Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4)

by DH Smith

  The bucket was full of red leaves. A good haul. He set off for the marquee where Liz was working on her cascade. He’d like to tell her. But you never knew, she might gossip, she might not, but why chance it? He’d told that builder. And wished he hadn’t.

  But that was done. And the man would be gone in a couple of days.

  Chapter 19

  She was in the rose garden, dead heading and weeding. Ian had been surprisingly gracious when she pleaded to be off the vac for the rest of the day. A birthday treat perhaps but it was unlike him to bother with such sentimentality. There are plenty out there without jobs, he’d normally say.

  At last, off the monster.

  The dead heading was easy enough. Any pathetic rose, or rather has-been rose, she pulled off and threw in the bucket. She was the grim reaper. Not actually, they were dead or good as by the time she got to them. She was simply collecting the bodies. More like a funeral director.

  Weeding she was less confident on. Which were weeds and which weren’t. Liz had told her that a weed was any plant you didn’t want. Which wasn’t a lot of help, as quite a few weeds she liked. There was one, a pretty little thing, Jack-by-the-Hedge, small white flowers smelling of garlic. A weed, said Liz. Why? she’d asked. Because it was in a flowerbed for snapdragons and alyssum.

  That’s Nazi, she’d declared. Racial cleansing. Liz had agreed but didn’t seem as upset as she was. Fascism was OK in the garden. But then Rose was on the side of the weeds; she knew she didn’t belong herself. One day they would ethnically cleanse her. She was sure of it.

  In a way, it was stupid. Plants didn’t have feelings. You needed a brain for that. Plants were dumb, vegetable things. Growing because they had to. Living because they were. As senseless as the leaf vac.

  It didn’t stop her feeling sorry for the weeds.

  Once she’d watched Bill with his hoe. Thoroughly ruthless, like a concentration camp guard. Mow them down! Hacking through them, chucking them in the wheelbarrow without a care. Never mind they’d put all that energy into growing, into making flowers and seeds in the hope… Well, they didn’t really hope, but she hoped for them. In the hope of living on through future generations.

  Chop, went Bill’s hoe.

  She was a crappy gardener. You can’t wince at every weed you pull up. Well, you can, because she did. So maybe the leaf vac was right for her. Sweep up the bodies, don’t kill them. Mother Nature did that. And Rose had no way of stopping her.

  The bucket was full. Mostly with weeds. And they must be weeds as Liz had said: in the rose garden, if it isn’t a rose it’s a weed. Besides which, the day was almost done.

  She popped into the playground.

  Amy was doing a round with her litter picker and sack. She was quite deft. The picker had a handle you squeezed, connected to a rod which closed the jaws at the bottom over a sweet paper or crisp packet.

  ‘Nice birthday cake,’ she said on seeing Rose.

  ‘Zar bought it,’ she said. ‘I’m broke.’ And then remembered she had earlier told Amy about being interested in buying into Women Fly Women, and so added, ‘I mean none on me. Enough in the bank, not in my pocket.’ She knew she was trying too hard. And why, anyway?

  ‘I’ve got five new passengers today,’ beamed Amy, patting her belt. ‘Five! That’s a record. I usually do three. Four on the odd occasion, but that’s my first five.’

  ‘And you make twenty on each?’ recalled Rose.

  ‘Brilliant day.’ She looked about, then said quietly, ‘Three crew members got their pay outs last week, that’s why the passengers are queuing up.’

  Rose pointed out Amy’s bulging belt. ‘There must be a thousand pounds in there.’

  Amy put a finger to her lips. ‘Shh!’

  ‘Isn’t it risky going around like that?’

  Amy shrugged. ‘I’ll pass it on to the captain soon enough.’

  ‘And who’s that?’

  Amy waved a finger. ‘No, no. You won’t get that out of me. Rules are rules.’

  ‘Is it anyone I know?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Does that mean yes or no?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Rose hissed, ‘I’ve a good mind to hit you on the head and rob you.’

  ‘I’m bigger than you.’

