All Quiet on the Orient Express

Nine

As he shot beneath the surface a surge of water rose up and swirled around our feet. “No!” cried Mr Parker, arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance. He looked in danger of toppling after Deakin, so I caught him by the hand and the two of us remained swaying there for several seconds, during which time I noticed the mooring buoy floating nearby. There was nothing attached to it.

“He’s gone down with the chain!” I said, raising my voice against the breeze. “Can he swim?”

“Can he hell!” groaned Mr Parker. “Can you?”

“No, sorry.”

“Well, I bloody can’t either!”

A gust of wind battered us and moved away across the lake. The raft was now drifting rapidly, which meant we were already some distance from the spot where Deakin had disappeared. Nevertheless, I kept expecting him to pop up next to us at any moment so we could pull him to safety. It was only after half a minute had gone by that this began to seem increasingly unlikely. Then, on the receding shore, we heard the ice-cream van give a forlorn hoot.

“Do you think there’s anything we can do?” asked Mr Parker.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I think we’ve lost him.”

“Well, get me off here, could you, please?”

I took the opportunity to let go of his hand, which was starting to feel rather warm, and retrieved the floating buoy. After that I began paddling back, while Mr Parker strove to maintain his footing. I helped him from the raft onto the jetty, at which point he murmured ‘Thank you’ and quickly headed for dry land. Then he turned and stood for a long time regarding the lake.

“Dear oh dear oh dear,” he said when I joined him. “This would have to happen now, wouldn’t it? Just when Deakin had found a job he liked.”

I gave no reply but simply shrugged and looked in the same direction, aware that the water now appeared to be much darker than it had before. In the distance a group of seabirds wheeled and turned.

Behind us waited the ice-cream van, with engine running and refrigerator unit whirring loudly. It was a very unnatural noise compared to the wild rushing of the elements, and eventually it succeeded in drawing Mr Parker’s attention away from the lake.

I saw him glance round at the vehicle once or twice, then finally he asked, “Now, what’s supposed to be wrong with these chimes?”

“They keep jamming,” I replied. “That was one of the things Deakin wanted to talk to you about.”

“Well, all he had to do was push the reset button. Let’s have a look.”

He climbed into the back of the van, which was now free of milk crates, and reached up to a panel. Then I heard a faint ‘click’.

“Try it now, can you?” he said through the serving window.

I leaned into the cab and pressed the control switch. Instantly, the horns on the roof played ‘Half a pound of tuppeny rice’. Then there was silence. I pressed it again and got a repeat of the same tune.

“That’ll do,” said Mr Parker.

“What about the other bit?” I asked.

“What other bit?”

“‘Half a pound of treacle’. Shouldn’t it play that as well?”

“Oh no,” he said. “You can only have one or the other. Not both.”

He emerged from the van carrying a bottle of red-topped homogenized milk.

“This was in the fridge,” he announced. “It must be for Bryan Webb’s Uncle Rupert.”

“Oh, right.”

“Could you run it round there quickly?”

“Er…if you like, yeah.”

“That’s good,” he said. “It’s the least we can do under the circumstances.”

“Yeah, suppose.”

“Ever driven an ice-cream van before?”

“No,” I said. “Why, are they different from other vehicles?”

“Not too bad, but you’ve got to watch them on the curves. They can be top-heavy in some conditions.”

“OK, I’ll remember that.”

“Maybe you’d like to familiarize yourself with the controls.”

He said this in the form of an order, so obediently I climbed into the cab, from where I watched him wander back towards the water’s edge. He went to the end of the jetty and once again stood gazing out over the lake, a motionless figure surrounded by grey, churning waves.

I allowed a suitable length of time to pass, then called through the window, “Right, I’ll get going then!”

Still with his back to me, Mr Parker raised a hand in acknowledgement.

Putting the van into gear I headed off between the trees. The pale afternoon light was beginning to fade already, so when I got to the road I switched on the headlamps. Craning my neck and leaning out of the window I saw that the roof-lights had come on as well. There seemed to be nothing I could do about this, and I had no choice but to drive round to Bryan’s place fully illuminated. Despite Mr Parker’s warning about top-heaviness the vehicle seemed to handle OK. As a matter of fact it pootled along very nicely, although the steering wheel struck me as being unnecessarily large. On the approach into Millfold it was tempting to set the chimes going, but I had second thoughts when I realized that people might come rushing out to buy ice-creams. Instead I passed through the place in a sedate manner so as not to attract attention.

