by Magnus Mills
“Only an hour and half late,” he said with a grin. “Not bad for your first day.”
Apparently he’d been watching my progress along the lake from his window, and had already put the kettle on for a pot of tea. This was most welcome as I’d been going continually without a break since before five o’clock.
“Made one or two wrong turns this morning,” I said, as we sat in his kitchen. “Should be able to speed up though as I get used to it.”
“You could do with an assistant really,” remarked Bryan. “Deakin’s trouble was that he tried to do it all by himself. Want a biscuit?”
“Please.”
He produced a biscuit tin and removed the lid. Inside were fig rolls, malted milks and custard creams. “Take your pick.”
“Blimey,” I said. “Where’d you get these from? I can’t lay my hands on anything except plain digestives.”
Bryan looked concerned. “Dealing with Hodgey, are you?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“And he won’t let you have what you want?”
“No.”
“He can be like that with newcomers, can Hodgey. Until he gets to know you a bit better, like.”
“Well, how long does that take?”
“Ooh, it depends,” said Bryan. “Could be months, could be years.”
“Looks like I’m stuck with digestives then,” I sighed.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you let me send in your order? Hodgey won’t know the difference and you can collect it from here.”
“Wouldn’t you mind?”
“Course not, it’s no trouble.”
“What about settling his bill?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. We can sort it out later.”
“OK then,” I said. “Well, thanks very much. I’ll give you my list tomorrow.”
“Alright.”
I stayed at Bryan’s another half-hour, sharing tea and biscuits, before I stirred myself. Then I thanked him again and headed home, pleased to have got through the entire circuit without incident. All the milk I’d picked up at five o’clock this morning was now gone. The crates in the rear of the pick-up were full of empty bottles, rinsed and ready for return to the dairy. As I journeyed back I became increasingly aware of the way they rattled and clinked all the time. This was something I’d failed to notice while I was working flat out, but now the sound seemed to follow me incessantly all the way along the lake road and through Millfold. Finally I turned into the gateway at Hillhouse and passed over the painted green square. The rattling ceased as I halted for a few moments, remembering that this was the place I had first met Deakin only a few weeks ago. I got out and looked at the gate I’d been painting that sunny afternoon. How things had changed since then! Now Deakin was gone and I had become the official milkman for Wainskill and Millfold. It occurred to me that it might be a nice idea annually to repaint the square in his memory. He’d been wearing a proper dairyman’s overall at the time, and I wondered whether I should think about getting one for myself.
♦
With the rest of the afternoon free I could at last get on with the boats. It seemed like ages since I’d finished preparing them, and now I was quite looking forward to applying some paint. Mr Parker had given me the keys so I let myself into the paint store, selected a couple of brushes, and then went over to the big shed. Inside, the boats were all lined up on their wooden blocks just as I’d left them. I opened a tin of green paint, stirred it, and then began work on the first one. As I said before, whoever painted these boats originally had done a very thorough job. In all the hours I’d spent with the electric sander, I had only managed to dull down the old paintwork, rather than remove it completely. The first boat’s hull remained a faded but very obvious maroon colour. And as I began going over it with fresh green paint I began to get an odd feeling of unease. It was almost as if I was painting over something irreplaceable. I’d been expecting this part of the job to be the most satisfying, but I soon found it was quite the opposite. With every brush stroke the boat looked less majestic and more mundane. Even worse was when I had to paint over the gunwales and the curved prow, whose ancient lines had looked so outstanding in gold. As the old paintwork disappeared under the new I discovered that I was rapidly losing interest in the task. After all, my idea had been to restore these boats to their former glory, not reduce them to mere tubs. I also realized that I was working at a much slower rate than I had been at the outset, but put this down partly to the fact that I was now quite tired, having been up since the early hours. I was just pondering whether to pack in for the day when I heard a vehicle arrive outside. Mr Parker had evidently returned from wherever he’d been, and a few moments later came into the shed to see how I was progressing.
“Well,” he said, giving the boat a glance-over. “The paint seems to be going on quite nicely, doesn’t it?”
“Suppose so,” I replied, without enthusiasm.
“It’ll need several coats, won’t it?”
“Expect so.”
“Well, don’t worry about slapping on as many as it takes.”
“OK.”
“I’ve brought back some more chain and a wheel hub,” he continued. “So when you’ve got a moment can you make up another mooring?”
I wasn’t sure when he expected me to ‘get a moment’ exactly, but I just said OK again, and watched as he moved towards the chimney stove in the corner.
“Bit chilly in here,” he remarked. “I think we’ll get this going for you, keep the place nice and warm.”
Next thing we were clearing away the bits and pieces around the stove, and finding suitable pieces of timber to burn. To tell the truth I’d been so preoccupied with the boats that I hadn’t noticed how cold the weather had turned. No wonder I felt lethargic and sluggish. In contrast. Tommy Parker seemed to be in a very expansive mood. Soon there were flames darting up from within the stove, and he was making adjustments to the air regulator on the front. As the shed warmed up I began to feel less fed up than I had earlier.
