Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4) by DH Smith Page B
Authors: DH Smith
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be together. How is it ever possible?
Poor Mia, with all this to and fro-ing the last few years. His drinking, mum and dad at war. And now, with dad gone, Alison’s attempts at a new partner. But did she really have to move him in so quickly? Was she that in love? Or that desperate?
Not questions he could ever ask Alison. He had his own desperation to consider. And looked at his watch. Tea break. And his invitation to the greenhouse for tea and biscuits. He rubbed his hands; this could be good. Or just tea and stale biscuits. Don’t assume, he told himself. Step by step. And other clichés. It takes two. And who knew if at the end of the tea break his fantasy might lie in tatters. She might be a Jehovah’s Witness come to save his soul or a little Englander with nasty views on anyone not exactly like her.
And so forth and so on. Preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.
Jack packed his tools in his toolbox. Leave nothing out, a hard learnt lesson. Once, he’d been gone for five minutes, and lost a hammer, drill and spirit level. Another time, a brand new door had been taken off the roof rack of his van. All set to do the job, he’d just taken his tools upstairs, and when he came back out to pick up the door, there was nothing there but the bungee cords.
He put the tools in the wheelbarrow and wheeled it into the yard and into the shed, leaving the barrow in a corner out of the way. Should be safe enough there, with all the coming and going.
And then he headed for the greenhouse, and his assignation. Fancy word that. Wasn’t it more for gangsters meeting in sleazy bars, than a polite tea in a greenhouse – with perhaps a combo playing snazzy jazz. No, it wasn’t a club in Harlem full of tobacco smoke and illicit booze, but quite what it was he didn’t know. A Smile-in, that might progress to a Hand-in. He couldn’t help a silly grin at his hopefulness. But unsure what to expect, he’d brought his backpack, containing his lunch and thermos, just in case there was less on offer than tea and jam scones with cream on top.
He paused to admire the wall of the yard, OK, a delaying tactic. Be a little late. The eight-foot height of it brilliant with Virginia creeper, the leaves like flat fish, a sexy red. Did its roots burrow into the brickwork or was the plant somehow stuck on? He looked closely, following the branches with his fingers. And saw that the leaves came off of twigs which came off a thin sort of trunk that grew out of the earth at the foot of the wall. There were small pads that held the plant to the bricks. Damn clever. The brickwork was a support, not a substitute for soil. He could imagine, if he ever had a garden, quite getting into growing things. This plant without a single brain cell had come up with this ability to make use of a wall. How? And that red, a real shocker. It made him think of cabaret dancers with their slinky boas and ostrich feathers. Maybe in the jazz club in prohibition Harlem.
He was in quite a mood this morning, finding sex and wonder in everything.
Except at the greenhouse. The first one was locked. He tried the second. Locked too. He peered in the glass door, both were empty of people. He knocked on the door, just in case Liz was low down, under the shelving, or hidden in the foliage. But there was no response to his rapping.
He was flooded with disappointment. Ten thirty she’d said. It was a couple of minutes past. Well, there you go. That’s the way of things. You think, you dream, poor sucker. And the door is shut tight.
It might have to be dinner with what’s her name, which wasn’t on offer anyway he’d decided.
There could be a good reason for Liz being out. Or maybe she’d forgotten. What was important to him might have been trivial to her. Though that wasn’t what he’d felt. The intensity of that look between them; she was trembling. But he’d been wrong before. Assumed something was happening, and it was. But only to him.
Maybe something had
Poor Mia, with all this to and fro-ing the last few years. His drinking, mum and dad at war. And now, with dad gone, Alison’s attempts at a new partner. But did she really have to move him in so quickly? Was she that in love? Or that desperate?
Not questions he could ever ask Alison. He had his own desperation to consider. And looked at his watch. Tea break. And his invitation to the greenhouse for tea and biscuits. He rubbed his hands; this could be good. Or just tea and stale biscuits. Don’t assume, he told himself. Step by step. And other clichés. It takes two. And who knew if at the end of the tea break his fantasy might lie in tatters. She might be a Jehovah’s Witness come to save his soul or a little Englander with nasty views on anyone not exactly like her.
And so forth and so on. Preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.
Jack packed his tools in his toolbox. Leave nothing out, a hard learnt lesson. Once, he’d been gone for five minutes, and lost a hammer, drill and spirit level. Another time, a brand new door had been taken off the roof rack of his van. All set to do the job, he’d just taken his tools upstairs, and when he came back out to pick up the door, there was nothing there but the bungee cords.
He put the tools in the wheelbarrow and wheeled it into the yard and into the shed, leaving the barrow in a corner out of the way. Should be safe enough there, with all the coming and going.
And then he headed for the greenhouse, and his assignation. Fancy word that. Wasn’t it more for gangsters meeting in sleazy bars, than a polite tea in a greenhouse – with perhaps a combo playing snazzy jazz. No, it wasn’t a club in Harlem full of tobacco smoke and illicit booze, but quite what it was he didn’t know. A Smile-in, that might progress to a Hand-in. He couldn’t help a silly grin at his hopefulness. But unsure what to expect, he’d brought his backpack, containing his lunch and thermos, just in case there was less on offer than tea and jam scones with cream on top.
He paused to admire the wall of the yard, OK, a delaying tactic. Be a little late. The eight-foot height of it brilliant with Virginia creeper, the leaves like flat fish, a sexy red. Did its roots burrow into the brickwork or was the plant somehow stuck on? He looked closely, following the branches with his fingers. And saw that the leaves came off of twigs which came off a thin sort of trunk that grew out of the earth at the foot of the wall. There were small pads that held the plant to the bricks. Damn clever. The brickwork was a support, not a substitute for soil. He could imagine, if he ever had a garden, quite getting into growing things. This plant without a single brain cell had come up with this ability to make use of a wall. How? And that red, a real shocker. It made him think of cabaret dancers with their slinky boas and ostrich feathers. Maybe in the jazz club in prohibition Harlem.
He was in quite a mood this morning, finding sex and wonder in everything.
Except at the greenhouse. The first one was locked. He tried the second. Locked too. He peered in the glass door, both were empty of people. He knocked on the door, just in case Liz was low down, under the shelving, or hidden in the foliage. But there was no response to his rapping.
He was flooded with disappointment. Ten thirty she’d said. It was a couple of minutes past. Well, there you go. That’s the way of things. You think, you dream, poor sucker. And the door is shut tight.
It might have to be dinner with what’s her name, which wasn’t on offer anyway he’d decided.
There could be a good reason for Liz being out. Or maybe she’d forgotten. What was important to him might have been trivial to her. Though that wasn’t what he’d felt. The intensity of that look between them; she was trembling. But he’d been wrong before. Assumed something was happening, and it was. But only to him.
Maybe something had
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