As I neared Hodge’s shop I noticed a large, new sign in the window. I slowed down to have a look.

“SPECIAL OFFER,” the sign said, “BAKED BEANS REDUCED TO HALF PRICE.”

Continuing on towards Bryan’s it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually seen or spoken to him since my ban from the Packhorse, and that he might not appreciate me arriving out of the blue like this. After all, he was captain of the darts team I was considered to have let down so badly. What if he’d taken against me like the rest of them, then what would I do? For all I knew he might have been harbouring a serious grudge. Suddenly it didn’t seem such a good idea to go turning up on his doorstep, especially as he had all those sheepdogs he could set on me.

Still, I could hardly go back now, so I decided to press on. I pulled into Bryan’s yard just as he came out of the house, and was relieved when he gave me a sympathetic smile. As usual he was wearing his cardboard crown.

“Tommy rang up to say you were on your way,” he announced as I got out of the van.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Did he mention, then…about?”

Bryan nodded. “Yes, he did.”

“Oh…right.”

“And you’re manning the breach.”

“Yeah, suppose I am. I’ve brought this.” I handed him the bottle.

“Thanks very much,” he said. “It’s for my Uncle Rupert.”

“Thought so.”

“He likes his homogenized every week.”

“Yes, I remember you saying.”

“In his tea, like.”

“Yes.”

Bryan placed the bottle on a shelf inside his doorway, then turned to me.

“By the way,” he said. “Tommy asked if you could leave the van here and take his pick-up back.”

“OK then.”

“Save him coming for it.”

“Right.”

This was easier said than done. The Dutch barn which had previously housed Mr Parker’s lorry was now home to Bryan’s own pick-up and tractor. The other pick-up was parked behind them, and getting it out involved a good deal of manoeuvring. We spent the next five or ten minutes busily forwarding and reversing various vehicles, swapping them all round until the ice-cream van was at the back of the barn and Tommy’s pick-up in front. Then the two of us stopped for a bit of a chat.

“Got those boats finished yet?” Bryan asked.

“Well, all the preparations are done,” I replied. “As soon as I find a spare moment I’ll get a start on the actual painting itself.”

“What? You haven’t started yet?” He looked quite surprised.

“No, but as I say I’ll be getting going very soon.”

“So you’ll have them done by Christmas, will you?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “That should be no problem at all.”

“Be a bit of a push though, won’t it? December’s almost on us.”

“Well, it hardly matters really. They won’t be going back on the water ‘til Easter.”

“Maybe not,” he said, giving his crown a significant tap. “But it’s Christmas that counts, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by this, so I just nodded and said, “Yeah, suppose you’re right.”

He looked at me for a long moment before a grin slowly appeared on his face. I grinned back and then he laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.

“Good on you!” he said. “You had me there for a minute!”

I joined in the laughter, and Bryan laughed some more, and then I said I’d better be going.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he said, as I departed.

“No, alright,” I replied.

Tomorrow being Thursday I assumed he was referring to the next darts fixture in the Packhorse. I took his remark as meaning that my period of exile was over and I could begin drinking there again. This came as quite a relief. My resolution of the previous evening about ‘not drinking anywhere for the time being’ had seemed very bleak in the cold light of day. After all, what was the point of working if I couldn’t go to the pub at night? Now I had confirmation from the darts captain himself: I could go back to the Packhorse tomorrow evening.

In the meantime I had an engagement with Gail to fulfil, so I put my foot down and sped home. When I arrived in the yard at Hillhouse I noticed Deakin’s pick-up truck parked in front of the big shed. Standing beside it were Mr Parker and Kenneth Turner, deep in conversation about something or other. When they saw me approach they beckoned me to join them.

“We’ve had a word with one or two people,” said Mr Parker.

“And we think you might as well take over the milk round straight way.”

“Take it over?”

“Yes, then you’ll be all set up to keep it going.”

“Better for everyone in the long run,” added Kenneth. “People always need milk.”

“Yeah, but…” I hesitated. “Surely I can’t just seize control of a going concern?”

“Why not?”

“Well…it just doesn’t seem right, that’s all.”

There was a long silence, then Mr Parker said, “I thought you liked Deakin.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I did quite like him.”

“Well, if you took the milk round over you’d be looking after his best interests, wouldn’t you?”

“Suppose so, if you put it like that.”

“Nobody would be getting let down.”

“No.”

“So you might as well start straight away, hadn’t you?”

I shrugged and nodded towards Deakin’s pick-up. “Is it all fully serviced now?”

