All Quiet on the Orient Express

by Magnus Mills

  It was an hour later while I was busy cutting some more timber that I realized I had a visitor. I’d just turned round to select a new plank from the pile when I became aware of an elderly man standing at the edge of the trees, watching. He gave no sign of acknowledgement, however, so I carried on with what I was doing. The combined din of the tractor and the circular saw tended to isolate me from the rest of the world, and I was also keeping a constant eye on the spinning blade. As a result I had no idea how long he’d been there. Presumably he’d come across me by chance while out for a lakeside walk. I expected him to move on at any moment, but when I again glanced towards the trees I saw that he’d come a little closer. After a while he was near enough for me to give him a friendly nod. He responded by offering the next plank and holding it steady as I measured it. Then, while I was getting it cut, he took the template and marked another plank in advance. Then another one after that. This saved me quite a bit of time, and a few minutes later I had several more pieces of timber ready. I shut the saw down and switched the tractor off, turning to the old man as the noise faded.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That was a great help.”

  “About time this job was done,” he replied.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It wouldn’t have been safe to leave it much longer.”

  “That other lad should have done it while he was here.”

  “What other lad?”

  “The one who was helping with the boats.”

  “Oh,” I said. “You mean Bryan Webb.”

  “That fool who goes round in the cardboard crown?”

  “Er…yeah.”

  “No,” said the old man. “I’m not talking about him.”

  “Well,” I replied. “I don’t really know anyone else.”

  He shook his head with impatience. “There was a lad here during the summer, supposed to be looking after the boats. Idle perisher, he was.”

  “Was he?”

  “Never did a stroke.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know they had someone doing that.”

  “As soon as there was any proper work to be done he took off. Last thing he did was paint that hut, and you can see what a pig’s ear he made of it.”

  I glanced towards the hut and remembered the problems we’d had getting the hatch open a couple of days ago.

  “Yes,” I remarked. “I noticed the paintwork was a bit slapdash.”

  “Bit slapdash?” snapped the old man. “He shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near a paintbrush!”

  “No, suppose not.”

  “You look like you’d do a much better job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Shame you had to go and spill green all over Parker’s gateway though.”

  “Oh…er…yes.”

  “Still, at least you had the sense to make it into a square.” He now turned his attention to the pile of planks. “Good load of timber, this.”

  “I don’t really know anything about it.”

  “Well, take my word for it,” he said. “It’s good.”

  Shortly afterwards I resumed work on the jetty. The elderly man seemed to know something about joinery and stayed to help out for a while, positioning the planks and occasionally adding a few extra nails here and there. As the afternoon progressed, however, he began to show signs of tiredness, and eventually wandered off after telling me I was doing a ‘reasonable’ job. I thanked him for his help and said goodbye before he receded into the trees. Then I got back to work.

  The light was beginning to fade when Mr Parker appeared in his pick-up truck. He got out and walked onto the jetty, pressing the new planks with his boots and generally carrying out a thorough examination. Meanwhile, I watched and awaited his verdict.

  “I thought you’d have got a bit further than this,” he said at length.

  “Should get it finished tomorrow,” I replied.

  “That’s alright then. Can you put the tractor in the shed overnight, please?”

  “OK.”

  He went over to the pick-up and got the grease gun, before going round the machinery once again to treat all the moving parts. When he’d finished I started up the tractor and set off towards the shed. By the time I got back to the caravan darkness was falling and I felt like I’d done a good day’s work. I had a cup of tea and then went over to the house to see about getting some hot water, taking Gail Parker’s completed homework with me. It was she who answered the door.

  “Here you are,” I said. “Shouldn’t be any mistakes now.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a smile, putting the exercise book to one side without even glancing at it.

  “Is there any chance of a bucket of hot water, so I can get a wash?”

  “You can get it from the boiler room,” she replied. “Just a sec.”

  She took a key from a hook and led me round the foot of the house to another outside door. Unlocking it, she went inside and turned on the light.

  “You’ll probably find it quite hot in here,” she remarked as I followed her in.

  In the dim light I could see a large boiler throbbing away in the middle of the room, beneath a black aluminium flue. There were a number of water pipes leading up to the ceiling, and one of them had a tap plumbed into it.

  “Got a bucket?” asked Gail.

  “Oh,” I said. “Er…no.”

  “There’s one there.”

  I turned and saw a bucket in the corner and went to reach for it. At the same moment Gail squeezed past me to do the same thing.

  “Sorry,” I said as we bumped together.

  “That’s alright,” she said, smiling as she handed it to me. “Will you be wanting any more after this?”