“There you are,” he said, when he’d got the stove going full blast. “That’ll keep it cosy in here.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m off down south with the oil drums tomorrow, so I’ll leave you to it.”
“Right.”
Shortly afterwards I had another visitor. Around five o’clock the door opened and Gail came in. I noticed she’d already changed out of her school uniform.
“There’s a message for you from Mr Wanless,” she said.
“Who’s that then?” I asked.
“You know,” she replied. “Drives the school bus.”
“You mean Maurice?”
“I’ve always called him Mr Wanless.”
“Oh…right,” I said. “What’s the message?”
“He says it’ll be alright to go back to the Packhorse tonight.”
“Ah, that’s very good of him. I’ll have to buy him a pint.”
Gail looked disappointed. “Does that mean we won’t be able to have any more darts practice?”
“No, no, should be able to squeeze some in, although I’m a bit busy just at the moment.”
“So we will do it again then?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Promise.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
I watched her walk to the door and go out, and had to remind myself not for the first time that she was only fifteen. Maybe I should have just said I had no time available to spend with her and left it at that. After all, it would have been practically the truth. Apart from having a milk round to look after and all these boats to paint, there was also a mooring weight to make and put down, as well as a timber contract to complete. On top of all that there was my commitment to the darts team, which seemed rather more important than giving lessons to a teenage girl in a hay-loft. In fact, when I thought about it there was hardly a moment to spare, and now that the shed had warmed up I decided to bash on with the painting for another couple of
hours. By seven o’clock I’d got the first coat finished on the boat I was doing and it looked OK, although I remained unhappy about the choice of colour. After that I dashed over to the bothy, had my tea and then went out.
When I arrived at the Packhorse I discovered I’d taken far too much for granted about my status in the darts team. I was made welcome enough, but the demands of the fixture list had obliged them to recruit other players during my absence, and there were no spare places. Bryan Webb bought me a pint and then explained that I would have to play myself back into the side by turning up for future matches on a reserve basis. This sounded fair enough to me, so I sat on a stool in the corner and prepared to watch the action. The visitors tonight were from the Rising Sun, and seemed to be a friendly enough bunch. Unfortunately, they were one of those teams that brought no women with them, so there was nothing much to look at apart from men lobbing darts. The first game was won by the Packhorse, and the second by the Rising Sun. Then suddenly everybody was laughing about something. I blinked once or twice and saw Bryan and the rest of them standing in a half-circle, grinning at me and studying my face.
“Is he or isn’t he?” someone said.
“Well, he isn’t now, but he definitely was,” said Bryan, and they all laughed again.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“You’ve just slept through half the match,” he said. “Watch out, you’re spilling your beer.”
I glanced down. The glass in my hand was lying at a haphazard angle, its contents lapping the rim. Quickly I straightened it, and got up from the stool.
“Blimey,” I said. “I must be more tired than I thought.”
“Well, you can’t burn the candle at both ends,” remarked Kenneth Turner. “You’d better go home and get your head down.”
“Yes, I think I will. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” they all chorused as I walked out.
Despite not getting a game of darts, I felt quite good about my first evening back at the Packhorse. Nobody had said anything about me ‘letting them down’ on that previous occasion, and I assumed from their silence on the subject that I was forgiven. Now it was just a matter of time before I was fully accepted as a team member again. The way Bryan had bought me a pint beforehand suggested that this wouldn’t be too long at all. Feeling fairly contented about the way things had gone, I wandered back to the bothy and went straight to bed. I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, waking again at half past four feeling fully refreshed. After a quick cup of tea I set off in the pick-up, and realized I was actually looking forward to embarking on my milk round once more.
As I emerged from the front gate I noticed there was another early-riser out and about. A figure appeared in the headlights walking along the road towards Millfold, and I knew instantly that it was old Mr Pickthall.
I pulled up beside him and wound down my window.
“Want a job?” I asked.
∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧
Ten
“Course I want a job,” he said.
“Well, I could do with an assistant.”
“Thought so.”
Without another word he walked round to the passenger’s side and got in. I noticed he was carrying a canvas bag from which protruded a Thermos flask.
“You’ve come prepared then,” I remarked as the journey continued.
“Might as well do it properly if we’re going to do it at all.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Suppose you’re right. What about your son though?”
“What about him?”
“Won’t he object to you coming with me?”
“None of his business.”
“But what if he finds out?”
“Look,” snapped the old man. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well stop going on about him then.”
“Alright,” I said. “Sorry.”
Having settled the matter we didn’t mention it again, but continued driving through the pre-dawn darkness towards Greenbank. We arrived at the dairy bang on five o’clock and I backed straight up to the loading bay, where the men were ready and waiting. It turned out that Mr Pickthall was on nodding terms with a couple of them. They remembered him from the days when he ran his timber yard, and once again I was struck by the way everybody appeared to know everybody else around here. This in its turn helped oil the wheels, and we had the milk crates on board the truck even quicker than the day before. I handed over the requisition docket, signed the sheet, and we were soon on our way again.
