by Magnus Mills
“Er…when did you say you were sixteen?” I asked.
“Easter,” she replied.
“Oh well, happy birthday in advance.”
“Thanks, bye.”
And she disappeared into the night.
I spent about three-quarters of an hour writing that essay, but I probably could have done it in ten minutes if I’d had to. It was a piece of cake really, as easy as painting by numbers. I simply described the maroon boats at rest near the wooded margins of the lake, and the looming fells brooding in the autumn gloom. There was also a bit at the end about the fulsome moon waxing against a starry backdrop, which I thought sounded quite nice. Then I fetched a bucket of hot water, had a wash and went out. I didn’t want to drink too much tonight, so I decided to take the motorbike for a change. When I got to Millfold I parked it in the square and entered the Packhorse through the front door. As I passed by the top bar I noticed it was fairly quiet, but this deficit was made up for in the bottom one, which seemed to be quite full, although I didn’t recognize many faces. The moment I walked in I was greeted by Gordon from behind the counter.
“Glad you’ve turned up,” he said. “We’re playing the Journeyman at darts tonight, and we’re a man short. Can you help us out?”
“Well,” I replied. “I’m not very experienced at match play.”
“That’s alright. We just want you to make the numbers up.”
I glanced round the crowded bar. “Doesn’t anyone else want to play?”
“They’re all from the Journeyman,” said Gordon.
“Well, I’m not a local,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that. You’ve been in here enough times to qualify.”
“Oh, OK then. Where is the Journeyman anyway?”
“Wainskill, about ten miles up the road.”
In this unexpected way I was roped in for a full-scale Inter-Pub League darts match. It came as no surprise to find that Bryan Webb was captain of the Packhorse team. Tony was supposed to be vice-captain, but because his father had been called away somewhere his services were required behind the counter to assist Gordon. Which was why they needed my help. Bryan quickly adopted me into his side and introduced me to the rest of the team, which included the mechanic Kenneth. As it happened, they all seemed to know who I was anyway, and spoke to me as if we’d been acquainted for years.
It was a good night. The players and their supporters from the Journeyman were numerous enough to give the match a proper competitive atmosphere, and to my surprise I won two of my games. I also noticed that there were quite a few women present, including the one I’d seen talking to Gordon and Tony on previous occasions. After a while I gathered that she was a sort of player-manager for the Journeyman team, and that she’d been over the other night to go through the arrangements for the match. It didn’t take long to find out her name was Lesley.
“Shame we haven’t got any Ex for you,” remarked Gordon when I went to the bar for my second pint of keg beer.
“Good job really,” I said. “Otherwise I might have ended up staying here for ever.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s right, you’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Well I should try to get away as early as possible. We’ve got some rain coming.”
The increasingly murky climate outside the Packhorse was easily forgotten on an evening like this. Everyone was getting stuck into the drink as usual, and I began to regret bringing my bike since it meant I couldn’t have any more after this. As the darts match progressed I also started to realize that Lesley was paying me quite a bit of attention.
Whatever part of the bar I was in, I noticed that she would soon be standing nearby. Once or twice I tried moving around to see what happened, and each time she moved too, although not obviously enough for anyone else to detect. When victory fell at last to the home side and all the players were going round shaking hands with one another, she came up to me.
“Nice game,” she said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Er…no thanks,” I replied. “Any more and I’ll be over the limit. Thanks anyway.”
She smiled. “Maybe another time.”
“Probably not,” I said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Going anywhere interesting?”
“Yeah, India.”
“Really?” Her eyes sparkled.
“Yeah, I’m thinking of going overland. You know, Turkey and Persia, that way.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“Have you done much travelling yourself?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Just waiting for the chance.”
“Oh, right.”
“You sure you don’t want that drink?”
“Yeah, sure…thanks.”
Quietly I cursed my luck. What a wasted opportunity! This would have to happen on my last night in the place, and on the only occasion I’d come out on the bike. Next thing Lesley had rejoined her team-mates and our brief conversation was over. I slipped out of the pub shortly afterwards without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. There were now heavy drops of rain on the wind, which was becoming progressively more blustery. When I got back to Hillhouse I remembered Mr Parker’s offer about putting my bike in one of the sheds. I should really have taken him up on it when I had the chance, but it was too late now. The whole place was in darkness when I pulled into the top yard, and I guessed that all the doors would be locked for the night. I parked by the caravan and went inside. Lighting the gas lamp I happened to glance at the shelf where I’d left Gail’s essay. It was gone.
∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧
Five
I didn’t sleep well that night. For some reason the beer made me sweat a lot, and I kept waking up all in a tangle. The wind was no help either. It continued to work on the loose sheet of corrugated steel, causing it to clang spasmodically for hour after hour. In fact the whole shed now seemed to be creaking in sympathy with the increasing gusts. It must have been well into the early hours before I drifted off properly, and next thing I knew there was daylight coming through the caravan window. More noticeable, though, was the rain drumming on the roof. It was very tempting to turn over and go back to sleep, but I knew I had to get going before the weather worsened even more. Somehow I dragged myself out of bed. I’d used up the last of my food supplies the previous evening, and planned to get a few miles behind me before stopping somewhere for breakfast. I unrolled my waterproofs. They were dry and stiff, and I realized it was a long time since I’d last had cause to use them.
