All Quiet on the Orient Express

Eleven

The Packhorse was through to the second round of the Inter-Pub Darts League. This was the news that greeted me on my next visit, and it seemed to be generally agreed that I’d played a valuable part in the campaign.

“We wouldn’t have beaten the Golden Lion without your help,” said Tony as he pulled me a pint of Ex. “We’ll have you back on the team as soon as there’s a place.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Just keep turning up and you’re bound to be selected in the end.”

A quick look at the fixture list told me that we were to face the Journeyman again in ten days’ time. This was one game I was determined not to miss, so I made a careful note of the date. Then I took my pint and joined the others for darts practice.

In spite of Tony’s assurances, I still felt I was a bit of an outsider at the Packhorse, not quite fully accepted. This was in part due to the fact that I always had to leave before closing time, in order to get to bed at a reasonable hour. As a result, I never partook of ‘after hours’ drinking with Bryan and the rest of them. I was the only one who didn’t stay up late, and I couldn’t help thinking I was missing out on something. They were all friendly enough, but I remained uncertain about whether they were actually ‘friends’.

The same went for old Mr Pickthall, with whom I spent more time than anyone else. My early-morning companion travelled round with me for hours on end, yet I had no idea if he actually liked my company or not. We made a good team and worked well together, there was no doubt about that, but if I ever made a mistake, for example by taking a wrong turn, he would snap at me and call me a damn fool. Sometimes I wondered if I wasn’t a great disappointment to him.

Nonetheless, the milk round was going perfectly. We cut through Longridge Scar daily, picking up an empty milk bottle from the side of the road and replacing it with a full one. Sometimes we caught a glimpse of Mr Pickthall’s old pal working amidst the Christmas trees, and he would give us a wave. Then a few more days would pass without a sighting.

Another call we made was to a small detached house in Wainskill. This was a ‘special order’, Fridays only, for one bottle of homogenized milk. The property lay slightly back from the road, at the end of a cinder path, and I took a liking to it from the very start. Whoever lived there seemed to have found an altogether pleasant spot to call home. A rocking horse carved on the garden gate gave the place a very welcoming look, as did the apple trees and the neat borders. The house itself was in darkness when I made my delivery, but an outside lamp cast a friendly light along the footpath. According to the order book the customer’s name was Pemberton, which told me nothing about whether it was a he or a she. A vase of flowers in the window, however, suggested a female presence, and I soon began to get the feeling that this was where Lesley stayed. After all, no one except a young woman living on her own could make a bottle of milk last the whole week. I imagined she led a busy life, and only had time for a quick cup of tea every now and then. The empty bottle on the doorstep, I noticed, was always rinsed to perfection.

Having discovered where Lesley lived, I then realized that the information was of little use since I could hardly go knocking on her door at half past six in the morning. All the same, when I saw her at the forthcoming darts match it would do no harm casually to mention that it was me who delivered her milk.

♦

We rarely encountered any traffic at this early hour, but one morning on the approach to Millfold a pick-up truck appeared, coming from the opposite direction. As soon as he saw it Mr Pickthall said, “Watch out, here’s John,” and then laid flat across the seat.

Next moment the other vehicle came by and I saw his son sitting behind the wheel. Stacked in the rear were four oil drums. Mr Pickthall the Younger nodded at me briefly, and then he was gone.

My assistant sat up and glanced behind him.

“Is that his name?” I asked. “John?”

“Yes, we’re all Johns in our family,” replied the old man.

“Do you think he was looking for you?”

“I doubt it. He’s more interested in some damn-fool scheme with oil drums.”

“Oh,” I said. “Mr Parker’s involved with those as well.”

“I know,” said Mr Pickthall. “And John’s going to run himself into a lot of trouble if he’s not careful.”

“Is he?”

“Of course he is. Getting right out of his depth, trying to exploit a market he knows nothing about.”

“Suppose so.”

“Still, perhaps it’ll teach him a lesson.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Hello, who’s this?”

