All Quiet on the Orient Express

Eight

“Rained off?” he asked.

“Yes…Well, no…Sort of,” I replied.

He smiled. “Which?”

“Haven’t you spoken to Mr Pickthall then?”

The smile disappeared. “No, I’ve only just got back. Why?”

“Well, I seem to have had a bit of trouble with the saw.”

He glanced towards the tractor. “What sort of trouble?”

“I think it’s seized up.”

“But you went round it with the grease gun before you started, didn’t you?”

Mr Parker had now begun to examine the saw closely. He placed his hand on the circular blade and tried to give it a spin, but it refused to move.

“No, sorry,” I said. “I forgot.”

He turned to me sharply. “Forgot? How could you forget when I’ve shown you over and over again?”

“Don’t know.”

A moment passed, during which I expected Mr Parker to lose his temper. Instead, he simply sighed and shook his head.

“Dear oh dear oh dear,” he said. “What are we going to do with you?”

I stood in silence as he continued to survey the damage.

The evidence suggested that the bearings had indeed seized up. Vaguely I wondered how much it would cost to replace them, and how long it would take.

“Mr Pickthall’s a bit upset ‘cos I didn’t finish the job,” I ventured at last.

“I’m sure he is,” said Mr Parker. “And of course I won’t be able to send him a full invoice.”

“No, I suppose not.”

He sighed again. “Bit of a lost day, really, isn’t it? Luckily the saw came with a spare set of bearings. You won’t go ruining those as well, I hope?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

“Tell you what then, come back after tea and we’ll get it fixed.”

“Right. Er…what about Mr Pickthall?”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“OK…thanks.”

I left the shed and headed across the yard feeling quite jaunty. It seemed as if I’d got off fairly lightly. Halfway to the bothy I remembered I had some clothes drying in the boiler room so I cut back to collect them. It was dark now, and as I approached the door I noticed that the light was on inside. Without giving it a second thought I entered and saw Gail standing in her underwear.

“Oops, sorry,” I said, backing out again.

“It’s alright,” she said. “You can come in if you like.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s OK.”

I went in and started to collect my clothes from the drying rack, on which now hung most of Gail’s school uniform.

“Got caught in the rain,” she said with a smile. “Just giving it a dry.”

“Oh…right. Er…haven’t you got a dressing gown or anything?”

“Hardly worth it,” she replied. “Another ten minutes and it’ll all be ready.”

“Yes,” I said. “It does get quite hot in here, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

In those few moments I couldn’t help noticing the whiteness of her brassiere. Also the slight impression it made in the soft flesh of her shoulders. Bundling up my dry clothes I headed for the door. “Right, bye.”

“Is it alright to bring over some geography homework later?” she asked.

I turned at the door and faced her. “Well, actually I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah. You see, the thing is, I’m beginning to find it a bit difficult.”

“Why?”

“I just am.”

“But I thought you said it was easy.”

“Well, the homework itself is easy, yeah. But you’re growing up very quickly and…er…I really think you should start trying to do it yourself.”

She shrugged. “OK then.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Course not. I’ll be leaving school soon and probably forget it all anyway.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

She took her blouse from the rack, slipped it on and began doing up the buttons.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you teach me something else instead?”

There were five buttons altogether, not including the one at the top.

“What sort of something?” I asked.

“Give me some darts lessons.”

“Darts?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“So that we can have a game, silly.”

“Oh…er…right.”

“We can play up in the hay-loft.”

“I thought that was full of Bryan Webb’s hay.”

“It is almost, but he’s left a space at one end.”

“What about a dartboard?”

“There’s one under your bed in the bothy.”

♦

As soon as I got home I looked under the bed, and sure enough there was a dartboard lying there. It was a red and black model, and I could tell it had been used many times by the number of holes in it. I also noticed a metal tag under the number six, indented with the words: “Property of Inter-Pub Darts League. Do not remove.”

I wondered what sort of person would pinch a dartboard from a pub.

By the time I’d had my tea and gone back across to the big shed, Mr Parker had almost finished dismantling the circular saw.

“Need any help?” I asked.

“Bit late for that,” he replied. “I’ve practically done it myself.”

His tone wasn’t quite as forgiving as it had been earlier, so I took care to make myself as useful as possible. He was about to fit the new bearings, and he got me to hold them in position.

