Jack of All Trades

by DH Smith

  Good for him, but it was not good for Jack. It was why he’d only gone twice to AA. All that ‘higher power’ stuff in the Twelve Steps, submit yourself. Pretend it’s a doorknob, said one of the participants gleefully. Jack had thought that utterly stupid. Yes, he could accept that he was helpless before alcohol. The ruin of his life was evident. But to submit to a higher power in the guise of a doorknob?

  The implication was find God – or stay drunk. Not directly said, but clear enough in the God and Higher Power stuff of the 12 Steps. Or the doorknob that you must prostrate yourself before. A crazy idolatry.

  Not that drinking was sanity. A madness. A daily annihilation of sense, of the rational self. But he wouldn’t replace one madness by another.

  So he looked for another organisation. A secular group, not God-shrouded. And so he came to Alcohol Halt which met on the Romford Road, near Stratford. But it seemed the religious followed you. They were here. And they had the answer in the fall of man. Their fall. Your fall. Sin was expected of you.

  Only God could save you.

  Alcoholism was a punishment for not believing. Come forward and be saved. And you will be dry.

  But if you can’t come forward?

  Try a doorknob.

  And if you find that ridiculous?

  Go to Hell. Or to Alcohol Halt. A secular group nominally, but many of those in the circle knew the 12 Step mantras too well. They had been in and out that door and many others, between outings to the pub and off-licence.

  And when challenged that they were still drinking even though they had God; they said they didn’t have Him totally. Which was always a good excuse – as how can you have anything totally? A bit of you forgot from time to time. And that bit of you got you drunk.

  So get closer to the absolute.

  He was suddenly aware everyone was looking at him. The man beside him had finished his spiel.

  ‘Have you anything to say, brother?’ said the convenor across the circle.

  ‘I’m Jack,’ he said, knowing the routine. ‘I’m in recovery, and I have a problem which I’d like to share with you all.’

  ‘You are welcome, Jack,’ said the convenor.

  Jack looked around at the circle, people were nodding, the odd smile. He knew them quite well now. This was his new circle, as opposed to the Goldengrove regulars.

  ‘I’ve been dry for nine months,’ he said.

  ‘Well done, Jack,’ said a man. A couple of people clapped.

  ‘Prior to that, my marriage had broken up, I lost my job and smashed my car up. Luckily, the car crashed into a tree and not into anyone. A friend of mine took me home or I’d have been done for drunken driving and lost my licence. I couldn’t even remember driving, let alone crashing into the tree. The next morning when I was sober and saw the car, I couldn’t believe how I’d got out of it alive; it was so mangled. Since that day I haven’t drunk.’

  There was a little applause round the circle. A few cries of ‘well done’, ‘keep it up, mate’.

  ‘So what do you have to ask us, Jack?’ said the convenor.

  ‘I’m coming to that. Since then I’ve been sober, I’ve set up my own business. As a builder. Jack of All Trades it’s called. It’s been a struggle, but at the moment I’m doing OK. Making a living, up and down, but getting my self respect back. You know how it is.’

  There were nods, a few calls of assent.

  ‘But this is the problem. I’m working on a big house for the next few weeks, out in Chigwell, repairing their summerhouse. And they’ve invited me to a party at the house tomorrow night. There’ll be a lot of rich people there. The guy who I’m doing the work for has said he’ll introduce me to people – and he’s pretty sure I could get some work out of it. Maybe a couple of big jobs that would take me up a league.’ He stopped, licked his lips a little nervously, but could see everyone was listening, waiting on him. He began again. ‘There’s going to be a shipload of alcohol at the party, beer, spirits, wine, champagne, a special punch – you name it. And the thing is… I haven’t been to a party since I’ve been sober. Simply made a decision not to go to any. Too risky. So, this one – what do I do?’

  He paused, and looked to the convenor who nodded.

