Jack of All Trades

by DH Smith

  ‘Anyone else coming my way?’

  The two sat like stone bookends, hunched and motionless; the gap of sofa had widened between them. Julie held the doorjamb.

  ‘I’m staying,’ said Penny quietly, her back to Julie.

  ‘Me too,’ whispered the plump one.

  Joanna looked to Julie, her eyes welling in the doorway. She could have said something placatory and probably brought her back. But then there’d only be problems in a week or two. Best get rid of troublemakers as soon as they make trouble.

  ‘Goodbye, Julie,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your work with the Forest Fairies.’

  ‘What about my book at the printers?’

  ‘You’ll get paid for that,’ said Joanna. ‘As usual.’

  ‘And the one I’m halfway through?’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘Write that off to experience.’

  ‘You bitch!’ exploded Julie. ‘You use us, you tight-fisted cow!’

  And she turned on her heels and was away.

  No one spoke as Julie’s heels clipped the marble floor in the hallway, halting for a few seconds as she reached the mat and fiddled with the latch. The front door slammed in finality.

  ‘How to get a bad reference,’ sighed Joanna.

  One out of three wasn’t bad or even unexpected. Probably the best writer of this group – but who could tell really? Writing skill wasn’t high on the list. You had to keep the tone. Be a good team player. No room for stars.

  ‘It’s Julie’s choice,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m holding no one prisoner.’

  The two young women at either end of the sofa nodded. Both felt a burn of shame. They’d come here to be writers. What were they now?

  They are so weedy, thought Joanna. The only one that talks back has gone. There were a few promising girls on the books from the last round of interviews. She scribbled herself a note to send them the test scenario for them to continue. But in the meantime there was work to be done here.

  She looked up from her jotting and smiled at the two young women who were waiting on her.

  ‘Penny, you had the idea that Raindrop gets kidnapped by Hunky the gnome. Can you elaborate?’

  Chapter 5

  He gave the window a push. It was firm. He pressed with both hands across the frame. No movement. He opened and shut the casement. A little stiff on the hinge but that was just oil. Bob had ordered the windows before his illness. He wondered how much they’d cost. Half a dozen, teak, double-glazed casements, made to measure. Not quite to measure. Bob had got them a little oversize so they could be fitted.

  With the second he had a problem. The frame wasn’t square. Bastard. He’d spotted it when he’d taken the old window out. There was a slither of wood to make up for the deficit in one corner. He held on to it. The slither was still serviceable. He’d maybe use it again.

  While he was marking up, his phone rang. He stuck his pencil behind his ear and took out the phone from his hip pocket. His ex. What did she want now? He thought of leaving it, but knew she’d keep trying – and her temper would grow the more he fobbed her off.

  Money again? In the instant before answering he couldn’t think why the monthly payment hadn’t gone through. No big bills. But maybe it had…

  ‘Hello, Alison,’ he said carefully.

  ‘First time, that’s a wonder,’ she said.

  He didn’t respond to the dig, just said, ‘I’m at work.’

  ‘Bodger and Floggit,’ she said. ‘Or what silly name is it?’

  ‘Jack of all Trades,’ he said wearily. And knew it was a silly name, but by then he’d had the business cards printed, the headed notepaper and the ad in Yellow Pages.

  ‘And master of none,’ she said without disguising the bitterness in her voice.

  Jack had heard the rejoinder too many times.

  ‘I assume you haven’t phoned to help me with my marketing,’ he said, trying to avoid an argument.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve a staff meeting this afternoon. I want you to pick up Mia.’

  ‘You want me to,’ he said, bridling at her tone.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.’

  ‘There are nicer ways of saying it,’ he said, pacing about, the phone pressed to his ear.

  ‘Don’t lecture me on good manners,’ she said. ‘After your drunken bumblings. Are you with anyone these days?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s the way it goes,’ she said. ‘One out, one in.’

  ‘No one’s in,’ he said.

  ‘Just as well,’ she said. ‘They’d all learn about your smelly socks and happy hour pretty sharply.’

  ‘I’m on the wagon,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you enough times.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘I mean that. You can be quite nice sober.’

