Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind.’ And turned on her heels. ‘I mustn’t stay long. Not that I was going to, but she’s watching. And waiting.’

  ‘We haven’t had time to do anything,’ he said.

  She blew a raspberry at him.

  ‘There’s more than one prick in a sewing box,’ she said as she headed across the lawn.

  That hurt. One chance damning the other. But at least it was in the open about Joanna. Though it could hardly be closeted. Joanna dressed to attract men. Did she really have plastic buttocks? He grimaced at the image of a surgeon slicing her with a knife, a wobbly jelly on a dish within reach.

  The butcher’s shop of desire.

  He picked up the fairy books. There were six in a cardboard presentation pack. He pulled one out. Ellie and the Squirrels, showing a fairy and a squirrel staring at each other high in a tree. The squirrel was holding an acorn, the fairy flying holding a very large key. A ladybird was flying nearby, a black bird with a yellow bill watched from a higher branch.

  He opened the book. She had signed it: To the Fairy within you – Bluebell Woods. And thought, plastic tits, plastic buttocks. The fairy within.

  He looked at his watch. It’d be lunchtime. And he phoned Mia. The phone purred a while before she picked it up.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’

  ‘What you up to?’ he said.

  ‘Chatting as we eat lunch,’ she said. Then added severely, ‘Did you tell Mum about Jim making the sandwiches?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘So you should be.’

  ‘What have you got today?’

  ‘Cheese and cucumber. She made them, but didn’t she go on. On and on, about all she has to do in the morning. Making him breakfast and kissing him, more like. Frankly, I think he’s a creep, but I can’t say that. Can I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyway, is there a reason for this call?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Apart from the fact I like talking to my daughter.’

  ‘Apart from that, what?’

  ‘This woman I work for. She writes the Forest Fairy books.’

  ‘Bluebell Woods?’ said Mia.

  ‘Yes, that’s her. Or her pen name. And she’s given me six books for you. All signed.’

  ‘How old do you think I am, Dad?’

  ‘Ten. Why?’

  A put on sigh. ‘I read a couple of those books when I was eight. Years ago. And they were crap. So they are even crappier now.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘The plots are stupid, the characters are stupid, and the cutesy pictures make me want to vomit.’

  ‘I fully comprehend,’ he said. ‘Shall I chuck them in the bin?’

  ‘No, give them to me. There’s this girl in my class, she’s mad about the Forest Fairies. All signed, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s got a phone I’d like.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Yes, I can, Dad. She’s got two phones, maybe more. Give me ‘em next time you see me.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘I’ll talk to Mum. Gotta go. Love.’

  And she rang off before he could say anything further.

  Chapter 18

  Joanna was reading typed pages at her desk, every so often rapidly scrawling with her silver ballpoint, theatrically sighing. Two young women were seated on the sofa, each apparently reading one of the fairy books, but too aware of Joanna’s blatant corrections to make much sense of the text in front of them.

  Carol was at one side on a small desk with her laptop. She was on the Forest Fairies website, answering emails in the name of Bluebell Woods. A couple of times yesterday she’d raised queries with Joanna, who’d brushed them away. Read my bio online, she’d exclaimed, read the books. You should be able to answer questions from seven and eight year olds without asking me every minute.

  Twice, in fact.

  Carol had taken home ten of the books last night, and bored herself soppy reading them. But at least she knew who was who in the pantheon. Though some of the queries from children were very specific and she kept going to the shelves to check a fact. And there were contradictions. In the process she learned how to give a generalised answer, like a teacher doing a report on someone she couldn’t recall, and to find ways round anomalies. She signed them all ‘Bluebell Woods in fairy love,’ as she’d been told.

  The pages on her knee, Joanna swivelled round to the two young women. One wore black and white, as if she’d come for an interview at a solicitor’s office, the other was in pink and pale red as if she’d just come out of a sweet wrapper.

  ‘What on earth do they teach in creative writing degrees?’ said Joanna wearily.