On the road ahead of us was a hitch-hiker, a young bloke about my age, carrying a rucksack. When he saw us coming he stuck out his thumb.

“Don’t stop for him,” ordered Mr Pickthall.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling up. “I always stop for hitchhikers.”

The young man came to the passenger window, which was a quarter open.

“Going up to Tommy Parker’s?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Hop in.”

“There isn’t room in here,” said Mr Pickthall, through the opening. “You’ll have to go in the back with the crates.”

This struck me as a bit churlish, but the hitch-hiker didn’t seem to mind and had soon clambered aboard. Then we set off again.

“That’s the lad I told you about,” muttered the old man. “We don’t want him here, he’ll spoil everything.”

“Seems alright to me,” I said. “Most hitch-hikers are usually OK.”

“Why didn’t he walk then? It’s only a mile.”

“Don’t know.”

“Because he’s an idle perisher, that’s why.”

Mr Pickthall fell silent and sat glaring through the windscreen, while our passenger rode with us to Hillhouse. I wondered why anyone would choose to turn up here in December. After all, the weather was terrible, and there was nowhere to stay.

“Maybe he’s just passing through,” I remarked.

The old man said nothing.

Mr Parker was standing on the back of his lorry coiling ropes when we arrived in the yard. Over the past few days he’d been running air over the place, gathering up more oil drums and taking them down to the factory when he had a full load.

He’d returned from one such trip late the previous evening.

“Now then. Tommy!” called the hitch-hiker from the rear of the pick-up, before leaping down. I noticed he had a rather loud voice.

Mr Parker peered at him for a long moment and then said, “Oh hello, Mark. You decided to come back then?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose you did.”

In the meantime I’d got out and delivered the milk. I waited a while to give the newcomer a chance to thank me for the lift. Instead, he ignored me and continued talking to Mr Parker, so I got back into the pick-up.

“Are we going then?” asked Mr Pickthall, with a note of impatience in his voice.

“Er…yeah, sure,” I replied, selecting a gear.

As we drove away I saw Gail’s face behind the kitchen window, but she wasn’t looking at me.

♦

Mr Pickthall said little as we continued the milk round, speaking only when spoken to and giving the bluntest of replies. The arrival of the hitch-hiker had disgruntled him for some reason, and he seemed to be taking it out on me for offering a lift. I couldn’t see what difference it made really. After all, as he himself had pointed out, the journey had only been a mile. The guy would have got there anyway, with or without my help. However, the last thing I wanted to do was fall out with Mr Pickthall, so I made no comment on the matter.

Around eleven o’clock I dropped him off at the usual place and said, “See you tomorrow then.”

He muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, and then wandered off towards his home.

When I arrived back at Hillhouse, the kitchen door was wide open. I parked the pick-up and got out just as the hitch-hiker emerged onto the terrace with a coffee cup in his hand. Behind him came Mr Parker.

“Have you got a minute?” he called. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I went up the steps and the newcomer was introduced to me as ‘Mark’.

“You can call me Marco,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied. He appeared to have a slightly faded sun tan.

“Mark’s going to be staying with you in the bothy,” announced Mr Parker.

“Is he?” I asked, with some surprise.

“Yes. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Well, there’s not really enough room.”

“I thought you said there was plenty.”

“When?”

“When you first moved in.”

“Oh,” I said. “Did I?”

As we talked Marco stood with a sort of sneering grin on his face, looking at me.

“Of course, if it’s too much trouble…” he said.

“No, it’s alright,” I replied. “I suppose you can have the sofa.”

I expected him to say thanks for this magnanimous gesture, but he merely gazed across at the bothy as if he’d scored some sort of victory.

“That’s that settled then,” said Mr Parker. “Now I must get going. I’ve some collections to make this afternoon.”

As he walked over towards his lorry, I turned to Marco.

“The door’s unlocked, you can let yourself in.”

I was damned if I was going to show him, into the place like some kind of estate agent, so instead I went across to the shed and got the stove lit. Then I spent some time giving the boats a look-over. I’d made good progress with the painting during the last week or so, and there was only one boat left to do. All the others were looking pristine in their maroon and gold finish, and I examined them with some pride. Mr Parker still hadn’t been in to see them, but I knew he’d be delighted when he finally got round to it.