  ‘Let’s quit while I’m getting a compliment. Yes, I’ll pick up Mia. OK?’

  ‘Drop her off at Moira’s. Don’t forget.’

  ‘Fine. I will and I won’t. Now I’d best get on. The missus is watching me.’

  ‘Any chance there, Jack?’

  ‘Out of my league, sweetheart. See you when I see you. Bye.’

  And he shut off the phone. Oh, these calls, how they wound him up. Her quick flick insults. Not undeserved, but she knew his weak underbelly. And all one way, mostly. He rarely had a go at her. Just as well, because when he did he went in for the kill. Never a dig, but a Jack the Ripper slashing.

  Which always got him in worse trouble.

  He’d have to leave early to get over to Hackney by 3.30. Bugger. He’d be losing a couple of hours’ work, though he could combine it with a visit to the builder’s merchant in Stratford, depending on the traffic. She was always phoning, do this, do that. Expecting him to drop everything, and run across from wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, to pick up Mia. And ferry her to her next port of call.

  He was still marking up, but paying it too little attention, rehashing the conversation with Alison. He’d marked a whole side without any memory of doing it. Not the way. And he went to his notebook to check. Just as well he had, as he found he’d been doing it from the wrong edge. Jack took a deep breath and stretched his arms wide in the sunshine, two more deep breaths to get rid of the bad air. He stretched back and forth, and then, aware he might be being watched, he looked up at the window of the house. She wasn’t there, the blind was down. Maybe he wasn’t her only one.

  He looked up at the sky, clear, not a cloud. It’d be a good night to get out with his telescope. He’d have another go at the Andromeda Galaxy with his new eyepiece. Pictures of it looked so good in the mags. But all he’d seen so far was a smudgy cloud with a glow in the middle. He felt cheated, hundreds of billions of stars, a £600 scope – and that was all he could get.

  Typical.

  With the marking up re-done, he began planing. And in a few minutes, was completely in the work. The shaving of the wood, the fitting into a space, out here in the sunshine, that was all of it. He knew what he was doing, and there was a completion. The roof might give him grief. That was roofs for you. But this was his element. Smooth away the phone call, a relationship ground into the dust. Smooth away. Here, all he had to do was a good job. All the easier in wood. The forgiving material.

  The shavings were piling in heaps all around him when Donna arrived.

  ‘Bacon sandwich and tea,’ she said, proffering her tray.

  He took it from her and put it on the work bench.

  ‘You’re a queen, Donna.’

  ‘I do my best,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Would you like some smoked salmon for lunch?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Donna. Don’t spoil me.’

  She shrugged. ‘There’s a mountain of it. I’ll make you up a plate.’

  ‘I’ve brought a cheese sandwich,’ he said. ‘But I’ll feed that to the birds.’ He took a bite of the bacon sandwich. The heat, juice and saltiness hit him. ‘Oh, that’s prime bacon.’

  ‘I know what builders like. My dad was a scaffolde
r.’

  ‘How long you been here?’ he managed to say, his mouth half full.

  ‘Five years nearly. I’ve got the granny flat next door.’

  ‘No problems, working and living here?’ he enquired, eager for a bit of gossip.

  She shrugged. ‘He’s alright. Hardly ever here. She’s a bit of a lady muck.’

  ‘She’s been watching me,’ he said.

  ‘She likes a bit of rough,’ said Donna with a laugh.

  ‘Who you calling a bit of rough?’

  ‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘Shirt off, ripped jeans. Not exactly a gent.’

  ‘Oh, you got me to a T, Donna. I am not exactly a gent. Dead right.’

  ‘And if I was twenty years younger…’

  ‘You’d be in a pram,’ he joshed.

  She blew a raspberry at him. ‘I wish.’ She had a plump hand on her hip, bunions pushing out of her well worn flats. ‘You remind me of my son Eric. Curly brown hair, both bite your nails.’

  He looked at them half ashamed.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ he said.

  She stiffened, a hand went to her forehead.

