All Quiet on the Orient Express

by Magnus Mills

  Making up the mooring weight was quite straightforward. I attached one end of the chain to the wheel hub, and then began shovelling sand, gravel and cement into the mixer. As soon as he was satisfied that I knew what I was doing, Mr Parker said he would ‘leave me to it’, and set off somewhere in his pick-up with the trailer in tow. Shortly afterwards Gail headed down the hill in her school uniform, giving me her usual little wave. When the concrete was ready I poured it into the wheel hub, and left it to set. I reckoned it would need a week to cure before it could be safely dropped to the bottom of the lake.

  This task hadn’t taken very long at all, and the result looked OK. Before I resumed work on the boats I decided to reward myself with a cup of tea, and wandered over to the bothy. Lying on the table was the latest copy of the Trader’s Gazette. I’d got into the habit of borrowing it after Mr Parker had gleaned all the information he required. This was simply out of interest and curiosity, as I had no intention of buying any of the items advertised inside. I made a mental note that now I had a book token I really should get myself something proper to read, but in the meantime I opened the Gazette at a random page. There my eyes fell on an advertisement I hadn’t seen before. It was listed under ‘Services’ in the Millfold area and said:

  CIRCULAR SAW WITH MAN FOR HIRE

  All timber-cutting work undertaken on site. Enquiries T. Parker

  A telephone number was also given. I read the advert several times to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, then continued turning the pages. Further along someone was inviting advance orders for Christmas trees. Ten per cent discount would be given for immediate payment. This struck me as a bit early until it occurred to me that Christmas was now only a couple of months away. Autumn had certainly crept up on me as I laboured away at my boats, and a blast of wind outside confirmed this. I’d hardly noticed that the weather was slowly worsening because I spent a good part of each day in the big shed. Even so, the signs were obvious. Despite all the riveting I’d done, the shed continued to creak and groan as the elements pounded against it. There were other indications too. The trees were bare, and the temperature was declining slowly. When I walked to the pub at night I could hear seabirds out in the middle of the lake, squawking and arguing. It sounded as though there were thousands of them. I had no idea where they’d come from, but they seemed to have settled in for the winter. I thought about the seven boats waiting to be painted, the darts fixtures and the endless pints of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter, and realized that I’d settled in for the winter as well.

  ♦

  It was almost dark when Mr Parker returned with yet another load of oil drums.

  Having just finished work for the evening, I went out into the yard to meet him. There was something I wanted to ask him about the mooring weight.

  “It’s quite heavy,” I said. “How are we going to get it out onto the lake?”

  “You’re the boat man,” he replied. “You tell me.”

  “Well, if we use the tender it’ll tip straight over.”

  “Will it?”

  “Yeah. We need a proper mooring raft really, with a hole in the middle to drop the weight through.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  When Mr Parker first told me he knew nothing about boats I hadn’t really taken him seriously, but over the past few weeks I’d come to realize it was true. He didn’t seem to have any idea about how to lay a mooring, and I now saw that I was going to have to take charge of the operation.

  “So how do we make a mooring raft?” he asked.

  “Quite easily,” I replied. “It just takes four empty oil drums and some planks.”

  “Well I can’t spare any oil drums.”

  “Oh…can’t you?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I wanted to sell them all to that factory of yours.”

  “Is that why you’ve been collecting them?”

  “Of course it is. You told me I’d get a good price.”

  “Yeah, but…it’s miles away.”

  “That’s alright. I don’t mind how far I have to go as long as I make a profit.”

  “How will you get them all there though?”

  “On my lorry.”

  “I didn’t know you had one.”

  “Yes, you’ve seen it. Over in Bryan Webb’s barn.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “He keeps his hay here, I keep my lorry there.”

  “Sounds like a handy arrangement.”

  “It’s mutually beneficial and saves exchanging cash.”

  I nodded and we fell silent. Mr Parker gazed at the mooring weight and appeared to be pondering my suggestion.

