All Quiet on the Orient Express

by Magnus Mills

  “They put these old, battered drums in at one end, and when they come out the other end they’re fully reconditioned. It’s like new lamps for old.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

  “They’ve said they’ll take as many as I can bring in,” he continued. “So I’ve been rushing all over the place chasing them up.”

  He seemed to be in an expansive mood, so I said, “There’s a fully reconditioned boat in the shed, awaiting your inspection.”

  “That’s good,” he replied.

  “And the others are in various stages of completion.”

  “Well,” he said. “I haven’t really got time to look at them at the moment, if you don’t mind. I’m rushed off my feet with all these oil drums.”

  “Oh…right.”

  “So I’ll just leave you to it.”

  “OK then.”

  “As long as the painting’s done by Christmas, that’s the main thing.”

  “Right.”

  It was a bit disappointing that Mr Parker didn’t want to inspect my handiwork, but I could understand his reasons. A moment passed and then I spoke again.

  “Er…there was something else I wanted to speak to you about, actually.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “It’s just that I’ve been putting a lot of hours in on the boats just recently.”

  “Suppose you must have been, yes,” he agreed.

  “And…well, I was wondering if you could let me have some money.”

  It was a dark evening, but not dark enough to hide the look of surprise that crossed Mr Parker’s face.

  “Money?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “So I can pay off my debts.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  “I wouldn’t ask normally,” I explained. “But the thing is I owe money to Bryan Webb, and I’ve also got a slate at the Packhorse, an account with Kenneth Turner and another one with Mr Hodge. Oh yes, and one with Deakin.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that last one,” said Mr Parker.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Plough it back into the business.”

  “Alright,” I said. “But I can’t go on much longer like this. I’m used to having a bit of cash on me.”

  “You’ve run out, have you?”

  “Practically, yes.”

  Mr Parker stood looking at the ground, as if reviewing the conversation we’d just had. Then he looked across at the big shed, up at the sky and down at the ground again. Finally, he spoke.

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose I’d better let you have something to tide you over.”

  He reached into his back pocket and produced a wad of twenty-pound notes. Then slowly he peeled one off and handed it to me, placing it in the palm of my hand. A second note followed. Then a third. All this was done in silence, but I could sense that it was causing Mr Parker a certain amount of distress. Nonetheless, I remained holding my hand out, and he continued laying note upon note until I had a hundred pounds.

  Then he paused.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Will that settle it?” he asked.

  “Yep,” I replied. “That’s fine.”

  He counted the rest of his money and returned it to his back pocket before glancing at me again.

  “By the way,” he said. “No one at the factory seems to have heard of you.”

  “Don’t they?”

  “Afraid not. I asked one or two people around the place, but none of them could think who you were.”

  “Well, I was only there a few months,” I said. “Expect they’ve forgotten me.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “That’s what it sounds like.”

  ∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧

  Eleven

  The Packhorse was through to the second round of the Inter-Pub Darts League. This was the news that greeted me on my next visit, and it seemed to be generally agreed that I’d played a valuable part in the campaign.

  “We wouldn’t have beaten the Golden Lion without your help,” said Tony as he pulled me a pint of Ex. “We’ll have you back on the team as soon as there’s a place.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Just keep turning up and you’re bound to be selected in the end.”

  A quick look at the fixture list told me that we were to face the Journeyman again in ten days’ time. This was one game I was determined not to miss, so I made a careful note of the date. Then I took my pint and joined the others for darts practice.

  In spite of Tony’s assurances, I still felt I was a bit of an outsider at the Packhorse, not quite fully accepted. This was in part due to the fact that I always had to leave before closing time, in order to get to bed at a reasonable hour. As a result, I never partook of ‘after hours’ drinking with Bryan and the rest of them. I was the only one who didn’t stay up late, and I couldn’t help thinking I was missing out on something. They were all friendly enough, but I remained uncertain about whether they were actually ‘friends’.

  The same went for old Mr Pickthall, with whom I spent more time than anyone else. My early-morning companion travelled round with me for hours on end, yet I had no idea if he actually liked my company or not. We made a good team and worked well together, there was no doubt about that, but if I ever made a mistake, for example by taking a wrong turn, he would snap at me and call me a damn fool. Sometimes I wondered if I wasn’t a great disappointment to him.

  Nonetheless, the milk round was going perfectly. We cut through Longridge Scar daily, picking up an empty milk bottle from the side of the road and replacing it with a full one. Sometimes we caught a glimpse of Mr Pickthall’s old pal working amidst the Christmas trees, and he would give us a wave. Then a few more days would pass without a sighting.

