All Quiet on the Orient Express

Two

“Have I interrupted?” she asked.

“No, it’s OK,” I replied. “I’ve just finished.”

“Well, will you be wanting another shower at all?”

“Er…not today, no. Thanks.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Oh yes, I’d like one in the morning.”

“It’s just that we’ll be turning the water off at nights now.”

“Why’s that then?”

“In case there’s a sudden frost.”

“It gets that cold, does it?”

“It might do,” she said. “And there’s a lot of exposed piping.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, what will I do about a shower?”

“I’ll have to show you how to turn it on and off.”

All the showers were still going at full force as we were talking, so we had to raise our voices a little to make ourselves heard. I stood with the towel wrapped around my waist while this young girl explained the plumbing system.

She started by pointing into the cubicle. “All you do is leave the shower taps turned fully on. You needn’t touch them at all. Then if you’ll just follow me.” She led the way out of the men’s block, through the darkness outside and back into the empty ladies’ section. The layout here was just the same as in the men’s, except that there were more mirrors. All the ladies’ showers were going at full belt as well.

“This big tap here is the stopcock for the main supply,” she continued. “So you open it up before you have your shower and shut it off after.”

“Open before and shut after,” I repeated. “Right.”

“And the other red tap down the bottom is for draining the entire system out. So you close it first, and open it after.”

“Isn’t all this a bit of a waste of water?” I asked.

“Not really,” she replied. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Oh, OK,” I said.

“Have you got all that then?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Good.”

She started to head back towards the men’s block.

“And you are?” I enquired.

“Gail Parker.”

“So you’re Mr Parker’s daughter, are you?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh well, thanks again for your help. Bye.”

“Bye.”

And she was gone. I stood outside the men’s block listening for a few moments as she began swishing the showers with her mop, and then I went back to the tent to get dressed. After that there was nothing to do except go down the pub. I had a choice between walking or going on the bike. If I took the bike it meant I would have to drink less, maximum three pints. Or I could walk and have five. I thought of the money I’d saved by painting Mr Parker’s gate, and decided to walk.

Half an hour later I arrived at the ‘bottom bar’ of the Packhorse. There were two entrances. One was through the front door, past the pay-phone and down a carpeted hallway. The other one, which I preferred, was by a side door from the beer garden. On the door was a notice: ‘DARTS IN PROGRESS’, it said, ‘KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING’.

I ignored this and pushed open the door.

“Wait a sec!” said an urgent voice within.

I stopped and waited. There followed the sound of three gentle thuds.

“Alright,” said the voice. “You can come in now.”

I entered and was greeted by the barman I’d seen earlier in the day. He was withdrawing three darts from a board in the corner behind the door. Glancing round I saw that I was the only customer.

“No one uses that door in the winter,” he said with a friendly smile. “You’d be better off coming round by the top bar.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Sorry, I’ll do that in future.”

I’d seen the warning notice before, of course, but never really taken it seriously. After all, I’d come through the same doorway every night up to now, and there’d been no obvious risk of being impaled by a dart. In fact, there hadn’t even been a dartboard: just an empty wooden frame full of tiny holes. Above this was a shaded metal lamp, and at one side a black scoring margin with the words ‘HOME’ and ‘AWAY’ in stencilled gold lettering. Until tonight, however, the dartboard itself had remained absent. Now it was back in use, and the door to the beer garden was not recommended.

“I’ll have to lock that,” said the barman. “Don’t want any accidents, do we?”

“No, I suppose not,” I replied. “Does that mean the beer garden’s out of bounds now?”

“Well, it’s only there for the tourists really,” he said. “And they’ve all gone.”

“Except me.”

“You don’t count.”

“Don’t I?”

“Not if you’re still here at this time of year, no,” he said. “Pint of Ex?”

By now he’d gone behind the counter, and had in fact already begun working the hand pump before asking what I wanted.

“Yes, please,” I said.

“You’ll have to make the most of it,” he announced. “This is the last barrel. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“That’s alright by me,” I remarked. “I’m only here ‘til the end of the week.”

“Oh well,” he said. “You can help see it off then, can’t you?”

He placed a perfect pint of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter on the counter, and I paid him.

“Won’t you be getting any more after that?” I asked.

“We’d never sell enough to make it worth while,” he replied.

“What about the locals though? Don’t they drink it?”

