by DH Smith
And she left him.
Chapter 5
Jack had separated the broken section from the good wall on either side, which left him a choice he hadn’t yet resolved. If he wanted to do the job quickly, he should smash down the leaning piece with his sledgehammer and cart it away in clumps. But most of the bricks were sound, and he was reluctant to simply have them thrown away, to end up in landfill. But it would take him a fair bit longer, separating brick from brick, to get them in a reusable state, instead of just smashing them up and dumping the lot. Meanwhile, in the yard was a pile of new bricks all serviceable and present, except the bricks were yellow and new. And these were aged and red.
Two days meant using the new bricks. He’d earn more if he finished in two days. Do as you’re told, mate. The mantra of the downtrodden working class. Except it would be a better job if he reused the old. Bob always told him he was a stubborn sod. But he hated waste. He’d only need a few of the new. They could be patterned in. All of which should be sorted out with the manager. Except he had a pretty good idea what the man would say.
Two days.
Damn it. It was only a small job. He’d do it his way. Once he was started, what could the man do? He still had a few hundred in hand from the shop he’d fitted out over the last two weeks. So he could survive even if he got his marching orders.
Risk it, and balls to the manager. There was a good chance he wouldn’t spot what he was up to until he was well into it. Jack put the sledgehammer aside and took up the club hammer and the bolster chisel. He began at the top of the damaged section. First thing was to check the feasibility. If the mortar was hell to get off, depending on the mix they’d used, then forget it. But if it came off fairly easily, then plan salvage was on.
He carefully placed the wide chisel on the mortar joint and struck firmly with the hammer, moving round the brick until it pulled free. Once on a site, years ago, he’d seen an old hand getting off old mortar with the back of an axe. The old bricklayer had said it was better than a club hammer, less likely to break the brick. Jack had a hand axe in his tool box that didn’t get a lot of use, and had thought of getting rid of it. Now it could earn its keep. He held the brick, the way he’d seen the old timer doing it, and chipped round with the back of the axe head, knocking off the mortar.
It worked, but he’d have to get a move on if he was to get anywhere near done in a reasonable time. Perhaps, if the manager saw a pile of old bricks, he might be persuaded. Move then. He worked on the top course, getting the double line of bricks free. Take down a course at a time, then work on getting the mortar off and his heap would be on the way.
Though there might be a fight on the horizon.
From the yard, he noted sudden activity, a buzz of conversation. A busier spot could hardly have been picked for him. A man in a flat cap exited, pushing a wheelbarrow with a spade and fork in it.
‘Morning,’ called Jack. ‘You out to do some digging?’
‘Clearing them flower beds,’ said Bill. ‘Bout time an’ all, for all that grew over the summer. Waste of money those beds. Dogs run through ‘em, kids kicking their balls in ‘em. I saw a three year old picking the flowers and her mother just looking on. I said to her, stop your child please. She says he’s not doing any harm…’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘Why do we bother to give people like that flowers? Tell me.’
‘Not everyone is like that.’
‘I saw a wedding group standing in the middle of the flower bed, tramping over everything, taking pictures. In the middle, trampling what they were photographing.’
Jack was going to say – not everyone is like that, but thought he’d just get another example of bad behaviour.
Instead he said, ‘Why not concrete the lot over? That’d teach ‘em.’
Bill blew a raspberry. ‘Just end up as a rubbish tip. Human nature screws up everything.’ He sighed. ‘Can’t stand here gabbing.’ He screwed up his face. ‘I wouldn’t have a wall there at all.’
‘Electric fence?’ suggested Jack.
‘Better than a wall. Gotta go. Do something. No matter what.’
And Bill lifted his wheelbarrow and set off towards the lawn. Jack shook himself; the man left him in a graveyard of gloom. Everything is rotten in the world, everything failing, people are awful. Nothing can be done. Might as well cut your throat if there’s not a nearby cliff to jump off.
He rapidly struck the mortar off a brick. Then a second. Working swiftly. Clear the head.
