All Quiet on the Orient Express

Five

I didn’t sleep well that night. For some reason the beer made me sweat a lot, and I kept waking up all in a tangle. The wind was no help either. It continued to work on the loose sheet of corrugated steel, causing it to clang spasmodically for hour after hour. In fact the whole shed now seemed to be creaking in sympathy with the increasing gusts. It must have been well into the early hours before I drifted off properly, and next thing I knew there was daylight coming through the caravan window. More noticeable, though, was the rain drumming on the roof. It was very tempting to turn over and go back to sleep, but I knew I had to get going before the weather worsened even more. Somehow I dragged myself out of bed. I’d used up the last of my food supplies the previous evening, and planned to get a few miles behind me before stopping somewhere for breakfast. I unrolled my waterproofs. They were dry and stiff, and I realized it was a long time since I’d last had cause to use them.

When everything was ready I went outside and started the bike. It had been out in the rain all night, but fortunately seemed to be running OK. Then, after a quick check round the caravan, I set off. There was no sign of activity in the bottom yard or the house as I passed by, nor did I see anyone on the road to Millfold. The rain was coming down hard now, and it struck me as a daft day to be travelling. All the same I had no inclination to alter my plans. I’d had enough of the place, nice as it was, and now wanted to get moving. It was just tough luck that it happened to be raining the day I’d chosen to leave. Besides, I had a feeling that I only had to go fifty or sixty miles and I’d probably run into better weather. A few minutes later I passed the Packhorse and the Ring of Bells, both with their shutters firmly closed, before crossing the bridge and joining the road southward. For a moment I caught a glimpse of Mr Parker’s house on the opposite side of the lake, and then it was lost from sight. The only place I knew beyond that was Bryan Webb’s. Again there was nobody to be seen as I went by. Not long afterwards the rainwater began running down my neck. Motorcycling was a wretched affair in these conditions, and I prepared myself for a long and dismal journey. I’d read somewhere that the lake was supposed to be nine miles in length, but I knew from my previous trips that the road distance was much further. There were no end of twists and turns, and I’d clocked up more than twenty miles before I finally left the lake behind. This had taken almost an hour, because of having to slow right down on the bends. Now I began climbing as I headed for the first mountain pass. As I did so I wondered why I hadn’t simply gone north from Millfold and then picked up the motorway. That would have been much easier than slogging along this twisty road. On the other hand, if I had taken the motorway I’d have had to contend with the spray from all those juggernauts. In truth, whatever way I went I was going to get soaked, and at least the route I’d chosen was traffic-free today.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of puddles, and as I came down the other side of the pass I hit one right in the middle. At that moment I realized my waterproofs were pretty ineffective. But worse than that, the engine stopped. It coughed and spluttered several times before cutting out completely. I rolled to a halt, then gave the starter a kick.

Nothing.

I tried again, with hopes sinking. I already had a suspicion about what the problem might be. It was confirmed when I removed the points cover from the engine and rainwater came running out. This meant I was going to have to sit for hours waiting for the points to dry off.

That’s handy, I thought.

There was no shelter here, no trees or buildings, only grassy slopes rising up into the wet mist. Vainly I tried kicking the bike over again, but without success. The thought then came into my mind that I could push it along until I got to somewhere less exposed. Maybe I’d even find a nice dry café just along the road where I could sit and wait. I quickly dismissed this idea, though, as I knew for a fact that there wasn’t anything for miles, apart from scattered farms and the occasional private residence. So I stayed where I was, and paced around idly watching rivulets form at the edge of the road. From time to time a vehicle would go by, the driver glancing momentarily in my direction before passing on. Then, after about twenty minutes, a school minibus approached. It was similar to the one I’d seen Gail boarding each morning at the front gate, but I noticed immediately that the occupants were wearing a different-coloured uniform. As the minibus slowed down for the next bend I was aware of a dozen pink faces looking out at me.