I needed some breakfast, so I went over to the bothy and found Marco lying sprawled across the sofa. Some of his gear was already spread out on the floor in an untidy manner.

“Been travelling all night?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m completely fucked.”

“Where’ve you come from?”

“India.”

“Oh…right. Good trip?”

“Yeah, it was cool. But I ran out of money so I had to come back.”

“Did you go overland?”

“No,” he yawned. “Couldn’t be arsed with all that. Flew down.”

“Oh, right.”

He reached into his bag. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Suppose not.”

Marco lit a cigarette and I opened a window. Then he lapsed into silence, gazing at the opposite wall as he smoked. I got on with making myself some breakfast.

“Have you eaten?” I asked, at length.

“Yeah,” he said. “Had breakfast with Tommy earlier.”

“So you don’t want anything for the time being?”

“No.”

I thought it was a bit cheeky how this Marco kept referring to Mr Parker as ‘Tommy’, like they were old pals or something. It seemed far too familiar for my liking. After all, he was only some part-timer who happened to have been here before. As far as I knew he’d helped with the rowing boats and done a bit of painting during the summer months, yet the way he went on anyone would have thought he owned the place.

“Incidentally,” I said. “What are you planning to live on at this time of year?”

“I’ll get by,” he replied.

“But I thought you’d run out of money.”

“You don’t need money round here.”

“Don’t you?”

“Course not. Tommy doesn’t charge rent for this place, does he?”

“Er…no.”

“Well, then. All you’ve got to do is run up one or two accounts and you’re in clover.”

“You mean with Hodge and people like that?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve got to pay them off eventually, haven’t you?”

Marco gave me a long look of disbelief, slowly exhaling as a smirk developed on his face. Then he laughed at me, directly and unashamedly.

“Don’t be a cunt all your life,” he said. “Have a day off.”

♦

There were many signs that Christmas was drawing ever closer. Suddenly all the milk-bottle tops were adorned with tiny sprigs of holly, and advance orders for double cream started to appear on people’s doorsteps. It seemed likely that the workload would increase over the coming weeks, so I was glad to have Mr Pickthall’s continued assistance. After Marco’s arrival I’d half expected the old man to abandon me in disgust, but the following morning he was waiting at the usual place with his canvas bag. I thought it best not to mention the previous day’s events at all, and instead pressed on with the milk round as though nothing had happened. This course of action proved successful, and relations quickly returned to normal.

Passing through Longridge Scar it was apparent that at last the Christmas trees had begun to be harvested. Where previously we’d seen only impenetrable darkness, there were now open spaces, lit faintly by scattered brush fires still smouldering at dawn. Not all the trees had gone, however. Whole blocks remained untouched, presumably waiting for the following year, or the year after that. We retrieved an empty milk bottle from the side of the road, left a full one in its place, and continued our journey.

When I next delivered to the house with the rocking horse on the garden gate, I thought there might be a note asking for extras during the festive season. There wasn’t, but nonetheless I decided to leave a complimentary tub of cream as a goodwill gesture. This caused Mr Pickthall to murmur that ‘One customer was no better than the next’, and that any tradesman who gave produce away free of charge needed his head examining.

Each afternoon went by in the comparative sanctuary of the big shed. With the stove lit and the door closed, I continued work on the final boat uninterrupted. I’d really enjoyed doing this project over the past few weeks, and speculated about what Mr Parker had lined up for me next. Something interesting, no doubt, but I rarely got a chance to speak to him as he was always so busy with the oil drums.

One evening, however, I met him coming across the yard just after he’d returned from a short trip in his lorry.

“You won’t forget there’s still that mooring to make, will you?” he said.

“No, OK,” I replied. “The lake seems a bit rough for putting it down though.”

“You could maybe have a go at doing it next week,” he suggested. “The weatherman says we’re in for a calm spell.”