  ‘Thank you for sharing your problem with us, Jack,’ said the convenor. ‘I know it isn’t easy. But you have presented us with a good topic for discussion. So everyone, how can we help Jack with this very real challenge? Pertinent to all of us.’ He stopped for an instant, and held up his hands. ‘Hang on, before you all come in. I want you to think about Jack. What would be useful to him. Please put your hand up if you wish to contribute.’

  A few hands went up.

  ‘You first, you next and then you.’

  Jack waited uncomfortably. He was pretty sure what he was going to get.

  ‘I think you shouldn’t go, Jack,’ said the first, a youngish woman with poor teeth. She was wearing a bright green coat, completely done up in spite of the fact that they were inside. ‘It’s too soon,’ she went on. ‘Build slowly or you’ll lose everything.’

  There was nodding and murmuring to this.

  The second began with questions. He was an elderly man or perhaps not so elderly, for Jack had seen that alcohol could add ten or even twenty years to your perceived age.

  ‘Are you going with anyone, Jack? And before you answer, another one for you. Will there be anyone there who can support you?’

  ‘No to both,’ said Jack. ‘I’m on my own, no girlfriend. And no friends at the party. The only ones I’d know are my employer and his wife who are throwing the party. And I wouldn’t call them friends.’

  ‘That’s simple then,’ said the old man. ‘You know the rule: never go into a pub on your own. I don’t think this is any different. A group of strangers, all with glasses of booze in their hands. Don’t go, Jack. You’ll end up legless.’

  Jack was trembling. They were saying what he knew. All that booze and on his own. He didn’t stand a chance.

  The convenor pointed out the third man, a middle aged skinhead, face and scalp almost submerged in tattoos.

  ‘Pray,’ said the skinhead. ‘Get down on your knees and ask for guidance.’

  ‘I’m not religious,’ said Jack.

  ‘Time you were then,’ retorted the skinhead.

  ‘None of that, John,’ intervened the convenor. ‘We don’t talk that way here. Religion is a personal thing. We don’t push our beliefs on others in this hall.’

  ‘Without God you are powerless,’ said the skinhead sweeping an arm round the circle. ‘All of you. You’ll keep coming back. You’ll get pissed out of your heads and vomit your guts out until you take Jesus into your life.’

  ‘Thank you, John,’ said the convenor. ‘That’s quite enough of that. You know the rules. Anyone else who wishes to contribute?’

  A few others had their say. None thought he should go. The consensus was he had a job and he should keep it. Not push things too quickly, or he’d fall. As surely he knew himself, said a woman, or why was he asking the question?

  Jack nodded as each one spoke, apart from the religious intervention which offered him nothing. He knew what they were saying. It was true. And yet, and yet…

  ‘Was that helpful, Jack?’

  He said it was. And the meeting moved round the circle.

  At the end of the meeting, when everyone was taking a parting coffee in the space by the urn, the convenor came over to him.

  ‘Have you made a decision, Jack?’

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Jack.

  The convenor patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good decision. It doesn’t pay to rush things.’

  Except there was no decision. Jack knew what the convenor wanted from him, and so gave it to him. Any other answer would just open up the lecture.

  He’d decide tomorrow, nearer the time.

  Chapter 13

  Donna was in her flat, a small attachment to the main house with no direct connection. To go to the Wards’ house, she
had to go out of her front door and into theirs. Less than ten yards but still separate.

  Living and working so close had advantages. She had no travel costs or journey time. No rent. Except that wasn’t really true as it was subsumed into her salary. It meant she could make the most of her breaks. Her day started early with making breakfast for the household, changing sheets – always tricky, depending who was in bed with whom. A Filipina maid did the hoovering and mopping. An hour or so off for Donna, then lunch to be made. Time off in the afternoon, back by five to make dinner, clearing up after dinner, then finished for the day.