What I liked about the old man was that he didn’t waste words in pointless conversations. He just rode silently beside me in the passenger seat, peering out through the windscreen at the road ahead and awaiting the opportunity to do some work. Obviously, I didn’t ask him to take every bottle of milk to every house we called at: that would have been demanding far too much of him. The gold-tops along the common below Greenbank, for example, I delivered myself, since they were all straightforward drop-offs. It was when we began doing the more remote dwellings that he really came into his own. The first such place had three sets of gates on the entrance drive, all closed, and Mr Pickthall practically leapt out of the pick-up to open them.
“Damn fools,” he said, getting back in after the third gate. “They don’t need them closed at this time of year.”
“Suppose not,” I agreed. I knew nothing about farming, but my assistant seemed to talk with some authority so I took his word for it.
“All the fields are empty,” he added.
Nevertheless, if the customer wanted the gates to be left closed, then we had no choice but to oblige. Mr Pickthall wasn’t really bothered either way. He needed something to do, and opening and closing gates was as good a pastime as any. His only complaint was that the people who owned them were ‘damn fools’.
Another task cropped up for him when we came to places with awkward-shaped yards. These had been real inconveniences the day before, but with his help they proved to be no problem at all. The procedure was simple. While I did a three-point turn in the truck, he would get out and make the appropriate delivery, returning with the empty bottle just as I completed my manoeuvre. In this efficient way we saved minutes at a time.
It was not yet daylight when we arrived at Wainskill. As we passed the ice-cream fartory Mr Pickthall peered through the wrought-iron gates and said, “So Snaithe finally sold up then.”
“That’s what I heard, yes,” I replied.
“Started up from nothing, you know.”
“Really?”
“Same year as I established my sawmill.”
“Oh, right.”
“Good businessman, Snaithe is.”
“Do you know him then?”
“I run into him from time to time, yes,” said Mr Pickthall. “Last occasion was Whit Monday, 1962, if my memory serves me correctly.”
“Oh…er…right.”
“Of course, they’d never let him build anything like that these days.”
“Suppose not.”
“Too many planning regulations round here now, you can’t build anything.”
“No.”
“Damn fool regulations.”
This long conversation seemed to take its toll of Mr Pickthall and he fell silent for quite some time. Meanwhile, I thought about Mr Parker’s big shed and wondered if he’d got planning permission before he built it.
The milk round was going very nicely. We completed the deliveries in Wainskill, and were well on schedule as we approached the Millfold area around a quarter to eight. I’d noticed that the pick-up’s fuel gauge was running low. It had a diesel engine, and the only place I knew with a DERV pump was Kenneth Turner’s garage, so I pulled in for a refill. Kenneth was already at work underneath a van, which he had jacked up on the service ramp, and he emerged when he heard us arrive. I got out to speak to him, leaving Mr Pickthall in the cab pouring some tea from his Thermos flask. He’d brought two cups alo
ng, as well as some jam doughnuts, and had obviously chosen this moment for us to have a tea break. When Kenneth saw him sitting in the passenger seat he gave me a wink and said, “I see you’ve got yourself an assistant.”
“Yes,” I said. “He’s been making himself very useful.”
“Well, you can’t go far wrong with Mr P. on board.”
“That’s the way it seems.”
“Smart boy wanted,” said Kenneth.
After he’d filled the tank I took out some money to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“Might as well put it on account, you’ll be needing plenty more after this.”
“Suppose so,” I said. “Is that alright with you then?”
“Yes, no trouble at all.”
“And I’ll settle up in due course.”
“Righto.”
I joined Mr Pickthall in the cab for my tea and doughnuts, and then we pressed on with the deliveries along Bryan Webb’s side of the lake. When we arrived in Bryan’s yard, he was standing there in his cardboard crown, apparently waiting for us. I took the opportunity to hand over my grocery order, but declined his offer of a cup of tea, explaining that we’d just had one. As we departed again Bryan gave Mr Pickthall a grin and a salute.
“Damn fool,” remarked the old man.
We reached Hillhouse ahead of Deakin’s usual time, but I noticed that the lorry-load of oil drums had already gone. Mr Parker did have a very long way to go with them, and he must have decided to make an early start. By now Mr Pickthall appeared to be tiring a little, so it was me who got out and made the delivery. Gail appeared in the doorway just as I came up the steps to the house. She was not yet in her school uniform.
“When are we going up in the hay-loft again?” she asked.
“Pretty soon,” I replied. “Once I’ve got used to these hours.”
“Alright then. By the way, my dad’s left you some more firewood.” She indicated Mr Parker’s pick-up truck, parked next to the big shed. From where we were standing I could just make out some timber piled in the back.
“Oh, right,” I said. “Thanks.”
She smiled. “That’s OK.”