“Course not,” he said with a grin. “They’re not interested in real ale.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No, they much prefer keg beers. Lager and suchlike. You know, from a factory.”

He came back from behind the counter and resumed his darts practice. A moment later he turned to me again with a puzzled look on his face.

“Did you say you were leaving at the end of the week?”

“That’s the plan,” I said.

“But I thought you were doing the painting along there at Hillhouse?”

“Oh,” I said. “You know about that then, do you?”

“Gordon said he saw you doing the front gate this afternoon. Said you were talking to Deakin.”

I knew Gordon was the other barman at the Packhorse. I’d seen him working alongside my present host during previous visits, and had heard his name spoken a couple of times. However, I had no idea who Deakin was.

“Who’s Deakin?” I asked.

“You know Deakin,” he said. “Fellow who does the milk round.”

“Oh, him,” I said. “Yes, well, I wasn’t talking to him really. He was talking to me.”

“That sounds like Deakin alright.”

“But I was only doing the one gate,” I added. “Just helping out, you know.”

“So you’re not staying on then?”

“Not for long, no.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see. Play darts, do you?”

“Now and then, yes.”

“Want a game?”

“Well, it’s a while since I’ve thrown a dart in anger.”

“That’s alright,” he said. “It’ll help pass the time. Got your own arrows?”

“Er…no.”

“Right,” he said. “You use these and I’ll get another set.”

He produced some more darts from behind the counter, and we had a game of 301, which he won. When he chalked up the score he put himself down as T, and I then remembered I’d heard someone call him Tony the night before. Another game followed, which he won again. It seemed that despite the recent absence of a dartboard he’d not fallen out of practice, and once he was onto a double the match would be a foregone conclusion. In the third game, however, I managed to keep up with him, and he didn’t defeat me quite so easily.

“Shot,” I said, as he landed the required double eight to win.

“Thanks,” he replied. “You throw a nice dart yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“Best of seven?”

“Might as well.”

“Tony!” called a voice at the other end of the pub.

“Back in a sec.”

He slipped behind the counter and went to serve a newcomer up in the ‘top bar’. “Now then, Bryan,” I heard him say.

I hadn’t been in the other part of the pub, but I knew that it was always referred to as the ‘top bar’. I had the feeling that it was reserved for the locals, whereas tourists were expected to the use the ‘bottom bar’. For some reason the Packhorse had been built on two levels, and although both halves were joined together the top bar was two steps higher up with its own separate counter and beer pumps. As a result, the people who drank there had a slightly superior and exclusive look about them, when seen from below. The top bar was usually presided over by an older man whom I took to be the landlord, while Tony and Gordon looked after the much busier bottom bar. Tonight, however, things were very quiet and Tony appeared to be running the whole place on his own. As I waited for our darts game to continue, I glanced through at the new customer in the other bar. Yes, I thought, definitely a local, and I knew I’d seen him before because I recognized his cardboard crown. It was silver with three points, and had been repaired at some time or other with Sellotape. I’d noticed this man quite often up in the top bar, and on each occasion he’d had the cardboard crown on his head. When he caught my gaze he grinned and nodded in my direction, saying something to Tony. I couldn’t hear what it was, but it didn’t seem unfriendly.

A few moments later Tony returned to the dartboard and play began again. It was best of seven, which he won four games to one, so we made it best of nine and he won that as well. Still, as he’d rightly said, it did help pass the time. During the evening a few other customers arrived at the Packhorse, and without exception they turned out to be locals. Most of them headed for the top bar, but one or two came down our end. As they drifted in they gave the impression that it was their first visit to the bottom bar for some time. It was almost as if they were reclaiming lost territory.

