All Quiet on the Orient Express

Six

Three days it took me to replace all the rivets in that shed. No sooner had Mr Parker seen the loose panels for himself than he decided this was the only suitable course of action.

“A chain is only as good as its weakest link,” he announced. “And the same goes for rivets.”

Accordingly he produced a riveting gun and showed me how to use it. I was also given a drill to remove the old rivets, and a ladder to get at them.

“Be careful when you’re up there, won’t you?” he said.

I had to admit that the view from the top of the shed was spectacular. I could see a good part of the lake, as well as a long section of the road from Millfold. It gave me an idea of how much Mr Parker could observe from the front window of his house. I never seemed to get invited past the kitchen, but even there I always had the feeling of being very high up. Here on top of the shed I was higher still, so I made the most of the scenery on offer. The weather wasn’t particularly pleasant though. The promise of sunshine after the rain had come to nothing, and the sky remained grey and cold. Clambering about on that ladder in the wind wasn’t easy and the pace of work was very slow. Nevertheless, by the time I got towards the end of the job I had become an accomplished riveter. Occasionally Mr Parker would appear at the bottom of the ladder and ask how I was getting on, but mostly he just left me to it. Which presumably meant he was quite satisfied with what I’d done.

As we sat at breakfast on the third morning he said, “Almost finished the shed have you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Just about an hour’s work left to do.”

“Then you’ll be able to get on with the boats?”

“Yep.”

Outside a clinking noise could be heard approaching, and next thing Deakin’s pick-up truck pulled into the yard, fully laden with milk. He got out and bobbed up the steps, then ran over to the bothy before returning to the vehicle and driving off in a great hurry.

After he’d gone Mr Parker looked at me and said, “You could do that if you wanted.”

“Sorry,” I asked. “What?”

“The milk.”

“Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t know a thing about cows.”

“Nor does Deakin.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“Course not.”

“But I thought he was a dairyman.”

“He collects it from the dairy, yes, but that’s all.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

“You’d only need a pick-up truck of your own and you could do it.”

“Well, I’d never even thought about it, really.”

“There’s a good bit of business to be had in that milk round.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to put Deakin out of work.”

Mr Parker shook his head. “Nobody’s going to miss Deakin.”

At that moment the telephone rang in the adjoining room, instantly causing Gail to spring from her seat.

“I’ll get it,” she said, darting next door.

A moment later she was back.

“Dad, it’s for you.”

Mr Parker went through and picked up the receiver, while Gail sat down again opposite me.

“Homework alright, was it?” I asked.

“Yes, thanks,” she replied. “Do you want some more?”

“Breakfast or homework?”

“Homework.”

“Yes, I don’t mind doing it. What have you got?”

She reached into her bag under the table and produced a pile of exercise books.

“History, maths and comprehension.”

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Mr Parker came back into the kitchen. “That was Bryan Webb. He’s bringing his sheep through today.”

An hour later I’d finished the riveting and was just taking the ladder down when I heard them coming. There was a gateway leading from the top yard out onto the fell, beyond which I could hear someone shouting “Ho! Ho!” again and again. Within moments the leading ewes ventured through the open gate, followed soon afterwards by the whole flock. By this time Gail had gone to school and Mr Parker was away on some business or other, which left only me to direct the sheep through the yard and down the concrete road. Having never done anything like this before I wasn’t sure what to do, but I soon discovered that standing on one spot and waving my arms was the best approach. Eventually Bryan and another man appeared at the back of the nervous throng, accompanied by three efficient-looking dogs. The first thing I noticed about Bryan was that even when he was herding sheep he still wore his cardboard crown. As he passed by he took the time for a brief conversation.

“Getting on alright with that painting, are you?” he asked.

“Well I haven’t got started yet,” I replied. “Had to do some maintenance work on the shed first.”

The two men grinned at each other, and I now recognized the second one as a regular in the Packhorse.

