All Quiet on the Orient Express

Seven

The following afternoon I was working inside the shed when ‘Half a pound of treacle’ came floating in from the yard. Quickly I went over and peered through the crack in the door just as a yellow and white ice-cream van pulled up outside. It was a very traditional sort of vehicle. There was a large plastic cornet mounted on the roof, below which were written the words ‘SNAITHES OF WAINSKILL’ in blue letters. The vehicle came to a halt with its refrigerator unit whirring away, and all its lights blazing. For a few moments I couldn’t see the driver, whose head was hidden as he fiddled about underneath the dashboard. He seemed to be having considerable trouble with the chimes, which kept repeating ‘Half a pound of treacle’ at random, and over which he apparently had no control. They were quite loud too. The sound emanated from four silver horns at the front of the vehicle before echoing off the various buildings around the yard. I slid the shed door open and went outside. Looking into the cab I could see that the driver was desperately trying to relocate various wires in an attempt to influence the chimes, but to little effect. I knocked on the window and he glanced round. It was Deakin.

“These damn chimes,” he said, sliding across the driving seat and climbing out. “They keep getting stuck.”

“Can’t you turn them off altogether?” I suggested.

“No,” he replied. “If I do that the headlights go out and the refrigerator stops working.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s all wired up wrong and I can never get it sorted out.”

“What happened to the rest of the tune then?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never heard anything except ‘Half a pound of treacle’.”

While we talked we were being constantly interrupted by blasts from the quadruple horns, and on each occasion we had to break off our conversation until the din subsided.

“Would you like me to have a look at it?” I asked.

“Can if you like,” he said. “I’m at the end of my tether. Tommy’s not here, I suppose?”

“No, sorry.”

I got into the cab and discovered that it was just as noisy in there, what with the refrigerator unit throbbing away and the chimes sounding repeatedly overhead. There was a control switch on the dashboard, below which a number of coloured wires protruded. I tried swapping some of them around, but only succeeded in making the lights inside the plastic cornet start flashing on and off. I put the wires back how I’d found them and got out. Then I proposed that we went into the shed for a bit of peace and quiet.

“Your name’s not Snaithe, is it?” I enquired when we got inside.

“No,” he said. “It’s Deakin.”

“That’s what I thought. So who’s Snaithe then?”

“He’s the man who owned the ice-cream factory at Wainskill.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know there was one there.”

“Well he’s been bought out by the wholesalers now, but they kept the name.”

“So how come you’re driving that van then?”

Deakin shook his head. “Don’t even ask.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Well, I’ll tell you if you want.” He glanced round at the upturned boats, and sat down on the nearest one before continuing. “That ice-cream van used to come here during holiday time and do good business. There was always a queue of campers wanting cornets and wafers. And lollies. Bit of a gold mine, it was. When Snaithe sold up he kept the franchise separate and offered it to Tommy with the van included. Tommy snapped it up, of course, but then he persuaded me to take it over.”

“But you’re too busy doing your milk round, aren’t you?”

“That’s what I told him, but he insisted I could do the ice-cream as well, in my spare time.”

At that moment Deakin was interrupted from outside by a chorus of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

“Why didn’t you just say no?” I asked, when it was over.

Deakin sighed and shook his head again. “Tommy made it sound like a good idea. I ended up trading in my lorry for the pick-up and the van.”

“Is that the lorry over at Bryan Webb’s?”

“That’s the one.”

“Any cash involved?”

“No, it was a mutually beneficial agreement. But that’s what I want to see Tommy about. I was only supposed to be taking the van on trial, but I seem to be stuck with it now.”

“Didn’t you like selling ice-creams then?”

“It was so busy I was worn to a frazzle!” said Deakin. “Then the season ended and it went dead.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“So I’ve decided against it. The van’s no use for anything else and I want to give it back.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Cos I can never catch Tommy.”

An air of gloom and despondency had begun to descend upon Deakin. He sat on the boat rubbing the palms of his hands over the sanded-down paintwork in an agitated manner. As a result they gradually turned maroon. When he noticed this a look of dismay crossed his face, and I had to resist an urge to put my arm round his shoulder and say, “There, there.”

Instead, I offered him a cloth to wipe his hands on, followed by tea and biscuits in the bothy.

“If you take my advice,” I said, while we waited for the kettle to boil, “you’ll have a word with Tommy next time you see him.”

“Yes,” said Deakin. “I must come and get it sorted out.”

“Don’t put it off any longer than necessary.”

“No, you’re right.”