“Peace and quiet at last,” said one man as he walked in, and immediately moved a bar stool so that he could sit with his back to the corner wall. This reminded me of an incident I’d witnessed the previous week when a customer had carted a stool from one end of the bar to the other. The landlord had been on him immediately, ordering him to leave the ‘furniture’ where it was, and if he didn’t like it he could take his custom somewhere else. The hapless victim had been with a large group of others, all tourists by the look of them, and shortly afterwards the whole lot had drunk up and left. Somehow I couldn’t picture a similar episode taking place with any of the present crowd. The rules were different now that the tourist season was over. Locals, it seemed, were free to move the stools wherever they pleased. Nevertheless, at the time this treatment of a paying customer had struck me as quite rude. I suspected that Tony was the landlord’s son, since there was a noticeable resemblance between the two, but fortunately the similarity ended there. Tony couldn’t have been more pleasant, and even though I was technically a ‘tourist’, he’d gone out of his way to make me feel welcome. The same applied to Gordon. Both junior barmen appeared to be roughly the same age as me, and I felt an affinity with the pair of them. I was unable to tell, however, whether they were permanently attached to the Packhorse. They each seemed the type who would probably have been expected to do something ‘better’ than just work in a pub, and I liked to imagine they were only doing this until something else turned up. The idea of just staying here for ever, and never moving on, seemed quite unthinkable.

After a while the two bars became busy enough to keep Tony fully occupied, so he was forced to abandon the darts. Other players came forward, though, and I had several more games, and even won a few. Shortly we were joined in the bottom bar by the man in the cardboard crown. He’d obviously come down for a game of darts, because he went and added a ‘B’ to the list of people waiting to play. The local rule was winner-stays-on, and there were two initials ahead of his, so in the meantime he went and talked to the man who’d moved the bar stool.

I wasn’t really taking much notice, but I thought they nodded towards me a couple of times during their conversation. A moment later the one with the crown addressed me directly.

“Was that you who painted the green square up at Tommy Parker’s?” he asked.

“Well, sort of,” I answered. “But it wasn’t entirely my fault.”

They were both grinning at me, and I suddenly became aware that the other customers standing round the bar were all listening to the exchange.

“Whose fault was it then?”

Not wishing to incriminate anyone I said, “It was just an accident, that’s all.”

“You mean you accidentally painted a green square?”

This caused several people to laugh out loud.

“No,” I said. “But that’s how it ended up.”

“Well, Tommy’s not going to be best pleased about it.”

“Isn’t he?”

“No, he is not.”

The laughter faded away.

“I suppose you won’t have seen him lose his temper yet?” said someone over by the dartboard.

“Er…no,” I replied. “I haven’t, no.”

I must have started to look quite alarmed because the man in the crown suddenly stepped forward and slapped me on the back.

“Don’t you worry about it, lad,” he said. “It’s not the end of the world. Come on, we’ll buy you a drink.”

Next thing there was a full pint of beer in my hand, paid for by the man in the cardboard crown. The rest of the evening passed in a haze of beer drinking and darts playing. I ended up buying him two pints back for the one he’d bought me, but as I told myself later, it was the thought that counted. When last orders finally came I decided I’d had enough drink for one night, and left them all buying further rounds for each other. Ten minutes later I was wandering along the side of the lake, tripping over tree roots as I tried to follow the footpath in the dark.

It was the drink, I suppose, that made me decide to come this way instead of going along the road. Just as it was the drink that impelled me on to the jetty when I got to the boat-hire place. I went and stood at the very end, from where I could just make out the seven rowing boats lined up on their mooring. There was another road running along the far side of the lake, and while I was standing there I noticed a vehicle’s lights coming up from the south. It was over half a mile away, but even from that distance it struck me as being very brightly lit. As well as the headlights I could see a number of glowing shapes on the roof, but I was unable to make out what they were. The vehicle disappeared for a moment or two as it passed amongst some trees, and then emerged again further along the lakeside. By now it was almost opposite to where I stood. A slight breeze had got up during the evening, and this carried the noise of a whirring engine, and the rumble of tyres on the distant road surface.

And then another sound drifted across the lake. It only lasted for a few seconds and I couldn’t tell where it came from, yet it seemed vaguely familiar. A remote melody was being chimed out in the darkness, and I recognized a small segment from a nursery rhyme. The part that went ‘Half a pound of treacle’. Then it had gone again, and all that remained was the sound of the trees gently stirring, and the lake lapping against the shore.

