by Magnus Mills
Magnus Mills
All Quiet on the Orient Express
1999, EN
As the wet lakeland fells grow misty and the holiday season draws to a close… As the tourists trickle away from the campsite, along with the sunshine, and the hot water, and the last of the good beer… A man accidentally spills a tin of green paint, and thereby condemns himself to death.
Table of contents
1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9 · 10 · 11
∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧
One
“I thought I’d better catch you before you go,” he said. “Expect you’ll be leaving today, will you?”
“Hadn’t planned to,” I replied.
“A lot of people choose to leave on Monday mornings.”
“Well, I thought I’d give it another week, actually. The weather seems quite nice.”
“So you’re staying on then?”
“If that’s alright with you.”
“Of course it is,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
I’d been wondering when he would come to collect the rent. Several times in the past few days he’d gone round calling on everyone else, but for some reason he kept leaving me out. Now, on the sixth morning, he had finally made his approach. I emerged from my tent, barefoot, and the conversation continued.
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Yes,” he said. “We like it very much. Of course, I’ve been here all my life, so I don’t know any different.”
“Suppose not.”
“But everyone who comes here says they like it.”
“I’m not surprised.”
He opened the palm of his hand and for the first time I noticed he was holding a wooden tent peg.
“This yours?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Mine are all metal ones.”
“Do you want it? You can have it as a spare if you like.”
“Is it nobody else’s?”
“There’s no one else left,” he said. “They’ve all gone.”
I glanced around the field. “Oh yes, you’re right. Shame really.”
“One speck of rain and they all flee. Then the sun comes back and they miss it.”
“That’s always the way, isn’t it?”
“Almost always. Do you want this then?”
“OK,” I said, taking the peg. “Thanks.”
“Would you like to pay some rent?”
“Oh yes. How much do I owe you?”
He adopted a businesslike smile. “It’s a pound a night.”
“That’s six pounds so far then.”
“If you’ve been here six nights, yes.”
“Right.” I took a five-pound note from my back pocket and handed it over, and then began fishing for some coins.
“That’s quite expensive really, isn’t it?” he remarked. “Just for you, your tent and your motorbike.”
“Seems alright to me,” I replied.
“I ought to be giving you a bit of discount if you’re staying another week.”
“A pound a night’s fine,” I said, giving him the balance.
“Alright then,” he said. “That’s grand.”
Now that the transaction was over I expected him to make his excuses and move on, but after he’d taken the money he replanted his feet and looked up at the sky.
“On holiday, are you?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “Well, sort of.”
He smiled again. “Which?”
“Well, I’m between things at the present. I’ve been working all summer to save some money so I can go East during the winter.”
“You mean the east coast?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Sorry. Abroad East. You know, Turkey, Persia, and then overland to India.”
“I see,” he said, nodding towards my bike. “You’ll be going on that, will you?”
“Probably not, actually,” I replied. “There’s a train you can catch a good part of the way.”
“Is there now? Well, that’s handy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
He looked at my tent. “So what brings you to this part of the country then?”
“Well,” I said. “I’ve always fancied seeing the lakes, so I thought I’d have a couple of weeks here first.”
“And do you like it so far?”
“What I’ve seen, yeah.”
“That’s good. You going out today?”
“Not sure what I’ll be doing really.”
“We’ve noticed you go out most days.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, we don’t miss much from our window.”
I was slightly surprised by this. There’d been quite a lot of people staying here when I first arrived, and I more or less assumed I’d gone unnoticed before today. After all, I was only one tent and a motorbike. Some of the families who’d been around during the week had set up huge encampments that extended across large areas of the field, with countless children running in all directions. By comparison I’d occupied hardly any room at all. Nevertheless, it had taken me some time just to find a reasonable space for myself, where I wouldn’t be encroached upon. The previous evening a mass exodus had taken place following a brief spell of rain, but not until this morning did I realize I was the only visitor left. All that remained was an expanse of grass marked out in yellowing squares. The absence of other paying customers probably explained the proprietor’s sudden interest in me, yet it turned out he’d been aware of my presence all along.
His remark about the window caused us both to look up at the house, perched on the sloping ground above. Behind it I could make out the outline of a very large barn, as well as some other outbuildings, and beyond them lay the upper slopes of the fells. The whole place was bathed in sunlight, but I knew after yesterday’s rain that it wasn’t always like this.
As we stood there taking in the view a thought occurred to me.
“What I’d really like to do is hire one of those rowing boats down by the lake.”
“Oh yes?” he said.
“Yeah, but every time I go down there the boat-hire place seems to be closed.”