“Oh, right.”

“Get Mark to lend you a hand.”

“OK.”

The idea of Mark (or ‘Marco’ as he preferred to call himself) lending anyone a hand seemed most unlikely. He was quite easily the laziest person I had ever met. Not only did he sleep half the day, getting up ages after I’d finished the milk round, but then he just lounged around in the bothy for hours on end, smoking with the window closed and helping himself to my biscuits. Never did he offer to make a pot of tea or anything like that, even though he knew I was busy. His excuse was that he ‘couldn’t be arsed’, although I noticed he always managed to pour himself a cup if I went to the trouble of making some.

Despite all this, Gail seemed to think he was highly fascinating. She was forever turning up at the bothy on pretexts, such as looking at Marco’s photographs from India. These were interesting enough in themselves, I suppose, but they only needed to be seen once. Not three times.

At one point I asked him what he thought of the place and he said, “Brilliant, but you probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“You just wouldn’t,” he replied. “You’re the wrong type of person.”

Marco had a very unfortunate way of putting things, but all the same I realized that if we were going to have to share then I might as well try and be friendly. For this reason I asked him if he fancied coming with me to the Packhorse.

“What, and spend the evening with ‘ye yokels’?” he said. “No thanks.”

“Actually, they’re a good crowd,” I remarked. “They’re going to put me on the darts team.”

“Lucky you.”

“We’re playing the Journeyman tonight.”

Marco leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Oh the excitement!” he said. “I can hardly bear it!”

“So you don’t want to come then?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “I think I might go and see if young Gail wants to come out to play.”

I didn’t like the sound of this, but I was hardly in a position to do anything about it. Instead, I had a bath and got ready to go out. As I did so I thought about Bryan, Kenneth, Maurice, Tony and the rest of them, and wondered if they’d appreciate being referred to as ‘yokels’.

When I got to the Packhorse I saw that someone had been busy getting ready for Christmas. In a half-barrel outside the door stood a tree decorated with tinsel, while bright fairy lights shone at all the windows. Down in the bottom bar the mood was similarly Jolly. The home team practised with their darts, drank beer and waited for the visitors to arrive. I ordered a pint from Tony and then went and spoke to Bryan, who was giving the scoreboard a wipe with a damp cloth. His crown was on his head as usual, but in the festive surroundings it no longer looked out of place.

“Evening, Bryan,” I said. “You’re looking very seasonal all of a sudden.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” he replied. “Tell you what, though, it’s been a hell of a year in between.”

A few moments passed as the meaning of his words sunk in.

“Have you been wearing it for a whole year then?” I asked.

“Course I have,” he said. “That’s the bet.”

“What bet?”

“The one I’ve got with Tommy.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know anything about a bet.”

Bryan gave me a surprised look.

“But you must have heard,” he said. “It’s public knowledge round here. Tommy bet me I wouldn’t wear my crown from one Christmas to the next.”

“Oh,” I said, smiling. “I see.”

“And I bet him he’d never find a use for all that green paint he bought.”

“Well, there was rather a lot of it,” I remarked.

“Yes,” said Bryan. “I thought I was on to a winner until you turned up.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“What difference did I make?”

“You saved Tommy’s bacon, didn’t you?” he said. “Once you got going on those boats I didn’t stand a chance.”

There was a flurry of movement around the door, and a new group joined the throng. It was the team from the Journeyman, and as they bustled in Bryan went over to greet them. Trying not to think about what he’d just said, I got some darts and took a few practice shots at the board. As I did so I realized that there was no sign of Lesley. For some reason she was late, and I assumed she would be arriving shortly. In the meantime, the two sides were drawn up, and preparations made for the first game. Only then did I discover that I hadn’t been selected.

“We’ve decided you’re not quite ready yet,” explained Tony. “But don’t worry, it’s only a matter of time.”

“So I’ll get on the team eventually, will I?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Eventually.”

From beneath the counter he then produced a number of cardboard crowns, all folded flat. “Do me a favour and hand these round, will you?”