♦

I had a headache when I woke up next morning. It had been my intention to take a drink of water from the standpipe before I went to bed, but by the time I got back to the campsite I’d forgotten all about it. Instead I’d crawled into my tent and gone straight to sleep, and now I had a hangover. This was the price for drinking five pints of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter. Or was it six? I couldn’t recollect clearly, but I decided that a quick shower would clear away the fuzziness. As I approached the shower block I remembered about having to turn the supply on, so I discreetly entered the ladies’ and went through the routine the schoolgirl had shown me. It all seemed to work OK, but when I went round to the men’s block I found the water was running completely cold. I then realized that the few moments of warm water I’d enjoyed the previous evening must have been the last drops of the heated supply. From now on, if I wanted a shower, it was going to be cold water only. This struck me as a bit of a swizz. After all, if someone paid rent to stay at a campsite, they should surely be entitled to some hot water. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually paid any rent for this week. I’d painted a gate instead. Therefore I had no choice but to brace myself for a thirty-second cold shower. I stepped under the nozzle and stood naked and shivering in the icy deluge.

Which was when I recalled the man in the cardboard crown, and his questions about the green square. Had he really interrogated me in front of the entire pub? Yes, he had. They’d all stood round listening, and then someone had asked if I’d seen Mr Parker lose his temper yet. Obviously, of course, I hadn’t. I’d only been here a few days and had barely set eyes on him. Yet they’d all behaved as though the matter was of great importance. Well, personally I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Alright, so I accepted that Mr Parker wouldn’t be delighted by the sight of a green-painted square in the middle of his gateway. This was fair enough, but I could hardly imagine him losing his temper over it. On the contrary, he seemed to be the sort of man who took such things in his stride. He’d been nothing but polite and courteous in his dealings with me so far, and I had no doubt that he would remain the same despite this episode with the spilt paint.

When I’d got dressed I went round to turn the water off, and then headed back to my tent. On the way I noticed Mr Parker standing by the gate, opening and closing it and giving the paintwork a thorough examination. I decided I might as well go across straight away and make sure he was satisfied with my efforts, so I casually strolled over. As I approached and joined him he gave me a brief glance, but then continued gazing at the gate in a preoccupied way. He appeared to pay no attention to the green square under his feet, or to the person who painted it. Instead he just stood there in silence. Not until several long moments had gone by did he turn and speak at last.

“Did you say you wanted to take a boat out?”

“Er…yes,” I said. “I would quite like to.”

“Well, you can if you wish.”

“Oh, right. You can fix it up, can you?”

He smiled. “I can fix anything up.”

“So are they your boats?”

“I have the main interest in them, yes.”

“Oh,” I said. “I never realized that.”

“Do you want to go this morning?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Alright, well, I’ll come by in about half an hour and we’ll go and sort you one out.”

“OK,” I said. “Thanks.”

After he’d gone I looked again at the green square and wondered why the men in the pub had made such a big deal about it. After all, Mr Parker hadn’t even mentioned the subject. Admittedly the square was very difficult to ignore, especially in the broad light of a new day, but I soon came to the conclusion that they were trying to create something out of nothing because they had little else to talk about. I decided to put the whole thing out of my mind and instead make the most of this morning’s generous offer.

Mr Parker came back in his pick-up shortly after I’d finished my breakfast of baked beans and a mug of tea.

“Very sparse existence you’ve got here,” he remarked as I joined him in the cab.

“Well, it’s only for a few days,” I said. “Makes a nice change, really.”

“You like hardship then, do you?”

“Not particularly, but as I say, it’s only a few days.”

“And then you’ll be off on your travels?”

“That’s the plan, yes.”

As we talked we had been slowly trundling towards the entrance to the lower field, where we now arrived.

“Unlock the gate, will you?” said Mr Parker.

He handed me a key and I got out and unchained the gate. It was another sunny day, and as we continued in the direction of the lake I felt quite privileged to have the whole place to myself. Mr Parker drove at a leisurely pace, and appeared to be inspecting the property as we passed through it. At the far side of the field he paused to look at some fallen branches scattered amongst the mossy trees. Also to examine the broken remains of an upturned boat lying beside the dirt track. I’d seen this boat each time I went by on the way to the pub, and guessed it had lain abandoned for many years. There were several species of plants and small trees growing through the bottom where the wood had rotted, and to my eyes it made quite an attractive landmark.

“We’ll have to get rid of that sometime,” announced Mr Parker.

“Don’t you like it then?” I asked.

“No, I do not,” he said. “Most unsightly.”

“I think it looks quite nice myself,” I remarked. “Very rustic.”

He shook his head. “It’s no good it being rustic if it’s no use.”

“Oh, well, no,” I said carefully. “No, I suppose not.”