  The women said nothing to this rhetorical question. There was no right answer of course. They were simply being told off.

  ‘All this description,’ sighed Joanna, indicating the much scrawled page. ‘Why do you think there are pictures? The reader wants plot and dialogue. And why all these long words and clunky paragraphs? They’re stuffed with adjectives. And then the story… Don’t they teach you how to write a story? A bit of introduction around the woods, some sort of problem, and off they go to try to solve it, making a mess of it at first, before coming up with a surprise answer.’ She stopped, wondering why she was wasting her time with these silly young women. She had a hair appointment and manicure in half an hour.

  ‘You are ghost writers,’ she said, thrusting her head at one then at the other. ‘And to be a ghost writer for Bluebell Woods, you have to hit the style. It’s not difficult. I don’t want your own cleverness. Stuff your belles-lettres. I want Bluebell Woods’ prose, short sentences, fluffiness. Have either of you read the bloody stuff?’

  She pulled herself back, suddenly aware she was giving too much away. For Joanna was weary of Bluebell Woods. She had given them five years of her life; she’d made a million, but enough was more than enough. She could no longer take the pink, treacly simplicity. The shallow jollity, the abominable prettiness. In a few days, she’d hand it all over to Carol. The lot: the conferences, working with the publisher and illustrator, publicity, every damn picture and word. Every drop of tweeness and the unbearable need to be responsible for soppy tales to ditsy fairy lovers. Carol could do it. Carol would have to do it. It was why she’d taken her on. Joanna would sign the odd bit of paper, and let the ghosts flit around offstage, wailing unheard and unseen.

  And she could play golf, holiday in the Bahamas. Then come back to concentrate on her fashion ideas. Good riddance to Bluebell Woods. As she might say to Carol, but not to these girls. Money dictated. If it wasn’t for royalties, she’d drop every single fairy, elf, gnome and whatnot into a boiling saucepan, jam on the lid and continue with the heat until the last squeal ceased.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said with a pleasant smile. ‘Carol will deal with your travel expenses.’

  Chapter 19

  Jack stopped at the house in Leyton, and grimaced as he turned off the engine. A dilapidated Victorian terraced house with the bins overflowing, a broken sofa in the yard, springs coming through the seating. Buddleia and fireweed grew between various discards.

  Jack listed building jobs as he walked up the path to the front door: the gate dangling on one hinge, half the red and black tiles on the path missing, steps up to the front door chipped away on one side, paint peeling on the door. There were five bell-pushers by the side of the door. This was no more than a three bedroom house. How do you get five in? Every room would have to be a household. How many people lived here?

  He let himself in with the key Ward had given him, instantly struck by the stench of toilet and stale food in the gloomy hallway. Mail and leaflets littered the floor and a shelf halfway along. The banister on the stairs was loose, an electrical wire trailed down the steps, spelling fire risk in capitals.

  The repair he’d come for was obvious. The door to number 4 was smashed in, with the doorjamb broken at the lock, the door i
tself fractured. A forced entry clearly enough.

  He rapped on the door with his knuckles.

  ‘Hello? Anyone in?’

  ‘Who is it?’ came a timid voice.

  ‘I’m the builder from Ward’s,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t got any more money.’

  ‘I’m not here for money,’ said Jack, stepping into the room. ‘I’m here to repair your door.’

  The room stank of sweat and urine. There was a single bed, roughly made up. A couple of wooden chairs, a low table with a broken TV, clothes scattered around the floor. And on the mantelpiece, empty bottles. It was as if he’d walked into a time warp, taking him back fifteen months, that room on his last bender after Alison kicked him out. In such squalor and hopelessness that tidying up was meaningless.

  The man was elderly, stout, almost bald, his face stubbly. He was sitting on the edge of the bed watching Jack warily.

  Jack indicated the door. ‘How’d it happen?’

  ‘Your blokes smashed it in.’

  ‘I haven’t got any blokes,’ said Jack.

  ‘You’re with Ward.’

  ‘Freelance, just this job,’ he said. ‘Why’d they smash in the door?’