“I suppose you never forget to grease your motorbike,” he remarked, while he tightened up the nuts.

“Try not to,” I replied.

“Well, try not to forget when it’s my equipment you’re using.”

“No, alright. Sorry about that.”

Half an hour later we had the whole outfit put back together and in full working order.

“Do you want me to go back to Mr Pickthall’s tomorrow?” I enquired.

“No,” replied Mr Parker. “Best let him cool off for a while first.”

“OK, then.”

“By the way, I’m going down to that factory of yours in a day or two.”

“Oh, are you?”

“I bought some more oil drums today, so I’ve now got enough to make a full load.”

“Oh, well, I hope it works out alright.”

“Yes,” he said. “It looks like you might have put me onto a good bit of business there.”

This seemed an opportune moment to mention my wages, but then it struck me that Mr Parker had just spent several hours repairing the damage I’d done, so I decided to wait until another time. Instead I went back to the bothy, had a bath and then went out.

I needed to order some more groceries, so before going into the Ring of Bells I stopped at the phone box. As usual there was a long wait before Hodge answered, and then another delay while he went off to find something to write on. This was the fourth or fifth time I’d rung in, and by now I had a more or less fixed list of the items required. The only uncertain element was the biscuits, which I always left until the end. As usual, the selection on offer was very limited.

“Have you got any fig rolls yet?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Hodge.

“Custard creams?”

“No.”

“Malted milks?”

“No.”

“Tartan shorties?”

“Wait a minute, I’ll go and have a look.”

“OK.”

A minute passed during which the pips went and I had to put another coin in the slot. Then Hodge came back to the phone.

“Did you say Tartan shorties?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we haven’t got any.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “You’ve got plain digestives, I presume?”

“Yes, we have.”

“Alright then. I’ll have those.”

The choice of biscuits generally signified the end of the conversation, but on this occasion Hodge seemed to be waiting expectantly for something else. For my part I said nothing, and meanwhile the moments continued to tick away.

Then at last he spoke. “You may wish to know we’ve had a new consignment of beans.”

“Have you?” I said.

“Just come in. Would you like to order some?”

“Baked beans, are they?”

“Yes.”

“Baked beans served with a delicious, rich tomato sauce?”

“Correct.”

“Fresh from the factory, in cans with a handy ring-pull lid?”

“That’s the ones,” said Hodge.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve learnt to do without them.”

At that moment the pips went again and I hung up.

♦

I’d been sitting in the Ring of Bells for about ten minutes when Hodge walked in. Giving me barely a nod of recognition he settled down on his usual stool at the counter and ordered a whisky from Cyril.

“Better make it a single,” he remarked. “Business is a bit slack at the moment.”

It was another quiet night at the Ring of Bells. Outside, the late autumn weather was thickening into a sort of perpetual damp gloom. Inside, the prospect was hardly any brighter. Illumination came from a row of mauve-coloured glass lanterns screwed to the pelmet above the bar. These were supposedly intended to cheer the place up a little, but actually they had the opposite effect. Under their dull glow we sat and stared at our drinks, waiting for the evening to pass.

It seemed unlikely that Hodge would begin one of his stilted conversations with me tonight, given the circumstances, and I expected him just this once to leave me in peace. Consequently I was caught unawares when suddenly he turned in my direction and spoke.

“I gather you didn’t get on very well with Mr Pickthall,” he announced.

“Didn’t I?” I said.

“Not from what I’ve been told.”

Hodge had a way of addressing people that meant everyone else in the pub heard it as well, whether they wanted to or not. Apart from him, Cyril and me, there were three or four other drinkers present as well, and as soon as the exchange began I realized that they were all listening with interest. I also saw that I had little choice but to continue.

“Do you mean young Mr Pickthall?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have said we didn’t get on. We just had a minor problem today, that was all.”

“Sounds like more than a minor problem to me,” said Hodge. “Question of impropriety, I’d have called it.”

“Why?”

“From what I heard you pulled out of a job before it was finished.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it couldn’t be helped.”

He shook his head. “I suppose it couldn’t be helped when you let down the Packhorse darts team either.”

“Er…well, that was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh,” he said. “A misunderstanding. I see.”