“Yep,” said Kenneth. “OK for another year.”

“And how will I know where to deliver the milk?”

“Deakin’s order book is in the cab,” said Mr Parker. “All the details are there.”

With my head still reeling from the suddenness of this turn of events, I was shown the order book and also a delivery-route map. Kenneth then handed me a wad of requisition dockets for the dairy at Greenbank.

“If you get there early someone’ll give you a hand loading the crates,” he said.

“What do you mean by early?” I asked.

“Well, Deakin used to start at five o’clock.”

Five o’clock! This was the part of the equation I hadn’t considered. I always thought I got up early when I worked at the factory, but that was only for an eight o’clock start. Five o’clock was three hours earlier, and I began to wonder what exactly I had let myself in for. To get a full night’s sleep of seven hours I would have to go to bed at about half past nine. Which was the time I usually went to the pub. It dawned on me that I was saying goodbye to any social life I had just to keep Deakin’s business going. On the other hand, I couldn’t help feeling quite elated at the prospect of having my own milk round! I decided to buckle down and get used to the idea of becoming an early riser.

Once everything was settled Mr Parker gave Kenneth a lift home, and I went over to the bothy for some tea. Around seven there came a knock on the door. It was Gail.

“Ready for a lesson then?” she asked.

This made it sound as if she would be teaching me, not the other way round, but I let the remark go and produced the dartboard from under my bed. When Gail saw it she took it from me and seemed to hold it rather fondly in her arms. Then she led the way towards the hay-loft.

“By the way,” I said. “What are we going to do for darts?”

“There are some up there,” she replied.

Getting into the hay-loft required going up a wooden ladder and through a trapdoor. Gail found the light switch and went up first, and I followed. After clambering over Bryan’s hay bales we came to a space about four feet wide and ten long. Just enough room for a darts game. By the time I got there Gail had already hung the board up on a hook at one end. The surrounding area of wall, I noticed, showed signs of having being struck many times by pointed objects. There were also a number of scores chalked up on a nearby plank of wood. Someone had even marked out an oche on the floor.

“Done this before then, have you?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Loads of times.”

“Who with?”

“Anyone who happened to be here.”

“So I’m not the first one?”

“No, course not.”

She opened a box in the corner and took out some darts. They were a rough-looking bunch with cheap plastic flights, but they would do for practising. She gave me a set of red ones and chose yellow for herself. Then we began.

I suppose we must have played about fifteen games altogether that evening. Gail knew how to stand correctly on the oche, and her aim wasn’t too bad. Where she fell down was on tactics. She had no idea about the importance of eights and sixteens for a double finish, nor did she recognize the problem of ‘blocking’ until it was too late. Time and again she’d be on three darts to win, and then lose the game because she just couldn’t see an out-shot. This was were I came in. I was able to give her little hints and tips that I’d picked up over the years, and slowly her play became stronger. At first I won game after game, but after a while Gail began to win a few as well. When she’d had the satisfaction of beating me a few times we gave up for the evening and put the darts away. We both agreed that we might as well leave the board hanging where it was.

“By the way,” I asked. “Where did it come from?”

“Don’t know,” she replied. “Marco got it from somewhere.”

“Who’s Marco?”

“The one who was here before you.”

♦

That night I made the mistake of going to bed early, assuming it was what people did if they had to get up at half past four.

At ten o’clock I was tucked under the sheets with my head on the pillow, but still wide awake. The thought hadn’t occurred to me that it would be better to catch up on lost sleep after I’d lost it, rather than before. As a result I spent several long hours trying desperately to drift off, while all the time worrying in case I overslept.

Finally, about four o’clock, I got fed up with tossing and turning, so I rose from my bed and put the kettle on. I was bleary-eyed, but began to feel better once I’d worked my way through a whole pot of tea. At twenty to five I went out into the yard, found Deakin’s pick-up in the darkness, and set off towards the dairy at Greenbank. I’d never been in that direction before, but it was marked clearly on the map and I was there for five o’clock. As I approached the building a loading bay came into view, where some other vehicles were waiting. There were a few men in overalls standing around, and one of them signalled me to reverse in next to a pile of full crates. By the time I’d got out of the cab he was already swinging them into the back of the pick-up, so I climbed up to lend a hand.

“Morning,” he said, without any introduction. “Got a docket for me?”

“Oh yes, sorry,” I replied, producing the paperwork from my pocket. “I’m new to this game.”

