All Quiet on the Orient Express

by Magnus Mills

  As we sat at breakfast on the third morning he said, “Almost finished the shed have you?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Just about an hour’s work left to do.”

  “Then you’ll be able to get on with the boats?”

  “Yep.”

  Outside a clinking noise could be heard approaching, and next thing Deakin’s pick-up truck pulled into the yard, fully laden with milk. He got out and bobbed up the steps, then ran over to the bothy before returning to the vehicle and driving off in a great hurry.

  After he’d gone Mr Parker looked at me and said, “You could do that if you wanted.”

  “Sorry,” I asked. “What?”

  “The milk.”

  “Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t know a thing about cows.”

  “Nor does Deakin.”

  “Doesn’t he?”

  “Course not.”

  “But I thought he was a dairyman.”

  “He collects it from the dairy, yes, but that’s all.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You’d only need a pick-up truck of your own and you could do it.”

  “Well, I’d never even thought about it, really.”

  “There’s a good bit of business to be had in that milk round.”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t want to put Deakin out of work.”

  Mr Parker shook his head. “Nobody’s going to miss Deakin.”

  At that moment the telephone rang in the adjoining room, instantly causing Gail to spring from her seat.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, darting next door.

  A moment later she was back.

  “Dad, it’s for you.”

  Mr Parker went through and picked up the receiver, while Gail sat down again opposite me.

  “Homework alright, was it?” I asked.

  “Yes, thanks,” she replied. “Do you want some more?”

  “Breakfast or homework?”

  “Homework.”

  “Yes, I don’t mind doing it. What have you got?”

  She reached into her bag under the table and produced a pile of exercise books.

  “History, maths and comprehension.”

  “Alright,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Mr Parker came back into the kitchen. “That was Bryan Webb. He’s bringing his sheep through today.”

  An hour later I’d finished the riveting and was just taking the ladder down when I heard them coming. There was a gateway leading from the top yard out onto the fell, beyond which I could hear someone shouting “Ho! Ho!” again and again. Within moments the leading ewes ventured through the open gate, followed soon afterwards by the whole flock. By this time Gail had gone to school and Mr Parker was away on some business or other, which left only me to direct the sheep through the yard and down the concrete road. Having never done anything like this before I wasn’t sure what to do, but I soon discovered that standing on one spot and waving my arms was the best approach. Eventually Bryan and another man appeared at the back of the nervous throng, accompanied by three efficient-looking dogs. The first thing I noticed about Bryan was that even when he was herding sheep he still wore his cardboard crown. As he passed by he took the time for a brief conversation.

  “Getting on alright with that painting, are you?” he asked.

  “Well I haven’t got started yet,” I replied. “Had to do some maintenance work on the shed first.”

  The two men grinned at each other, and I now recognized the second one as a regular in the Packhorse.

  “Well,” remarked Bryan. “You’ll have to get a move on if you’re going to get it done by Christmas.”

  “Should be alright.”

  “And how’s Tommy’s temper behaving itself?”

  “Oh,” I said. “No trouble at all.”

  “Really?”

  “As long as I pay attention to what he says it’s a piece of cake.”

  “That’s the secret, is it?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “Very good,” he said, grinning again. “Best to keep on the right side of him.”

  Soon afterwards Bryan and I said goodbye, the other man nodded, and next thing they were on their way down the hill.

  Now, at last, I could get on with the boats. I’d been going in and out of the big shed continually during the last couple of days, checking new rivets, removing old ones and so forth, but I hadn’t had cause to go in there this morning. Now I noticed for the first time that Mr Parker had stacked a number of paint tins just inside the door. To my dismay I discovered that they were all unlabelled, which meant the contents were green. This came as a bit of a disappointment because I’d been under the impression I was supposed to be painting the boats in their original colours. I knew he had lots of green paint, but I’d assumed that was for the workaday jobs: gates and doors and suchlike. Surely boats with classical prows deserved something slightly better. That’s what I’d have thought anyway. Nonetheless, there was plenty of preparation to do before I even opened a tin of paint, so I set my disappointment aside and got started with the electric sander.

  It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that whoever painted the boats in the first place had done a very thorough job. Maybe paint was of a better quality in those days, but this stuff almost seemed to be impregnated into the timber. Only by concentrating hard did I make any impression on it at all. Hour after hour I worked with that sander, head down, battling against layer upon layer of stubborn paint and making very slow progress. It was a noisy operation, and for this reason I failed to hear the arrival of a vehicle in the yard outside. Only when the shed door opened did I realize I had a visitor. It was Deakin.

  He came inside and I switched off the sander.

  “Oh,” he said, as the noise faded away. “Tommy’s got you doing this, has he?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Did you want him?”

  “Yes, I could do with having a word with him about something.”

  “Well, you’ve missed him again. Why don’t you speak to him when you bring the milk?”

  “No time,” he said. “It’s alright, I’ll come back another day.”

  “It’s not urgent then?”

  “Not really, no.”