During this conversation Cyril had been busy at work behind the counter, polishing glasses while at the same time attending to what was being said. Now he joined in with a remark of his own. It was directed at me.

“They brought in the Topham’s especially for you, you know.”

“Who did?”

“The Packhorse.”

“That wasn’t just for me,” I protested.

“Well, no one else drinks it.”

“Oh…don’t they?”

“Seems a bit ungrateful treating them like that,” he said. “No wonder they barred you.”

“They didn’t bar me.”

“Yes they did. That’s why you started coming in here.”

“You can’t keep letting people down all the time,” added Hodge. “Not if you’re thinking of starting a milk round.”

“But I haven’t said I am.”

“You should be trying to make friends, not going about upsetting people.”

At these words the other customers murmured in agreement.

“Alright,” I said, draining my glass. “I think I’d better go.”

“But you’ve only just got here,” said Cyril. “You can’t go yet.”

“Yes I can. Goodnight.”

I headed for the door.

“We’re only offering friendly advice,” said Hodge, as I stepped out into the darkness.

“Goodnight,” I repeated.

“Goodnight,” said a chorus of voices from inside. Then the door swung shut behind me.

I stood in the middle of the square recovering from my recent cross-examination, and swore never again to set foot in the Ring of Bells. Which meant, of course, that I was now effectively exiled from both pubs in Millfold.

OK, well, that was no big deal. I would just have to do without drink for the time being, and that didn’t bother me in the slightest. After all, there were plenty of other things for me to do. Why should I waste my evenings hanging around in pubs?

I decided to walk back to Hillhouse by way of the lakeside path, and as I passed the Packhorse I glanced over the beer garden wall. From the bottom bar came the sounds of glasses tinkling and raucous laughter, and in the window I thought I saw the silhouette of a man wearing a crown.

Then I turned towards the lake. It was a dark night, but I’d done this walk so many times by now that I could probably have found my way blindfold. The main obstacles were usually provided by the roots of trees straying across the path. However, I’d only had one pint of lager tonight so these didn’t present much of a problem. In fact, I hardly took any notice of where I was going at all. Most of the time I found myself thinking about what it would be like if I did indeed start up a milk round, as everyone kept suggesting. For a while it began to seem like an attractive proposition. I quite liked the idea of setting off early in the morning to make my deliveries. There were plenty of potential customers, even though they were spread out a bit, and it would be a good way of getting to know the area properly. Also, if I got the work completed quickly, I’d then have the afternoons free to get on with other things I was interested in, such as looking after Mr Parker’s boats.

Something else came to mind as well. I’d almost forgotten about it, but when I was a child I used to help a milkman on his rounds. It was a holiday job, riding around on the back of a milk-float, plonking bottles on doorsteps and bringing back the empties. This milkman had been coming up and down our road for as long as I could remember, and I’d often wondered if he needed a helper. Then one morning he suddenly pulled up while I was riding my bike along the pavement and said, “Want a job?”

Obviously I’d jumped at the chance, and spent several weeks assisting him until the holidays ended. He always let me do the houses at the end of a row, or at the top of a long flight of steps. Meanwhile he remained with the float and checked off his order book. As far as I knew I was the only kid in the vicinity who was allowed to help him, which gave me a certain amount of local prestige (even though he never actually paid me). If my memory was correct, I had this job the same summer as I’d learnt to row a boat in our local park. All that seemed a long time ago now, but the idea of doing a milk round triggered off some pleasant recollections, so I toyed with it for a while. The reality, of course, was different. How could I set up in business without any capital? For a start I’d need to buy a pick-up (milk-floats were for town suburbs only), and I would have to establish some sort of credit with the dairy which supplied me. Then I’d have to poach all Deakin’s customers off him, which as I said before I had no intention of doing. When I thought about it seriously I realized that the whole project was nothing more than a pipe-dream, and as I wandered along in the darkness I decided to forget all about it.

Approaching the water’s edge I again heard the cries of seabirds from somewhere out in the middle of the lake. There must have been thousands of them gathered together there, but it struck me at that moment that they all sounded quite lonely. I wondered how far from home they were, and why they’d made this their winter sanctuary. After all, the lake was no calm oasis. The water had grown steadily choppier over the past week, and in daylight hours had a permanent grey look to it. The wind that howled through the trees at night was hardly an inviting prospect either.