  “Any more what?”

  “Hot water.”

  “Might do, yes,” I replied.

  “Right, I’ll see if I can find you a spare key.”

  “Thanks.”

  She left me filling the bucket and went out. I thought she’d be coming straight back so I waited a while, but after ten minutes there was no sign of her. I eventually gave up and returned to the caravan, where I enjoyed the luxury of my first wash and shave in hot water for several days. Then I perused the Trader’s Gazette over supper before going out for the evening.

  During the day I’d decided it might be nice to visit Millfold’s other pub before leaving the area, just for a change of scenery. I hadn’t gone there before because it didn’t look as lively as the Packhorse, and seemed to cater for more staid types of people. Nevertheless, I thought it might be worth giving a try. It was called the Ring of Bells and occupied the opposite side of the square, next door to Hodge’s shop.

  It came as no surprise to find that Hodge was one of the few customers. He showed some sign of recognition when I walked in, and murmured something to the landlord before greeting me with a nod. He was sitting at the end of the counter with a whisky glass. Another man occupied a stool some distance away, and there were two others sitting at a table by the window, but apart from these people the place was deserted. The landlord seemed friendly enough, however, and took a beer glass from the shelf the moment he saw me.

  “Pint of?” he asked.

  “Got any Topham’s Excelsior?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Not enough demand for it round here.”

  “Oh, OK,” I said. “Pint of lager then, please.”

  “Right you are.”

  While the landlord was pouring my drink, Hodge decided to start up a conversation.

  “On the bike tonight?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied. “Prefer to walk.”

  “Don’t use it much, do you?”

  “Not for short journeys, no.”

  “Haven’t seen you out and about on it for several days.”

  “No, well, I’ve been busy.”

  “But I thought you were supposed to be on holiday.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” I said. “I am.”

  To tell the truth, I found this Hodge bloke quite irrit
ating and was beginning to regret coming into the Ring of Bells. After all, it wasn’t much of a pub as far as atmosphere went. There was no dartboard, no raucous character in a cardboard crown, and no subtle division between top and bottom bar. All there was were these people sitting around sipping whisky and asking banal questions. Alright, so the Packhorse wasn’t exactly the centre of the galaxy, but it beat the Ring of Bells hands down for entertainment value. I spent a dull evening wondering what it would be like living here if this was the only pub, and made a mental note not to bother coming back.

  ♦

  I was down by the lakeside quite early next morning, determined to get the jetty finished the same day. I saw Mr Parker looking out of his kitchen window as I went off on the tractor, but he didn’t come out. In fact I didn’t see him to speak to until the evening. Meanwhile I pressed on with the repairs. By now I had grown quite adept at removing the old planks, and was also much more confident when operating the circular saw. Sometime in the afternoon the old man turned up again, and he was soon lending a hand. I didn’t know whether he’d come back on purpose or just happened to be passing by, but either way he helped speed the work up considerably. At the same time there was no question that I would need to reward him for his efforts. As far as I could make out he was helping because, like me, he had nothing better to do. We finished the job just before dusk, and once again he wandered off without saying goodbye. I then began packing the tools away and gathered up the remaining planks to take them back to the yard. Finally, when it was all done, I went and stood on the end of the jetty and gazed out across the lake.

  During the day I’d detected a change in the climate. It appeared that the sunny weather was over for good, and now a slight breeze was starting up. The water had a grey look about it which no longer suggested a pleasant afternoon’s boating. The sky too was grey, and the fells seemed to be looming rather closely. It struck me that this was just about the right time to be moving on. After a while I heard a vehicle approaching, and turned round to see Mr Parker’s truck pulling onto the shore. Piled in the back were a number of empty oil drums. He approached and joined me oh the jetty.

  “Did you say you were leaving tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “That’s the plan anyway.”

  “Well, you’ll need to get away early,” he said. “We’ve got some rain coming.”

  “Yes, I thought it looked a bit gloomy.”

  “The weatherman says the isobars are closing in.”

  “Does he?”

  “It’s 978, falling rapidly.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  Mr Parker had been peering at the opposite shore of the lake, but now he turned to me.

  “You’ll not have seen it rain here, will you?”

  “It did rain a bit the other day, yes.”

  “That was nothing,” he said. “You haven’t seen this place until you’ve seen it rain properly.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Teems down, it does.”

  “I bet.”

  “So I’d get away early if I were you.”

  “OK.”

  And with that he turned and made his way back to the truck. We loaded the spare planks between the oil drums, then he drove off while I followed in the tractor.