“Well,” remarked Bryan. “You’ll have to get a move on if you’re going to get it done by Christmas.”

“Should be alright.”

“And how’s Tommy’s temper behaving itself?”

“Oh,” I said. “No trouble at all.”

“Really?”

“As long as I pay attention to what he says it’s a piece of cake.”

“That’s the secret, is it?”

“Seems to be.”

“Very good,” he said, grinning again. “Best to keep on the right side of him.”

Soon afterwards Bryan and I said goodbye, the other man nodded, and next thing they were on their way down the hill.

Now, at last, I could get on with the boats. I’d been going in and out of the big shed continually during the last couple of days, checking new rivets, removing old ones and so forth, but I hadn’t had cause to go in there this morning. Now I noticed for the first time that Mr Parker had stacked a number of paint tins just inside the door. To my dismay I discovered that they were all unlabelled, which meant the contents were green. This came as a bit of a disappointment because I’d been under the impression I was supposed to be painting the boats in their original colours. I knew he had lots of green paint, but I’d assumed that was for the workaday jobs: gates and doors and suchlike. Surely boats with classical prows deserved something slightly better. That’s what I’d have thought anyway. Nonetheless, there was plenty of preparation to do before I even opened a tin of paint, so I set my disappointment aside and got started with the electric sander.

It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that whoever painted the boats in the first place had done a very thorough job. Maybe paint was of a better quality in those days, but this stuff almost seemed to be impregnated into the timber. Only by concentrating hard did I make any impression on it at all. Hour after hour I worked with that sander, head down, battling against layer upon layer of stubborn paint and making very slow progress. It was a noisy operation, and for this reason I failed to hear the arrival of a vehicle in the yard outside. Only when the shed door opened did I realize I had a visitor. It was Deakin.

He came inside and I switched off the sander.

“Oh,” he said, as the noise faded away. “Tommy’s got you doing this, has he?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Did you want him?”

“Yes, I could do with having a word with him about something.”

“Well, you’ve missed him again. Why don’t you speak to him when you bring the milk?”

“No time,” he said. “It’s alright, I’ll come back another day.”

“It’s not urgent then?”

“Not really, no.”

He made no move to leave, but instead stood peering around the inside of the shed. After a while his eyes fell on the space occupied by my motorbike.

“Ah,” he said. “I see he’s got rid of the snow plough at last.”

“Er…oh, yes,” I said. “It went the other day.”

“Been in here since we built the shed, that has.”

“Did you help him build it then?”

“Yes,” he said, with a note of pride. “It was me who did all the riveting.”

Soon afterwards he wandered off. I watched him slide open the door and close it behind him. Then I started up the sander again. A few moments later another sound came floating into the shed from outside. I switched off just in time to hear the unmistakable chimes of an ice-cream van. They were playing ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

Quickly I went to the door and looked out, but the yard was completely empty.

♦

Mr Parker returned that evening with some more oil drums. I was just finishing work for the day when he pulled into the top yard in his pick-up, so I went to lend him a hand unloading them. The group of drums by the gateway now numbered something like fifty, but he seemed determined to bring back even more every time he went out. This time there were half a dozen on the trailer, and another four in the rear of the pick-up.

A little later I went into the bothy for a cup of tea. The door was permanently unlocked, and as soon as I entered I realized there’d been another caller that afternoon apart from Deakin. Just inside the doorway someone had left a box containing my grocery order. I went through the items one by one and discovered that everything I’d asked for was there, apart from the biscuits, which were the wrong type. They’d evidently decided that since there were no fig rolls, custard creams or malted milks, I would have to make do with plain digestives instead. Attached to the box was an invoice for the order. It bore a message, written across the bottom in red pencil: “No more beans after this.”

There was also one large printed word at the head of the invoice: ‘HODGE’. I put the groceries away and lit the kettle.