“By the way, I ought to settle up with you for my milk.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “There’s plenty of time.”

Now that he’d got the matter of the ice-cream van off his chest Deakin seemed to perk up a bit. By the time I’d served him a cup of tea with some biscuits he was beginning to return to normal. Then his eyes fell on the new copy of the Trader’s Gazette.

“Ooh yes,” he said. “There’s something in here I must show you.”

He reached over and began leafing through until he found the page he wanted. It came as no surprise when he showed me the item advertising ‘CIRCULAR SAW WITH MAN FOR HIRE’.

“That’s you,” he announced.

“Yes,” I replied. “I thought it must be.”

“Hasn’t Tommy mentioned it then?”

“Not directly, no.”

“Well,” said Deakin. “He hires you out for so much an hour, and pays you so much an hour, and the difference is his profit.”

“Does that include wear and tear?”

“Er…no. Wear and tear would be a separate calculation.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Have you any idea what his hourly rate is?”

“No, sorry.”

“Well, what did he pay you?”

“When?”

“When you helped him build the shed.”

“Nothing.”

“What!”

“The thing is,” he said, “Tommy doesn’t like parting with cash. Not if he can help it.”

“No, I’ve noticed.”

“But I dare say I got something or other for my trouble.”

“You mean payment in kind?”

“Sort of, yes.” Deakin rose to his feet. “Anyway, thanks for the tea and biscuits, but I must get a move on. I’ve got some homogenized milk in the refrigerator. Special delivery.”

“Where to?”

“It’s for Bryan Webb’s Uncle Rupert. He’s always there on Wednesdays.”

Not long after that Deakin was on his way. I went out into the yard and stood watching as he descended the concrete road in his surplus ice-cream van. Then I heard the clarion call of ‘Half a pound of treacle’, and he was gone.

♦

That night I began my two-week sentence at the Ring of Bells. Two weeks of sitting in a pub with no women, no darts and no Topham’s Excelsior Bitter wasn’t very appealing, so I put it off until about quarter to ten. Prior to that I passed a couple of hours drawing up plans for the mooring raft and wondering why I’d talked myself into building the thing. The truth was that although I knew what it was supposed to look like, I had no actual experience of putting one together. Only after I’d messed about with a pencil and paper for half the evening did I come up with a suitable ‘design’. Then, when I’d run out of things to do, I went out.

The Ring of Bells seemed even quieter now than it had done during my previous visit. The same people sat in the same places and stared at their drinks, while the landlord (whose name, apparently, was Cyril) stood behind the counter and polished glasses. The conversation was at best desultory. Occasionally someone would make a remark about the weather, or mention whom they’d seen during the day, but most of the talk was less interesting than that. Hodge was present, of course, occupying one of the stools near the counter. He nodded when I walked in and I nodded back, and it struck me, not for the first time, that our relationship was an odd one. I’d been regularly phoning in with my grocery orders for quite a while now, and receiving invoices which I hadn’t paid yet. I was sure it was Hodge who answered when I rang, but he never acknowledged the fact and I never identified myself either. I just asked for the groceries to be delivered to the bothy. If Hodge knew it was me, then he didn’t let on. For my part, I had no idea when I was supposed to settle the invoice. Nothing was ever said, and we just sat side by side drinking and having little to do with one another.

Not until the third such evening did the subject of groceries come under discussion, and even then it was only brief. Hodge turned to me at the end of a particularly quiet interlude and said, “By the way, we’ve got a new consignment of beans at the shop.”

“Baked beans?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Thanks.”

After that we both returned to contemplating our drinks, and the matter wasn’t raised again.

Walking home it occurred to me that I could have gone over to the Journeyman to see if Lesley was around. After all, she’d been very friendly on that first night we played darts together, offering to buy me a drink and then saying, “Maybe another time.” This had seemed like a very obvious hint. The only trouble was that I didn’t have a good enough ‘excuse’ for suddenly turning up at her local. Wainskill was a good ten miles away and the road went there specially, so I could hardly walk in and say that I just happened to be passing through. The darts match I’d missed would have provided the perfect opportunity to get to know her better, but unfortunately this chance had gone. Now I had no idea when I would see her again.

♦

Meanwhile, I spent my days trying to get on with the boats, only for the work repeatedly to be postponed by Mr Parker. It seemed there was always something else cropping up that was more urgent. One morning, soon after I’d agreed to build the mooring raft, he announced that all the materials I required were waiting for me down by the jetty.

“Do you want to get started on it today?” he asked.