“Bit late in the season really.”
“Suppose so.”
“Still, I’ve no doubt you’ll find something else to do.”
And with that he gave me a smile and a nod before strolling off in the direction of the house.
“Nice talking to you,” I said to his back, and he raised a hand in acknowledgement.
I watched him go, then delved in my bag for a can of baked beans and set about preparing some breakfast. It was a simple affair, because all I had was a stove, a pan and these beans. I heated them up and ate them ‘cowboy-style’, without a plate. Then I went over to the tap, washed the pan out and brought back some water for making tea.
While I was waiting for it to boil I sat in the grass and wondered how I was going to occupy myself today. That was the only trouble with this place: the scenery was great and everything, but there was nothing to do except ‘take it in’, and, to tell the truth, I’d already had enough of that. I’d ridden round and round the area a few times on my motorbike, going along the edge of lakes and traversing high mountain passes, but there was a limit to how much enjoyment could be derived from this, especially with all the cars travelling nose to tail everywhere I went. Admittedly the roads would be quieter now that the majority of tourists had gone home, yet the idea of spending another day motorcycling didn’t really appeal to me. The alternative, of course, was going for a walk. There were miles and miles of footpaths going off in every direction all over the fells, most of them worn down by sheep, but
some, apparently, attributable to the Romans. I’d read somewhere that you could walk over the fells for a year and never use the same pathway twice. Impressive enough, but the disadvantage of going for long walks was that I’d probably never meet anybody all day long. So that wasn’t particularly attractive either.
However, I was aware that my supply of baked beans was running low, so I decided to take a short walk along the side of the lake and get some more. There was a place called Millfold about a mile away at the northern end, with a shop, two pubs, a phone box and a churchyard. I’d taken quite a liking to one of the pubs, the Packhorse, and spent every evening there, watching people come and go. I had no intention of calling in for a lunchtime drink, though, as I didn’t want the day to dissolve into an alcoholic blur. Once I’d bought my supplies I would have to think of something else to do in the afternoon.
I’d made up my mind about that, and was just brewing the tea, when a movement caught my eye. Walking down the narrow concrete road that led from the house came a teenage girl in school uniform. I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. I’d seen this girl go by every day last week, passing the field full of tents on her way to the front gate. Here she would stop and stand waiting with a school bag dangling at her feet. On previous occasions she’d paid no attention to me as she walked past, always looking straight ahead, but this morning she glanced in my direction so I gave her a friendly wave. She waved back and then continued to the gate. The tea now being ready, I poured it into my tin mug and added milk. A few moments later, when I again looked towards the gateway, the schoolgirl had gone. Behind the hedge I could see the roof of a blue minibus moving away along the road.
♦
There was a modest sign fixed to the outside wall of the shower block, ‘HILLHOUSE CAMPING’, it said, ‘PROPRIETOR: T. PARKER’.
After taking a shower I zipped up the tent and set off on my lakeside walk, going out through the main gateway, then across the public road to another gate leading into a second field. Until yesterday this other gate had been wide open and held that way with a chain, giving full access to the lake. It was even open late last night when I came back from the pub. Now, however, the same chain had been used to keep the gate shut, which seemed to indicate that the holiday season was definitely finished. I climbed over and crossed the field by way of a dirt track, passing between some mossy trees before eventually arriving at the lake, where a number of rowing boats were moored. There were seven boats all told, tied up one behind the other, about sixty yards from the shore. As usual the green boat-hire hut was ‘closed until further notice’, but I went and stood at the end of the small jetty for a while, on the off chance that someone would turn up.
Nobody did, so after a few minutes spent gazing at the water I continued my journey along the shore. Finally, I arrived at the north end of the lake, passed through a kissing gate, and walked across a deserted car park to a sort of square occupied by the shop and the two pubs.
The shopkeeper was standing in his doorway, and appeared to be sunning himself. Above his front window was one large word: ‘HODGE’.
“Morning,” he said, as I approached. “No bike today?”
“Er…no,” I replied. “I thought I’d walk.”
“You’re the chap staying up at Tommy Parker’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Not leaving yet then?”
“No, I thought I’d stay on a bit longer.”
“Oh, I see.”
As I came forward he made a move as if to step back into the shop, but then he paused and remained blocking the doorway instead. As a result I found myself standing quite close to him.
A moment passed as he glanced up at the sky.
“Not a bad sort of day, is it?”
“No, it’s very nice,” I agreed, looking up at the same sky.
He seemed content with this answer, and moved aside. Then he followed me into the shop and slipped behind the counter.