“Don’t worry,” he grinned. “You’ll soon settle into it.”

I gave him a requisition docket, which he separated in two, giving the bottom half back to me. Then he got me to sign the sheet on his clipboard.

After we’d finished loading he said, “Right. That’s your lot. If you take my advice you’ll go down the side of the common first, get rid of your gold-tops, then you’ll have an open run for your pasteurized as far as Millfold. After that it should be plain sailing. Oh, don’t forget homogenized is on ‘specials’ Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to take it all in.

None of this information meant anything until I got back in the pick-up and studied the order book and route map together. Then I realized that planning a milk round was no less than an applied science. The route included loops, short-cuts and unavoidable dead-ends, but every effort had been made to minimize wasted mileage. As I began making my deliveries I came to understand that the man on the loading bay had spoken with the wise voice of experience. As he’d predicted, the crate of gold-topped (extra cream) milk was empty by the time I’d cleared the common below Greenbank, and I then had an unbroken run of silver-topped pasteurized as far as Millfold.

Nevertheless it was only my first day, and despite the useful advice I soon fell behind schedule. The trouble was that a lot of the delivery points were at the end of remote lanes, and I seemed to waste a lot of time turning round in tiny spaces, and going through endless sets of gates. I quickly came to the conclusion that I would get along much more efficiently if I had an assistant: someone to open gates and plonk bottles on doorsteps while I kept the vehicle moving.

Another problem, of course, was that I frequently got lost. The map was quite detailed but it had obviously been in use for a good while, and as a result some small destinations were lost in the folds. The only way I could complete these deliveries was by guesswork, making random forays up unmarked roads and hoping I’d find the right place eventually. Usually I did, but once or twice I went seriously wrong and had to retrace my journey before trying again.

Less difficult to find was Wainskill, where I had a fair number of drops to do. It was dominated by the ice-cream factory, and quite a few of my customers seemed to live close by. Dawn was breaking as I delivered two pints of milk to the Journeyman, and one each to a small row of dwellings a little further along the road. I wondered in passing if Lesley occupied any of these sleeping households.

By the time I got to the Millfold area I was running very late, but interestingly enough I heard not one word of complaint. Arriving at various farms and business premises I began to recognize familiar faces from the Packhorse (and the Ring of Bells), and in spite of my lateness received nothing but encouragement. In many cases it was obvious that they’d actually been waiting for me to appear with their milk so they could start breakfast. I would have expected this to put them in a bad mood, yet when I finally turned up I was invariably given a cheery wave from the kitchen window. If the door happened to be open I would slip the bottle just inside and say ‘Thank you’ in a sing-song sort of voice before continuing on my way.

Along the road towards Hillhouse I met the school bus coming in the opposite direction, and as our vehicles passed Maurice sounded his horn in a friendly manner. I thought I saw Gail’s face amongst those looking out, but I couldn’t be certain.

After making two deliveries at Hillhouse, one to Mr Parker’s door and one to my own, the next call was at Stonecroft, which I hadn’t visited since the episode with the circular saw. Again there were two drops, one for young Mr Pickthall and a second for his father at the other end of the house. I was hoping to see the old man and maybe have a brief chat, but when I turned round in the yard there was no sign of him. What did catch my eye though, apart from the stack of timber still waiting to be sawn up, was a large collection of oil drums gathered together in one corner. I was just wondering what young Mr Pickthall was planning to do with them all when he emerged from the house, carrying an empty bottle.

“Seen my father on your travels?” he asked in an abrupt tone.

“No, sorry,” I replied, handing him his milk and accepting the empty in return. “Gone for a walk, has he?”

“Seems like it,” he said, with a grunt of disapproval. “Half the time I don’t know what he’s getting up to.”

It struck me that the old man should be free to do as he wished at his age. However, I didn’t say anything since it really had nothing to do with me. I wanted to get away quickly before the unfinished timberwork was mentioned, so I nodded politely, and then went off to deliver his father’s milk. When I returned to the pick-up I glanced across the yard and saw young Mr Pickthall standing amongst the oil drums, marking each one with a piece of chalk. He looked up as I departed and I gave him a wave, but he failed to acknowledge me.

There were only two or three deliveries left to do after that, yet for some reason I still had a full crate of milk remaining. When I stopped and looked at the order book I realized with a shock that I’d missed out a section of the route! I was supposed to do Bryan Webb’s side of the lake first and then come along here afterwards, but for some reason I’d got it the wrong way round. As fast as I could I completed the drops on this side, then tore off towards Bryan’s place. He was standing in his yard when I arrived, the cardboard crown upon his head.