We carried on to the lake, and pulled up beside the green boat-hire hut. Mr Parker produced another key and after a couple of tries unlocked the door. As it opened there was a cracking of new paint, and I realized that the hut had been given its coat of green quite recently.

“Someone’s been busy,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “We like to keep on top of the painting.”

“I’ve noticed that.”

To tell the truth, whoever painted it hadn’t done a very good job. There were runs everywhere and the door seemed to have been shut before the paint was even dry. Definitely not a piece of professional workmanship. However, I made no comment on the matter, and waited while Mr Parker peered into the hut, as if trying to get accustomed to the gloom within.

“By the way,” he continued. “Have you done any rowing before?”

“Well, not since I was a child,” I said. “We used to live near a park with a boating pond.”

“So you can row, can you?”

“Yeah, it’s like riding a bike.”

“I mean to say, we wouldn’t want you getting into any difficulties.”

“No, I’ll be OK. Thanks.”

“You won’t need rescuing after ten minutes then?”

“I doubt it.”

“Very good.” He turned and faced me in the doorway. “Right, that’ll be one pound for the hire of a boat please.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize…”

He glanced at the lake and then back at me. “Something wrong?”

“Er…no, it’s alright. Have you got any change?”

“Not on me, no.”

“The thing is, I’ve only got notes. Sorry.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“Can I owe it you for the time being?”

He considered this for a moment, peering into the hut again.

“I suppose you can, yes,” he said at length. “For the time being.”

“Thanks.”

“Now then, while we’re both here we’ll just see if we can get this open.”

He disappeared inside, and I could hear him unfastening some bolts behind a hatchway in the front of the hut. It sounded like he was having a bit of a struggle, so I tried to see what I could do to help from the outside. The hatch was about four feet long and looked as if it was supposed to open outwards. Unfortunately, the paint seemed to be sticking, so I began prodding and poking at various points. As I did so, Mr Parker continued speaking in a muffled tone from inside the hut.

“I’ve never taken to boating myself.”

“Haven’t you?” I said, raising my voice a little so he could hear me.

“No,” he replied. “I’ve tried it, but I didn’t like it.”

“That’s a shame. Maybe you should give it another go.”

“I haven’t time to go playing around in boats.”

“Oh. No. I don’t imagine you have.”

“Got more important things to do.”

“Yeah.”

“So today I’ll be leaving you to your own devices, if that’s alright.”

“OK.”

The bottom of the hatch moved slightly in my direction. There was a small gap underneath, so I stuck my fingers in to try and help pull. A moment later a sharp rattling noise came from inside the hut. The right-hand corner of the hatch was now free, but the left corner remained stuck.

“Are you pushing or pulling?” asked Mr Parker.

“Er…pulling, actually,” I replied.

“Well, can you pull a bit harder? Please?”

We were now both speaking with raised voices. I gripped and pulled. At the same time I heard a grunt from inside, and the hatch quickly opened outwards, jamming my knuckles for a moment before swinging up at me. I stepped back and let go, allowing the hatch to slam shut again.

“Flaming hell!” roared a voice within. “Keep hold of it then!”

“Sorry,” I said, attempting to get my fingers back under. This hurt somewhat, as my knuckles had been grazed quite badly. Next instant the hatch swung up again to reveal Mr Parker doing battle with a wooden support prop, which he instantly began jamming into position. I noticed his face had turned a deep pink and his eyes were blazing. It seemed important that this part of the operation should be completed as quickly as possible, so I grabbed the prop and helped guide it with my free hand, while still holding on to the hatch with the other. A few seconds later the prop was safely in place, and the struggle was over. There then followed a brief silence. I didn’t say anything to Mr Parker, but instead pretended to gaze out across the lake in a preoccupied manner.

When he spoke again his tone of voice had returned to normal.

“We’ll have to have a look at this hatch sometime,” he remarked. “Seems to be sticking at one side.”

“Yes,” I agreed, casting an expert eye over the hatchway. “Must be the new paint.”

“Or perhaps a bit of sagging in the timber.”

“Could be, I suppose.”

“Right, then. Can you give me a hand with the tender please?”

