by Magnus Mills
“But I haven’t said I am.”
“You should be trying to make friends, not going about upsetting people.”
At these words the other customers murmured in agreement.
“Alright,” I said, draining my glass. “I think I’d better go.”
“But you’ve only just got here,” said Cyril. “You can’t go yet.”
“Yes I can. Goodnight.”
I headed for the door.
“We’re only offering friendly advice,” said Hodge, as I stepped out into the darkness.
“Goodnight,” I repeated.
“Goodnight,” said a chorus of voices from inside. Then the door swung shut behind me.
I stood in the middle of the square recovering from my recent cross-examination, and swore never again to set foot in the Ring of Bells. Which meant, of course, that I was now effectively exiled from both pubs in Millfold.
OK, well, that was no big deal. I would just have to do without drink for the time being, and that didn’t bother me in the slightest. After all, there were plenty of other things for me to do. Why should I waste my evenings hanging around in pubs?
I decided to walk back to Hillhouse by way of the lakeside path, and as I passed the Packhorse I glanced over the beer garden wall. From the bottom bar came the sounds of glasses tinkling and raucous laughter, and in the window I thought I saw the silhouette of a man wearing a crown.
Then I turned towards the lake. It was a dark night, but I’d done this walk so many times by now that I could probably have found my way blindfold. The main obstacles were usually provided by the roots of trees straying across the path. However, I’d only had one pint of lager tonight so these didn’t present much of a problem. In fact, I hardly took any notice of where I was going at all. Most of the time I found myself thinking about what it would be like if I did indeed start up a milk round, as everyone kept suggesting. For a while it began to seem like an attractive proposition. I quite liked the idea of setting off early in the morning to make my deliveries. There were plenty of potential customers, even though they were spread out a bit, and it would be a good way of getting to know the area properly. Also, if I got the work completed quickly, I’d then have the afternoons free to get on with other things I was interested in, such as looking after Mr Parker’s boats.
Something else came to mind as well. I’d almost forgotten about it, but when I was a child I used to help a milkman on his rounds. It was a holiday job, riding around on the back of a milk-float, plonking bottles on doorsteps and bringing back the empties. This milkman had been coming up and down our road for as long as I could remember, and I’d often wondered if he needed a helper. Then one morning he suddenly pulled up while I was riding my bike along the pavement and said, “Want a job?”
Obviously I’d jumped at the chance, and spent several weeks assisting him until the holidays ended. He always let me do the houses at the end of a row, or at the top of a long flight of steps. Meanwhile he remained with the float and checked off his order book. As far as I knew I was the only kid in the vicinity who was allowed to help him, which gave me a certain amount of local prestige (even though he never actually paid me). If my memory was correct, I had this job the same summer as I’d learnt to row a boat in our local park. All that seemed a long time ago now, but the idea of doing a milk round triggered off some pleasant recollections, so I toyed with it for a while. The reality, of course, was different. How could I set up in business without any capital? For a start I’d need to buy a pick-up (milk-floats were for town suburbs only), and I would have to establish some sort of credit with the dairy which supplied me. Then I’d have to poach all Deakin’s customers off him, which as I said before I had no intention of doing. When I thought about it seriously I realized that the whole project was nothing more than a pipe-dream, and as I wandered along in the darkness I decided to forget all about it.
Approaching the water’s edge I again heard the cries of seabirds from somewhere out in the middle of the lake. There must have been thousands of them gathered together there, but it struck me at that moment that they all sounded quite lonely. I wondered how far from home they were, and why they’d made this their winter sanctuary. After all, the lake was no calm oasis. The water had grown steadily choppier over the past week, and in daylight hours had a permanent grey look to it. The wind that howled through the trees at night was hardly an inviting prospect either.
Which reminded me: we would have to get the new mooring weight put down soon.
A few days ago Mr Parker had spoken as though this was a matter of the utmost urgency, but since I’d finished building the raft he’d engaged me in a string of other tasks and the job had been put off. When I passed the jetty I stopped to check that the raft was still tethered there safely. It was. I could just about see it in the blackness, gently rocking back and forth.
♦
Next morning Deakin was late with the milk. His usual arrival time came and went but there was no sign of him, and I began to wonder if there was some sort of problem. I didn’t bother mentioning the matter to Mr Parker though. He seemed to have something on his mind this morning and wasn’t in a very conversational mood. Besides, it was hardly important what time Deakin turned up really, as there was always some spare milk in the fridge. We’d been sitting at the breakfast table for about fifteen minutes when the phone rang. As usual, this caused Gail to rise instantly from her seat.
“I’ll get it,” she said, darting into the next room. A moment later she came back.
“Dad, it’s for you.”
After Mr Parker had gone to take the call Gail turned to me and said, “Shall we start practising tonight then?”
“You mean darts?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Can if you like.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“No, course not. Come over about seven.”
She smiled. “Alright then, thanks.”
Her father came back into the room. “That was Bryan Webb. He was ringing up to find out if we’d heard from Deakin this morning. He’s worried about his Uncle Rupert’s homogenized.”