  ‘I’ve got longer nails.’ But she realised she’d get no more out of Amy, and added, ‘I’m off to the yard. By the time I’ve emptied this and washed up, it’ll be knocking off time.’

  She left the playground, knowing Amy would be working half an hour longer, and maybe make it to six passengers, before she closed up.

  Chapter 20

  Jack wheeled the barrow into the yard, his wrists aching. He stopped the barrow for a moment and jiggled his hands and wrists as if to shake them off. He rubbed them over each other. This was the final load and he hadn’t needed to work so hard. But he’d made it a sort of race to reclaim the last brick by the end of the day. Commonsense said he could just as well complete them in the morning, but he’d jettisoned that in his feverish hammering off of mortar as if he’d be shot if there was a single brick left undone. And even gone on fifteen minutes over time.

  Idiot.

  He could feel the blood running through his wrists to his fingers as if still carrying the workload. It wasn’t sensible working at that rate, though part of him wanted to complete the work in two days just to show the foreman that he could do it, and in the right way. So unnecessary. He need prove nothing to that man. And it was not as if he had a new job to begin on Wednesday. His next start was Monday, a week away.

  He picked up the barrow, and headed on to the heap of bricks he’d been building near the dump at the end of the yard. There, he unburdened the barrow, placing the final bricks on the pile. Done. He massaged his wrists once more and twirled them about, stretching the fingers to prove to himself there was no damage done. Then he took up the barrow and pushed it into the tool shed, where it would stay overnight. In the barrow he put the tools he’d been working with, bolster chisel, club hammer and hand axe, along with his hard hat and goggles. The shed was locked up overnight; they’d be safe.

  Jack went into the mess hut and washed his hands in the butler sink. Enjoying the warm, soapy water, letting the water run a while, his hands dangling. Then wiped them on a paper towel and left.

  A day’s work done.

  Outside the yard, he looked at the wall he’d been working on. Going well, once the argy bargy of the morning had been sorted out. The damaged section was demolished, the bricks reclaimed. The wooden barriers covered the gap; tomorrow’s work was to fill it. Bricklaying.

  Should he go to the greenhouse, to remind Liz he was coming back at nine with his telescope? He took a few paces in that direction and then stopped. She knew anyway. It made him look like an overeager schoolboy. They’d confirmed it at tea break. Leave it. He had her phone number.

  Just remember, it was an astronomy evening. Anything else that happened would happen if it happened.

  He headed for the park gate.

  Go home, shower, eat, read a bit, watch some TV maybe and then come back with the telescope. He looked up at the sky. Pretty clear, lots of blue stretches. Could be a good night for stargazing. Might be cold. Woolly hat and fleece. Mars was at its closest for some time this month. He was hoping for a good view of the red planet, and hopefully a photo.

  Once outside the gate, he saw her at once. He’d completely forgotten, being so taken over by his mortar race. She was leaning against the van, one leg bent against the front tyre. With her overalls off, her figure showed to advantage. The complications exploded like measles in a children’s nursery. All he’d done was say yes. And might yet regret it.

  ‘I’ve been waiting over ten minutes,’ she said crossly.

  He smiled at her. It was hard to believe her cheek. He hardly knew her. Who was doing who the favour. But then he had to admit, his own motives weren’t simply altruistic.

  ‘I had to put everything away,’
he said.

  She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Did you say goodbye to my sister?’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Liz,’ she said, wide eyed. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said, feeling somewhat trapped.

  ‘She was chatting you up at tea break.’

  ‘Hardly,’ he said, opening the van door. ‘Let’s go.’

  Complications.

  Chapter 21

  Zar was on the bus home to Ilford. It was busy downstairs with a few standing but he’d managed to get a seat. Good job he had a bus pass, as he’d spent all that money on cakes and bought himself and Rose a meal in the café. He only had a few quid left; he’d have to bring in a lunch tomorrow. His mother usually had leftovers from the evening meal that would do.