When everything was ready I went outside and started the bike. It had been out in the rain all night, but fortunately seemed to be running OK. Then, after a quick check round the caravan, I set off. There was no sign of activity in the bottom yard or the house as I passed by, nor did I see anyone on the road to Millfold. The rain was coming down hard now, and it struck me as a daft day to be travelling. All the same I had no inclination to alter my plans. I’d had enough of the place, nice as it was, and now wanted to get moving. It was just tough luck that it happened to be raining the day I’d chosen to leave. Besides, I had a feeling that I only had to go fifty or sixty miles and I’d probably run into better weather. A few minutes later I passed the Packhorse and the Ring of Bells, both with their shutters firmly closed, before crossing the bridge and joining the road southward. For a moment I caught a glimpse of Mr Parker’s house on the opposite side of the lake, and then it was lost from sight. The only place I knew beyond that was Bryan Webb’s. Again there was nobody to be seen as I went by. Not long afterwards the rainwater began running down my neck. Motorcycling was a wretched affair in these conditions, and I prepared myself for a long and dismal journey. I’d read somewhere that the lake was supposed to be nine miles in length, but I knew from my previous trips that the road distance was much further. There were no end of twists and turns, and I’d clocked up more than twenty miles before I finally left the lake behind. This had taken almost an hour, because of
having to slow right down on the bends. Now I began climbing as I headed for the first mountain pass. As I did so I wondered why I hadn’t simply gone north from Millfold and then picked up the motorway. That would have been much easier than slogging along this twisty road. On the other hand, if I had taken the motorway I’d have had to contend with the spray from all those juggernauts. In truth, whatever way I went I was going to get soaked, and at least the route I’d chosen was traffic-free today.
Unfortunately, there were a lot of puddles, and as I came down the other side of the pass I hit one right in the middle. At that moment I realized my waterproofs were pretty ineffective. But worse than that, the engine stopped. It coughed and spluttered several times before cutting out completely. I rolled to a halt, then gave the starter a kick.
Nothing.
I tried again, with hopes sinking. I already had a suspicion about what the problem might be. It was confirmed when I removed the points cover from the engine and rainwater came running out. This meant I was going to have to sit for hours waiting for the points to dry off.
That’s handy, I thought.
There was no shelter here, no trees or buildings, only grassy slopes rising up into the wet mist. Vainly I tried kicking the bike over again, but without success. The thought then came into my mind that I could push it along until I got to somewhere less exposed. Maybe I’d even find a nice dry café just along the road where I could sit and wait. I quickly dismissed this idea, though, as I knew for a fact that there wasn’t anything for miles, apart from scattered farms and the occasional private residence. So I stayed where I was, and paced around idly watching rivulets form at the edge of the road. From time to time a vehicle would go by, the driver glancing momentarily in my direction before passing on. Then, after about twenty minutes, a school minibus approached. It was similar to the one I’d seen Gail boarding each morning at the front gate, but I noticed immediately that the occupants were wearing a different-coloured uniform. As the minibus slowed down for the next bend I was aware of a dozen pink faces looking out at me.
There then followed a prolonged spell during which I began to wonder what exactly I was going to do. The rain showed no sign of easing up, and the bike still refused to start. Yet there was no point in abandoning it and going to look for help. After all, nothing actually needed repairing. It just required a chance to dry out. Again I thought how foolish it was to be travelling by motorcycle on a day like this.
After another ten minutes had passed I heard a vehicle approaching from the south. I glanced towards the bend as it appeared, and instantly recognized Mr Parker’s pick-up with the trailer in tow. He pulled up beside me.
“You seem to be getting quite attached to the area,” he remarked, by way of greeting.
“Engine’s stopped,” I replied.
“I thought you were going to get away early.”
“I did.”
“No,” he said. “That was nowhere near early enough.”
He got out and looked at the bike.
“The points got wet,” I explained.
He nodded. “Always the same with these old machines. They let the water in too easily.”
“Just needs to dry out.”
“Well, it’ll never get dry here.”
“Doesn’t look that way.”
“Not in a month of Sundays.” A moment passed, and then he added, “Tell you what, why don’t we take it home and put it in my shed?”
“Don’t you mind?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “Can’t leave you here, can I?”
I couldn’t see what choice I had. This was the first time the bike had ever let me down. Now I was stuck and Mr Parker offered the best remedy, so I decided to accept. A few minutes later we had the bike loaded onto his trailer and were on our way north again. The cab heater was turned on full, and very soon there was steam rising from my damp waterproofs.
“Been anywhere interesting?” I asked.
“Had a delivery to make,” he replied. “Bit of business, you know. Quite fortunate you breaking down where you did.”
“Yeah, suppose so.”
“I always think a journey’s more worthwhile if I get a return load as well.”