“Now then. What can I do you for?”
“Just a few things,” I said. “Starting with six cans of baked beans.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “You like your beans, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, they save worrying about meals and everything.”
“Best things ever invented, beans are,” he announced. “Right then, six cans coming up.”
“Those eggs fresh, are they?” I asked, indicating a box.
“Quite fresh, yes.”
“OK, half a dozen eggs as well, please.”
I bought a carton of milk too, and then paid him.
As he handed over my change he said, “That motorbike of yours. You thinking of selling it?”
“Not really, no,” I replied.
“I noticed it’s quite an early model.”
“Yes,” I said. “Pre-unit.”
“But it’s not for sale?”
“No.”
“Well, if it was, Tommy could sell it for you. Knows all about auctions.”
“Does he?”
“Oh yes. He’s always buying and selling things.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I’ll bear that in mind if I suddenly decide to sell it.”
He gave me a funny look when I said this, but I wasn’t bothered really because I thought his questioning was a bit too familiar. After all, I was only a temporary visitor passing though the area, who happened to be buying a few groceries. What did he expect? My life history?
I left the shop and headed across the square. For some reason I’d decided to return to the campsite directly along the public road. There was now a vague notion in my head that I would give the bike a bit of a check-over, and then maybe polish up the chrome. It seemed like a good idea while the nice weather held. Outside the Packhorse a brewer’s lorry was making a delivery and collecting a few empty beer barrels. Beside it was one of the barmen, and as I passed by he gave me a nod of recognition.
“How’re you doing?” he asked in a cheery manner.
“Alright, thanks,” I replied, and went on my way wondering what sort of lives these people would lead now that the seasonal throng had departed. Despite the sunshine and the chirping birds there was no one else around but me.
I’d just stopped to admire the sheer density and thickness of the churchyard wall, when a pick-up truck with an empty trailer in tow pulled up beside me. Behind the wheel was Mr Parker.
“Want a lift?”
I felt I really ought to decline the offer as it seemed to be my duty to walk on such a pleasant day. But I got in all the same.
“Thanks,” I said, joining him in the cab.
We moved off and then he said, “Don’t mind me asking, but this job of yours you had.”
“Oh, yes?”
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing very special. It was in a factory.”
“Get away.”
“No,” I said. “Really. It was.”
“What, with chimneys and everything?”
“There was one chimney, yes.”
“But I thought all the factories were supposed to have closed down.”
“Not this one,” I said. “It was doing quite well actually.”
“Was that down south?”
“Well, south-west really.”
“But you’re from the south, aren’t you?”
“Er…no,” I said. “Middle, to be exact.”
“Because most of the people who come here are from the north-east.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“Not all of them, of course, but most.”
“Yes.”
It had taken me almost an hour to walk to the shop from the campsite, what with hanging around by the boat-hire place and everything, but in the truck the return journey took only a matter of minutes. We very quickly arrived at Mr Parker’s gateway, where he pulled up. Slipping the gears into neutral, he sat tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
“So what did they make in this factory of yours?” he
asked.
“Well, factory’s probably the wrong word,” I said. “It was recycling oil drums. You know, cleaning them out, getting rid of the dents, painting them up.”
“Then they’d sell them off, would they?”
“That’s right.”
“And you say they’re doing quite well at it?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“I’ve got some oil drums up in the top yard. Do you think they’d buy them off me?”
“I’m not sure really,” I said. “How many have you got?”
“About a dozen,” he replied. “Picked them up in a job lot.”
“Well, I was only there temporary but I should think you’d need at least a hundred to make it worth while.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Need a full lorry-load really, going all that way.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.” He tapped on the steering wheel again. “So what job were you doing then?”
“I was in the paint shop.”
“Painting?”
“Well, it was spraying really.”
“Not brushes?”
“No.”
A few moments passed.
“But you can handle a paintbrush, can you?” he asked.
“Not bad with one,” I replied. “Haven’t done much though.”
“Well, we’ve got a bit of a chore for you if you’re interested.”
“Oh,” I said, with some surprise. “What’s that then?”
“This gate needs painting.”
I glanced at the gate that was hooked open beside us. It was a steel tube type, painted red and hinged on substantial concrete posts.
“It’s already been painted,” I remarked.
“Wrong colour,” he said. “It needs to be green.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I can paint it for you if you like.”
“How much would you want for doing that then?”
“I’m not really bothered about the money.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to work for nothing, would you?”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Let me off the remainder of my rent and that’ll do.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, positive. It’ll be something to keep me occupied. I quite like painting.”