  A book on wild flowers was open on his lap, but he wasn’t looking at it, but thinking about the day he’d had. For the first time, he’d told someone face to face that he was gay. That made him squirm, but he needed to get used to it so that he didn’t.

  But it was hard to take disapproval. He’d never been good at it. At school, at home. He must toughen up if he was to get anywhere.

  Today had been good though. He’d enjoyed doing the tree inventory. That had annoyed Bill, to see him wandering about with a clipboard. He’d called him a jumped up gaffer. And why should Zar mind that? He’d put all the trees on Liz’s plan, the exciting ones like the Atlantic cedar, the tree of heaven, the liquidambars, the tulip tree, the Indian bean, as well as the more usual beech, oak, ash, hawthorn, maple and the Japanese cherries. Liz had suggested there could be a children’s tree trail in the summer.

  And finding the death stalks. Much better informing Liz than Ian. She said, don’t tell anyone. No panic. They looked so harmless, so ordinary, no wonder they caused so much trouble. He’d handed all he’d found over to Liz who said she was going to burn them tonight. He wondered how they got in the park in the first place as surely they can’t be usual in town parks. But spores float on the wind and there were woods not too far away. Maybe he should check the woods out.

  And day release had happened. That had come out of the blue. He’d thought Ian was simply going to block him forever. But incredibly, it was Ian who said it was on. When the Superintendent of Parks was there, and Zar had confirmed the trees he’d brought in were red oaks. Worth the cakes that he shared with Rose twice over. He was going somewhere at last, quite where he couldn’t say, but plants and horticulture were drawing him in. It was exciting, and so new, all the growing things. In gardens, woods, even the trees down the streets.

  He’d never seen any of it before he’d got this job. That is, he’d never looked. No one in his family knew much about plants. It was a happy accident that he’d got a job in the parks. And started looking. Beginning with the tree book, identifying every specimen in the park, and then on to wild flowers. Weeds mostly. The park should have a wild flower area. He’d talk to Liz about it. And about the possibilities for his own study, what it could lead on to. Day release was only a beginning. Starting on Monday. So stirring. He wondered who his fellow students would be. How much they knew already. Zar had missed a few weeks of the term and would have to catch up. He might need to buy a few books and really work at it.

  At last, something to tell his parents. The job wasn’t a stopgap. Tell Mum first. Dad wouldn’t be back until later. His father was hardly speaking to him. He’d wanted Zar to be an accountant and when that fell through, or rather when Zar had walked out, his father was so disappointed in him that he’d given up on him. Expected him to be a perennial letdown. Well, he’d tell him that today he’d taken the first step towards a career. That was the word that mattered to his dad, career.

  The next bus stop was his, Barking Station. He put his book away and stood up, working his way through the passengers to the door of the bus. It was bursting in him, to stand on a seat and announce to all the passengers about his career. His future. The woman in the hijab with the pushchair, he wanted to tell her not to force her child into a preset mould.

  But then maybe all parents did, without knowing it.

  It had not been his ambition to be an accountant. Ever. It had been his father’s for him, perhaps to make up for his own frustration in the shop. We want our kids to fulfil our dreams.

  He got off the bus and walked round the corner to Ilford Lane. He strode out quickly, along Barking Park, the mosque on the other side of the road. Oh, he wanted to get home and tell them!

  Before it got dark, early these days, while waiting for dinner, he’d prune the roses in the back garden. Reveal his new skills. He knew how to prune and had borrowed some secateurs from the park tool shed. Some of the roses at home had not been pruned for years, or so lightly pruned that they were thick and woody. They needed renewal. Liz could tell him how to take cuttings, or whatever you did, to propagate roses. He should look that up when he got home. There’d be stuff on it on the internet. Try and keep off the porn tonight.

  He turned off Ilford Lane into his street, eyeing the plane trees that were planted every 30 metres or so along the pavement. They’d been so hammered with pruning in the spring. In full leaf the bruising was hidden, but now when the leaves were falling, the arthritic knuckles were revealed. Did they have to cut them back so hard?

  There was so much to know.