  That was the way it was supposed to work. But Joanna would phone her at home, and if she got no answer would send her secretary round. Joanna’s fussing could annihilate her breaks. Then there were dinner parties, small was easy enough, but Mr Ward could easily rustle up a dozen. And then the very big dos, like tomorrow…

  She was watching television in her dressing gown, having showered after work, her hands cuddling a cup of marmite. She had made dinner for Mr and Mrs Ward, but neither had eaten in the dining room, both in their separate offices. Not surprising, considering the row there had been earlier. She and Carol had kept out of the way as the yelling and bashing rang through the house.

  The TV was on. It was company for her, a background, though she couldn’t have said what was happening. A cop show. A couple of murders already, but she’d lost it. Who was dead? What relation were they to anyone? It didn’t matter. Simply background, while she thought about Eric. Had a talk with Eric, as she often did. Explaining herself. How his father had left them, and the long hours of childminding were the fault of the sector she worked in. And maybe that was wrong, but what could she do all these years later?

  Eric didn’t reply. He never replied. To letters, birthday cards. She had to send them to the social worker, Heather Kennedy. Did she send them on? Donna always thought if she stayed in contact, one day he’d reply. The social workers might simply rip them up. Or file them.

  Tomorrow, the social worker had said… except who knew with social workers. They were two-faced. They’d say anything to get you off their backs. Tomorrow she might tell Eric that his mother wanted to see him. For that matter, how did she know how the social worker would phrase it? Your busybody mother has been in touch again. Or such like.

  The bitch had made it plain enough; she didn’t have to do anything for Donna. Donna wasn’t her client. Donna had no rights at all. Eric, though, had his rights protected by the United Nations Declaration and assorted legislation. He didn’t have to see his mother if he didn’t want to. She might bang on his door until Hell froze over. That is, if she could even get to the door with his guardian angel barring the path with the fiery sword of human rights.

  She switched the channel to a quiz programme, couldn’t take the comedian’s shenanigans and switched to a vampire film, to the News, to a family comedy full of laughter and inanity which she let run.

  Tomorrow was another day.

  And so was the day after.

  Chapter 14

  It was raining when Jack got to the Wards’ place in the morning. He hadn’t slept well, ruminating about whether to go to the party or not. Always deciding he wouldn’t go, then finding reasons why he should, mostly about money. Beset too by the phone call he’d made in the evening to Alison about Mia’s lunchbox. He’d told her that their daughter wasn’t eating the sandwiches because Jim made them. Which got him a metaphorical sock in the eye, as if he was short of one, accusations of jealousy and a lecture about how she looked after Mia, and did what was best for her in spite of the fact that she was working full time, and it was easy for him to talk as he just had her alternate weekends. It became a shouting match, utterly stupid and totally pointless. Simply emotion bubbling out, attempting to make sense of itself mid flow. Not recommended for a good nightcap.

  He’d given up on any astronomy last night. It had clouded over anyway, but there was still enough free sky. He’d just had enough of the day. Maybe tonight, he’d have a go.

  This morning he’d have to work inside. England being England, weather is changeable. So he wasn’t unprepared, though he preferred working in the fresh air. Less risk too of damage to property, carpets and furniture, under the sky. But weather ruled. The window frames were too big to work on in the hall of the summerhouse, so he sorted out her workroom, pushing the furniture against the wall and covering it in sheets, ditto the carpet. He opened the Venetian blind for natural light, and noted there was a view of the shrubbery and part of the lawn, but not the house, which was good if you wanted to work undistracted. Not so good if you wanted to see someone coming.

  Jack set up his workbench. The plan was an hour’s work, then see if he could charm a bacon sandwich out of Donna, though he knew she’d be extra busy today, so he’d made a couple of cheese sandwiches in case.

  The front door of the summerhouse as well as the door to the room were wide open to let in the air. He liked to work to the radio, but planing was too noisy to hear much, and he was sure he’d get complaints from Madam, if not from Sir.

  He’d been working for about half an hour when Leon came in. Jack put down his plane. His visitor wore a slightly heavier, tweedish suit today, and a tie which might have been regimental.

  ‘I’d like a word, Jack,’ he said pointedly.