There then followed a prolonged spell during which I began to wonder what exactly I was going to do. The rain showed no sign of easing up, and the bike still refused to start. Yet there was no point in abandoning it and going to look for help. After all, nothing actually needed repairing. It just required a chance to dry out. Again I thought how foolish it was to be travelling by motorcycle on a day like this.

After another ten minutes had passed I heard a vehicle approaching from the south. I glanced towards the bend as it appeared, and instantly recognized Mr Parker’s pick-up with the trailer in tow. He pulled up beside me.

“You seem to be getting quite attached to the area,” he remarked, by way of greeting.

“Engine’s stopped,” I replied.

“I thought you were going to get away early.”

“I did.”

“No,” he said. “That was nowhere near early enough.”

He got out and looked at the bike.

“The points got wet,” I explained.

He nodded. “Always the same with these old machines. They let the water in too easily.”

“Just needs to dry out.”

“Well, it’ll never get dry here.”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“Not in a month of Sundays.” A moment passed, and then he added, “Tell you what, why don’t we take it home and put it in my shed?”

“Don’t you mind?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he said. “Can’t leave you here, can I?”

I couldn’t see what choice I had. This was the first time the bike had ever let me down. Now I was stuck and Mr Parker offered the best remedy, so I decided to accept. A few minutes later we had the bike loaded onto his trailer and were on our way north again. The cab heater was turned on full, and very soon there was steam rising from my damp waterproofs.

“Been anywhere interesting?” I asked.

“Had a delivery to make,” he replied. “Bit of business, you know. Quite fortunate you breaking down where you did.”

“Yeah, suppose so.”

“I always think a journey’s more worthwhile if I get a return load as well.”

“Oh…er…yeah,” I said. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Sometime later when we passed Bryan Webb’s place Mr Parker slowed down and peered towards the property. I couldn’t see what he was looking at exactly, but as far as I could make out his attention was focused on the flatbed lorry parked in Bryan’s Dutch barn. He didn’t pass comment on it, however, and we had soon passed by. After another twenty-five minutes we arrived in his top yard.

“Welcome back,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“If you like you can put your bike in the big shed. That’ll be best for getting it dry.”

“Alright.”

“Maybe we should get Kenneth Turner to give it a look-over before you go off anywhere again.”

“I don’t think it’ll be worth it,” I said. “I’m sure there’s nothing seriously wrong.”

“Well, have a think about it anyway.”

“OK.”

I walked over to the shed and slid the doors back. Immediately I detected the same semi-industrial smell that had hung over the place before, and it gave me an odd sense of returning to somewhere familiar. Glancing within I saw that two rows of wooden blocks had been laid out in the middle of the floor, next to the boat we’d moved the other day. I wheeled the bike inside and left it in a space between the concrete mixer and the dismantled caterpillar vehicle. Something seemed to have gone missing since the last time I was in there, but for the moment I couldn’t think what it was. I was still peering round the place when Mr Parker joined me in the doorway.

“Should be enough room for the other boats,” he said.

“Do you keep them all in here during the winter then?” I asked.

“Yes, they need to be under cover really.”

“Yeah, spose.”

“Perhaps you’d like to help me get them moved up here?”

“Sure,” I replied. “It’s the least I can do after all your help.”

“Well, shall we start right away?”

“Yeah, that’s fine by me.”

As we returned to the truck I noticed for the first time that the rain had stopped, and that the sky looked far less foreboding than it had earlier. By the time we’d driven down to the lake it even seemed possible that the sun might come out. The six boats were lying where we’d left them. Mr Parker reversed his trailer into position and we hauled two of them on board, using the new winch attachment. When we got back to the shed they had to be transferred onto the wooden blocks. I thought this was going to be a bit of a heave, but he simply jacked the trailer up and shoved the boats roughly off the back. I winced as they slid onto the concrete, but their construction was so solid that they weren’t even marked. Then it was just a matter of lifting them a little and shuffling the blocks underneath. He seemed to have the whole process worked out beforehand, and this made it very simple. All the same, I was beginning to feel a bit worn out after we’d completed three such journeys, and I think I must have grunted under the strain as we shifted the final boat.