“Could do,” I replied. “Of course, it means I’ll have to abandon the work on the boats for the time being.”

“That’s alright,” he said. “Christmas is still weeks away.”

His word was my command, so a little later I found myself amidst a collection of oil drums and planks. There was also a box of coach bolts to hold everything together. Assembling these components into a complete unit took a lot of trial and error, despite my carefully drawn ‘plan’, and the work took all day. The finished raft looked fairly robust, but whether it would float or not was a different matter. I tried hauling it to the water’s edge for a buoyancy test and discovered it was quite heavy. In fact, I could only move it with the greatest difficulty. This was something I hadn’t thought of. I was struggling with some spare planks trying to make a sort of slipway when someone came up behind me and said, “Need a hand there?”

It was the old man who’d helped me repair the jetty.

“Oh thanks,” I said. “Yes, two of us should be able to get it launched.”

“You built this, did you?” he asked, examining the raft.

“Yeah, just finished it.”

“Wouldn’t have caught that other lad making anything like this.”

“No?”

“Never. Just lounged about all day long, playing with the girls.”

“What girls?”

“All of them,” he said. “Holidaymakers, day-trippers. Didn’t do a stroke apart from pulling them in with his boathook.”

“Sounds like nice work,” I remarked.

“Work?” snapped the old man. “That’s not work!” He walked round the other side of the raft and found a suitable hand-hold. “Well, do you want a lift with this or not?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “That’d be a great help.”

I grabbed the raft on my side and the two of us succeeded in dragging it to the water’s edge. Another pull and it was floating beside the jetty. Then I tied it up and tried walking about on the deck.

“Stable, is it?” he asked.

“Seems alright,” I replied. “Yes, I’m quite pleased.”

I came ashore and began tidying up the remaining gear.

“You’ve done a good job there,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I hear you’re working at our place tomorrow.”

“Am I?”

“With the circular saw.”

“Oh,” I said. “Er…yeah, right.”

“Eight o’clock, you’re coming.”

“OK.”

Obviously Mr Parker’s advertisement in the Trader’s Gazette had brought some response, but this was the first I’d heard of it. No doubt he planned to tell me about it in his own good time. Meanwhile, I was struck by the thought that I always seemed to be the last to find out about anything round here. Even the old man knew before I did.

“Where is it you live again?” I asked.

“Stonecroft,” he said, pointing along the lake. “Second turning on the left.”

“Righto.”

“About time we got all that timber cut.”

“Yes.”

“Six months it’s been lying there.”

“Well,” I said. “Should be able to get a start on it tomorrow.”

He nodded and wandered off into the trees without saying goodbye. I carried on tidying up, and shortly afterwards Mr Parker arrived in his pick-up.

“Finished then?” he asked, as he got out.

“Yes,” I replied. “Do you want to test it?”

“Could do, I suppose.” He walked onto the jetty and made as if to step onto the floating raft, but then seemed to change his mind. “No, I’ll take your word for it.”

“It’s quite safe,” I said.

“Quite probably,” he replied. “But there’s no point in taking unnecessary risks.”

“No, suppose not.”

I loaded the remaining equipment into the back of Mr Parker’s pick-up, and then waited as he surveyed my handiwork.

“By the way,” he said at length. “I’ll be taking you off the boats again tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, OK. Why’s that then?”

“We’ve got a hire contract for the circular saw, up at Pickthall’s. It’ll be a day’s work cutting firewood.”

“Right.”

“Mr Pickthall wants you there at eight o’clock. Make sure you do a proper job for him, won’t you?”

“I’ll try my best.”

“That’s good.”

It was almost dark now, so we got into the truck and drove up to the yard. Entering the bothy I noticed immediately that Gail had been in and taken the history homework I’d left on the shelf inside the door. In its place she’d deposited her geometry book, along with a note saying the latest exercises had to be handed in the day after tomorrow. It occurred to me that Gail was starting to take advantage of my good intentions. I didn’t mind doing the homework as it was quite easy and gave me something to do after dark. There was even something to learn from it. I’d discovered over the past few weeks, for example, that her geography teacher was very interested in limestone. Questions about stalactites, stalagmites and swallow holes cropped up regularly, and any answers which included the words ‘sediment’ and ‘precipitation’ were sure to receive favourable marks. Meanwhile, the English teacher had a fascination with the concept of irony. Questions about the ironic condition seemed to be his or her stock-in-trade. I only had to suggest in an essay that such-and-such a fictional character seemed to be mocked by fate or circumstance, and I’d be rewarded with a red star and ‘v.g.’ beneath my final paragraph.