The crowns were made to the same pattern as Bryan’s. I passed amongst the players giving them out, and kept one for myself. It was gold, with three prongs. Bryan chose a new silver one to replace the old one on his head.

“Might as well be comfortable,” he remarked with a grin.

I didn’t enjoy the evening very much, despite having being given a yuletide crown to wear. I watched the darts without any sense of involvement, and as one game followed another it gradually dawned on me that Lesley wasn’t going to turn up. When I went for another beer I asked Tony if he knew where she was.

“Oh, we won’t be seeing her for a good while,” he replied. “She’s gone off on her travels.”

“Has she?”

“Yes,” he said. “Decided there was more to life than playing darts every night. She’s gone overseas, I think.” He handed me my pint. “By the way, this one’s paid for, courtesy of your boss.”

For the first time I realized that Tommy Parker was present in the Packhorse. Glancing through to the top bar I saw him standing with the landlord and his cronies. He gave me a nod and I raised my glass in thanks. It felt like a consolation prize.

♦

Sometime later a cheer went up, signalling that the home side had won the match. As hands were shaken and darts put away, I spoke to Tony about paying off my slate. He took a notebook from beside the till and studied it for a few moments.

“Right,” he said. “Forty-one pounds and ninepence I make it. Call it forty for luck.”

“Oh…OK,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to pay your darts subs while we’re at it?”

This turned out to be another tenner, and apparently covered the cost of the sandwiches which I’d always assumed were free. By the time I’d sought out Kenneth and Bryan, and paid what I owed them, I had less than ten quid left. I thought about my outstanding debt with Hodge and realized that, despite all my hard work, I was more or less skint. Not until I went round collecting the milk money would I have any cash again, and that’d have to wait until after Christmas.

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” said Bryan. “My Uncle Rupert sends his regards.”

“Does he?” I replied. “Er, right…thanks.”

“Very impressed with how early you’re delivering his milk.”

“Is he one of my customers then?”

“Of course he is,” Bryan grinned. “You know his place. Out at Wainskill. Got a rocking horse on the garden gate.”

A bell rang.

It was last orders at the Packhorse, but as usual no one took the slightest bit of notice. The darts team had won yet another victory, and they were now in celebratory mood. As a result, I was the only person actually to leave at closing time. I slipped out of the door and walked across the square past the Ring of Bells. Through the window I could see the gloomy minority seated round the bar. Everything seemed to be the same as it always had been. Then I headed home in the darkness, still wearing my pretend crown.

When I arrived back at Hillhouse I noticed that the light was on in the hay-loft. It was well past Gail’s bedtime, but I guessed she must have been up there with Marco all evening.

Entering the bothy I contemplated the untidiness he’d created. His clothes and bedding were lying all over the place, and on the table were unwashed cups and plates. I looked in my biscuit tin and found that it was completely empty. Even the plain digestives had gone. I was too tired to clear up now, so I went straight to bed and fell asleep immediately.

Some time later Marco came back, making no attempt to be quiet. He fiddled about for ages with his bag, taking stuff out and putting it back in again, until he heard me stir.

“Oh, you’re awake are you?” he said.

“No,” I replied.

“Enjoy the match?”

“It was alright.”

I heard him light a cigarette, and then he said, “I’ve been getting a bit of practice in myself.”

“Have you?” I asked.

“Yeah.” There seemed to be a sneer in his voice again. “From what I’ve heard you spend all your time playing round the outside.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “That’s the best way to start, isn’t it?”

Now he was smirking audibly. “No, my son, you’ve got it all wrong. You should have gone straight for the bull’s-eye.”

♦

When I got back from the milk round next morning I saw Deakin’s ice-cream van parked in the yard. Beside it stood Bryan Webb. It was usually a pleasure to see Bryan, but on this occasion the sight of him made me very uneasy, especially as he was wearing his silver crown.

“Morning,” I said, attempting to sound cheerful. “Tommy not around?”

“He’s inside making a phone call,” replied Bryan.

“Oh, right. What brings you here then?”