This caused Mr Parker to remark, “You’re not very strong, are you?”

“Well, I’m not weak either,” I protested. “I’ve done quite a lot of heavy lifting actually.”

“When was that?” he asked.

“I used to work on the loading bay at the factory.”

“I thought you said you were in the paint shop.”

“I was eventually. But I started off on the loading bay.”

“So you’ve done painting and loading,” he said. “What else?”

“Well, nothing really. Apart from a bit of joinery.”

“Are you a trained joiner then?”

“Er…no.”

“What about plumbing? Do you know anything about that?”

“No, ‘fraid not.”

“I can do plumbing,” he announced. “And welding. In fact, there’s very little I can’t do when I think about it. I know about land drainage, tree planting, fencing and timber felling. I can change the hydraulic pipes on most types of tractor, and I do all my own vehicle maintenance too. That’s petrol and diesel, mind. In the past I’ve done ploughing, milking and sheep drenching, as well as dipping. I’ve installed septic tanks. I know the inner workings of the Watford Slurry Pump. I built this shed we’re standing in, and I put down most of the concrete you can see around the place.”

While he was telling me all this I stood beside the boats nodding vaguely. I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be leading up to, but it seemed interesting enough in its own way.

“I can operate circular saws, mechanical excavators, jack-hammers and pile-drivers,” he added, before pausing to give me a significant look. “But the one subject I know nothing about is boats.”

“Oh,” I said. “Don’t you?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Well I only know a bit myself.”

“Maybe so, but I can see you appreciate them more than I do.”

“I do quite like them, yes.”

He placed his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.

“The thing is,” he said. “I want them painting, and I’d like you to do it.”

“But that’s a big project,” I replied. “They’ll need several coats to do them properly.”

“That’s alright. We’ve got plenty of paint.”

“And it might turn out they need some caulker too.”

He looked up. “Caulker?”

“To prevent them leaking.”

“There you are,” he said. “I wouldn’t have known that. I’ve never even heard of caulker. You’re just the man for the job.”

While we talked a thin shaft of sunlight had begun to play on one of the boats. It seemed that the wet weather outside was indeed giving way to clearer, brighter conditions. In this acute light the gold paint along the boat’s gunwale momentarily regained a little of its original lustre, giving it a very striking appearance. There was no doubt that the paintwork was in some need of refurbishment, but for a few seconds I had a picture of what the finished job would look like. I could just imagine the raised prow when its details had been carefully touched in by hand, and the gold lines running from stem to stem. Yes, I thought, the completed vessel would look magnificent.

“Trouble is,” I said, “it’d take weeks to do all seven of them.”

“But you could have them done by Christmas, could you?” asked Mr Parker.

“Well, probably, yes. But I really should get going very soon.”

He ignored my weak protest. “We’ve got a bothy you could stay in, if you wished.”

“Oh,” I said. “Er…have you?”

“Across the yard there. Quite cosy in the winter, it is. And we’d give you breakfast every day.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Cooked by Gail, of course.”

I considered his proposition and realized my resistance was running quite low. To tell the truth I felt exhausted. The waterproofs I’d been wearing for hours were now dry again, but the thought of repeating this morning’s journey was unappealing. On the other hand the offer of a place to stay with a cooked breakfast each morning seemed very attractive.

“Can I keep the bike in here for the time being?” I asked.

“Of course you can,” he replied.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll stay.”