  First a cup of tea with his mother and tell her the good news. Then prune the roses in the garden to show what he could do. And over dinner, inform his father the steps he was taking and where they might lead him.

  To Kew maybe. That would be the place. All those amazing plants, all those world experts.

  He opened the front door and his mother immediately came out of the kitchen.

  ‘Come in here,’ she said.

  Her face was so stern, he wondered what tragedy he was going to be told. Had someone died? He stepped into the kitchen and there on the table, it was revealed.

  ‘What are these magazines?’ she said.

  Gay magazines he’d bought. He’d been disappointed in them, although some of the pictures turned him on.

  ‘I found them,’ he said.

  ‘They are disgusting. Sinful. Depraved.’ She poked him in the chest. ‘Sit down.’ He sat by the table. There was not going to be tea and a good news discussion. He’d have to fight to get out of this one.

  His mother stood over him, she obviously had much more to say.

  ‘After I found these under your mattress,’ she said, ‘we had a look at your laptop…’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and Leila.’

  His sister. Trust her to work out his password.

  ‘It’s private,’ he said, knowing it was too late to protest the invasion. Once they were in, there were no secrets.

  ‘I had to scrub my hands after all that filth,’ his mother exclaimed. ‘Pornography beyond belief, gay dating sites and emails you’ve been sending to perverts.’

  ‘I’m gay,’ he said for the second time today. ‘I was looking for help.’

  ‘From perverts and paedophiles!’ she yelled. ‘You need to see a doctor. The Quran forbids this corruption.’

  ‘And allows slavery,’ he interjected.

  ‘In Pakistan you would be stoned to death,’ she went on.

  ‘And in Saudi Arabia I would be beheaded.’

  ‘Yes,’ said his mother. ‘With your family’s blessing. You must know you cannot be gay and a Muslim, Zar. Your father will take you to the imam. How can you have such desires?’

  ‘Being gay is not a choice,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t give me your rubbish. It is the devil in you, choosing wickedness, bringing shame on the whole family.’ Her hands shook frantically as if he were a plague of flies. ‘Go to your room. You disgust me. Your father will be here in half an hour. How did I ever come to have such a son!’

  She was boiling with fury, intermingled with tears. He stood up, and held her arms as he attempted to explain that he had his own life.

>   ‘It’s the 21st century, Mum. We have moved on from this medieval agenda. I don’t live in a Pakistani village.’

  ‘Let go of me!’ She struggled and pulled away. ‘You cannot be gay and my son. This is a Muslim house. A place of respect and honour. Go to your room and wait for your father.’

  He might have said more, there was so much welling in him, but saw the futility in her face and body. She could not listen. It was all as he’d feared. He was the enemy, bringing shame like a dreadful disease into the family. They would cure him or cut him out.

  Zar turned on his heels and left the kitchen. He took the stairs two at a time, with her yelling behind him.

  ‘The Quran forbids it. I will not have a pervert in my home!’

  He slammed the bedroom door on her. And pressed his back against it, though he knew she would not come up. The next harangue would come from his father. Whether he would beat him or whether it would be cold anger – Zar was not going to stay for it. He’d learned from the websites of forced visits to doctors, imams, of sham marriages, of young men and women being packed off to Pakistan. And lectures on lectures about shame and Muslim values.

  Zar began packing a rucksack.

  Chapter 22

  Jack sorted out the food that he had from the cupboard and fridge. Not the greatest of choices. Two sausages, two eggs, a can of beans, four slices of stale bread, a little bit of cheese and that was it. He’d meant to do some shopping on the way home, but Rose’s arrival had thrown him. It would have to do. He had supper coming later at Liz’s. This just needed to fill a gap between times.

  He put the sausages under the grill. Then cracked the eggs into a bowl, added a little milk, scrambled the mixture with a fork and added bits of cheese and pepper. Toast on, kettle on, he set the omelette frying.

  Rose was having a shower. There was no clean towel so she’d have to manage with the one he had. And as he was having a shower later, he’d have to manage with the wet one she left him. He must buy more towels or at least wash what he had more often.