The young woman from earlier was coming out the yard pushing a machine that looked to him like a cross between a large mower and a very pregnant vacuum cleaner.
‘What you got there?’ he called.
‘A leaf vac,’ said Rose. ‘I was on it every day last week. Makes a noise like a jet plane. I might as well be an office cleaner. To hell with it.’
‘Nice to see you so cheerful. Must be something in the air. We still on for our dinner date, princess?’ said Jack.
Her scowl transformed to a smile, as if she had changed identities from a drudge to a lady. She stepped away from the machine, arms spread to show the width of her domain.
‘With caviar and chocolates, wine and roses,’ she said, waving a beguiling finger. ‘And you never know what there might be for dessert.’
She tripped forward and gave Jack a peck on the cheek. Then quickly stepped back to be out of his reach.
‘Must go.’ She beckoned behind her and added with a hiss, ‘The old prick might be watching.’ And dropped back to her morosity. ‘Bloody machine.’ And headed off.
Jack rubbed the side of his face. A teaser, he was sure of it. How many other dinner dates was she setting up this morning?
A young Asian man had come onto the bowling green. He had a long thin flexible rod and began lashing it in long sweeps against the surface of the grass, throwing up sprays of dew. He saw Jack watching and gave him a wave, as he worked methodically, clearing the green in a line from gulley to gulley, then turning back and doing another strip. The cleared area was bright green, the dewy area a milky green sparkling in the sunlight, drops flying into the air as the lash struck.
Further up the drive, by the tennis courts, a small lorry had drawn up. Two men were taking out of the back large rolls of white canvas. Heavy bundles needing one on each end to get them out and lay them on the ground. They followed up with packs of poles. A marquee, Jack guessed. Who’s getting married?
He rubbed his cheek where it had been kissed. And looked to where the woman was on the lawn, her machine ferociously sucking up leaves. Maybe, maybe not.
And he set back to work. Sometimes watching his hands as he struck the chisel and pulled out bricks. He enjoyed the sunshine but suggestive women sent his head spinning. He hadn’t been thinking about sex at all until she came out of the yard and seemed to be handing it out on a tray like a free sample at a supermarket. Think of astronomy, the Square of Pegasus, finding the Andromeda Galaxy. Wasn’t she chained to a rock and rescued by some Greek hero, he’d read in Astronomy Now. Sex even up there in the stars. Down here, Jack would have to rescue the woman from her machine. And then what?
The two men were sitting on one of the rolls of canvas, one of them smoking, the other pouring from a thermos into a cup. Too early for Jack’s break. He needed a decent pile of bricks, if he were to have a chance at persuading the manager. Besides which he’d been invited to the greenhouse. A real invite, rather than a tease of a dinner date. Over an hour to that.
Then she came out of the yard, as if he’d magicked her up. She had taken her jacket off, revealing green overalls, her hair was tied back.
‘Busy place this,’ he called.
‘Panic stations,’ she said with a half laugh. ‘We’ve got a big do on Wednesday with the Mayor and the local MP coming.’
‘Too busy for me to visit you for tea?’
‘Oh no. Please come. The first greenhouse.’ She wiped her brow and shivered.
‘You alright?’
‘I’ve h
ad a bit of a shock,’ she said. ‘About my job and my house… I live over there.’ She pointed across the grass to the two cottages.
‘Nice place. All that wide open sky.’ He was thinking of his telescope, then admonished himself; she had troubles. ‘Are they going to make you redundant?’
‘It may well come to that,’ she said.
‘What, losing your job and your house together?’
She flapped a hand and sighed. ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it. I’ve only just heard – and I’m rather shaken up.’
‘I don’t have to come for tea,’ he said carefully. ‘If you’ve got problems you need to think out…’
‘You’ll think I’ll be a misery guts?’ She gave a half smile. ‘I just might be.’
Jack wasn’t altogether sure about the invitation. If she was preoccupied, what was the point? Except... He could show how considerate he was.