“Only an hour and half late,” he said with a grin. “Not bad for your first day.”

Apparently he’d been watching my progress along the lake from his window, and had already put the kettle on for a pot of tea. This was most welcome as I’d been going continually without a break since before five o’clock.

“Made one or two wrong turns this morning,” I said, as we sat in his kitchen. “Should be able to speed up though as I get used to it.”

“You could do with an assistant really,” remarked Bryan. “Deakin’s trouble was that he tried to do it all by himself. Want a biscuit?”

“Please.”

He produced a biscuit tin and removed the lid. Inside were fig rolls, malted milks and custard creams. “Take your pick.”

“Blimey,” I said. “Where’d you get these from? I can’t lay my hands on anything except plain digestives.”

Bryan looked concerned. “Dealing with Hodgey, are you?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“And he won’t let you have what you want?”

“No.”

“He can be like that with newcomers, can Hodgey. Until he gets to know you a bit better, like.”

“Well, how long does that take?”

“Ooh, it depends,” said Bryan. “Could be months, could be years.”

“Looks like I’m stuck with digestives then,” I sighed.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you let me send in your order? Hodgey won’t know the difference and you can collect it from here.”

“Wouldn’t you mind?”

“Course not, it’s no trouble.”

“What about settling his bill?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We can sort it out later.”

“OK then,” I said. “Well, thanks very much. I’ll give you my list tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

I stayed at Bryan’s another half-hour, sharing tea and biscuits, before I stirred myself. Then I thanked him again and headed home, pleased to have got through the entire circuit without incident. All the milk I’d picked up at five o’clock this morning was now gone. The crates in the rear of the pick-up were full of empty bottles, rinsed and ready for return to the dairy. As I journeyed back I became increasingly aware of the way they rattled and clinked all the time. This was something I’d failed to notice while I was working flat out, but now the sound seemed to follow me incessantly all the way along the lake road and through Millfold. Finally I turned into the gateway at Hillhouse and passed over the painted green square. The rattling ceased as I halted for a few moments, remembering that this was the place I had first met Deakin only a few weeks ago. I got out and looked at the gate I’d been painting that sunny afternoon. How things had changed since then! Now Deakin was gone and I had become the official milkman for Wainskill and Millfold. It occurred to me that it might be a nice idea annually to repaint the square in his memory. He’d been wearing a proper dairyman’s overall at the time, and I wondered whether I should think about getting one for myself.

♦

With the rest of the afternoon free I could at last get on with the boats. It seemed like ages since I’d finished preparing them, and now I was quite looking forward to applying some paint. Mr Parker had given me the keys so I let myself into the paint store, selected a couple of brushes, and then went over to the big shed. Inside, the boats were all lined up on their wooden blocks just as I’d left them. I opened a tin of green paint, stirred it, and then began work on the first one. As I said before, whoever painted these boats originally had done a very thorough job. In all the hours I’d spent with the electric sander, I had only managed to dull down the old paintwork, rather than remove it completely. The first boat’s hull remained a faded but very obvious maroon colour. And as I began going over it with fresh green paint I began to get an odd feeling of unease. It was almost as if I was painting over something irreplaceable. I’d been expecting this part of the job to be the most satisfying, but I soon found it was quite the opposite. With every brush stroke the boat looked less majestic and more mundane. Even worse was when I had to paint over the gunwales and the curved prow, whose ancient lines had looked so outstanding in gold. As the old paintwork disappeared under the new I discovered that I was rapidly losing interest in the task. After all, my idea had been to restore these boats to their former glory, not reduce them to mere tubs. I also realized that I was working at a much slower rate than I had been at the outset, but put this down partly to the fact that I was now quite tired, having been up since the early hours. I was just pondering whether to pack in for the day when I heard a vehicle arrive outside. Mr Parker had evidently returned from wherever he’d been, and a few moments later came into the shed to see how I was progressing.

“Well,” he said, giving the boat a glance-over. “The paint seems to be going on quite nicely, doesn’t it?”

“Suppose so,” I replied, without enthusiasm.

“It’ll need several coats, won’t it?”

“Expect so.”

“Well, don’t worry about slapping on as many as it takes.”

“OK.”

“I’ve brought back some more chain and a wheel hub,” he continued. “So when you’ve got a moment can you make up another mooring?”

I wasn’t sure when he expected me to ‘get a moment’ exactly, but I just said OK again, and watched as he moved towards the chimney stove in the corner.

