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

quick.
    ‘I’m ill, lady. I can’t get up. I need to get to hospital. Dicky ticker.’
    Different situation. Something had to be done. When in doubt call Liz.
    ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get someone. You’ll be alright.’
    ‘Thanks, lady.’
    She nodded. She could be a frightfully selfish cow. But here was someone thanking her. She took his hand and squeezed it.
    ‘I’ll just leave you for a few minutes and be right back. OK?’
    ‘Thank you, lady.’
    The man sank back as if the last few words had been effort enough. And he’d passed on responsibility to someone who wouldn’t let him down. Rose let go of the holly branch and came out into the open air. Not a dead body. No story to tell her mates of murder and drugs wars. But someone alive, who couldn’t afford to rent a room and was ill. Something she understood all too well in this town with sky high rents.
    She headed for Liz’s greenhouse.

Chapter 8
    He was getting into a rhythm. Pick up a brick, chip off mortar, clip, clip, clip, each face, put it on the pile, take up another. Jack had taken out another two courses of bricks – and so had a longish task of brick cleaning. His hands seemed to be working almost without him. The left held the brick, the right the axe; almost like robots on an assembly line, programmed for one job. Clip, clip, clip, on the heap, pick up another. The heap was building up. Mind you, he wouldn’t want to do this for too long, the wrist of his right hand, the one holding the axe, was getting sore. What did they call it? RSI. He’d get that alright if he did this day in, day out. There must be a machine that could do it. Or there should be. But too late to get it here. And too expensive, anyway.
    He was cheaper.
    But this was OK. Sleeves rolled up, the sun warm, chipping away. And that hassle, with new bricks versus the old, sorted out. Although the manager hated his guts. Twice he’d seen him go in and out of the yard. And he’d ignored Jack totally. Not that he minded, it meant he was left alone to get on with his work without the gimlet eye looking for someone to criticise. Probably some other poor sod was getting it in the neck for the battle Jack had won. Though he’d better make sure this was a first class job.
    He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to tea break. Over in the greenhouse with Liz. Steamy biscuits. Oh yes. He tried not to think of what might happen after the last biscuit melted in the tea. Nothing most likely. She might be fixed up, a big bruising guy, a 10 th Dan in some martial arts discipline involving flying kicks and punches that smashed planks in half. Or. There was the dream, the one he was a sucker for. His bedmate, the companion of his soul, the one and only… And he wondered if he was too awkward a bugger for that to ever really happen. Once he’d got off best behaviour, once he was seen for what he really was. A builder scraping a living, a drink away from a drunken sot; she’d run a mile.
    Women aren’t perfect. That had to be remembered. We are all dirty sinners, dressing up, washing and deodorising to give the lie to the lonely ape howling for love. Some of the guys at Alcohol Halt had it all down as original sin. The wicked trip of all humanity, with only one way to salvation.
    The problem with dating, and such like, was that everyone was on best behaviour, making you think: I’m the only one pretending. Junk, pure junk, he knew. But he found at times it was hard to convince himself.
    Shut up and clean the bricks. Enjoy the sunshine.
    Don’t damn a relationship before it begins.
    And that other woman. He hadn’t got her name yet. The one who was on the machine who’d kept teasing him about dinner tonight. He didn’t know what to make of that. Down, boy. One at a time. Tea break. See how that goes, before you start thinking of the evening meal and its desserts.
    This wall was a focus; most people came past here, to come in the park, or to leave, though there was