Nevertheless, I was slowly beginning to recognize that Gail did much better out of the arrangement than me. After all, she only had to present the latest batch of homework at the bothy and it was completed at the drop of a hat, which left her free every evening to do whatever she liked. The least she could have done in return was bring it over while I was at home. On the other hand, I had to admit I sometimes found it hard to concentrate when she was present. The homework always took twice as long if she was sitting on the sofa waiting for me to finish it off, so maybe delivering it in my absence was just her way of being considerate.

I glanced casually through the geometry exercises, which all seemed fairly straightforward. Gail had already answered one of them herself, and I was quite pleased to see that she’d got it right, apart from spelling hypotenuse incorrectly.

♦

There was no sign of Mr Parker when I arose next morning, but the doors of the big shed had been left open and the tractor and circular saw were all ready to go. I felt quite professional when I arrived at Stonecroft at eight o’clock on the dot. The place was completely different to Hillhouse in that it was sited very low down at the foot of steeply rising ground. Access was by means of a long deep lane running between two hedgerows, and I would never have found the entrance if the old man hadn’t told me it was the second on the left. After a quarter of a mile or so the lane ended in a farmyard, above which loomed a towering fell. As expected, the house was made entirely of stone. I must have got used to being high up at Mr Parker’s, because this place seemed really low down and hemmed in. Also very damp. It was a gloomy day, but I couldn’t imagine the sun shining much here even in the summer. There was a lot of bare rock round about, much of it covered with a mossy sheen as though it never dried out properly. And, of course, the lake was completely lost from view, the only thing to see being the grassy slopes that soared up into the clouds.

The man who emerged from the house to meet me showed signs of having lived in the shade all his life. There I was arriving fully equipped to do some important work for him, and all he did was point glumly to a stack of timber at the far side of the yard. He then looked at his watch to check that I’d turned up on time. Despite this lacklustre greeting, however, I decided to try a bit of friendly chat. Switching the engine off, I got down from the tractor.

“Morning,” I said in a cheery way. “Mr Pickthall, is it?”

“That’s right, yes,” he replied.

“Oh…er, well, I’ve brought the saw.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he said. “And you’re the operator are you?”

“Yep.”

“Right. Well, I want logs for firewood no less than nine inches and no more than fourteen. Got that?”

“No more than nine and no less than fourteen. OK.”

Mr Pickthall gave me a funny look when I said this. He glanced at the machinery and then back at me. “You do know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Oh yes,” I said, with a reassuring nod.

“Right, well, it’s ten past eight so you’d better get started.”

Obviously I didn’t look as professional as I thought. I started the tractor again and set the circular saw into operation, aware that Mr Pickthall was watching my every move. After doing a couple of important-looking safety checks I chose a piece of timber from the stack and began cutting it into chunks. Each one looked as if it was between nine and fourteen inches to me, but after a while he produced a tape from his pocket and took a measurement. Then he came over to the tractor.

“Haven’t you got a yardstick?” he demanded.

“Er…well, no,” I replied. “Don’t usually bother with one.”

“So you’re just guessing the lengths, are you?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Well, I haven’t got time to stay here any longer, but there had better not be any mistakes.”

“OK.”

“Otherwise Mr Parker’ll hear about it.”

“Right.”

And with that he went back into the house and closed the door. A few minutes later he came out again, glanced towards me, and then headed for a low-roofed shed inside which was parked a pick-up truck. I felt quite relieved when he got in and drove away up the lane without a further word. As soon as he’d gone I switched off and stopped for a rest. I’d begun work so quickly after arriving that I’d barely had a chance to look at the place, so now I stood peering around for a few minutes. The first thing I noticed was that the house seemed to be divided into two parts. The door Mr Pickthall had used was nearest to me, and on the step was an empty milk bottle. At the far end of the building I now saw another doorstep with a milk bottle of its own. For a moment I thought I caught sight of a pink face in the window, peeping out, but there was no time for further observation. Suddenly I heard a vehicle coming along the lane, and thinking it was Mr Pickthall returning I started up and got back to work.

A moment later Deakin arrived in the yard.

As usual he was in a great hurry, running to the two doorsteps with fresh milk and retrieving the empty bottles. When he noticed me standing by the tractor he gave me a frantic wave.

“Seen Tommy yet?” I called.

“No!” he replied. “Haven’t had time! But I will!”

“Well, make sure you do!”