“Blimey,” I said. “Deakin must be way behind schedule if he hasn’t even got to Bryan’s yet.”
“That’s what I said,” agreed Mr Parker. “Anyway, I haven’t got time to worry about Deakin now. I want to go over to Bryan’s and fetch the lorry, so we can load up those oil drums. Then I suppose we’d better get that mooring weight put down before the weather gets any worse.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I was going to mention that.”
Instead of acknowledging my remark Mr Parker fell unusually silent, and it again struck me that there must be something on his mind.
It wasn’t until well after ten o’clock that Deakin finally arrived, and I saw straight away why he was late: he was making the deliveries in his ice-cream van. The inside of the vehicle was laden with milk crates which clinked and rattled as he came up the hill, heralded by an uncontrolled double blast of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.
Poor Deakin. He had such a harassed look on his face that I felt quite sorry for him. To get at the milk he had to open the access door at the back of the van, squeeze inside between the crates, and then squeeze out again. It looked like a real struggle, especially since he had so many calls to make.
“Better late than never!” I called by way of encouragement, as he did a frantic dash across the yard. “Where’s your pick-up then?”
“Kenneth Turner’s giving it a full service,” he replied, dodging up the steps to the house. “Otherwise it’ll never get through the winter.”
“Have you spoken to Tommy about the van yet?”
“I haven’t had time. Is he here now?”
“No,” I said. “Should be back later though.”
“Right,” said Deakin. “As soon as I’ve got these deliveries finished I’ll come back and see him.”
There seemed to be a certain resolve in the way Deakin said this, whic
h I thought was a positive sign that he really did intend to get the matter sorted out at last. Shortly afterwards he was on his way again, charging off down the hill as the chimes gave yet another rendition of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.
I’d done about an hour’s work on the boats when Mr Parker returned in the lorry and got me to help him load it up. The top yard was now crowded with oil drums, well over a hundred, and it took us some time to get them all stacked and roped. As we worked I noticed that Mr Parker was becoming increasingly irritable. Loading all those drums was no easy business, and every time one of them jammed in an awkward position he would curse under his breath and shove at it violently until it moved. I couldn’t quite understand what was bothering him, so I adopted my usual approach of saying little and making myself as useful as possible. Finally, all the drums were securely tied on the back of the lorry and it was ready to go.
Then, after a brief rest, Mr Parker said, “Right. We’d better get that mooring weight put down.”
I glanced towards the lake and quickly concluded that this wasn’t the best day to do the job. There was a cold wind blowing across the hillside and I could see the tops of the distant trees swaying. Still, I wasn’t going to argue with Mr Parker. If he wanted to put the weight down today, then so be it.
The first thing we had to do was transport it to the shore. We couldn’t use Mr Parker’s pick-up because he’d left it over at Bryan Webb’s when he went for the lorry this morning. The tractor still had the saw attached, and the only other vehicle available was the old Morris van parked by the side of the shed. To my surprise it started first time, and he soon had it manoeuvred round to where the weight lay. The van’s springs creaked as the two of us struggled to lift the concrete-filled wheel into the back, as well as the accompanying length of chain and mooring buoy. Once again there was a lot of cursing involved as Mr Parker’s mood continued to deteriorate, but eventually we got all the gear inside and shut the rear doors. Then we drove slowly towards the lake.
As we approached I saw that the water was still as grey and choppy as it had been yesterday. I looked at the mooring raft as it bobbed up and down beside the jetty, and wondered if it really was as stable as I thought.
Mr Parker seemed to be pondering the same question. He stood on the jetty for a long time looking at the raft, occasionally pressing his foot down on one corner to see how much resistance there was.
“Rocks about a lot, doesn’t it?” he said. “Are you sure you’ve built it properly?”
“Should be alright,” I replied.
Obviously he needed convincing, so I stepped completely onto the raft to prove I had full confidence in it. To my relief it felt OK, and I was able to move about on the small deck without fear of toppling over.
“We’ll need to take one of the oars,” I said. “So we can guide it.”
Mr Parker unlocked the green hut and tried the door.
“The flaming paint’s stuck again,” he said, giving it a pull.
Every time I examined the paintwork on this hut I noticed yet more runs and badly done areas. It certainly was a poor piece of workmanship, and did nothing to improve Mr Parker’s humour. Only with a sharp tug did the door come open, after which I went inside and got one of the oars. Then we had the tricky job of transferring the mooring weight (plus the chain) from the van to the raft. It wasn’t too bad moving it along the jetty, as we were able to roll it slowly to the end. But getting it from there onto the raft itself was a real battle, accompanied by many more grunts and curses from Mr Parker. We’d just succeeded in getting the weight safely aboard when we heard ‘Half a pound of treacle’ coming towards us through the trees.
Not now, Deakin, I thought to myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. Next thing the ice-cream van had pulled up by the green hut, where it gave another impromptu blast of its wayward chimes.