“I’ve come to have a look at these boats,” he said. “It’s only a formality, of course. I know I’ve lost the bet.”

“What was the stake?” I asked. “Just out of interest.”

“If I won I could choose anything out of the big shed. If I lost I had to wear my crown for another year. As a sort of penance.”

“Is that why you picked a new one?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Come on then, let’s get it over with.”

We walked over to the shed and I slid open the door, revealing the line of newly painted boats.

When he saw them Bryan turned pale.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear.”

“They were supposed to be green, were they?” I asked in a resigned way.

He nodded. “Tommy’ll blow his top.”

While Bryan stood gazing at the boats in stunned silence, I gave the paintwork an inspection. Running my hands along the gunwales and over the prows, I concluded that the job I’d done was perfect. Unfortunately, I’d used the wrong paint.

Next moment I heard Mr Parker’s boots scuffing the gravel as he approached from across the yard. I braced myself when he entered the shed, knowing that this time he really would lose his temper.

And lose his temper he did. The displays I’d seen on previous occasions were nothing compared to this. He took one look at the boats, and then his face turned from pink to purple.

“Flaming hell!” he roared. “Now what have you done?”

“Well…” I tried, but it was no good, he wasn’t listening.

“Are you trying to ruin me or something? Ever since you came here it’s been one thing after another! Paint spilt all over the place! Machinery wrecked! You cost me a contract up the road, and then go and charge me a hundred pounds…a hundred pounds!..to tart up these bloody old tubs! What the hell do you think this is, a flaming bottomless pit?”

He turned towards Bryan, who was still muttering ‘Dear oh dear’ to himself.

“Alright, Bryan! You’ve beaten me fair and square! So what are you going to take? Eh? How about my tractor? Or my welding gear? Come on, take your pick! There’s lots to choose from!”

“It’s alright, Tommy,” Bryan managed to say.

“No, it’s not alright!” cried Mr Parker. “You’ve got to have something! Tell you what, you can take one of these bloody boats off my hands! Here!”

He seized hold of the nearest boat and started hauling it towards the door single-handedly. The sudden exertion made the veins stand out in his neck, so that it looked as if he would do himself an injury. For this reason I grabbed the other side to lend a hand. I winced as the boat came off its wooden blocks, and scraped across the concrete.

“Tommy,” pleaded Bryan.

Mr Parker ignored him and kept heaving with all his might.

“Tommy!”

We drew nearer to the door. Beyond it lay the loading ramp and the gravel yard.

“Tommy!” Bryan tried again. “Tommy…please, listen…I don’t want a boat…really, I don’t…look, there’s something else I can take.”

♦

Ten minutes later, Bryan rode away on my motorbike. We watched as he crossed the yard and descended towards the front gate, still wearing his cardboard crown.

Then Mr Parker turned to me.

“Well now,” he said. “That’s that settled nicely, isn’t it?”

“Suppose so,” I replied.

“You hardly ever used it anyway.”

“No.”

“So it might as well go to a new home.”

“Yeah.”

By this time his mood had returned to normal, and he seemed content to give the boats their long-awaited examination.

“You’ve done a good job there,” he conceded. “But I think we’ll have them painted green all the same, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh…OK then.”

“It’ll give you something to do for the rest of the winter.”

“Right.”

“And after that Mark can take over.”

“Mark?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he going to do with them?”

“Mark always looks after the boats in the summer. He’s just the right type of person for the job.”

“But what about me?”

“Well,” said Mr Parker. “To tell the truth I had you in mind for selling a few ice-creams.”

I stayed in the shed until about half past two, but did nothing more than open a tin of paint, stir the contents and replace the lid again. The rest of the time I spent gazing at the boats, while I considered my options.

Finally, I emerged into the pale afternoon light and stood looking across the yard. The lorry-load of oil drums had gone, which meant that I had the whole place to myself.

Almost.

I glanced towards the bothy, where Marco lay sleeping behind drawn curtains. Then I started the concrete mixer, and prepared a length of galvanized chain.

EOF