  Oh, what’s this about, thought Jack as he kicked through the wood shavings and sat down on the arm of a sofa in readiness.

  ‘Go ahead, Mr Ward.’

  Leon took the other arm, and picked at fluff on his knee, obviously considering how to begin.

  He said at last, ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about yesterday afternoon’s fuss.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I haven’t talked to anyone this morning. Came straight here. And I was out, as you know, for the afternoon.’

  He didn’t mention the cause, nor need to, as his eye was just as black this morning. At Alcohol Halt he’d told people he’d tried to break up a fight and got a blow for his pains – which was true enough, but got sceptical looks as if everyone wanted to believe that it was his comeuppance for a drunken rampage.

  ‘I dare say you’ll hear,’ said Ward. ‘This is somewhat of a gossip factory. In short, let’s say, Joanna and I had words concerning the chap who was taken to hospital. And let’s say we both got rather heated.’ He stopped to see the effect it was having on Jack, who was considering the words and the heat, knowing something of the Wards and how couples quarrel.

  ‘The upshot is,’ went on Ward, ‘we are divorcing.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Ward,’ Jack said automatically, though he didn’t care at all. When it came down to it, he didn’t like either of them much. They were employing him. Then it hit him what this was going to be about. They were employing him, both of them, and if they were splitting up – he might be collateral damage.

  ‘It’s been coming for some time,’ said Ward, ‘it was simply a question of when. But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is this job…’

  Here it comes, thought Jack.

  ‘Frankly,’ said Ward, ‘I don’t see why I should waste my money on her summerhouse. So…’

  Jack sank back, hands behind his head. ‘So I am to be sacked again, Mr Ward.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’ve a contract,’ said Jack, remembering instantly he hadn’t. Bob had.

  Ward gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Are you going to sue me?’

  Half a second’s thought made Jack dismiss this option. With a contract he’d consider it, without…

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But we can’t leave the windows out, and they must be varnished.’

  He was thinking quickly, in order to get what he could out of the wreckage.

  ‘How long will that take you?’

  ‘Two or three days.’

  ‘That’s it then,’ said Ward, ‘end of the week, and I’ll give you a severance payment on top. But just the windows. No floorboards, no roofing and gutt
ering, and no electrics.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack, like someone staggering out of his burning car with a radio.

  ‘I’m sorry for the way it hits you, Jack, but I am not paying for her shag shed. Not in a million years. The best I can offer you is this evening’s opportunity. The party. I’m on the board of the golf club and the secretary is coming. And I know for a fact there’s work to be done on the club house.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack, voice on automatic.

  ‘And there’s something I’d like you to do some time today. A house of mine, one of the tenants, old chap, needs a door and lock fixed. Buy whatever materials you need.’ He took a bit of paper from his pocket. ‘In Leyton. Here’s the address. Sorry it’s a bit scruffy. And here’s the key.’

  Jack took them. ‘I’ll go over this afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ said Ward. ‘And I do apologise for all this. It’s a mess all round. But the party this evening – I’ll point a few chaps your way. Make the most of it. I’m sure we can get you something. Starting next week even.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ said Ward. He gave a cheery smile and a wave. And was gone.

  Jack barely moved for a minute or so, seated on the arm as if he’d trebled in weight.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said to the wrinkled sheets and wood shavings, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  He’d lost the job yesterday, got it back a while later, only to lose it for good and always just now. These bloody rich bastards, change their minds like babies’ nappies. Order people about like pawns. Moral – make sure you have a proper contract before you start the job. And get half the money upfront.

  He’d been able to stretch the work for the rest of the week, and that was pushing it. And there was nothing to follow on. He hadn’t looked for anything. A good month’s work down the chute. All he had was a vacuous promise about what might happen at tonight’s party.

  A builder’s life is not a happy one.

  Jack had just begun work again, lackadaisically planing, when Carol came in. She was carrying a tray with two coffees and a bacon sandwich.