Leaning against the back wall of the hut I could see a tiny boat, no more than five feet long. By the time I got inside he’d already begun struggling to lift it, so I quickly grabbed the other end. We lugged it out of the hut and across to the water’s edge, our legs moving in short little jerks like a beetle. After a moment’s rest we continued along the jetty. In so doing I became increasingly aware that the structure wasn’t in particularly sound condition. It was alright for normal walking about on, but under the additional weight of the boat a few planks creaked and made other ominous noises. Finally, however, we got to the end, where we put the boat down. Mr Parker then walked back along the jetty, giving it an inspection as he went. I could see that several planks were cracked and insecure, while others showed early signs of rot. There were even one or two missing altogether.

“Needs a bit of maintenance here,” he remarked. “Do you want to come and get some oars?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Forgot about them.”

I followed him back to the hut, where he handed me the oars before locking up.

“Pull the tender in among those reeds when you’ve finished,” he said. “Should be safe there for the time being.”

“OK.”

“Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

“How long shall I stay out for?” I asked.

“As long as you like,” replied Mr Parker. “There’s no one else here.”

After he’d gone I went back to the end of the jetty and launched the tender. Then I stood looking at it, wondering what to do next. I’d assumed that he meant me to use it to get to the full-sized rowing boats out on the mooring, but I wasn’t entirely certain about this. Maybe I was just supposed to potter around in this tiny thing for a couple of hours, and then come back. After all, he’d never actually mentioned the other boats while he was here. And I hadn’t liked to ask. So now I found myself in a bit of a quandary.

Yet surely on a lake this size someone would need to be in a proper boat to make it worth while. Wouldn’t they? Yes, I decided, of course they would. Especially if they were paying a pound for the privilege. With this in mind I set off towards the mooring. I was pleased to find that I hadn’t forgotten how to row, and once I’d got used to the balance I was soon well on my way.

As I approached the line of moored boats I began to realize that they bore a strong resemblance to the ones in my childhood park. They were all an identical shade of maroon, and even the gold paintwork along the gunwales looked the same. Most striking of all, though, were the ornate prows that rose up at the front of each boat. As a child I’d always been impressed by these because they reminded me of the curved ships from famous legends and fables. For some reason the raised prows made the boats seem ancient, so that it was impossible to tell whether they were constructed ten, twenty or even fifty years before. It was this sense of age-lessness that had always attracted me to them.

Not that I planned to have an ‘adventure’ in one of these vessels. After all, I was fully aware that they were just simple pleasure craft, built to be hired out by the hour. I was going for nothing more than a simple jaunt on the lake, enjoying the sunshine whilst taking in the scenery from a new perspective. Nevertheless, by the time I’d chosen a boat and clambered aboard, the thought had been planted in my head that I didn’t just want to spend the morning aimlessly rowing about. It would be much better actually to go on a journey somewhere. Not long after that I hit on the idea of making my way towards the end of the lake, and then having a pint of beer in the Packhorse.

From out here on the water I was made aware of the vastness of the surrounding fells. Silent except for the bleating of distant sheep, they looked as though they went on for ever, although in reality of course I knew they didn’t. Less than ten miles to the east a modern motorway cut a swathe right through them. Along this strip of tarmac pounded an endless stream of traffic in the headlong charge between England and Scotland. There was also a railway line, and a procession of electricity pylons carrying power from one industrial centre to another.

Yet from my boat I could see no evidence of any of this. There was just empty land, and trees, with occasional farms and dwellings scattered along the lakeside. What caught my eye most of all was Mr Parker’s house perched high up on the slope. With the huge shed looming in the background, it seemed to dominate the locality, giving the impression that there was someone inside keeping watch. I was sure he had better things to do than spy on me from his window all day, but all the same I felt more at ease when I’d rowed half a mile and the house finally disappeared behind a spur of land.

The boat was moving along quite nicely, and I had to admit that this was a very pleasant way to pass the time. Unfortunately my back had begun complaining about the unaccustomed strain it was under, so I was glad to see the end of the lake drawing near. I knew from my previous walks to the pub that there was a good place to go ashore not far from the car park. I managed to pull the boat on land without getting my feet wet, and as a precaution I tied the mooring rope to a nearby sapling. Then I set off on foot towards the Packhorse.

As I approached I saw that Tony was at work in the beer garden, applying black paint to the outside windowsills of the pub. The walls were whitewashed, with some black beams across the middle, and I assumed that this was meant to make the building appear to be Tudor in origin.

“Doing a good job there,” I said, walking towards the side door. “Safe to go in, is it?”

“Should be,” he replied. “But knock first, just in case.”