♦

A few minutes later he took me across the yard to see the bothy. It was a tiny place, with a tiny bathroom. As we walked in it felt a bit chilly, but as Mr Parker demonstrated with the flick of an electric switch, it could warm up quite quickly. From one of the windows there was a good view of his house. The lake, though, was out of sight. After he’d left me to settle in I realized with a shock that I hadn’t eaten all day. No wonder I felt so weak and tired. I decided the best course of action was to get down to Hodge’s shop and stock up on a few things, so I went and gave the bike another try. With a mixed feeling of relief and disappointment I discovered it still wouldn’t start. I then set off walking to Millfold.

There was a little bell attached to the door of Hodge’s shop. It rang as I went in, but for several minutes he pretended not to have heard. I knew he was there though. I could, hear him moving about in a back room behind a sort of plastic curtain made from multi-coloured strips. It sounded as if he was brewing tea, judging by the spooning, stirring and clinking noises he was producing. Eventually I went to the door and opened it for a second time, so that the bell rang again. Only then did Hodge appear amidst the plastic strips.

“Baked beans, is it?” he asked.

“You are open then, are you?”

“Open every day,” he said. “Early closing Wednesdays.”

“Oh, I see. Right. Yes please, baked beans.”

He went to the appropriate shelf. “You’re lucky. These are the last two cans.”

“Oh,” I said. “You’ll be getting some more in though, won’t you?”

Hodge smiled in a cheery way and clapped his hands together. “I’m afraid not.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“No demand once the season’s over. Not worth opening another box.”

“But I’ll be staying for a while now, so I’ll definitely be buying them.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Who?”

“People who come in here asking for things.”

“You mean customers?”

“Call them what you like,” said Hodge. “There’ll be no more beans this year.”

“So that’s your final decision, is it?”

“I believe it is.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

At this point I’d liked to have walked out of the shop without buying anything at all, but unfortunately there was nowhere else to go. I had no choice but to purchase the two cans of beans plus a few other essential items, but I left determined not to give him my custom again. When I got home I remembered an advert I’d noticed in a copy of the Trader’s Gazette. It took a while to track down as there were a lot of pages and I kept being distracted by other items, but eventually I found what I was looking for.

GROCERIES DELIVERED BY VAN it said. NO ORDER TOO SMALL.

There was a local phone number, so that evening I made a list and called in at the phone box on my way to the pub. It rang about twenty times before a man answered.

“Hello.”

“Is that the van delivery service?”

“Might be,” he said. “Who wants it?”

“Well, I’m staying in the bothy up at Mr Parker’s place.”

“Oh, yes?”

“And I was wondering if I could order some groceries?”

“We go in that direction Tuesdays and Thursdays only.”

“That’s OK,” I said.

“And you’ve got to have your order ready two days in advance.”

“Fine.”

“Alright,” he said. “I suppose we can fit you in.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait a minute, will you? I’ll just go and find something to write it down on.”

While I waited it struck me that this person had a similar approach to his customers as Hodge. I’d practically had to persuade him to deliver my groceries, and now it turned out he didn’t even have a proper order book at the ready. When he eventually came back to the phone I heard him give a long, heavy sigh.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Right,” I began. “Er … sliced bread.”

There was a pause.

“Is that ‘sliced bread’, or ‘er…sliced bread’?”

“Sliced bread.”

There was another pause as he wrote it down. “Yes. What else?”

“Twelve cans of baked beans.”

A long pause. “Yes. What else?”

“Tea.”

“Yes.”

“Sugar.”

“Yes.”

“Have you got any of those Fray Bentos individual cook-in-the-oven steak and kidney pies with gravy?”

“Yes, we have.”

“Three of those, please.”

He sighed again, then several seconds passed during which I could hear a pencil scribbling.

“Yes,” he said at length.

“Three pounds of potatoes.”

At this point the pips went. After I’d put another coin in there was a long silence.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello.”

“Did you get that?”

“What?”

“Three pounds of potatoes.”

“Yes,” he said with impatience. “What else?”

“I need some biscuits as well.”

“Yes.”

“What sort have you got?”

“All sorts.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Two packets of fig rolls, please.”

“No, we haven’t got those.”

