All Quiet on the Orient Express

by Magnus Mills

  “Haven’t you?” I said, raising my voice a little so he could hear me.

  “No,” he replied. “I’ve tried it, but I didn’t like it.”

  “That’s a shame. Maybe you should give it another go.”

  “I haven’t time to go playing around in boats.”

  “Oh. No. I don’t imagine you have.”

  “Got more important things to do.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So today I’ll be leaving you to your own devices, if that’s alright.”

  “OK.”

  The bottom of the hatch moved slightly in my direction. There was a small gap underneath, so I stuck my fingers in to try and help pull. A moment later a sharp rattling noise came from inside the hut. The right-hand corner of the hatch was now free, but the left corner remained stuck.

  “Are you pushing or pulling?” asked Mr Parker.

  “Er…pulling, actually,” I replied.

  “Well, can you pull a bit harder? Please?”

  We were now both speaking with raised voices. I gripped and pulled. At the same time I heard a grunt from inside, and the hatch quickly opened outwards, jamming my knuckles for a moment before swinging up at me. I stepped back and let go, allowing the hatch to slam shut again.

  “Flaming hell!” roared a voice within. “Keep hold of it then!”

  “Sorry,” I said, attempting to get my fingers back under. This hurt somewhat, as my knuckles had been grazed quite badly. Next instant the hatch swung up again to reveal Mr Parker doing battle with a wooden support prop, which he instantly began jamming into position. I noticed his face had turned a deep pink and his eyes were blazing. It seemed important that this part of the operation should be completed as quickly as possible, so I grabbed the prop and helped guide it with my free hand, while still holding on to the hatch with the other. A few seconds later the prop was safely in place, and the struggle was over. There then followed a brief silence. I didn’t say anything to Mr Parker, but instead pretended to gaze out across the lake in a preoccupied manner.

  When he spoke again his tone of voice had returned to normal.

  “We’ll have to have a look at this hatch sometime,” he remarked. “Seems to be sticking at one side.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, casting an expert eye over the hatchway. “Must be the new paint.”

  “Or perhaps a bit of sagging in the timber.”

  “Could be, I suppose.”

  “Right, then. Can you give me a hand with the tender please?”

  Leaning against the back wall of the hut I could see a tiny boat, no more than five feet long. By the time I got inside he’d already begun struggling to lift it, so I quickly grabbed the other end. We lugged it out of the hut and across to the water’s edge, our legs moving in short little jerks like a beetle. After a moment’s rest we continued along the jetty. In so doing I became increasingly aware that the structure wasn’t in particularly sound condition. It was alright for normal walking about on, but under the additional weight of the boat a few planks creaked and made other ominous noises. Finally, however, we got to the end, where we put the boat down. Mr Parker then walked back along the jetty, giving it an inspection as he went. I could see that several planks were cracked and insecure, while others showed early signs of rot. There were even one or two missing altogether.

  “Needs a bit of maintenance here,” he remarked. “Do you want to come and get some oars?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Forgot about them.”

  I followed him back to the hut, where he handed me the oars before locking up.

  “Pull the tender in among those reeds when you’ve finished,” he said. “Should be safe there for the time being.”

  “OK.”

  “Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “How long shall I stay out for?” I asked.

  “As long as you like,” replied Mr Parker. “There’s no one else here.”

  After he’d gone I went back to the end of the jetty and launched the tender. Then I stood looking at it, wondering what to do next. I’d assumed that he meant me to use it to get to the full-sized rowing boats out on the mooring, but I wasn’t entirely certain about this. Maybe I was just supposed to potter around in this tiny thing for a couple of hours, and then come back. After all, he’d never actually mentioned the other boats while he was here. And I hadn’t liked to ask. So now I found myself in a bit of a quandary.

  Yet surely on a lake this size someone would need to be in a proper boat to make it worth while. Wouldn’t they? Yes, I decided, of course they would. Especially if they were paying a pound for the privilege. With this in mind I set off towards the mooring. I was pleased to find that I hadn’t forgotten how to row, and once I’d got used to the balance I was soon well on my way.

  As I approached the line of moored boats I began to realize that they bore a strong resemblance to the ones in my childhood park. They were all an identical shade of maroon, and even the gold paintwork along the gunwales looked the same. Most striking of all, though, were the ornate prows that rose up at the front of each boat. As a child I’d always been impressed by these because they reminded me of the curved ships from famous legends and fables. For some reason the raised prows made the boats seem ancient, so that it was impossible to tell whether they were constructed ten, twenty or even fifty years before. It was this sense of age-lessness that had always attracted me to them.

  Not that I planned to have an ‘adventure’ in one of these vessels. After all, I was fully aware that they were just simple pleasure craft, built to be hired out by the hour. I was going for nothing more than a simple jaunt on the lake, enjoying the sunshine whilst taking in the scenery from a new perspective. Nevertheless, by the time I’d chosen a boat and clambered aboard, the thought had been planted in my head that I didn’t just want to spend the morning aimlessly rowing about. It would be much better actually to go on a journey somewhere. Not long after that I hit on the idea of making my way towards the end of the lake, and then having a pint of beer in the Packhorse.