  “Well,” he said at length. “I suppose I could set aside four drums at a push. Can you build this raft?”

  “Can if you like, yes.”

  “OK then,” he said. “The job’s yours.”

  As usual in the evening I treated myself to a bath. This was probably the best thing about staying in the bothy. There was plenty of hot water, and although the bath took a long time to fill, it was always a luxurious moment at the end of a hard day. I generally waited until after I’d taken my evening meal, and then spent an hour or so wallowing before going out to the pub. Tonight was no exception. Round about eight o’clock I began running the taps and slowly the bathroom filled with steam. Ten minutes later I slid into the hot water, easing myself down until it lapped over me. How long I’d been lying there before I was interrupted I wasn’t sure. I had my ears below the surface and my feet up on the sides of the bath when I became aware of a knocking noise. For a moment I thought it was a loose panel on the shed, but then I remembered it couldn’t have been that. No, this noise was coming from somewhere much closer. I sat up and listened again. Someone was tapping the window from outside. Leaving the bath I went over and peered through the frosted glass. I could just make out a pink oval in the darkness.

  “Hello?”

  It was Gail.

  “We’ve just had the Packhorse on the phone,” she said. “You’re supposed to be at darts.”

  “But it’s the wrong night,” I said.

  “That’s the message,” she replied, and the pink oval was gone.

  Wondering how much she’d seen through the glass, I quickly got dried and dressed. The message made no sense at all. Every darts match up until now had been on a Thursday. Today was only Tuesday, so I had no idea what they wanted me for. Surely they wouldn’t ring up just to get me to a practice session? It was only a game, after all. Still, I thought I’d better get going right away, so I went across to the big shed to get my bike out. Finding that Mr Parker had locked it up for the night, I decided to walk instead. I’d long come to the conclusion that this was more sensible anyway, judging by the amount of beer that flowed at these darts nights. In the event, though, it probably would have been better to take the bike.

  The moment I walked into the bottom bar I knew something was wrong. It was half past nine and the place should have been packed out on a darts night. Instead it was almost deserted. There was no sign of Tony or Gordon. The landlord was talking to one or two people in the top bar and took no notice of me for some time. When at last he did decide to serve me he was far from friendly.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “They’re playing at the Journeyman,” he replied. “Where you’re supposed to be.”

  “But I thought darts was on Thursdays.”

  “That’s home games!” he snapped. “Away matches are Tuesdays.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Don’t you ever read the fixture list?”

  “Er…no, sorry.”

  “Well, you’re too late now. The match’ll be half over.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Pint of Ex, please.”

  “Barrel’s finished.”

  “Oh.” I said. “Well, I don’t mind waiting while you change it.”

  �
�I’m not going to change it.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  And with that he returned to the top bar, where his cronies all seemed to be glaring down at me. I remained standing there feeling awkward and wondering what to do, when I noticed that I wasn’t quite alone. Also present in the bottom bar was Bryan Webb’s accomplice from the sheep-moving day. Since that occasion we’d become slightly better acquainted, and I now knew that his name was Maurice. Apparently he was the man who drove the school minibus. He beckoned me to join him, so I went over and he spoke quietly.

  “Understandable mistake,” he said. “Couldn’t be helped.”

  “No,” I said. “I’d have come earlier if I’d known. I’ve been looking forward to playing the Journeyman again.”

  “I know you have, but you’ve gone and upset them all now, so you’ll have to keep your head down for a while.”

  “What shall I do then?”

  “Well, your best bet is to drink somewhere else for a week or two, until they’ve forgotten all about it.”

  I felt a sudden surge of dismay.

  “But there’s only the Ring of Bells,” I said.