“Bit chilly in here,” he remarked. “I think we’ll get this going for you, keep the place nice and warm.”

Next thing we were clearing away the bits and pieces around the stove, and finding suitable pieces of timber to burn. To tell the truth I’d been so preoccupied with the boats that I hadn’t noticed how cold the weather had turned. No wonder I felt lethargic and sluggish. In contrast. Tommy Parker seemed to be in a very expansive mood. Soon there were flames darting up from within the stove, and he was making adjustments to the air regulator on the front. As the shed warmed up I began to feel less fed up than I had earlier.

“There you are,” he said, when he’d got the stove going full blast. “That’ll keep it cosy in here.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’m off down south with the oil drums tomorrow, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Right.”

Shortly afterwards I had another visitor. Around five o’clock the door opened and Gail came in. I noticed she’d already changed out of her school uniform.

“There’s a message for you from Mr Wanless,” she said.

“Who’s that then?” I asked.

“You know,” she replied. “Drives the school bus.”

“You mean Maurice?”

“I’ve always called him Mr Wanless.”

“Oh…right,” I said. “What’s the message?”

“He says it’ll be alright to go back to the Packhorse tonight.”

“Ah, that’s very good of him. I’ll have to buy him a pint.”

Gail looked disappointed. “Does that mean we won’t be able to have any more darts practice?”

“No, no, should be able to squeeze some in, although I’m a bit busy just at the moment.”

“So we will do it again then?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Promise.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

I watched her walk to the door and go out, and had to remind myself not for the first time that she was only fifteen. Maybe I should have just said I had no time available to spend with her and left it at that. After all, it would have been practically the truth. Apart from having a milk round to look after and all these boats to paint, there was also a mooring weight to make and put down, as well as a timber contract to complete. On top of all that there was my commitment to the darts team, which seemed rather more important than giving lessons to a teenage girl in a hay-loft. In fact, when I thought about it there was hardly a moment to spare, and now that the shed had warmed up I decided to bash on with the painting for another couple of hours. By seven o’clock I’d got the first coat finished on the boat I was doing and it looked OK, although I remained unhappy about the choice of colour. After that I dashed over to the bothy, had my tea and then went out.

When I arrived at the Packhorse I discovered I’d taken far too much for granted about my status in the darts team. I was made welcome enough, but the demands of the fixture list had obliged them to recruit other players during my absence, and there were no spare places. Bryan Webb bought me a pint and then explained that I would have to play myself back into the side by turning up for future matches on a reserve basis. This sounded fair enough to me, so I sat on a stool in the corner and prepared to watch the action. The visitors tonight were from the Rising Sun, and seemed to be a friendly enough bunch. Unfortunately, they were one of those teams that brought no women with them, so there was nothing much to look at apart from men lobbing darts. The first game was won by the Packhorse, and the second by the Rising Sun. Then suddenly everybody was laughing about something. I blinked once or twice and saw Bryan and the rest of them standing in a half-circle, grinning at me and studying my face.

“Is he or isn’t he?” someone said.

“Well, he isn’t now, but he definitely was,” said Bryan, and they all laughed again.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“You’ve just slept through half the match,” he said. “Watch out, you’re spilling your beer.”

I glanced down. The glass in my hand was lying at a haphazard angle, its contents lapping the rim. Quickly I straightened it, and got up from the stool.

“Blimey,” I said. “I must be more tired than I thought.”

“Well, you can’t burn the candle at both ends,” remarked Kenneth Turner. “You’d better go home and get your head down.”

“Yes, I think I will. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” they all chorused as I walked out.

Despite not getting a game of darts, I felt quite good about my first evening back at the Packhorse. Nobody had said anything about me ‘letting them down’ on that previous occasion, and I assumed from their silence on the subject that I was forgiven. Now it was just a matter of time before I was fully accepted as a team member again. The way Bryan had bought me a pint beforehand suggested that this wouldn’t be too long at all. Feeling fairly contented about the way things had gone, I wandered back to the bothy and went straight to bed. I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, waking again at half past four feeling fully refreshed. After a quick cup of tea I set off in the pick-up, and realized I was actually looking forward to embarking on my milk round once more.

As I emerged from the front gate I noticed there was another early-riser out and about. A figure appeared in the headlights walking along the road towards Millfold, and I knew instantly that it was old Mr Pickthall.

I pulled up beside him and wound down my window.

“Want a job?” I asked.