  From out here on the water I was made aware of the vastness of the surrounding fells. Silent except for the bleating of distant sheep, they looked as though they went on for ever, although in reality of course I knew they didn’t. Less than ten miles to the east a modern motorway cut a swathe right through them. Along this strip of tarmac pounded an endless stream of traffic in the headlong charge between England and Scotland. There was also a railway line, and a procession of electricity pylons carrying power from one industrial centre to another.

  Yet from my boat I could see no evidence of any of this. There was just empty land, and trees, with occasional farms and dwellings scattered along the lakeside. What caught my eye most of all was Mr Parker’s house perched high up on the slope. With the huge shed looming in the background, it seemed to dominate the locality, giving the impression that there was someone inside keeping watch. I was sure he had better things to do than spy on me from his window all day, but all the same I felt more at ease when I’d rowed half a mile and the house finally disappeared behind a spur of land.

  The boat was moving along quite nicely, and I had to admit that this was a very pleasant way to pass the time. Unfortunately my back had begun complaining about the unaccustomed strain it was under, so I was glad to see the end of the lake drawing near. I knew from my previous walks to the pub that there was a good place to go ashore not far from the car park. I managed to pull the boat on land without getting my feet wet, and as a precaution I tied the mooring rope to a nearby sapling. Then I set off on foot towards the Packhorse.

  As I approached I saw that Tony was at work in the beer garden, applying black paint to the outside windowsills of the pub. The walls were whitewashed, with some black beams across the middle, and I assumed that this was meant to make the building appear to be Tudor in origin.

  “Doing a good job there,” I said, walking towards the side door. “Safe to go in, is it?”

  “Should be,” he repli
ed. “But knock first, just in case.”

  I knocked and entered the bottom bar, which was deserted. A moment later Tony came in, served me a pint of Ex and then went out again. It was too nice a day to remain inside for very long, so I followed him out into the beer garden where he resumed his painting. I had planned to sit at one of the wooden picnic tables, but I discovered they’d all been treated with wood preserver and stacked one on top of the other in the corner. For this reason I went and sat on the stone wall instead, placing my beer beside me while I waited for it to settle. Occasionally I glanced across the square, but there seemed to be no one about. The only sign of activity this morning was Tony at work with his brush, applying new black paint over the black paint that was already there. A few minutes passed as he completed yet another window-sill. Then I heard a vehicle coming down the road from the direction of the church, and casually looked round to see Mr Parker go by in his pick-up with the trailer in tow.

  Suddenly this trip to the Packhorse didn’t seem such a good idea. I’d hardly touched my pint before his unexpected appearance, but now I felt the urge to finish it and get back to where I’d tied up. After all, I was supposed to be out on the lake, not lounging in a pub garden. I wasn’t sure whether he’d noticed me sitting there, but I was certain he wouldn’t be very pleased about one of his boats being left unattended. I drained my glass and headed across the square. As I did so it occurred to me that even at this moment there might be someone making off with the boat. I broke into a run, charging through the deserted car park and up the path to the lake. It was difficult running with the newly swallowed beer inside me, and by the time I got to the water’s edge I felt quite sick. The boat was lying exactly where I’d left it, of course, completely safe. As I collapsed out of breath in the grass nearby I realized I’d panicked over nothing, and all because of that conversation last night in the pub. It had been the thought of Mr Parker losing his temper that’d brought me rushing back instead of taking the time to enjoy my beer properly. This now struck me as ridiculous. The episode at the boat-hire hut with the sticking hatch had shown me, if anything, that he controlled his temper very well. I soon came to the conclusion that the whole thing was some sort of local myth, not to be taken seriously.

  Still, now I was here I could see no point in going back to the pub for another pint, so once I’d recovered sufficiently I relaunched the boat and continued my rowing. I suppose I must have passed the time in this manner for another hour or so before the novelty wore off. By then I’d worked my way right along the far shore of the lake to a point more or less opposite Mr Parker’s place. I decided that this was enough for one day, so I returned to the mooring, tied up and rowed ashore in the tender. I shoved it into the reeds as he’d directed, leaving the oars tucked under the seat. This time I did get my feet wet. The water looked shallow but there was a lot of mud, and my boots sank in while I was getting out of the boat. Despite this it had been an enjoyable couple of hours. I strolled back to the tent, changed my socks and had a cup of tea. My motorbike had been waiting there neglected for a couple of days, so I spent the afternoon giving it the clean I’d promised yesterday.

  When I went to the pub that night it struck me that there was a distinct shortage of women in the area now that the tourists had left. The previous week the place had been full of attractive girls, all looking especially healthy after a few days in the outdoors. Now they seemed to have gone. The only exception was a young woman who appeared up in the top bar at about ten o’clock. I’d seen her once before. On that occasion she spent a lot of time talking to Tony, and I’d more or less assumed she was his girlfriend. Tonight, however, Gordon was on duty and she seemed to be giving him the same amount of attention. Which made me think she could be unattached. I quite liked the look of her, and would probably have tried to get acquainted if I hadn’t been leaving at the end of the week. As it was, I had to content myself with the occasional glance she gave in my direction.