  He made no move to leave, but instead stood peering around the inside of the shed. After a while his eyes fell on the space occupied by my motorbike.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see he’s got rid of the snow plough at last.”

  “Er…oh, yes,” I said. “It went the other day.”

  “Been in here since we built the shed, that has.”

  “Did you help him build it then?”

  “Yes,” he said, with a note of pride. “It was me who did all the riveting.”

  Soon afterwards he wandered off. I watched him slide open the door and close it behind him. Then I started up the sander again. A few moments later another sound came floating into the shed from outside. I switched off just in time to hear the unmistakable chimes of an ice-cream van. They were playing ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

  Quickly I went to the door and looked out, but the yard was completely empty.

  ♦

  Mr Parker returned that evening with some more oil drums. I was just finishing work for the day when he pulled into the top yard in his pick-up, so I went to lend him a hand unloading them. The group of drums by the gateway now numbered something like fifty, but he seemed determined to bring back even more every time he went out. This time there were half a dozen on the trailer, and another four in the rear of the pick-up.

  A little later I went into the bothy for a cup of tea. The door was permanently unlocked, and as soon as I entered I realized there’d been another caller that afternoon apart from Deakin. Just inside the doorway someone had left a box containing my grocery order. I went through the items one by one and discovered that everything I’d asked for was there, apart from the biscuits, which were the wrong type. They’d evidently decided that since there were no fig rolls
, custard creams or malted milks, I would have to make do with plain digestives instead. Attached to the box was an invoice for the order. It bore a message, written across the bottom in red pencil: “No more beans after this.”

  There was also one large printed word at the head of the invoice: ‘HODGE’. I put the groceries away and lit the kettle.

  That night in the Packhorse I played my first Inter-Pub League darts match as a full team member. We had an away game against the Journeyman coming up which I was quite looking forward to, but in the meantime we were facing the Golden Lion at home. It was the usual sort of turnout, with Bryan Webb captaining us to victory once again. The visiting team had no women supporters travelling with them, though, so the evening had a bit of a flat edge to it from that point of view. My opponent from the Golden Lion was a portly bloke called Phil who didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered when I beat him, and instantly rushed off to buy me a pint of lager. When I asked if it would be alright if I had Topham’s Excelsior instead he looked slightly sorry for me, as though I hadn’t been properly weaned or something.

  “Better put him a spare one in the pump as well,” he said to Tony.

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks very much. Cheers.”

  These darts people certainly were a friendly crowd, and made up for the shortage of women by buying each other lots of drinks. I always seemed to be on the receiving end, but even when I ordered a round of my own I didn’t have to pay. Tony was doubling as vice-captain and barman, and repeatedly gave this as the reason to continue my slate for the time being.

  “You can settle up when we’re less busy,” he kept saying, before returning to the oche for another game.

  “Yes, alright,” I replied. “But I must pay you what I owe you soon.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a grin.

  I judged from my treatment by the locals that they all knew I would be staying around for the foreseeable future. I was already aware that everyone knew everybody else’s business round here, and this was confirmed time and again as the days passed. Kenneth Turner, for example, kept saying that he would have to come and have a look at my bike sometime, while Bryan Webb was forever enquiring about my progress with the boats. And there was always some new story about Deakin delivering the wrong milk, or arriving too late;

  At the end of one such account Bryan turned to me and said, “You ought to take over from Deakin.”

  I wasn’t sure whether this remark was meant to be treated seriously or not, but as he said it a definite murmur of assent went round the bottom bar.

  ♦

  A few evenings later as I crossed the yard on my way to the pub, I became aware of a rhythmic thumping noise inside the big shed. It was about nine o’clock and the electric lights had all been switched on, so I went over and peered through the doorway, which was open by about one inch. I saw straight away that the thumping noise was coming from the concrete mixer. Its diesel engine had been put back together and started up, and it was now being watched intently by Mr Parker and Kenneth Turner. Kenneth was wearing a blue boiler suit and stood holding an adjustable spanner in his hand. Both of them seemed to be mesmerized by the mixer’s bucket, which rotated slowly round and round before their eyes. For a whole minute they looked at it, then another minute after that, while I stood outside in the dark, watching them. Eventually Mr Parker said something and Kenneth nodded. He dropped the spanner into a deep pocket and they walked over towards my motorbike. Next moment Kenneth was astride it and kicking the engine over. To my surprise it roared into life, and he spent some time revving it up and listening to it closely, while the concrete mixer continued to throb away unattended. Eventually Kenneth cut the bike engine again, and he and Mr Parker stood examining the paintwork and the chrome. Then they turned and had a look at the boat I’d been working on during the day. Kenneth picked up one of the tins of paint that were still waiting unopened nearby. When he saw it had no label he grinned broadly at Mr Parker. Then the two of them clambered over the packing cases in the direction of the other motorcycles at the back of the shed. At this point I tired of spying on them and continued on my way down the yard. Glancing at the house I realized that Gail must have been on her own inside, and casually I wondered what she did during the evenings now she had no homework to occupy her.