  ‘I don’t know why I brought him up. I haven’t heard from him in five years. Schizophrenia. He blames me for everything, and his social worker won’t give me his address, simply says he’s fine.’ She turned back to him, shaking her head. ‘Fine? With schizophrenia. And I’m his devil.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Donna.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to bring it up. I don’t normally.’

  He put a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘It’s OK, love. We’ve all got problems.’

  ‘You just wonder,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think, how can I be to blame. Doing what? And sometimes I think maybe, how I treated him as a boy, what I wanted, how, you know, as a parent you nag.’

  ‘Yeh.’

  He was out of his depth here. Fine at joshing middle-aged women. And then something serious comes out. What the hell do you say then? When all you’ve had is a bacon sandwich and one side of a story.

  ‘Social workers are bastards,’ he said, and knew it was two-faced as soon as it came out. Some were, some weren’t. It was an easy-life phrase.

  ‘I hate them.’

  She shook herself and gave a harsh laugh with little mirth in it. ‘I shouldn’t burden you. It’s just, you know, you reminded me of him.’ She wiped an eye with the back of her hand. ‘Sometimes I’m fine for days, and then some little thing sets me off.’

  ‘It’s OK, Donna. We don’t have to pretend that everything is rosy all the time. What’s the good of that? Cry sometimes. Admit you’re not perfect.’

  Alcoholic Halt had taught him that. Support, don’t judge. We’re all bloody sinners.

  ‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘You’ve got a wise head on your shoulders.’ She picked up the tray with its crockery. ‘Now we’ve both got work to do. I’ll bring you some lunch. Would you like a beer with it?’ She winked at him. ‘I’ll put it in a cup, so they don’t know.’

  ‘Er, no thanks, Donna. I don’t drink. Had a problem with it – and had to knock it on the head.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ she said. ‘And it’s sensible not to drink at lunchtime. I shouldn’t be encouraging you. Plenty else to drink.’

  ‘You’re so right there, Donna.’

  ‘I must be back to work, love.’

  And she turned and walked across the lawn. A short, middle aged woman, a little stout (who’d trust a slim cook?), short greying hair. And he thought ‘wise head’ – no way, more like smarmy git.

  He took up the plane and put his anguish into the to and fro, until he was part of the swing again.

  Chapter 6

  It was near the end of his lunch when it happened. True to her word, Donna had brought him out a plate. Not quite his usual midday meal. A Chigwell lunch. Half a grapefruit with a cherry in the middle, smoked salmon, a large slice of cured ham, hummus, pitta bread – and most unlikely for Jack, salad. With a jug of home made ginger beer ringing with ice cubes.

  He settled himself down on the summerhouse patio in the sunshine, back against the wall. He was half reading his Daily Mirror as he ate, thinking what Bob would say if he saw this spread. Mind you, it was filling and tasty. And good for you, as his mum might say. He was aware he ate too much stodge. All those snacks in greasy spoons and ready meals at home. He must start buying fruit again.

  He’d been thinking too about picking Mia up. He’d get there in half an hour from here, though he must leave early, before the traffic buildup. He could drive down to the North Circular, leave it after a mile or so, and go south onto the Woodford New Road, through the straggles of Epping Forest and onto Lea Bridge Road. He’d tell Donna to pass it on that he needed to go up the builders’ merchant for something or other. And then maybe he could get back here for another hour or so when he’d dropped Mia off if he didn’t crash into the rush hour, when all destinations were off. Though he’d like to spend longer with Mia, but you can’t just leave a job when you feel like it. Every other weekend was the agreement, and the odd night when Alison needed the night off.

  Into the quiescence of noon, a half naked man flew out of the sliding door of the lounge. He had simply a towel round his waist, his feet and top bare, as he yelled incoherently, rushing onto the lawn. Close behind raced Mr Ward, fully suited, brandishing a briar walking stick.

  ‘I’ll teach you, you fucking bastard!’

  Ward was close enough to smack the man on the back with his stick like a retreating donkey. Welts were showing up across the shoulders. All of a sudden, caught in the towel, the man tripped and fell. Ward was at once on him, smashing with the stick, kicking his ribs and head.

  The man was now naked, the towel had become unwrapped; he was curled up foetal fashion as Ward smashed at him.