That night in the Packhorse I played my first Inter-Pub League darts match as a full team member. We had an away game against the Journeyman coming up which I was quite looking forward to, but in the meantime we were facing the Golden Lion at home. It was the usual sort of turnout, with Bryan Webb captaining us to victory once again. The visiting team had no women supporters travelling with them, though, so the evening had a bit of a flat edge to it from that point of view. My opponent from the Golden Lion was a portly bloke called Phil who didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered when I beat him, and instantly rushed off to buy me a pint of lager. When I asked if it would be alright if I had Topham’s Excelsior instead he looked slightly sorry for me, as though I hadn’t been properly weaned or something.

“Better put him a spare one in the pump as well,” he said to Tony.

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks very much. Cheers.”

These darts people certainly were a friendly crowd, and made up for the shortage of women by buying each other lots of drinks. I always seemed to be on the receiving end, but even when I ordered a round of my own I didn’t have to pay. Tony was doubling as vice-captain and barman, and repeatedly gave this as the reason to continue my slate for the time being.

“You can settle up when we’re less busy,” he kept saying, before returning to the oche for another game.

“Yes, alright,” I replied. “But I must pay you what I owe you soon.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a grin.

I judged from my treatment by the locals that they all knew I would be staying around for the foreseeable future. I was already aware that everyone knew everybody else’s business round here, and this was confirmed time and again as the days passed. Kenneth Turner, for example, kept saying that he would have to come and have a look at my bike sometime, while Bryan Webb was forever enquiring about my progress with the boats. And there was always some new story about Deakin delivering the wrong milk, or arriving too late;

At the end of one such account Bryan turned to me and said, “You ought to take over from Deakin.”

I wasn’t sure whether this remark was meant to be treated seriously or not, but as he said it a definite murmur of assent went round the bottom bar.

♦

A few evenings later as I crossed the yard on my way to the pub, I became aware of a rhythmic thumping noise inside the big shed. It was about nine o’clock and the electric lights had all been switched on, so I went over and peered through the doorway, which was open by about one inch. I saw straight away that the thumping noise was coming from the concrete mixer. Its diesel engine had been put back together and started up, and it was now being watched intently by Mr Parker and Kenneth Turner. Kenneth was wearing a blue boiler suit and stood holding an adjustable spanner in his hand. Both of them seemed to be mesmerized by the mixer’s bucket, which rotated slowly round and round before their eyes. For a whole minute they looked at it, then another minute after that, while I stood outside in the dark, watching them. Eventually Mr Parker said something and Kenneth nodded. He dropped the spanner into a deep pocket and they walked over towards my motorbike. Next moment Kenneth was astride it and kicking the engine over. To my surprise it roared into life, and he spent some time revving it up and listening to it closely, while the concrete mixer continued to throb away unattended. Eventually Kenneth cut the bike engine again, and he and Mr Parker stood examining the paintwork and the chrome. Then they turned and had a look at the boat I’d been working on during the day. Kenneth picked up one of the tins of paint that were still waiting unopened nearby. When he saw it had no label he grinned broadly at Mr Parker. Then the two of them clambered over the packing cases in the direction of the other motorcycles at the back of the shed. At this point I tired of spying on them and continued on my way down the yard. Glancing at the house I realized that Gail must have been on her own inside, and casually I wondered what she did during the evenings now she had no homework to occupy her.

With a sudden shock I remembered I had some grammar to hand in by tomorrow morning! I’d been having a bath for the last hour and gone and forgotten all about it! Now I had to rush back to the bothy and get it done before I could go out. It seemed to take longer than usual, and as a result I didn’t get going to the pub again until almost ten, by which time the big shed was in complete darkness. When I arrived at the Packhorse I saw Kenneth sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter. He said, “Hello,” but didn’t mention his visit to Mr Parker’s place, so I didn’t mention it either.

