. And then assembled teapot, cup and saucer, milk jug, and a plate with three shortbread biscuits on a tray. She took them into the sitting room, without a glance at her husband as she crossed the vestibule.

  She laid the tray on the coffee table in front of her armchair. The tea needed a few minutes yet to brew. She hated it weak. Tea should taste like tea. Vicky loaded a CD, Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique, to break the silence of the house. It
was too big for just her. Though Eleanor had said she’d like to move back. She hoped so. Though Eleanor could be messy. Always the compromise when you lived with people.

  Vicky settled in her armchair. She yawned, but her head was too active for sleep. It would come. At least she hoped so. These days especially she must be alert.

  The caretaker was a nuisance. Be patient, take the blow. For the moment. It had been humiliating writing the letter for him. He had forced that on her, though she wondered whether he actually would have gone to the police as he was already so compromised himself. But his anger had convinced her. He might just be that stupid.

  So give him what he wants. Two years of him. Besides, Bramley needs a caretaker. She had never thought much of the deal with the company that gave half price, half competent estate care. She must phone them in the morning and cancel that deal. And hope to get off without a penalty.

  Catherine could be so impetuous. She wanted to sort out the caretaker immediately. That wasn’t the way to do things. Two years wasn’t so long. And George Grove would be bearable. Flatter him. He knew he had to do a competent job or teachers and parents would complain. Just don’t rise to his jeers. Let time flow over the stones. The inquest, cremation, done, and his power would weaken by the day. Catherine always hated being thwarted, even as a child. She does create so. Well, Vicky was her line manager now and would teach her the virtue of patience.

  She poured out the tea, put in the milk and stirred with a silver apostle spoon.

  This house would be too big, whether Eleanor came to live here or not. Not that her daughter would stay long. She’d be off soon enough with her latest whoever. What about the gatehouse? Once the caretaker was gone, she could move in there. That would be fine. Much more fitting to her size. This house could be set up as teachers’ flats. Three of them, maybe four, to share the kitchen. It meant she wouldn’t have to live with that ancestral gallery in the lobby. She could still retain her garden if she wished, or simply switch to Jenny’s. She’d need to do her sums; the rent income from this house might easily pay for another teacher’s salary.