‘I might be able to cheer you up…’ But stopped himself, not so devious when it came to it. ‘That was stupid of me. I haven’t got a job and house to offer.’ Then added, ‘Not everything can be cheered up, can it?’
‘No,’ she said. There were lines etched at the corners of her eyes. ‘Do come though. I’m sure you’re good company. But you mustn’t talk about you know what.’
‘Taboo.’ He shook his head. ‘Though I am sorry about your news, even if I mustn’t talk about it.’
‘Not half as sorry as I am.’ She sighed. ‘It’s my own fault really. I should have been prepared for this.’ She shrugged. ‘But there you are, going along merrily, and bang out of the blue…’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘There’s me talking about what we shouldn’t be talking about. Do come over. I’ll give you the greenhouse tour.’
‘I’ll be along. Ten thirty.’
‘I look forward to it.’
For a few seconds they gazed at each other, neither spoke, he was reluctant to let her go, she held him too, trembling slightly as if cold. Jack wanted to touch her cheek, but she was two metres away – and it would never do. Not in so public a place.
And she had other things on her mind.
‘I don’t know your name…’ he said. ‘I’m Jack. For short and who knows for how long.’
‘I’m Liz. There’s my greenhouse,’ she pointed out, ‘and I live over there in the first of those cottages. Who knows for how long.’
‘And you like frosty mornings.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘Ice crystals shimmering on the grass as the sun comes up. I’d miss that.’ She stopped, slightly embarrassed. ‘What do you do, apart from knock down walls?’
‘I look up at the stars.’ His arm swept the heavens. ‘The Milky Way is like a frosty morning. The stars like a ribbon of ice crystals.’ He indicated across the lawn. ‘There’d be a good place for my telescope, out there on the middle of the grass, one evening.’
‘Could be arranged.’
Of course it could. Neither spoke. Both knew it could.
‘Come at ten thirty,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some chocolate biscuits.’
‘Scrumptious.’
‘Must go now,’ she said. ‘The manager’ll be out in a minute, and I’ve had too much of him already this morning.’
And with a wave, she was off.
Chapter 6
It was a pity that switching the bowling green was so speedy. Zar savoured the lash of it, the wide sweep of the glass fibre rod, the drops flying in the air, sparkling in the sunlight, dropping tingling cold on his neck and face. Best not tell Ian he liked it or he’d have him off it and sweeping paths.
He’d like to switch a golf course, walk the whole 18 holes on a misty autumn morning, switching each of the greens from 1 to 18 before the first golfers. Alone, without expectations from anyone.
It was why he liked working in the open air. Space, plants, distance from people. He’d spent a month in his uncle’s accountancy office – and hated it. In a dark suit, stuck in front of a screen all day, his uncle trying to impress him with the good money qualified accountants earned, how he could get a big house and garden, have a wife and family. Be secure for the rest of his life, a respected member of the community.
He did not say – but uncle, I am gay. That wasn’t a Muslim thing to say. Not to an uncle who was on the committee of the mosque. Or to anyone in his family when it came to that. Or to anyone in their circle. There was already talk of finding him a wife, but he was only twenty, plenty of time his father said. Pass your accountancy exams, Zar – and they’ll all want you. You could take your pick.
And have a mortgage and work in an office for forty years in a suit in front of a screen with figures, rows and rows of figures. Good times, bad times, the figures keep coming. Relentless columns of income, expenditure, cash flow, bank account, creditors and debtors; the world explained in pennies, pounds, dollars, and euros.
One bored morning in his uncle’s office, he’d calculated how many numbers he might input in his working life. His uncle could see numbers on the screen so was happy Zar was working, but in fact he was calculating out how many seconds there were in forty years of working life, so that if it took a second to input a number how many numbers he would input in total, assuming seven hours a day, subtracting coffee breaks and meetings, holidays, and allowing time for chatting about football and whatnot. The figure he’d come up with was 189 million or so. For which he’d be well paid and could take his pick, when he’d passed his accountancy exams.