Next morning I was woken up by the rhythmic thumping again. Looking through the curtains I saw that Mr Parker was already up and about. He’d opened the shed doors wide and hauled the concrete mixer outside onto the loading bay. It stood there with the engine running, and the bucket going round and round. After a while I saw him look at his watch and then peer in the direction of the bothy. I took this as a signal that it was time to get up, so I heaved myself out of bed. Something told me I wouldn’t be getting much work done on the boats today, but he didn’t reveal his plans until we were sitting having breakfast.

“It’s about time we made a new mooring weight for the boats,” he announced. “If we leave it any longer the lake’ll be too rough.”

“Gets bad in the winter, does it?” I asked.

“Can do,” he said. “And there’s no point in putting the job off until spring.”

“No, spose not.”

“You know how to make a mooring weight, do you?”

“Got a rough idea, yeah.”

“That’s good. I’ve got all the tackle ready for you. There’s a lorry wheel, some long chain and plenty of concrete.”

“Right.”

“All you’ve got to do is mix it.”

“OK.”

A few moments passed. Across the yard the rhythmic thumping continued.

“Did you get that homework done?” asked Gail.

“Oh yes,” I replied. “Forgot to bring it over. It’s all finished, you can collect it when you want.”

“Thanks,” she said. “By the way, your essay won a prize.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah, they printed it in the school magazine.”

“Well,” I said. “I’m quite pleased about that really. What was the prize?”

“A book token.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Do you want it?”

“Don’t you want it?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, OK then.”

“You can have it as a reward for doing all that homework.”

“Er…thanks.”

She reached down into her school bag and produced the book token, placing it on the table.

“You’d better sign that on the back,” remarked her father.

I thought he was making a joke, but next thing Gail had a biro in her hand and was solemnly writing her signature.

“Thanks,” I said again as she handed me the token. “Have you got a copy of the magazine so I can see myself in print?”

“Oh no, sorry,” she replied. “I threw it away.”

A clinking noise outside heralded the arrival of Deakin’s pick-up. We watched through the window as he rushed about making his hurried deliveries, first to the house, then to the bothy, before quickly departing.

“I gather they’re on strike again in the south,” said Mr Parker.

“Oh, are they?” I said. “I hadn’t heard.”

“It was on the television last night.”

“Have you got a television then?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Well, I just didn’t think people round here bothered with televisions. What with the scenery and everything.”

“Oh yes, we have one through there,” he said, nodding towards the next room. “Got it for One Man and His Dog.”

“What are they on strike about?” asked Gail. She was looking at me.

“They’re probably worried about unemployment,” I suggested.

“So how does going on strike help?”

“Er…well, it doesn’t really,” I said. “It’s supposed to be a sort of statement.”

“Oh,” she said. “I see.”

“I don’t believe in unemployment,” said Mr Parker.

“Don’t you?”

“No such thing. There’s always something to do.”

“Spose.”

“Did they have many strikes at that factory of yours?”

“Not while I was there, no.”

“Sounds like an efficient little operation.”

“Yes, it seemed to be doing very well.”

“Pay good wages?”

“Not bad.”

“Get plenty saved up, did you?”

“A bit, yes.”

“That’s good.”

The way the conversation was going it struck me as an appropriate time to bring up a matter I’d been avoiding for the last week or so. The problem was that when I’d agreed to work on the boats we’d failed to discuss how much I was going to get paid. I had no idea if I was supposed to be getting a fixed sum for the job, or an hourly rate, or what, so I decided to broach the subject now.

“Er…actually,” I said, “while we’re on the subject of work…”

“You’re quite right,” said Mr Parker, rising abruptly to his feet. “We’re not going to get anything done by sitting here.”

Next thing he was heading for the kitchen door, and I had no choice but hurriedly to finish my breakfast and follow.