“How about custard creams?”

“No.”

“Malted milk?”

Now the pips went again. I put another coin in the slot and heard the same silence as before.

“Hello?” I said.

Silence.

After a long wait I hung up and redialled, but this time he didn’t answer.

♦

Over in the Packhorse they had a new consignment of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter. After the frustrations of my phone call this came as welcome news, although I found it slightly surprising.

“Pint of Ex?” asked Tony, the moment I walked into the bottom bar.

“Please,” I said. “But I thought you weren’t getting any more.”

“We weren’t,” he replied. “There wasn’t enough demand for it.”

“But now there is?”

“Now that you’re back, yes,” he said. “You’ve tipped the balance.”

“Oh well. That’s good.”

Tony had already placed a glass under the tap and begun pulling the handle.

“Only thing is, we’ve had to mark the price up a bit.”

“Have you?”

“Just enough to cover costs.”

“How much do I owe you then?” I enquired.

He finished pulling the beer and placed a completed pint on the counter. “This one’s on the house actually.”

“Thanks,” I smiled. “Any particular reason?”

“We want to enlist you in the darts team as a regular. We were quite impressed by your performance the other night, and so was the visiting captain.”

“Was he?”

“She.”

“She?”

“Yes,” he said. “You know — Lesley.”

“Oh…yeah, right.”

“Very impressed, she was.”

“Well, I was just lucky really. Having a good night.”

“So you’re prepared to sign up with us, are you?”

“If you’d like me to, yes.”

“Of course we’d like you to.”

“Right then,” I said. “I will.”

I had more beer than I planned to on that first night back at the Packhorse, mainly because Tony wouldn’t accept any money. The first pint was ‘on the house’, I knew that, but when I followed it with a second, and then a third, he kept insisting that it was OK to run up a slate. I didn’t want to cause offence by refusing his trust, so I went along with it and ended up having five pints. On my way home later that night I made a mental note not to allow the tally to get out of hand.

♦

The first sound I heard the following morning was the ‘clunk’ of a milk bottle on my doorstep. Peering out of the bedroom window I saw Deakin retreating across the yard towards his truck before driving off. I thought it was a bit cheeky of him to start making deliveries without seeing me first, but I wasn’t bothered really as I was going to ask him anyway. Actually I was grateful he’d woken me up, because otherwise I’d have been too late for breakfast. I got up quickly and went across to the house, where Gail let me in. She seemed quite pleased to see me.

Mr Parker was already at the table when I sat down.

“You’ll be getting started on the boats today, will you?” he asked.

“Hope so,” I said. “Of course, there’ll be quite a bit of preparation to do before any paint goes on.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “We don’t want any sort of slapdash job.”

“No.”

“There’s an electric sander over there in the big shed if you need it. And a blowlamp.”

“Right.”

“So you’ll be able to get them done by Christmas then?”

“Oh yes. No problem.”

“Good.”

Gail placed my breakfast in front of me before sitting down herself.

“Settling into your new home alright?” continued her father.

“Yes, thanks,” I replied.

“Enough room for you?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Plenty.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re a bit like the three little pigs,” remarked Gail.

“Am I?” I asked, glancing down at my sausages.

“Yes,” she said. “Your tent was your house of straw. Then you had a caravan, which was your house of sticks. And now you’ve got a house of stone.”

At that moment the Post Office van pulled up in the yard, and the driver went through the same routine as the last time I’d seen him. After bobbing up the steps he again opened the kitchen door by four inches, slipped the post onto the shelf inside, said ‘Thank you’, in a sing-song voice, and was gone again.

Mr Parker glanced across to the shelf. “Ah good,” he said. “Here’s the Gazette.”

He stepped across the kitchen and picked up the only item of mail, a new edition of the Trader’s Gazette, rolled up and specially labelled for postal delivery. He unwrapped it and began studying its pages with interest. In the silence that followed I remembered a question I’d been meaning to ask.