“Oh…er…yeah,” I said. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
Sometime later when we passed Bryan Webb’s place Mr Parker slowed down and peered towards the property. I couldn’t see what he was looking at exactly, but as far as I could make out his attention was focused on the flatbed lorry parked in Bryan’s Dutch barn. He didn’t pass comment on it, however, and we had soon passed by. After another twenty-five minutes we arrived in his top yard.
“Welcome back,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“If you like you can put your bike in the big shed. That’ll be best for getting it dry.”
“Alright.”
“Maybe we should get Kenneth Turner to give it a look-over before you go off anywhere again.”
“I don’t think it’ll be worth it,” I said. “I’m sure there’s nothing seriously wrong.”
“Well, have a think about it anyway.”
“OK.”
I walked over to the shed and slid the doors back. Immediately I detected the same semi-industrial smell that had hung over the place before, and it gave me an odd sense of returning to somewhere familiar. Glancing within I saw that two rows of wooden blocks had been laid out in the middle of the floor, next to the boat we’d moved the other day. I wheeled the bike inside and left it in a space between the concrete mixer and the dismantled caterpillar vehicle. Something seemed to have gone missing since the last time I was in there, but for the moment I couldn’t think what it was. I was still peering round the place when Mr Parker joined me in the doorway.
“Should be enough room for the other boats,” he said.
“Do you keep them all in here during the winter then?” I asked.
“Yes, they need to be under cover really.”
“Yeah, spose.”
“Perhaps you’d like to help me get them moved up here?”
“Sure,” I replied. “It’s the least I can do after all your help.”
“Well, shall we start right away?”
“Yeah, that’s fine by me.”
As we returned to the truck I noticed for the first time that the rain had stopped, and that the sky looked far less foreboding than it had earlier. By the time we’d driven down to the lake it even seemed possible that the sun might come out. The six boats were lying where we’d left them. Mr Parker reversed his trailer into position and we hauled two of them on board, using the new winch attachment. When we got back to the shed they had to be transferred onto the wooden blocks. I thought this was going to be a bit of a heave, but he simply jacked the trailer up and shoved the boats roughly off the back. I winced as they slid onto the concrete, but their construction was so solid that they weren’t even marked. Then it was just a matter of lifting them a little and shuffling the blocks underneath. He seemed to have the whole process worked out beforehand, and this made it very simple. All the same, I was beginning to feel a bit worn out after we’d completed three such journeys, and I think I must have grunted under the strain as we shifted the final boat.
This caused Mr Parker to remark, “You’re not very strong, are you?”
“Well, I’m not weak either,” I protested. “I’ve done quite a lot of heavy lifting actually.”
“When was that?” he asked.
“I used to work on the loading bay at the factory.”
“I thought you said you were in the paint shop.”
“I was eventually. But I started off on the loading bay.”
“So you’ve done painting and loading,” he said. “What else?”
“Well, nothing really. Apart from a bit of joinery.”
“Are you a trained joiner then?”
“Er…no.”
“What about plumbing? Do you know anything about that?”
“No, �
�fraid not.”
“I can do plumbing,” he announced. “And welding. In fact, there’s very little I can’t do when I think about it. I know about land drainage, tree planting, fencing and timber felling. I can change the hydraulic pipes on most types of tractor, and I do all my own vehicle maintenance too. That’s petrol and diesel, mind. In the past I’ve done ploughing, milking and sheep drenching, as well as dipping. I’ve installed septic tanks. I know the inner workings of the Watford Slurry Pump. I built this shed we’re standing in, and I put down most of the concrete you can see around the place.”
While he was telling me all this I stood beside the boats nodding vaguely. I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be leading up to, but it seemed interesting enough in its own way.
“I can operate circular saws, mechanical excavators, jack-hammers and pile-drivers,” he added, before pausing to give me a significant look. “But the one subject I know nothing about is boats.”
“Oh,” I said. “Don’t you?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Well I only know a bit myself.”
“Maybe so, but I can see you appreciate them more than I do.”
“I do quite like them, yes.”
He placed his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.
“The thing is,” he said. “I want them painting, and I’d like you to do it.”
“But that’s a big project,” I replied. “They’ll need several coats to do them properly.”
“That’s alright. We’ve got plenty of paint.”
“And it might turn out they need some caulker too.”
He looked up. “Caulker?”
“To prevent them leaking.”
“There you are,” he said. “I wouldn’t have known that. I’ve never even heard of caulker. You’re just the man for the job.”
While we talked a thin shaft of sunlight had begun to play on one of the boats. It seemed that the wet weather outside was indeed giving way to clearer, brighter conditions. In this acute light the gold paint along the boat’s gunwale momentarily regained a little of its original lustre, giving it a very striking appearance. There was no doubt that the paintwork was in some need of refurbishment, but for a few seconds I had a picture of what the finished job would look like. I could just imagine the raised prow when its details had been carefully touched in by hand, and the gold lines running from stem to stem. Yes, I thought, the completed vessel would look magnificent.