  The man was breathing uncomfortably, licking his lips.

  ‘Cus… I wasn’t opening up,’ he said at last. ‘No cash, and that’s all they wanted. So I made out I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Rent arrears?’ said Jack.

  The man nodded. ‘450 odd. You know his two geezers?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Jack.

  ‘Well anyway, the regulars. They shouldered it, demanded whatever I had on account. And when I didn’t have any – they dropped the TV.’

  Jack looked at the wreckage. An old model, not flat screen but watchable, before the screen and tube were smashed.

  ‘Then they made me sign a loan agreement,’ said the man.

  Jack was out of his depth. Smashed-in door, dropped TVs, forced loan agreements. What subterranean world had he crashed into?

  ‘I’ll take this up with Mr Ward,’ he said weakly.

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ exclaimed the man, waving a hand frantically. ‘Don’t say anything to him.’

  ‘Has he ever been round?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Never seen him, just his collectors.’

  ‘How many live in this house?’

  The man leaned forward, ‘You couldn’t lend me a fiver, could you?’

  Jack shook his head. Any fiver given to the man had but one goal.

  ‘You ever heard of Alcohol Halt?’ he said.

  The man sat back at the refusal and examined his dirty fingernails.

  ‘Yeh. Load of bollocks. And AA. Done the Twelve Steps to the off licence, the pub, the supermarket… And back again.’ Mocking, he intoned, ‘My name is Dan. I am an alcoholic. I will always be an alcoholic. It’s my birthright, my career, my star sign.’ He stopped the take-off. ‘You bin there too, ain’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ agreed Jack. ‘And I’m not going back.’

  ‘Have you got a fiver then? Just a loan.’

  Jack said, ‘I’m not giving you a fiver. But I’ll buy you some lunch.’

  The man sighed. ‘If that’s the way it’s got to be.’

  Over lunch in a cheap cafe, Jack got the man’s life story. Name of Dan Baldwin. He’d been an electrician, earning good money, had a family. Then got into gambling and drinking. And ten years later here he was, in a pit on his own, existing from drink to drink.

  ‘How old are you, Dan?’ said Jack.

  ‘Fifty-two,’ he said through blackened teeth, as he mopped egg yolk with a piece of bread. Then added, ‘You some sort of Christian?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No, don’t believe that stuff.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said the man, ‘though I would hope there’s a better life somewhere.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Not that I’ve earned it. Just more hell somewhere.’ He threw back a slug of tea. ‘Though what’s the point of that? Hell here, hell there. How’s that make sense?’

  ‘You deserve heaven,’ said Jack, ‘for what you’ve gone through. But it doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘I just want done with,’ sighed Dan. ‘Dead, gone, over. Nothing. Slam the lid.’

  When they left, Jack took Dan into a mini-market and bought him groceries: bread, crackers, margarine, cheese, easy eating stuff and no cooking. Adding some tomatoes, though the man said he didn’t want them.

  Their next stop was a locksmith on the Leytonstone High Road. It was one Jack had been to before and he knew the proprietor. When he’d bought the lock and fittings, he said covertly:

  ‘Stick another twenty quid on the receipt.’

  Ward could at least pay for his tenant’s meal and groceries.

  Chapter 20

  Donna came onto the landing with a tray of coffee, biscuits and a slice of walnut cake. She knocked at Ward’s office door and when there was no reply, she went in. She could hear the shower running in the en-suite bathroom. He often used that one, and now with relations at rock bottom with Joanna, he was staying well away from the bathroom they shared in the bedroom.

  A clean shirt and tie lay over the back of the sofa with a suit on a hanger. Ward was getting ready for the party. A little early, she thought, but it was not her place to query such matters.

  She was, anyway, in a somewhat mechanical mode after the exchange with the social worker. Simply doing what one had to, until the rejection slipped into place and became part of her existence, and not all of it. Carol had made her a cup of tea, wiped her face as if she were a child. And said simply, ‘We have to go on, Donna. We have to go on.’ And she’d wondered what Carol had suffered.