“What a flaming racket!” roared Mr Parker, steadying his balance on the mooring raft and keeping well away from the edge. As I looked at his awkward movements it suddenly dawned on me why he was in such an irritable mood. All the signs pointed towards it: for some reason he was afraid of the water. This explained both his distrust of the raft and his lack of interest in the rowing boats. When he was on dry land Tommy Parker bore himself with as much self-assurance as any man I’d ever met. He was strong, independent and successful in business. He could do a thousand and one things that many other people wouldn’t even know how to attempt. Yet out here on the water all his confidence just disappeared. Which was obviously why he felt it necessary to shout at Deakin.
“Can’t you turn that bloody thing off!” he yelled, as the hapless milkman approached us along the jetty.
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about,” replied Deakin, with a look of determination on his face.
“We’re a bit busy just now,” I said, attempting to defuse the situation. “Why don’t you come back later?”
In order to get away from Deakin I quickly cast off from the jetty, using the oar to propel the raft. Once again the van trumpeted its presence nearby. Suddenly the raft rocked sharply and I realized that Deakin had stepped on board as well.
“What are you doing now?” snapped Mr Parker.
“I’ll come with you and give you a hand,” replied Deakin. “Cos I could do with having a word with you really.”
Mr Parker and Deakin were now holding each other steady. Around their feet lay many yards of mooring chain, and this suddenly caught Deakin’s attention.
“Looks like you’ve got a bit of a tangle there,” he said. “Let’s see if we can get it sorted out.”
He crouched down amongst the chain and began rearranging lengths of it across the raft’s deck. I soon realized that there was hardly room for the three of us on board, as well as the mooring weight, the buoy and all that chain. Worse, as we moved away from the shore the lake became noticeably rougher, so that the raft pitched and rolled quite a lot. By the time we’d got far enough out to drop the mooring, Mr Parker had begun to look very unhappy. He was gripping onto the weight with both hands, and staring down at the black water below. Meanwhile, Deakin continued to fiddle about with the chain, coiling it into loops and so forth, and making some sort of adjustment to the mooring buoy.
“Right,” I said. “Stand back, Deakin. We’re going to let it go now.”
With Mr Parker’s help I shoved the mooring weight over the edge. It plummeted into the depths followed by the long, rattling chain, and a moment later it was gone.
So was Deakin.
∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧
Nine
As he shot beneath the surface a surge of water rose up and swirled around our feet. “No!” cried Mr Parker, arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance. He looked in danger of toppling after Deakin, so I caught him by the hand and the two of us remained swaying there for several seconds, during which time I noticed the mooring buoy floating nearby. There was nothing attached to it.
“He’s gone down with the chain!” I said, raising my voice against the breeze. “Can he swim?”
“Can he hell!” groaned Mr Parker. “Can you?”
“No, sorry.”
“Well, I bloody can’t either!”
A gust of wind battered us and moved away across the lake. The raft was now drifting rapidly, which meant we were already some distance from the spot where Deakin had disappeared. Nevertheless, I kept expecting him to pop up next to us at any moment so we could pull him to safety. It was only after half a minute had gone by that this began to seem increasingly unlikely. Then, on the receding shore, we heard the ice-cream van give a forlorn hoot.
“Do you think there’s anything we can do?” asked Mr Parker.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I think we’ve lost him.”
“Well, get me off here, could you, please?”
I took the opportunity to let go of his hand, which was starting to feel rather warm, and retrieved the floating buoy. After that I began paddl
ing back, while Mr Parker strove to maintain his footing. I helped him from the raft onto the jetty, at which point he murmured ‘Thank you’ and quickly headed for dry land. Then he turned and stood for a long time regarding the lake.
“Dear oh dear oh dear,” he said when I joined him. “This would have to happen now, wouldn’t it? Just when Deakin had found a job he liked.”
I gave no reply but simply shrugged and looked in the same direction, aware that the water now appeared to be much darker than it had before. In the distance a group of seabirds wheeled and turned.
Behind us waited the ice-cream van, with engine running and refrigerator unit whirring loudly. It was a very unnatural noise compared to the wild rushing of the elements, and eventually it succeeded in drawing Mr Parker’s attention away from the lake.
I saw him glance round at the vehicle once or twice, then finally he asked, “Now, what’s supposed to be wrong with these chimes?”
“They keep jamming,” I replied. “That was one of the things Deakin wanted to talk to you about.”
“Well, all he had to do was push the reset button. Let’s have a look.”
He climbed into the back of the van, which was now free of milk crates, and reached up to a panel. Then I heard a faint ‘click’.
“Try it now, can you?” he said through the serving window.
I leaned into the cab and pressed the control switch. Instantly, the horns on the roof played ‘Half a pound of tuppeny rice’. Then there was silence. I pressed it again and got a repeat of the same tune.
“That’ll do,” said Mr Parker.
“What about the other bit?” I asked.
“What other bit?”
“‘Half a pound of treacle’. Shouldn’t it play that as well?”
“Oh no,” he said. “You can only have one or the other. Not both.”
He emerged from the van carrying a bottle of red-topped homogenized milk.
“This was in the fridge,” he announced. “It must be for Bryan Webb’s Uncle Rupert.”