  Maurice looked at me with sympathy. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”

  ∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧

  Seven

  The following afternoon I was working inside the shed when ‘Half a pound of treacle’ came floating in from the yard. Quickly I went over and peered through the crack in the door just as a yellow and white ice-cream van pulled up outside. It was a very traditional sort of vehicle. There was a large plastic cornet mounted on the roof, below which were written the words ‘SNAITHES OF WAINSKILL’ in blue letters. The vehicle came to a halt with its refrigerator unit whirring away, and all its lights blazing. For a few moments I couldn’t see the driver, whose head was hidden as he fiddled about underneath the dashboard. He seemed to be having considerable trouble with the chimes, which kept repeating ‘Half a pound of treacle’ at random, and over which he apparently had no control. They were quite loud too. The sound emanated from four silver horns at the front of the vehicle before echoing off the various buildings around the yard. I slid the shed door open and went outside. Looking into the cab I could see that the driver was desperately trying to relocate various wires in an attempt to influence the chimes, but to little effect. I knocked on the window and he glanced round. It was Deakin.

  “These damn chimes,” he said, sliding across the driving seat and climbing out. “They keep getting stuck.”

  “Can’t you turn them off altogether?” I suggested.

  “No,” he replied. “If I do that the headlights go out and the refrigerator stops working.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “It’s all wired up wrong and I can never get it sorted out.”

  “What happened to the rest of the tune then?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never heard anything except ‘Half a pound of treacle’.”

  While we talked we were being constantly interrupted by blasts from the quadruple horns, and on each occasion we had to break off our conversation until the din subsided.

  “Would you like me to have a look at it?” I asked.

  “Can if you like,” he said. “I’m at the end of my tether. Tommy’s not here, I suppose?”

  “No, sorry.”

  I got into the cab and discovered that it was just as noisy in there, what with the refrigerator unit throbbing away and the chimes sounding repeatedly overhead. There was a control switch on the dashboard, below which a number of coloured wires protruded. I tried swapping some of them around, but only succeeded in making the lights inside the plastic cornet start flashing on and off. I put the wires back how I’d found them and got out. Then I proposed that we went into the shed for a bit of peace and quiet.

  “Your name’s not Snaithe, is it?” I enquired when we got inside.

  “No,” he said. “It’s Deakin.”

  “That’s what I thought. So who’s Snaithe then?”

  “He’s the man who owned the ice-cream factory at Wainskill.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know there was one there.”

  “Well he’s been bought out by the wholesalers now, but they kept the name.”

  “So how come you’re driving that van then?”

  Deakin shook his head. “Don’t even ask.”

  “Oh, OK.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you if you want.” He glanced round at the upturned boats, and sat down on the nearest one before continuing. “That ice-cream van used to come here during holiday time and do good business. There was always a queue of campers wanting cornets and wafers. And lollies. Bit of a gold mine, it was. When Snaithe sold up he kept the franchise separate and offered it to Tommy with the van included. Tommy snapped it up, of course, but then he persuaded me to take it over.”

  “But you’re too busy doing your milk round, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what I told him, but he insisted I could do the ice-cream as well, in my spare time.”

  At that moment Deakin was interrupted from outside by a chorus of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

  “Why didn’t you just say no?” I asked, when it was over.

  Deakin sighed and shook his head again. “Tommy made it sound like a good idea. I ended up trading in my lorry for the pick-up and the van.”

  “Is that the lorry over at Bryan Webb’s?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Any cash involved?”

  “No, it was a mutually beneficial agreement. But that’s what I want to see Tommy about. I was only supposed to be taking the van on trial, but I seem to be stuck with it now.”

  “Didn’t you like selling ice-creams then?”

  “It was so busy I was worn to a frazzle!” said Deakin. “Then the season ended and it went dead.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would.”

  “So I’ve decided against it. The van’s no use for anything else and I want to give it back.”

  “Well, why don’t you?”

  “Cos I can never catch Tommy.”