“You know those sheep?” I said.

Mr Parker looked up momentarily. “Which sheep?”

“The ones up on the fell behind here.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Have they got anything to do with you?”

“You mean do I own them?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Who does then?”

“They belong to Bryan Webb mostly. He keeps his hay in our loft here.”

“Oh.”

“As a matter of fact he’ll be bringing a lot of ewes through the yard sometime soon, and he may need some help directing them. I’ve told him you’ll be around to lend a hand.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “But you don’t keep sheep yourself?”

“Not any more, no,” he replied. “We lost a flock one winter years ago and decided to give it up.”

“That’s a shame.”

“They’re no longer a safe bet, sheep aren’t, what with man-made fibres and everything.”

“No, suppose not.”

“So we went into buying and selling instead.”

“Yes, I noticed you do a lot of that.”

“Best way to make a living these days.”

“What about the boats?” I asked.

“What about them?”

“Aren’t they a good way to make a living?”

“No,” he said. “Practically a liability, to tell the truth.”

During this conversation Mr Parker had been going through the Gazette with a biro, putting marks and crosses beside certain items. Now he rose from his seat and went into the next room where the telephone was.

After he’d gone Gail said, “What are you like at geography?”

“Well, I know east from west,” I replied. “Why, have you got some more homework?”

She smiled. “Yeah.”

“Alright, bring it over sometime and I’ll have a look at it.”

“You can have it now if you want.” She reached under the table and produced an exercise book from her bag.

I glanced through the questions. “OK. Should be no problem.”

“Could you get a couple wrong this time, please?” she asked.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you got twenty out of twenty for the geometry, and they might start getting suspicious.”

“Suppose so.”

“By the way,” she added. “Your essay got read out in class.”

“Oh,” I said. “Did it?”

“The teacher said it was the best work I’d ever done. So, thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

She smiled again and looked at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to go.”

“Yes,” I said, getting up from the table. “I’d better get started too. Thanks for the breakfast.”

I took my leave and went across to the big shed. Someone had already been over and undone the padlock, so I slid the door back and went in, closing it behind me. Then I examined the place that was going to be my workshop for the next few weeks. Several transparent panels in the roof helped make it quite light inside, and I noticed there were a good few electric lamps as well. The sander and blowlamp Mr Parker had mentioned were lying on a shelf to one side, along with some other useful-looking equipment. Despite all the stuff crammed into the building enough space remained between each boat to allow plenty of room to work. There was even a stove and chimney in one of the corners, to keep the shed warm when the weather turned cold. All in all I was quite encouraged by what I saw, and decided I could be quite at-home here. Before I began work I wanted to find out what it was I’d seen glinting over at the back of the shed the first time I came in. This meant clambering over a number of packing cases and scaffolding tubes, and round the back of a large metal frame that seemed to house some kind of weighing apparatus. After a lot of squeezing through gaps I finally saw the object of my curiosity. It was a row of motorcycles. There were half a dozen of them altogether. Some were brand new, preserved in a layer of grease and still bearing the manufacturers’ shipping labels written in Japanese. Others were second hand, vintage models similar to mine, and one of them even had a pre-unit gear box. I was just wondering what Mr Parker planned to do with them all when I heard the shed door being slid back.

Then I heard his voice. “Where are you?”

“Over here,” I said quickly. “I think there’s a panel loose somewhere. I was just trying to find it.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “I heard it banging the other night. We ought to get it fixed soon.”

He climbed over the packing cases and joined me.

“Nice bikes,” I remarked.

He nodded. “Thought I’d hold on to them, see how the prices go.”

He was already examining the walls of the shed, searching for the loose panel. “Looks like we need a few new rivets along here.”

I pressed at random against a corrugated sheet and it moved outwards.

“Here we are,” I said. “The next one’s a bit loose too.”

“So it is,” said Mr Parker. Then he turned to me and asked, “Have you ever done any riveting?”