We went outside and crossed the yard to the mixer, which was still rotating its empty bucket round and round. Beside it was a barrow containing the ingredients for the concrete. Also a wheel hub and a huge length of galvanized chain. It was too noisy by the mixer to pursue the question of my wages, so I gave up for the time being. Besides, there was no real urgency as I hadn’t been required to part with any money for some time now. I was still running a slate at the Packhorse, while all my groceries and milk were being delivered on credit. Obviously these concurrent debts would have to be sorted out in the near future, but nobody seemed in much of a hurry to collect, so I decided not to worry about it.

Making up the mooring weight was quite straightforward. I attached one end of the chain to the wheel hub, and then began shovelling sand, gravel and cement into the mixer. As soon as he was satisfied that I knew what I was doing, Mr Parker said he would ‘leave me to it’, and set off somewhere in his pick-up with the trailer in tow. Shortly afterwards Gail headed down the hill in her school uniform, giving me her usual little wave. When the concrete was ready I poured it into the wheel hub, and left it to set. I reckoned it would need a week to cure before it could be safely dropped to the bottom of the lake.

This task hadn’t taken very long at all, and the result looked OK. Before I resumed work on the boats I decided to reward myself with a cup of tea, and wandered over to the bothy. Lying on the table was the latest copy of the Trader’s Gazette. I’d got into the habit of borrowing it after Mr Parker had gleaned all the information he required. This was simply out of interest and curiosity, as I had no intention of buying any of the items advertised inside. I made a mental note that now I had a book token I really should get myself something proper to read, but in the meantime I opened the Gazette at a random page. There my eyes fell on an advertisement I hadn’t seen before. It was listed under ‘Services’ in the Millfold area and said:

CIRCULAR SAW WITH MAN FOR HIRE

All timber-cutting work undertaken on site. Enquiries T. Parker

A telephone number was also given. I read the advert several times to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, then continued turning the pages. Further along someone was inviting advance orders for Christmas trees. Ten per cent discount would be given for immediate payment. This struck me as a bit early until it occurred to me that Christmas was now only a couple of months away. Autumn had certainly crept up on me as I laboured away at my boats, and a blast of wind outside confirmed this. I’d hardly noticed that the weather was slowly worsening because I spent a good part of each day in the big shed. Even so, the signs were obvious. Despite all the riveting I’d done, the shed continued to creak and groan as the elements pounded against it. There were other indications too. The trees were bare, and the temperature was declining slowly. When I walked to the pub at night I could hear seabirds out in the middle of the lake, squawking and arguing. It sounded as though there were thousands of them. I had no idea where they’d come from, but they seemed to have settled in for the winter. I thought about the seven boats waiting to be painted, the darts fixtures and the endless pints of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter, and realized that I’d settled in for the winter as well.

♦

It was almost dark when Mr Parker returned with yet another load of oil drums.

Having just finished work for the evening, I went out into the yard to meet him. There was something I wanted to ask him about the mooring weight.

“It’s quite heavy,” I said. “How are we going to get it out onto the lake?”

“You’re the boat man,” he replied. “You tell me.”

“Well, if we use the tender it’ll tip straight over.”

“Will it?”

“Yeah. We need a proper mooring raft really, with a hole in the middle to drop the weight through.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

When Mr Parker first told me he knew nothing about boats I hadn’t really taken him seriously, but over the past few weeks I’d come to realize it was true. He didn’t seem to have any idea about how to lay a mooring, and I now saw that I was going to have to take charge of the operation.

“So how do we make a mooring raft?” he asked.

“Quite easily,” I replied. “It just takes four empty oil drums and some planks.”

“Well I can’t spare any oil drums.”

“Oh…can’t you?”

“Not really,” he said. “I wanted to sell them all to that factory of yours.”

“Is that why you’ve been collecting them?”

“Of course it is. You told me I’d get a good price.”

“Yeah, but…it’s miles away.”

“That’s alright. I don’t mind how far I have to go as long as I make a profit.”

“How will you get them all there though?”

“On my lorry.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Yes, you’ve seen it. Over in Bryan Webb’s barn.”

“Oh, right.”