Which reminded me: we would have to get the new mooring weight put down soon.

A few days ago Mr Parker had spoken as though this was a matter of the utmost urgency, but since I’d finished building the raft he’d engaged me in a string of other tasks and the job had been put off. When I passed the jetty I stopped to check that the raft was still tethered there safely. It was. I could just about see it in the blackness, gently rocking back and forth.

♦

Next morning Deakin was late with the milk. His usual arrival time came and went but there was no sign of him, and I began to wonder if there was some sort of problem. I didn’t bother mentioning the matter to Mr Parker though. He seemed to have something on his mind this morning and wasn’t in a very conversational mood. Besides, it was hardly important what time Deakin turned up really, as there was always some spare milk in the fridge. We’d been sitting at the breakfast table for about fifteen minutes when the phone rang. As usual, this caused Gail to rise instantly from her seat.

“I’ll get it,” she said, darting into the next room. A moment later she came back.

“Dad, it’s for you.”

After Mr Parker had gone to take the call Gail turned to me and said, “Shall we start practising tonight then?”

“You mean darts?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can if you like.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“No, course not. Come over about seven.”

She smiled. “Alright then, thanks.”

Her father came back into the room. “That was Bryan Webb. He was ringing up to find out if we’d heard from Deakin this morning. He’s worried about his Uncle Rupert’s homogenized.”

“Blimey,” I said. “Deakin must be way behind schedule if he hasn’t even got to Bryan’s yet.”

“That’s what I said,” agreed Mr Parker. “Anyway, I haven’t got time to worry about Deakin now. I want to go over to Bryan’s and fetch the lorry, so we can load up those oil drums. Then I suppose we’d better get that mooring weight put down before the weather gets any worse.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I was going to mention that.”

Instead of acknowledging my remark Mr Parker fell unusually silent, and it again struck me that there must be something on his mind.

It wasn’t until well after ten o’clock that Deakin finally arrived, and I saw straight away why he was late: he was making the deliveries in his ice-cream van. The inside of the vehicle was laden with milk crates which clinked and rattled as he came up the hill, heralded by an uncontrolled double blast of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

Poor Deakin. He had such a harassed look on his face that I felt quite sorry for him. To get at the milk he had to open the access door at the back of the van, squeeze inside between the crates, and then squeeze out again. It looked like a real struggle, especially since he had so many calls to make.

“Better late than never!” I called by way of encouragement, as he did a frantic dash across the yard. “Where’s your pick-up then?”

“Kenneth Turner’s giving it a full service,” he replied, dodging up the steps to the house. “Otherwise it’ll never get through the winter.”

“Have you spoken to Tommy about the van yet?”

“I haven’t had time. Is he here now?”

“No,” I said. “Should be back later though.”

“Right,” said Deakin. “As soon as I’ve got these deliveries finished I’ll come back and see him.”

There seemed to be a certain resolve in the way Deakin said this, which I thought was a positive sign that he really did intend to get the matter sorted out at last. Shortly afterwards he was on his way again, charging off down the hill as the chimes gave yet another rendition of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

I’d done about an hour’s work on the boats when Mr Parker returned in the lorry and got me to help him load it up. The top yard was now crowded with oil drums, well over a hundred, and it took us some time to get them all stacked and roped. As we worked I noticed that Mr Parker was becoming increasingly irritable. Loading all those drums was no easy business, and every time one of them jammed in an awkward position he would curse under his breath and shove at it violently until it moved. I couldn’t quite understand what was bothering him, so I adopted my usual approach of saying little and making myself as useful as possible. Finally, all the drums were securely tied on the back of the lorry and it was ready to go.

Then, after a brief rest, Mr Parker said, “Right. We’d better get that mooring weight put down.”

I glanced towards the lake and quickly concluded that this wasn’t the best day to do the job. There was a cold wind blowing across the hillside and I could see the tops of the distant trees swaying. Still, I wasn’t going to argue with Mr Parker. If he wanted to put the weight down today, then so be it.