“Alright!”

Next thing Deakin was gone, charging off down the lane to continue his milk round, which was beginning to look like a very thankless task. Why everybody round here thought I’d be interested in ‘taking over’ was beyond me. Even Hodge seemed to have picked up the idea from somewhere. The previous evening in the Ring of Bells he’d started going on about there being ‘room for improvement in the milk business’, and how a good candidate ‘wasn’t a million miles away’. I’d pretended to take no notice of all this, of course, and didn’t engage in any direct conversation with him. Nevertheless, I got the strong impression that several people were convinced I seriously was considering being their milkman. As far as I knew I’d done nothing to substantiate this belief, and the last thing I wanted to do was usurp Deakin. He had enough troubles already without me adding to them.

With these thoughts in mind I returned to the circular saw and continued work. Shortly afterwards I noticed someone emerging from the far end of the house. It was the old man. He was wearing some heavy-duty gloves and work boots, and heading straight in my direction. In his hand was some sort of stick. As he crossed the yard he glanced at the near end of the house from time to time, and also at the shed where the pick-up had been parked. Finally he joined me and waved the stick.

“Measuring rod,” he said by way of greeting. “Don’t expect you’ve got one, have you?”

“No,” I replied. “Thanks.”

“What’s he told you? Nine to fourteen?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Alright, carry on.”

Next thing he was dragging a huge length of timber towards the saw. Then he went along with the measuring rod marking off lengths for cutting. As usual his presence speeded up the operation appreciably, and in the next hour I got a good deal of work done. Mr Pickthall hadn’t mentioned it, but the completed logs were apparently supposed to be deposited in a nearby lumber shed. The old man soon had a wheelbarrow lined up next to the saw, and was carting the logs away as fast as I could cut them. We carried on in this way for some time, and then he came and shouted in my ear.

“Want a cup of tea?”

“Wouldn’t mind!”

“Alright, then. Wait here!”

He disappeared into his house, returning several minutes later with a tray bearing two steaming mugs and some doughnuts. I switched off the tractor and as the noise faded away the pair of us enjoyed a well-deserved break. It seemed very peaceful in that yard without the din of the engine, and for a while we stood and drank our tea in silence.

“You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of work,” I remarked at length.

“Ought to do,” replied the old man. “I ran a timber business for forty years.”

“What, here?”

“On this very spot,” he said.

“You’ve retired now, though, have you?”

“Sent to the knacker’s yard, more like.”

“Ah well, you can’t work for ever.”

He looked at me. “Why not?”

“Well…er…don’t know really.”

“I hate not working,” he said, then broke off and glanced towards the lane where a vehicle could be heard approaching. Next moment he was rushing into the lumber shed with the tray and the two empty mugs. I started up the tractor and resumed work just as Mr Pickthall drove into the yard. He pulled up and got out, peering at the much-reduced timber stack, and then at the lumber shed. Eventually, he came over to me.

“Seen my father?” he asked.

“Er…who?”

“The old man from the far end of the house.”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t seen anybody.”

“So how did you know the logs had to go in the lumber shed?”

“Just guessed,” I replied. “All part of the job.”

He looked at me with suspicion for a few moments and then marched into the lumber shed. When he emerged again I was surprised to see he was alone.

“If you do see him,” he said, “don’t let him help you.”

“Righto.”

“I don’t want him working any more.”

“OK.”

He glanced at the timber stack. “You seem to be getting on very quickly.”

“I try my best,” I replied.

After casting me another suspicious look he got into his truck again and drove off. I waited a few more minutes until I was sure he was gone, and then went into the lumber shed to see what had happened to the old man.

“Mr Pickthall?” I called. “Hello?”

There was no reply apart from a knocking noise beneath my feet. It was quite dark in that shed and I’d assumed I was standing on some sort of wooden floor, but as I stepped back I saw a trapdoor rise up. A moment later the old man climbed out from his hiding place.

“Forty years he’s lived here,” he said with triumph. “And he doesn’t know about the hidey-hole.”

“Blimey,” I remarked. “Quite handy, that.”

“If he’d paid more attention to the business he’d know every nook and cranny by now.”

“Didn’t he then?” I asked. “Pay attention to it?”

“Course not!” said the old man. “Made me give it up and then ran it into the ground!”

“Why did he make you give it up?”

“For my health.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s a good idea, isn’t it?”

“Is it hell!” he snapped. “All this doing nothing’s going to kill me! That’s why I have to keep going on long walks, there isn’t anything else to do!”