  I was slightly disconcerted that he’d made no mention of how much he was going to pay me, but it occurred to me that there was no particular hurry as I wasn’t leaving until the next day.

  More disappointing was the fact that he hadn’t remarked on the quality of my workmanship. It didn’t bother me unduly, but it would have been nice if he’d at least said something about it. Even if it was just to note that I’d sawn all the timber straight.

  Then I realized that it was probably no big deal to him, nothing more than another job finished and out of the way. The last thing he was going to do was heap praise on someone for doing a bit of joinery.

  After we’d put the gear in the shed, however, he paused by the door.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I probably owe you something for that work you’ve done for me.”

  “Er…well, it doesn’t matter really,” I replied.

  “Of course it does,” he declared. “It was quite remiss of us not making a proper arrangement beforehand.”

  “Suppose it was.”

  “So I really must let you have something before you leave.”

  “Right.”

  He indicated the green petrol pump beside the shed.

  “How would you like me to fill your tank up?”

  “Oh…OK,” I said. “If that’s alright with you.”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “That’s the least I can offer.”

  I went round and got my bike, and he squeezed two and half gallons into the petrol tank.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” he replied. “I hope you’ve been comfortable in the caravan, have you?”

  “Oh,” I said quickly. “Yes, it was very kind of you.”

  “That’s good.”

  He locked the pump and then turned to me.

  “Right. Well, I might not see you when you leave, so have a good trip and come back sometime if you can.”

  We shook hands and he headed across to his house, where I noticed the lights inside had already been turned on for the evening. This gave it a very warm, comfortable appearance and made the rest of the yard seem fairly bleak in comparison. When I got round to my caravan I realized the wind was increasing steadily. Somewhere in the mounting gloom I could hear an irregular clanging that suggested one of the corrugated sheets on the big shed had come loose. Several times during the next hour I went out to see if I could identify the exact source of the noise, but it was soon too dark to see. I decided there was probably nothing much wrong anyway. No doubt Mr Parker knew about the problem and would get it fixed in his own good time. Meanwhile, I set about preparing some supper. After that I planned to get my stuff packed and work out what I’d need for the journey next day. One particular item was of great importance. Somewhere in the bottom of my bag lay a set of waterproofs, and I was thankful I’d remembered to bring them.

  With the wet weather gathering outside it was odd to think that when I first arrived here it had still felt like summer. That seemed a long time ago now, but actually it was less than a fortnight. I was trying to imagine what an entire winter would be like when a knock came on the caravan door. It was Gail.

  “I’ve brought you the spare key to the boiler room,” she said.

  “Oh thanks,” I replied. “Er…you know I’m going tomorrow, do you?”

  “Yeah, but I thought you might like some hot water tonight.”

  “Oh right. Well, thanks again.”

  She remained standing in the doorway.

  “Is there anything else?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “They’ve set this essay at school and I don’t know how to do it.”

  Just then the wind caught the door and slammed it back against the caravan.

  “Come in a sec,” I said. “It’s getting cold out there.”

  She stepped inside and I reached round and closed the door.

  “Now what’s this essay about?”

  “It’s called ‘Where I live’.”

  “Is that the title?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So it’s got to be a description really.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” I said. “I’d have thought that would be fairly straightforward.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos you live somewhere quite interesting, don’t you? With the fells and the sheep and everything. And the lake.”

  “What’s so interesting about that?”

  “Well, nothing really, I suppose. But it should be easy enough to describe.”

  “So what do I put then?”

  While we were speaking I’d become aware that she had a rough exercise book in her hand. She now opened it and stood read
y with a pencil.

  “You want some suggestions, do you?”

  “Please,” she said.

  “OK, you could start with, “I live in a place…” No, hang on. “The place where I live is…”Er…maybe it would be better if you were sitting down.”

  “Alright then.”

  “Tell you what, you sit there and I’ll stand here.”

  “OK.”

  She sat down on the folding bed, while I moved to the opposite side of the caravan before resuming.

  “Right, ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “‘The place where I live is different to many other places’.”

  I paused while she wrote it down.

  “No, wait a sec. Change that to ‘different from many other places’.”

  She tutted. “Couldn’t you just write it and I’ll copy it out after?”

  “What, you mean you want me to do the whole thing?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’ll be better at it than me.”

  “Well, I was planning to go out tonight.”

  She smiled. “It won’t take you long.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I said. “But you might have trouble with my handwriting.”

  “I expect I’ll be alright.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “OK then, I’ll do a basic version and you’ll have to tidy it up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll leave it on the shelf here.”

  “Right.” She rose from the bed and went to the doorway before giving me another smile. “Thanks again.”