And be a respected member of the community.
But then again, when you get senior enough, your minions put the numbers in for you. You are responsible for them, but you don’t do the drudgery. You pull in others to input the numbers in to the columns.
There was a nonsense in the world, a pointlessness, so clear to him in that office. So depressing. Columns of numbers. Years and years of them.
He’d once asked his uncle why all this bookkeeping was necessary. His uncle was taken aback at his naivety, but then explained that any business to succeed must be on a sound footing. And it was the firm’s job to make sure its clients lived within their means.
For which you will get well paid.
And will input 189 million odd figures, or your minions will on your behalf. He felt as if he were one ant in a cell of an infinite ant hill. And all the banter of football, births, marriages, deaths, Eid, who’s going on the Haj – was a sort of decoration, the ants convincing each other that they were happy. That it was all meaningful.
His uncle had gone as far as booking him on an accountancy course at college, one day a week plus two evenings, when Zar had told him this wasn’t for him. Uncle was disappointed, so were his mother and father. His elder brother who worked for the council thought he was dumb. He said he himself would never get anywhere near earning the money an accountant could make.
Birdbrain.
Once free of the office, Zar knew he had to work outside. And got the job in the park. His family were horrified at the wages. He couldn’t make them see that he needed to work outside, that office work crushed him. And that was without saying he was gay, that he didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going, because they’d simply talk about money and marriage and getting a mortgage, and having children. The future they saw for him, an imitation of their own. And not his at all.
He’d finished switching. The creamy green had been lashed off, leaving the area a dazzling, sharper green. He wondered whether the effort really had any effect on diminishing the effects of fusarium and other fungal diseases. Was it just green keepers repeating the lore they’d learnt? Or were there experiments – with some greens switched and others not. And lots of numbers thrown into computers, showing switching removed 99.9% of all known fungi.
Reluctantly, he laid the switch on the bank and took up the long-handled edging shears. As far as he could see the bank hardly needed any edging, grass barely grew this time of year, and would stop dead in a few weeks. But the Mayor was coming and would spot a single blade of grass sticking abov
e regulation height.
Back bent, a hand on each of the handles, he began snipping, the cuts dropping into the gulley surrounding the bowling green. And thought about the bracket fungus he’d seen on the yew tree at the back of the shrubbery. That incredible yellow, a shock of a colour. He’d taken a picture of it on his phone and now thought he knew what it was. Laetioporus sulphurous, chicken of the woods, edible when young. He must get some, take it home. Get his mum to cook it.
At lunchtime usually, he wandered the park with one of his books. He knew all the trees and had recently become excited by the variety of fungi. Liz told him about the plants in her two greenhouses, how they were propagated. And he’d got himself a book on that too.
The two got on like rain in the desert, each enjoying the enthusiasm of the other. He might tell her he was gay. Maybe not.
He had no idea what he was going to do with his life, not accountancy, nothing in an office – that was for certain. He knew he loved plants and the outdoor life. And the best he could do here was get on day release, learn – and see what came up. Except Ian always said, don’t bother me now, whenever he mentioned day release, as if payment for it came out of his own pocket. Zar could of course find an evening class himself, in fact might have to, but if the council would pay him to study one day a week then why not? Except for Ian, and his ‘don’t bother me now’.
He was racist, Zar was sure. Ignorant and proud of it.
He’d reached the section of bank near where the bricklayer was working. He was curious about what the man was doing with the axe, and so wandered closer to see.
‘Ah, you’re reclaiming the bricks,’ he said.
‘Well spotted,’ said Jack, brick in hand, knocking surplus mortar off it with the back of the hand axe.
He put it on the pile of cleaned bricks and took up another with the old mortar clinging.
‘Those bricks in the yard are all the wrong colour for this wall,’ said Zar.
Jack screwed his nose up. ‘Dead right, mate. You don’t just order any old bricks. You take one to the merchant – and say ‘how close can you get to this?’’