He picked up a stray log and placed it on top of the pile.

“You can carry on helping me if you like,” I said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Trouble is, he’s likely to come back at any moment.”

“Where does he keep rushing off to then?”

“Oh, don’t ask me. He says he’s going into buying and selling. You know, auctions and so forth. Damn fool business, that is, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Well,” I remarked, “Mr Parker seems to be making a reasonable living from it.”

“Maybe so, but Tommy’s got his head screwed on properly. If he puts his money into something, you know it’s a safe bet.”

“Suppose so.”

“But that doesn’t mean anyone can do it.” The old man looked around the yard and shook his head with disdain. “Sound business we had here,” he said. “But now it’s all finished.”

Shortly afterwards I went back to the saw and prepared to resume work. The senior Mr Pickthall seemed to have decided he couldn’t help me any more, which was a great shame as we made a good team. A few minutes later he gave me a nod and set off walking towards the lake. I looked at the timber stack and realized that in spite of the inroads we’d made during the morning there was still a lot to do. The stack consisted of felled logs, disused beams and broken fence posts, all waiting to be cut up into lengths no shorter than nine inches and no longer than fourteen. I selected an ancient-looking beam and marked it up, then began making the first cut. Suddenly the saw started to produce a strident screeching noise. I pulled the timber away but the noise continued, so I switched off the tractor. Instead of spinning to a halt the blade stopped dead. Then I noticed that there was smoke coming out of the bearings. I placed my hand on them and discovered they were very hot. Cursing slightly, I decided to give the saw time to cool down before trying it again, but I had a sinking feeling that something was seriously amiss. I passed a quarter of an hour carting some more logs into the lumber shed, and then, when there was nothing left to do, I tried starting up once more. Immediately the screeching noise returned and my fears were confirmed: I’d somehow managed to seize the whole thing up. Which was when I remembered the grease gun. Of course! Mr Parker always made a special point of applying grease to all moving parts before and after use, but I’d failed to do it before leaving this morning. Now I had no choice but to pack up and go home. I left the yard as tidy as possible, shovelling the sawdust into a neat pile at one side, then set off.

Halfway along the lane I met the younger Mr Pickthall returning in his pick-up. I noticed he was carrying four empty oil drums in the back. There was no room to pass so I had to reverse all the way to the yard with him following, and as soon as we arrived he got out and came over to the tractor.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Back to Hillhouse.”

“Why?”

“The saw’s seized up.”

“But what about my timber?”

“Well,” I said. “I’ll just have to come back another day.”

“I don’t want you back another day!” said Mr Pickthall, raising his voice. “The contract was for immediate completion!”

“Sorry, but I can’t see what else I can do.”

“Don’t ‘sorry’ me!” he roared. “I’ll be speaking to Mr Parker about this!”

And with that he marched into his house and slammed the door.

Before things went wrong I’d been quite looking forward to the drive back to Hillhouse. Rumbling through hidden country lanes on a tractor would be a pleasant way to end a hard day’s work. Instead, all I could think about was Mr Pickthall making an irate phone call to Mr Parker, and then him losing his temper with me. It was one thing being slow on the uptake and clumsy with tins of paint; it was another matter entirely to put a perfectly good piece of machinery out of action. Bryan Webb and the others had warned me countless times about Tommy Parker’s temper, and this time I was certain I would be on the receiving end of it. Nonetheless, I had no choice but to go home and face the music.

As if to worsen my plight, the skies darkened and it started raining. There was no cab on the tractor, so by the time I got to Hillhouse I was soaking wet. The painted green square in the gateway looked particularly conspicuous in these conditions, and did nothing to lift the feeling of unease which was descending upon me. I briefly considered the idea of claiming to have been ‘rained off’ from the timber work, but I soon dismissed this as a feeble excuse. And anyway, the truth would have to come out eventually, so there was no getting away from it.

No one was around when I put the tractor back in the shed. Mr Parker didn’t seem to be back yet and Gail was still at school, so I changed out of my wet clothes, hung them in the boiler room, and continued work on the boats. I tried to remember the last occasion I’d actually been in here doing what I was supposed to be doing. It seemed like ages although it was probably only a few days. With the rain hammering on the shed roof I got quickly back into the swing of things, and soon picked up where I’d left off. This, I decided, was the project I liked best, and in a few days’ time I would have the first boat ready for painting. After a bit of hard graft with the electric sander I’d practically forgotten all about the problem with the circular saw. Then the shed door opened and Mr Parker walked in.