  An air of gloom and despondency had begun to descend upon Deakin. He sat on the boat rubbing the palms of his hands over the sanded-down paintwork in an agitated manner. As a result they gradually turned maroon. When he noticed this a look of dismay crossed his face, and I had to resist an urge to put my arm round his shoulder and say, “There, there.”

  Instead, I offered him a cloth to wipe his hands on, followed by tea and biscuits in the bothy.

  “If you take my advice,” I said, while we waited for the kettle to boil, “you’ll have a word with Tommy next time you see him.”

  “Yes,” said Deakin. “I must come and get it sorted out.”

  “Don’t put it off any longer than necessary.”

  “No, you’re right.”

  “By the way, I ought to settle up with you for my milk.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “There’s plenty of time.”

  Now that he’d got the matter of the ice-cream van off his chest Deakin seemed to perk up a bit. By the time I’d served him a cup of tea with some biscuits he was beginning to return to normal. Then his eyes fell on the new copy of the Trader’s Gazette.

  “Ooh yes,” he said. “There’s something in here I must show you.”

  He reached over and began leafing through until he found the page he wanted. It came as no surprise when he showed me the item advertising ‘CIRCULAR SAW WITH MAN FOR HIRE’.

  “That’s you,” he announced.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I thought it must be.”

  “Hasn’t Tommy mentioned it then?”

  “Not directly, no.”

  “Well,” said Deakin. “He hires you out for so much an hour, and pays you so much an hour, and the difference is his profit.”

  “Does that include wear and tear?”

  “Er…no. Wear and tear would be a separate calculation.”

/>   “Oh, right,” I said. “Have you any idea what his hourly rate is?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Well, what did he pay you?”

  “When?”

  “When you helped him build the shed.”

  “Nothing.”

  “What!”

  “The thing is,” he said, “Tommy doesn’t like parting with cash. Not if he can help it.”

  “No, I’ve noticed.”

  “But I dare say I got something or other for my trouble.”

  “You mean payment in kind?”

  “Sort of, yes.” Deakin rose to his feet. “Anyway, thanks for the tea and biscuits, but I must get a move on. I’ve got some homogenized milk in the refrigerator. Special delivery.”

  “Where to?”

  “It’s for Bryan Webb’s Uncle Rupert. He’s always there on Wednesdays.”

  Not long after that Deakin was on his way. I went out into the yard and stood watching as he descended the concrete road in his surplus ice-cream van. Then I heard the clarion call of ‘Half a pound of treacle’, and he was gone.

  ♦

  That night I began my two-week sentence at the Ring of Bells. Two weeks of sitting in a pub with no women, no darts and no Topham’s Excelsior Bitter wasn’t very appealing, so I put it off until about quarter to ten. Prior to that I passed a couple of hours drawing up plans for the mooring raft and wondering why I’d talked myself into building the thing. The truth was that although I knew what it was supposed to look like, I had no actual experience of putting one together. Only after I’d messed about with a pencil and paper for half the evening did I come up with a suitable ‘design’. Then, when I’d run out of things to do, I went out.

  The Ring of Bells seemed even quieter now than it had done during my previous visit. The same people sat in the same places and stared at their drinks, while the landlord (whose name, apparently, was Cyril) stood behind the counter and polished glasses. The conversation was at best desultory. Occasionally someone would make a remark about the weather, or mention whom they’d seen during the day, but most of the talk was less interesting than that. Hodge was present, of course, occupying one of the stools near the counter. He nodded when I walked in and I nodded back, and it struck me, not for the first time, that our relationship was an odd one. I’d been regularly phoning in with my grocery orders for quite a while now, and receiving invoices which I hadn’t paid yet. I was sure it was Hodge who answered when I rang, but he never acknowledged the fact and I never identified myself either. I just asked for the groceries to be delivered to the bothy. If Hodge knew it was me, then he didn’t let on. For my part, I had no idea when I was supposed to settle the invoice. Nothing was ever said, and we just sat side by side drinking and having little to do with one another.