Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4) (13 page)

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 21
st
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.

He put the beans on. This was his all day breakfast. Quick to cook but not particularly healthy. Lacking any greens. He had a couple of days off this week, following this job. He’d stock up on tinned greens, peas and broad beans, that sort of stuff. Get some potatoes for baking, good this time of year, and sprouts. It just took a bit of thinking ahead, something domestically he was not that good at.

Alison had run that side. A very organised woman. He’d done what he was told, until his drinking got the better of him – and he’d done nothing at all. In fact, it had undone any good habits. The people he’d met at AH, he noted, were a slobby bunch. That’s what happened once alcohol took over with its vomit and diarrhoea. Squalor became the default.

Once they’d divorced, Alison had forced him to make an effort. Or Mia wasn’t coming over. So he’d bought a second hand washing machine and plumbed it in. Even used it sometimes. He had a vacuum cleaner, and did know how to use it, but it was a chore changing the bag and it seemed to get buried in the cupboard. Besides which, dust settled only very slowly.

He set the food out on the table in the living room with the teapot and mugs. Rose came out of the bathroom in his dressing gown. She was barelegged, and from the bundle of clothing she was holding, obviously naked under the gown. She sat down at the table. Jack had already started eating. She commenced.

‘You wouldn’t have a hair dryer?’ she said.

‘Never use one.’

‘Then I’ll have to do without. I really needed that shower. After leaf vaccing all day, and the dust where I was last night.’

‘The bowling pavilion hotel,’ he recalled.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ she said with a short laugh. She took a bite of toast and a bit of sausage. ‘So who’s your date then?’

‘No one you know,’ he said, head down.

‘How do you know who I know?’ She wiped the egg yolk with toast. ‘You could still cancel it. It’s not too late.’

‘Wouldn’t that be rude?’

‘You apologise profusely,’ she said, ‘and say what an awful headache you have. Brick dust. Or what is really good is the runs. No one wants you to come then.’

‘It doesn’t help courting,’ he acknowledged.

‘There’s a quaint term,’ she said peering at him, ‘but then there is something old fashioned about you.’

‘I don’t know whether to be pleased or angry.’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s the van. Man with a van. And the clodhopping boots.’

‘My working gear,’ he said. ‘Not made for a disco.’

She pondered a moment and snapped her fingers. ‘It’s my sister. Your date.’

He concentrated on wrapping the toast round a sausage.

‘And what if it is?’ he said at last. ‘Do you mind?’

She screwed her lips. ‘I do actually. Liz kicked me out on Saturday. And then gets in first with a man I fancy. I would not have thought that of her.’ She ate some sausage and took a bite of toast. ‘She’s a nifty cook. And a good painter. You don’t deserve her.’

Jack laughed. ‘Too good for me?’

‘I’m more your class.’

‘I don’t trust you,’ he said.

‘I don’t trust you.’ She shrugged. ‘Sex is like that. Who can you trust?’

‘Not even your sister.’

‘Especially not your sister.’

After their meal, Jack went for his shower. Rose said she’d wash up. As the hot water ran he contemplated what was happening. A bird in a bush… He could go to the park, set up the telescope, see Mars and maybe Andromeda. Have some supper and that could be that. It never was an invitation to screw, but a more high minded invitation to look at the heavens.

He soaped himself under the arms and in the groin. He pointed his face into the jets and soaped his hair.

It had been a genuine invitation to see the stars. Meaning what? That he would set his telescope up and look skywards. But then after… Like a dinner date. You hoped it wouldn’t stop there. And sometimes it did, with maybe a kiss on the doorstep.

He could phone Liz. Tell her the telescope was broken. She might invite him anyway for supper. Then he’d have an interesting choice. But supper might just mean supper, of course. He could then say he was mid mending the telescope and wanted to finish it. Not leave it in pieces in his sitting room. His hands were greasy.

And so on.

And simply stay here, and take what was plainly on offer.

He disgusted himself. How could he have a long term relationship with anyone when he was so dishonest? You had to be open, you had to share. You couldn’t be forever calculating how to get your leg over.

He’d change tomorrow, the day after. Depending.

Sex was like alcohol. The way it worked on you, took you over, pushing everything else aside. All aspirations, promises. You craved. You lied and schemed. Fill my glass. Fill my bed.

Just a phone call. He couldn’t do it in front of Rose. But why not? She’d suggested he cancel. It would make them conspirators. She’d have one over her sister. Might make her sexier.

The towel was disgusting; she’d just left it on the bathroom floor. It was a dirty damp rag, but all he had. He bunched it up and rubbed off the wettest bits, here, under there. And finished himself off with his soiled vest.

Jack dressed. He rubbed his chin. And had a quick run around with his electric razor. A little aftershave to salve the tenderness and add to his allure. He looked in the mirror. Who would want that lying bastard?

Another lying bastard.

He came out of the bathroom. Rose was asleep on the sofa. She had a pillow from his bed under her head and his duvet over her. She looked so cosy, so innocent. So set for the night.

Half an hour later, Jack left with his telescope.

Chapter 23

The sheet of card covered most of the kitchen table. On it she’d drawn a plan of the park, and, from her rough sketch filled in by Zar, she began putting in small circles for trees. Not the names yet. With her water colour palette, she touched in the shrubbery, the grass, the bowling green, to give it some life and vibrancy. She’d leave it when she’d finished colouring; tomorrow, she’d ink in the tree names and areas of the park.

The finished work would go on an easel in the marquee for Wednesday. It would be an extra to her cascade, something for visitors to look at as they chatted. She was glad to have this project on hand. It had been convenient to give Zar a reason for going round the park searching out the death stalks – but now it had utility. A busyness. So necessary. It had been a day too long. Ever since Ian’s blackmail in the mess hut… What an age ago that was! Watching, doing her work, keeping sane. And still waiting, hour upon hour, until the poison took effect.

He thought that she’d committed herself to him. So unbelievably pleasant to everyone this afternoon, she’d almost regretted her action. But not quite. He was still Ian. He had forced her to promise to be his. To love, honour and obey. To have and to hold. For five years at least. To sleep with him, submit to his demands, cook and clean for him…

The last she’d seen of Ian was about five thirty; he was fine, beaming like a birthday boy with all his presents. No sign of anything eating away inside.

Suppose it didn’t work? In that case, her plan B was to leave. Give her notice. Go. He might then do his dirty work, knowing he’d get nothing out of it, but damning her work prospects. So be it. She’d leave and make the best of it, whatever that was, wherever that was.

If plan A didn’t work.

The builder was coming over with his telescope later. She’d skipped her class, knowing she wouldn’t take anything in. Much better doing this tree plan. And then outside with Jack. Have someone to talk to, stars to look at. Astronomy, which she confused with astrology, which she didn’t really believe in anyway. Why should the stars give a damn about us? But if it were so, their power, their influence, must be directed here, tonight. It hardly mattered what she did; it would be zoomed into what was happening to her and to him, an inevitability ray.