The first thing we had to do was transport it to the shore. We couldn’t use Mr Parker’s pick-up because he’d left it over at Bryan Webb’s when he went for the lorry this morning. The tractor still had the saw attached, and the only other vehicle available was the old Morris van parked by the side of the shed. To my surprise it started first time, and he soon had it manoeuvred round to where the weight lay. The van’s springs creaked as the two of us struggled to lift the concrete-filled wheel into the back, as well as the accompanying length of chain and mooring buoy. Once again there was a lot of cursing involved as Mr Parker’s mood continued to deteriorate, but eventually we got all the gear inside and shut the rear doors. Then we drove slowly towards the lake.

As we approached I saw that the water was still as grey and choppy as it had been yesterday. I looked at the mooring raft as it bobbed up and down beside the jetty, and wondered if it really was as stable as I thought.

Mr Parker seemed to be pondering the same question. He stood on the jetty for a long time looking at the raft, occasionally pressing his foot down on one corner to see how much resistance there was.

“Rocks about a lot, doesn’t it?” he said. “Are you sure you’ve built it properly?”

“Should be alright,” I replied.

Obviously he needed convincing, so I stepped completely onto the raft to prove I had full confidence in it. To my relief it felt OK, and I was able to move about on the small deck without fear of toppling over.

“We’ll need to take one of the oars,” I said. “So we can guide it.”

Mr Parker unlocked the green hut and tried the door.

“The flaming paint’s stuck again,” he said, giving it a pull.

Every time I examined the paintwork on this hut I noticed yet more runs and badly done areas. It certainly was a poor piece of workmanship, and did nothing to improve Mr Parker’s humour. Only with a sharp tug did the door come open, after which I went inside and got one of the oars. Then we had the tricky job of transferring the mooring weight (plus the chain) from the van to the raft. It wasn’t too bad moving it along the jetty, as we were able to roll it slowly to the end. But getting it from there onto the raft itself was a real battle, accompanied by many more grunts and curses from Mr Parker. We’d just succeeded in getting the weight safely aboard when we heard ‘Half a pound of treacle’ coming towards us through the trees.

Not now, Deakin, I thought to myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. Next thing the ice-cream van had pulled up by the green hut, where it gave another impromptu blast of its wayward chimes.

“What a flaming racket!” roared Mr Parker, steadying his balance on the mooring raft and keeping well away from the edge. As I looked at his awkward movements it suddenly dawned on me why he was in such an irritable mood. All the signs pointed towards it: for some reason he was afraid of the water. This explained both his distrust of the raft and his lack of interest in the rowing boats. When he was on dry land Tommy Parker bore himself with as much self-assurance as any man I’d ever met. He was strong, independent and successful in business. He could do a thousand and one things that many other people wouldn’t even know how to attempt. Yet out here on the water all his confidence just disappeared. Which was obviously why he felt it necessary to shout at Deakin.

“Can’t you turn that bloody thing off!” he yelled, as the hapless milkman approached us along the jetty.

“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about,” replied Deakin, with a look of determination on his face.

“We’re a bit busy just now,” I said, attempting to defuse the situation. “Why don’t you come back later?”

In order to get away from Deakin I quickly cast off from the jetty, using the oar to propel the raft. Once again the van trumpeted its presence nearby. Suddenly the raft rocked sharply and I realized that Deakin had stepped on board as well.

“What are you doing now?” snapped Mr Parker.

“I’ll come with you and give you a hand,” replied Deakin. “Cos I could do with having a word with you really.”

Mr Parker and Deakin were now holding each other steady. Around their feet lay many yards of mooring chain, and this suddenly caught Deakin’s attention.

“Looks like you’ve got a bit of a tangle there,” he said. “Let’s see if we can get it sorted out.”

He crouched down amongst the chain and began rearranging lengths of it across the raft’s deck. I soon realized that there was hardly room for the three of us on board, as well as the mooring weight, the buoy and all that chain. Worse, as we moved away from the shore the lake became noticeably rougher, so that the raft pitched and rolled quite a lot. By the time we’d got far enough out to drop the mooring, Mr Parker had begun to look very unhappy. He was gripping onto the weight with both hands, and staring down at the black water below. Meanwhile, Deakin continued to fiddle about with the chain, coiling it into loops and so forth, and making some sort of adjustment to the mooring buoy.

“Right,” I said. “Stand back, Deakin. We’re going to let it go now.”

With Mr Parker’s help I shoved the mooring weight over the edge. It plummeted into the depths followed by the long, rattling chain, and a moment later it was gone.

So was Deakin.