  Meanwhile, in the bottom bar, the dartboard remained the centre of attention. The supply of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter seemed to be holding out alright, and I spent another evening with the locals. One darts game followed another, followed by a further round of drinks and another one after that. I wondered if it was like this every night during the winter. They set a very fast pace for their drinking and once again I seemed to get swept along with it. As usual the man in the cardboard crown was present, and he made sure I didn’t miss out. I stayed as long as possible to see if the young woman in the top bar left with anybody, but she suddenly disappeared while my back was turned. It was time to leave, so I wandered back to the campsite and went straight to bed.

  I didn’t sleep well. In the middle of the night a girl in a gym slip kept turning the water on and off. I came slowly awake and realized someone was shaking my tent pole.

  A moment later I heard a voice outside. It was Mr Parker.

  “Could you give us a hand here?” he said. “The rowing boats seem to have got away.”

  ∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧

  Three

  I could hear an engine running in the darkness.

  “Just a sec,” I said, searching for my boots and pulling them on quickly.

  When I came out I saw the pick-up truck parked nearby, headlights blazing. Mr Parker had already returned to the driving seat, so I went over and he spoke through the window.

  “I’ve just been down to the lake and there’s no sign of them. We’ll have to conduct a search.”

  I got in beside him and we headed off towards the lower field, where the gate was unchained and wide open. Shortly afterwards we arrived at the water’s edge. With some relief I found the tender amongst the reeds where I’d left it. I could just make out its dark shape in the moonlight. The string of boats on the mooring, however, had gone.

  “Could you row out and have a look for them?” said Mr Parker.

  “Er…yeah,” I replied. “Can if you like.”

  This didn’t sound like a very good idea to me. After all, the chance of finding seven boats on a lake this size, in the dark, seemed quite small. However, I wanted to appear to be helping in any way I could, so I went along with it. I got my feet wet again as I cast off, but this didn’t seem very important under the circumstances. As I rowed slowly away from the shore I could see Mr Parker’s figure standing on the jetty, looking in my direction. I got to where the mooring buoy should have been and noticed that it, too, had vanished.

  “Can you see them?” called Mr Parker.

  “Afraid not,” I called back. “Looks like the whole mooring’s gone.”

  “Well, could you search further out?”

  This whole exercise was beginning to seem very pointless, as I could hardly see where I was going, let alone catch a glimpse of the escaped boats. To make it worse, the water sounded much noisier tonight that it had done during the day. I could hear it bashing against the tender, and I began to wonder how far it would be safe to go. Still, I carried on plodding along for the time being, in order to satisfy Mr Parker that I’d had a good look. As I did so I wondered what he’d been doing down here at this time of night to notice that the boats had gone. I had no idea what time it was, but it must have been well into the small hours. After a while he called me again.

  “Can you come in now, please?”

  His way of giving orders in the form of a polite request was very effective, and I suddenly realized I’d inadvertently become his servant. Here I was floating about in the darkness at his beck and call, with wet feet, when I should have been fast asleep. I wasn’t unduly bothered about the inconvenience, but all the same I was pleased that he’d at last decided to abandon our search. Now I could go back to bed.

  So it was a bit disappointing when I came ashore and he said, “We’ll have to drive round the lake road and see where they’ve gone.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until morning?” I asked.

  “Might be too late by then,” he replied. “And I should hate
to lose them.”

  We got in the pick-up truck and spent the next two hours on a fruitless search. We went first to Millfold, then over the stone bridge and onto the road that ran south along the far side of the lake. Every time we passed anywhere near the shore Mr Parker stopped and I had to jump out and stand at the water’s edge peering into the gloom.

  Then I’d get back in and he’d say, “No sign of them?”

  “Sorry, no,” I’d reply, and we’d press on.

  There was little other conversation. Occasionally we would pass some property and he’d slow down and look in through the gateway, as if expecting to see his boats hidden somewhere within. Finally, we came to the southernmost tip of the lake and he turned back. I thought that would be enough charging about for one night, but when we arrived at the campsite Mr Parker drove down to the jetty again. For a moment I thought he was hoping the boats had come home of their own accord. Instead it seemed that he’d decided to put the tender back in the hut for safekeeping, so we spent another few minutes struggling to get it locked away. Only then did we rest. Mr Parker had certainly taken the loss of his boats seriously, but there didn’t seem to be any suggestion that it was my fault. As far as I could make out the whole mooring must have come adrift from the bed of the lake, and obviously that had nothing to do with me. All the same, I couldn’t help wondering if I was somehow ‘suspected’.

  For his part, Mr Parker was being quite friendly. After he’d locked the hut he turned to me and said, “You’d better come up to the house for some breakfast.”

  By this time several streaks of light had appeared in the eastern sky, so I guessed it was about six o’clock. I was ready for bed, but a bit of breakfast in a proper kitchen sounded very attractive, so I accepted the offer.

  When we pulled up in the yard I saw Mr Parker’s trailer parked by the big shed. It was loaded with a large piece of equipment whose purpose I couldn’t make out in this light.

  I was about to ask what it was when the terrace door opened and Gail Parker appeared.