  With a sudden shock I remembered I had some grammar to hand in by tomorrow morning! I’d been having a bath for the last hour and gone and forgotten all about it! Now I had to rush back to the bothy and get it done before I could go out. It seemed to take longer than usual, and as a result I didn’t get going to the pub again until almost ten, by which time the big shed was in complete darkness. When I arrived at the Packhorse I saw Kenneth sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter. He said, “Hello,” but didn’t mention his visit to Mr Parker’s place, so I didn’t mention it either.

  Next morning I was woken up by the rhythmic thumping again. Looking through the curtains I saw that Mr Parker was already up and about. He’d opened the shed doors wide and hauled the concrete mixer outside onto the loading bay. It stood there with the engine running, and the bucket going round and round. After a while I saw him look at his watch and then peer in the direction of the bothy. I took this as a signal that it was time to get up, so I heaved myself out of bed. Something told me I wouldn’t be getting much work done on the boats today, but he didn’t reveal his plans until we were sitting having breakfast.

  “It’s about time we made a new mooring weight for the boats,” he announced. “If we leave it any longer the lake’ll be too rough.”

  “Gets bad in the winter, does it?” I asked.

  “Can do,” he said. “And there’s no point in putting the job off until spring.”

  “No, spose not.”

  “You know how to make a mooring weight, do you?”

  “Got a rough idea, yeah.”

  “That’s good. I’ve got all the tackle ready for you. There’s a lorry wheel, some long chain and plenty of concrete.”

  “Right.”

  “All you’ve got to do is mix it.”

  “OK.”

  A few moments passed. Across the yard the rhythmic thumping continued.

  “Did you get that homework done?” asked Gail.

  “Oh yes,” I replied. “Forgot to bring it over. It’s all finished, you can collect it when you want.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “By the way, your essay won a prize.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yeah, they printed it in the school magazine.”

  “Well,” I said. “I’m quite pleased about that really. What was the prize?”

  “A book token.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “Don’t you want it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, OK then.”

  “You can have it as a reward for doing all that homework.”

  “Er…thanks.”

  She reached down into her school bag and produced the book token, placing it on the table.

  “You’d better sign that on the back,” remarked her father.

  I thought he was making a joke, but next thing Gail had a biro in her hand and was solemnly writing her signature.

  “Thanks,” I said again as she handed me the token. “Have you got a copy of the magazine so I can see myself in print?”

  “Oh no, sorry,” she replied. “I threw it away.”

  A clinking noise outside heralded the arrival of Deakin’s pick-up. We watched through the window as he rushed about making his hurried deliveries, first to the house, then to the bothy, before quickly departing.

  “I gather they’re on strike again in the south,” said Mr Parker.

  “Oh, are they?” I said. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “It was on the television last night.”

  “Have you got a television then?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “Well, I just didn’t think people round h
ere bothered with televisions. What with the scenery and everything.”

  “Oh yes, we have one through there,” he said, nodding towards the next room. “Got it for One Man and His Dog.”

  “What are they on strike about?” asked Gail. She was looking at me.

  “They’re probably worried about unemployment,” I suggested.

  “So how does going on strike help?”

  “Er…well, it doesn’t really,” I said. “It’s supposed to be a sort of statement.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

  “I don’t believe in unemployment,” said Mr Parker.

  “Don’t you?”

  “No such thing. There’s always something to do.”

  “Spose.”

  “Did they have many strikes at that factory of yours?”

  “Not while I was there, no.”

  “Sounds like an efficient little operation.”

  “Yes, it seemed to be doing very well.”

  “Pay good wages?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Get plenty saved up, did you?”

  “A bit, yes.”

  “That’s good.”

  The way the conversation was going it struck me as an appropriate time to bring up a matter I’d been avoiding for the last week or so. The problem was that when I’d agreed to work on the boats we’d failed to discuss how much I was going to get paid. I had no idea if I was supposed to be getting a fixed sum for the job, or an hourly rate, or what, so I decided to broach the subject now.

  “Er…actually,” I said, “while we’re on the subject of work…”

  “You’re quite right,” said Mr Parker, rising abruptly to his feet. “We’re not going to get anything done by sitting here.”

  Next thing he was heading for the kitchen door, and I had no choice but hurriedly to finish my breakfast and follow.

  We went outside and crossed the yard to the mixer, which was still rotating its empty bucket round and round. Beside it was a barrow containing the ingredients for the concrete. Also a wheel hub and a huge length of galvanized chain. It was too noisy by the mixer to pursue the question of my wages, so I gave up for the time being. Besides, there was no real urgency as I hadn’t been required to part with any money for some time now. I was still running a slate at the Packhorse, while all my groceries and milk were being delivered on credit. Obviously these concurrent debts would have to be sorted out in the near future, but nobody seemed in much of a hurry to collect, so I decided not to worry about it.