  ‘Please, Mr Ward,’ he yelled. ‘You won’t see me again. Enough, you’re killing me!’

  Ward was a frenzy, the man’s plea fanning his aggression. Over six feet tall and broad, he thrashed the prone figure with all his strength, circling round him, his tie flapping out of his jacket, walloping him with his stick, following through with vicious kicks.

  Jack was unsure what to do. The assault was a shock, the scenario not hard to guess. Chasing him out of the bedroom no doubt, or with the towel, maybe the bathroom. And yes, the man’s hair was wet. He’d bet he and the missus had been having a shower together. The man had set himself up for a beating.

  Though he thought the man somewhat meek, he himself would have fought back. Not easy when you’re naked, but at least try to grab the stick and fend off the blows.

  With no sign of Ward easing up, it was the blood running down the man’s face that got Jack into action. He rushed in and grabbed Ward’s stick arm.

  ‘You’ll kill him, Mr Ward,’ he said as he clung on tight. The peacemaker.

  Ward tried to shake free but Jack now had both hands on the stick.

  ‘Let go of me, you interfering bastard!’

  Ward swung a blow with his free hand, smacking into Jack’s cheek and eye. Jack stumbled back, almost thrown off his feet, hardly knowing where he was for a second. Then he realised he had the stick and Ward was squaring up to him with both fists.

  ‘You fucking meddling git!’

  They were separated by a few paces, circling round each other. Jack held the stick firmly, watching for his opponent’s next move. How had he got into this? He’d just been eating his lunch…

  ‘You were killing him, Mr Ward.’

  ‘And I’ll finish the job!’

  He whipped round to the man on the ground and kicked him, concentrating on the head which the man covered in his hands and arms.

  ‘I’ll teach you to poke my wife! You half-arsed prick!’

  Jack threw down the stick and strode in. He pushed Ward away. Ward swung at him. Jack parried his blow and the next, then swung Ward one on the jaw. Ward rocked back and Jack butted him in the chest, forcing him to the
ground.

  Ward thumped onto the turf, winded. And slowly pulled himself to the seated position, his face a torment of anger, blood seeping from the chin.

  ‘Enough, Mr Ward.’ Jack’s hands spread before him, placatory fashion. He was aching across the shoulders, one eye misty. ‘I had to intervene. You’d have killed him.’

  Ward pointed at Jack, then swung his arm to the garden gate. ‘I want you out of here. Ten minutes. Clear off.’

  ‘You gave me no choice, Mr Ward.’

  ‘You are fired. You builder’s lowlife.’ A quiet, seething anger as he rose to his feet, brushing himself down. ‘Collect your tools and get off the premises.’

  And with that, back hunched, he strode off the lawn and through the glass sliding door into the house.

  Jack watched him go. It had happened so quickly. Ice cubes were still melting in the jug of ginger beer. His adrenaline seeping away, his head was throbbing. He’d been sacked. He’d think that out later but knew he’d be badly out of pocket. Tools to pack. Ten minutes. Out on his ear again. Can you believe it?

  Then he recalled the man on the ground. He’d quite forgotten him in the melee.

  Jack went down to the prone man. He was unconscious, bleeding from the head and back. Was he alive? Jack felt the man’s back. It was warm and he could feel the soft vibration of breathing through the flesh. And then Donna was standing over them.

  ‘Is he alive?’ she said warily.

  ‘Just.’

  ‘I’ll get something to cover him,’ she said and scurried back to the house.

  He took his phone out and dialled 999.

  Donna returned a little later with a throw and a cushion. They covered the man to his chin and put the cushion under his head. A top window opened, and there was Ward throwing clothing and shoes out. He caught Jack’s eye, even this far away Jack could feel the unburnt ferocity.

  ‘Get your tools, you fucker. Off my premises.’

  Jack said nothing. What was there to say?

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ said Donna.

  Jack half smiled. ‘He might sack you too.’

  She shook her head. ‘He won’t. I’ve been here five years, and I know him. He’s fussy about his food. I know what he likes and doesn’t like. It’d take more than a cup of coffee to get rid of me.’