I knocked and entered the bottom bar, which was deserted. A moment later Tony came in, served me a pint of Ex and then went out again. It was too nice a day to remain inside for very long, so I followed him out into the beer garden where he resumed his painting. I had planned to sit at one of the wooden picnic tables, but I discovered they’d all been treated with wood preserver and stacked one on top of the other in the corner. For this reason I went and sat on the stone wall instead, placing my beer beside me while I waited for it to settle. Occasionally I glanced across the square, but there seemed to be no one about. The only sign of activity this morning was Tony at work with his brush, applying new black paint over the black paint that was already there. A few minutes passed as he completed yet another window-sill. Then I heard a vehicle coming down the road from the direction of the church, and casually looked round to see Mr Parker go by in his pick-up with the trailer in tow.

Suddenly this trip to the Packhorse didn’t seem such a good idea. I’d hardly touched my pint before his unexpected appearance, but now I felt the urge to finish it and get back to where I’d tied up. After all, I was supposed to be out on the lake, not lounging in a pub garden. I wasn’t sure whether he’d noticed me sitting there, but I was certain he wouldn’t be very pleased about one of his boats being left unattended. I drained my glass and headed across the square. As I did so it occurred to me that even at this moment there might be someone making off with the boat. I broke into a run, charging through the deserted car park and up the path to the lake. It was difficult running with the newly swallowed beer inside me, and by the time I got to the water’s edge I felt quite sick. The boat was lying exactly where I’d left it, of course, completely safe. As I collapsed out of breath in the grass nearby I realized I’d panicked over nothing, and all because of that conversation last night in the pub. It had been the thought of Mr Parker losing his temper that’d brought me rushing back instead of taking the time to enjoy my beer properly. This now struck me as ridiculous. The episode at the boat-hire hut with the sticking hatch had shown me, if anything, that he controlled his temper very well. I soon came to the conclusion that the whole thing was some sort of local myth, not to be taken seriously.

Still, now I was here I could see no point in going back to the pub for another pint, so once I’d recovered sufficiently I relaunched the boat and continued my rowing. I suppose I must have passed the time in this manner for another hour or so before the novelty wore off. By then I’d worked my way right along the far shore of the lake to a point more or less opposite Mr Parker’s place. I decided that this was enough for one day, so I returned to the mooring, tied up and rowed ashore in the tender. I shoved it into the reeds as he’d directed, leaving the oars tucked under the seat. This time I did get my feet wet. The water looked shallow but there was a lot of mud, and my boots sank in while I was getting out of the boat. Despite this it had been an enjoyable couple of hours. I strolled back to the tent, changed my socks and had a cup of tea. My motorbike had been waiting there neglected for a couple of days, so I spent the afternoon giving it the clean I’d promised yesterday.

When I went to the pub that night it struck me that there was a distinct shortage of women in the area now that the tourists had left. The previous week the place had been full of attractive girls, all looking especially healthy after a few days in the outdoors. Now they seemed to have gone. The only exception was a young woman who appeared up in the top bar at about ten o’clock. I’d seen her once before. On that occasion she spent a lot of time talking to Tony, and I’d more or less assumed she was his girlfriend. Tonight, however, Gordon was on duty and she seemed to be giving him the same amount of attention. Which made me think she could be unattached. I quite liked the look of her, and would probably have tried to get acquainted if I hadn’t been leaving at the end of the week. As it was, I had to content myself with the occasional glance she gave in my direction.

Meanwhile, in the bottom bar, the dartboard remained the centre of attention. The supply of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter seemed to be holding out alright, and I spent another evening with the locals. One darts game followed another, followed by a further round of drinks and another one after that. I wondered if it was like this every night during the winter. They set a very fast pace for their drinking and once again I seemed to get swept along with it. As usual the man in the cardboard crown was present, and he made sure I didn’t miss out. I stayed as long as possible to see if the young woman in the top bar left with anybody, but she suddenly disappeared while my back was turned. It was time to leave, so I wandered back to the campsite and went straight to bed.

I didn’t sleep well. In the middle of the night a girl in a gym slip kept turning the water on and off. I came slowly awake and realized someone was shaking my tent pole.

A moment later I heard a voice outside. It was Mr Parker.

“Could you give us a hand here?” he said. “The rowing boats seem to have got away.”