“He keeps his hay here, I keep my lorry there.”

“Sounds like a handy arrangement.”

“It’s mutually beneficial and saves exchanging cash.”

I nodded and we fell silent. Mr Parker gazed at the mooring weight and appeared to be pondering my suggestion.

“Well,” he said at length. “I suppose I could set aside four drums at a push. Can you build this raft?”

“Can if you like, yes.”

“OK then,” he said. “The job’s yours.”

As usual in the evening I treated myself to a bath. This was probably the best thing about staying in the bothy. There was plenty of hot water, and although the bath took a long time to fill, it was always a luxurious moment at the end of a hard day. I generally waited until after I’d taken my evening meal, and then spent an hour or so wallowing before going out to the pub. Tonight was no exception. Round about eight o’clock I began running the taps and slowly the bathroom filled with steam. Ten minutes later I slid into the hot water, easing myself down until it lapped over me. How long I’d been lying there before I was interrupted I wasn’t sure. I had my ears below the surface and my feet up on the sides of the bath when I became aware of a knocking noise. For a moment I thought it was a loose panel on the shed, but then I remembered it couldn’t have been that. No, this noise was coming from somewhere much closer. I sat up and listened again. Someone was tapping the window from outside. Leaving the bath I went over and peered through the frosted glass. I could just make out a pink oval in the darkness.

“Hello?”

It was Gail.

“We’ve just had the Packhorse on the phone,” she said. “You’re supposed to be at darts.”

“But it’s the wrong night,” I said.

“That’s the message,” she replied, and the pink oval was gone.

Wondering how much she’d seen through the glass, I quickly got dried and dressed. The message made no sense at all. Every darts match up until now had been on a Thursday. Today was only Tuesday, so I had no idea what they wanted me for. Surely they wouldn’t ring up just to get me to a practice session? It was only a game, after all. Still, I thought I’d better get going right away, so I went across to the big shed to get my bike out. Finding that Mr Parker had locked it up for the night, I decided to walk instead. I’d long come to the conclusion that this was more sensible anyway, judging by the amount of beer that flowed at these darts nights. In the event, though, it probably would have been better to take the bike.

The moment I walked into the bottom bar I knew something was wrong. It was half past nine and the place should have been packed out on a darts night. Instead it was almost deserted. There was no sign of Tony or Gordon. The landlord was talking to one or two people in the top bar and took no notice of me for some time. When at last he did decide to serve me he was far from friendly.

“Yes?” he said.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“They’re playing at the Journeyman,” he replied. “Where you’re supposed to be.”

“But I thought darts was on Thursdays.”

“That’s home games!” he snapped. “Away matches are Tuesdays.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Don’t you ever read the fixture list?”

“Er…no, sorry.”

“Well, you’re too late now. The match’ll be half over.”

“Sorry.”

“What do you want?”

“Pint of Ex, please.”

“Barrel’s finished.”

“Oh.” I said. “Well, I don’t mind waiting while you change it.”

“I’m not going to change it.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

And with that he returned to the top bar, where his cronies all seemed to be glaring down at me. I remained standing there feeling awkward and wondering what to do, when I noticed that I wasn’t quite alone. Also present in the bottom bar was Bryan Webb’s accomplice from the sheep-moving day. Since that occasion we’d become slightly better acquainted, and I now knew that his name was Maurice. Apparently he was the man who drove the school minibus. He beckoned me to join him, so I went over and he spoke quietly.

“Understandable mistake,” he said. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“No,” I said. “I’d have come earlier if I’d known. I’ve been looking forward to playing the Journeyman again.”

“I know you have, but you’ve gone and upset them all now, so you’ll have to keep your head down for a while.”

“What shall I do then?”

“Well, your best bet is to drink somewhere else for a week or two, until they’ve forgotten all about it.”

I felt a sudden surge of dismay.

“But there’s only the Ring of Bells,” I said.

Maurice looked at me with sympathy. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”