  It was strange that her muscles could respond, she felt so bleak, her life so pointless. That arms, legs and hands went to where they were supposed to go, so she could still chop, push buttons, cook even, with her head a vacant hangar. Even respond to her name and give coherent answers, in a simulacrum of human behaviour.

  She put the tray down on his desk. Ward was singing tunelessly in the shower. An open laptop was on the desk. And she was caught by a name she knew on the computer screen. She looked closely. The screen was showing incoming emails, and five or six were from Heather Kennedy, Eric’s social worker. She checked the shower; it was running full, the song mercilessly battered.

  And she clicked into an email.

  It was difficult to understand as it was obviously one of a string, though evidently the same Heather Kennedy, Eric’s social worker, as there were several references to him. Donna clicked into the next and the next, and the fog began to clear. And the next, until she’d read them all. There was only one scheme that could make sense of them all.

  Ward was paying Heather Kennedy. Both parties were a little veiled on that, but it was evident between the lines. And for that payment, Heather had not told Eric anything about Donna’s desire to see him. In fact, the very reverse. She had told Eric that Donna did not want to see him.

  As she was leaving the room, she saw a dirty bathrobe and towel near the door. Automatically she picked them up. Under them were a hammer and chisel. Presumably Jack’s, what were they doing here? She thought of taking them to him, then thought so what, too much effort to be concerned with. Lying social workers, bastard employers. She dropped the washing back on them.

  And left the room.

  Chapter 21

  Jack turned the shower hotter, washing the sawdust from his hair. He’d put a new lock in the man’s door, but it was a bodged repair. A new door and jamb were needed. He’d simply strengthened them where he could, with some bracing and screws, but really it was a temporary job.

  Dan, though, was grateful. Still tried to get a fiver out of Jack, in spite of persistent refusal. For Jack he was a warning, a siren call that drink was the devil. Except you got used to sirens, learned to ignore their howl.

  The damned party. It might bring him work. Might bring him sex. If he didn’t get hopelessly dru
nk.

  He soaped himself. No rush. Enjoy the heat and spray.

  He had, of course, no need to go. Joanna had given him the job back. Except that put him slam bang between quarrelling husband and wife. The easiest thing to do would be finish the week out, then leave. But he couldn’t afford to. He needed the work. There was nothing else in the offing. The four hundred quid from Ward meant no immediate emergency, and there’d be payment for the week’s work. They were both agreed on that minimum. And the job might yet hold, depending who was stronger – Mr or Mrs.

  But for insurance purposes, the party – he might get some work there. More than likely nothing. Millionaires left it to their minions to take on builders. But you never knew.

  And then there was Carol. She could be just what he needed. Kindly, not unattractive. Someone to come home to. He couldn’t help jumping ahead in time, making a life already. Someone to support him, to listen, as the years rolled by.

  As one does.

  And there was Joanna. If she wasn’t around, there was simply Carol who would be so much better for him. But he had this destructive side. Joanna was pure sex. Or impure, let it be said. Carol won on every square: companionship, equality, softness. Every square, that is – except square one.

  He turned off the shower and began to dry himself.

  Theoretically, there was the option – don’t go. A night in front of the TV or with a book. He could phone Bob. Or take out the telescope, a few hours under the stars, searching for M31. Whatever. But not a night in a drink-filled room, cadging for jobs, with Joanna dressed to kill, and Carol striking him off her list.

  It was pathetic. The choice was obvious. And there was no choice at all.

  Chapter 22

  Joanna was at her dressing table, peering at her face and hair. The same eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks, that were there yesterday and the day before. She would like a box of changes, a stubbier nose, green eyes, thin lips – anything but the boredom of the same old. There she was every day. Accusing. The odd wrinkle she could fill out with make up, hair she could dye, curl, have up, down, but the face, the same bits confronting her. She understood the king who banned mirrors in his kingdom. The death penalty for any reflective surface. So why did she allow them in her sanctuary?