  Another call we made was to a small detached house in Wainskill. This was a ‘special order’, Fridays only, for one bottle of homogenized milk. The property lay slightly back from the road, at the end of a cinder path, and I took a liking to it from the very start. Whoever lived there seemed to have found an altogether pleasant spot to call home. A rocking horse carved on the garden gate gave the place a very welcoming look, as did the apple trees and the neat borders. The house itself was in darkness when I made my delivery, but an outside lamp cast a friendly light along the footpath. According to the order book the customer’s name was Pemberton, which told me nothing about whether it was a he or a she. A vase of flowers in the window, however, suggested a female presence, and I soon began to get the feeling that this was where Lesley stayed. After all, no one except a young woman living on her own could make a bottle of milk last the whole week. I imagined she led a busy life, and only had time for a quick cup of tea every now and then. The empty bottle on the doorstep, I noticed, was always rinsed to perfection.

  Having discovered where Lesley lived, I then realized that the information was of little use since I could hardly go knocking on her door at half past six in the morning. All the same, when I saw her at the forthcoming darts match it would do no harm casually to mention that it was me who delivered her milk.

  ♦

  We rarely encountered any traffic at this early hour, but one morning on the approach to Millfold a pick-up truck appeared, coming from the opposite direction. As soon as he saw it Mr Pickthall said, “Watch out, here’s John,” and then laid flat across the seat.

  Next moment the other vehicle came by and I saw his son sitting behind the wheel. Stacked in the rear were four oil drums. Mr Pickthall the Younger nodded at me briefly, and then he was gone.

  My assistant sat up and glanced behind him.

  “Is that his name?” I asked. “John?”

  “Yes, we’re all Johns in our family,” replied the old man.

  “Do you think he was looking for you?”

  “I doubt it. He’s more interested in some damn-fool scheme with oil drums.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Mr Parker’s involved with those
as well.”

  “I know,” said Mr Pickthall. “And John’s going to run himself into a lot of trouble if he’s not careful.”

  “Is he?”

  “Of course he is. Getting right out of his depth, trying to exploit a market he knows nothing about.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Still, perhaps it’ll teach him a lesson.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Hello, who’s this?”

  On the road ahead of us was a hitch-hiker, a young bloke about my age, carrying a rucksack. When he saw us coming he stuck out his thumb.

  “Don’t stop for him,” ordered Mr Pickthall.

  “Sorry,” I said, pulling up. “I always stop for hitchhikers.”

  The young man came to the passenger window, which was a quarter open.

  “Going up to Tommy Parker’s?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Hop in.”

  “There isn’t room in here,” said Mr Pickthall, through the opening. “You’ll have to go in the back with the crates.”

  This struck me as a bit churlish, but the hitch-hiker didn’t seem to mind and had soon clambered aboard. Then we set off again.

  “That’s the lad I told you about,” muttered the old man. “We don’t want him here, he’ll spoil everything.”

  “Seems alright to me,” I said. “Most hitch-hikers are usually OK.”

  “Why didn’t he walk then? It’s only a mile.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Because he’s an idle perisher, that’s why.”

  Mr Pickthall fell silent and sat glaring through the windscreen, while our passenger rode with us to Hillhouse. I wondered why anyone would choose to turn up here in December. After all, the weather was terrible, and there was nowhere to stay.

  “Maybe he’s just passing through,” I remarked.

  The old man said nothing.

  Mr Parker was standing on the back of his lorry coiling ropes when we arrived in the yard. Over the past few days he’d been running air over the place, gathering up more oil drums and taking them down to the factory when he had a full load.

  He’d returned from one such trip late the previous evening.

  “Now then. Tommy!” called the hitch-hiker from the rear of the pick-up, before leaping down. I noticed he had a rather loud voice.

  Mr Parker peered at him for a long moment and then said, “Oh hello, Mark. You decided to come back then?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, I suppose you did.”

  In the meantime I’d got out and delivered the milk. I waited a while to give the newcomer a chance to thank me for the lift. Instead, he ignored me and continued talking to Mr Parker, so I got back into the pick-up.

  “Are we going then?” asked Mr Pickthall, with a note of impatience in his voice.

  “Er…yeah, sure,” I replied, selecting a gear.

  As we drove away I saw Gail’s face behind the kitchen window, but she wasn’t looking at me.

  ♦

  Mr Pickthall said little as we continued the milk round, speaking only when spoken to and giving the bluntest of replies. The arrival of the hitch-hiker had disgruntled him for some reason, and he seemed to be taking it out on me for offering a lift. I couldn’t see what difference it made really. After all, as he himself had pointed out, the journey had only been a mile. The guy would have got there anyway, with or without my help. However, the last thing I wanted to do was fall out with Mr Pickthall, so I made no comment on the matter.

  Around eleven o’clock I dropped him off at the usual place and said, “See you tomorrow then.”

  He muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, and then wandered off towards his home.

  When I arrived back at Hillhouse, the kitchen door was wide open. I parked the pick-up and got out just as the hitch-hiker emerged onto the terrace with a coffee cup in his hand. Behind him came Mr Parker.

  “Have you got a minute?” he called. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  I went up the steps and the newcomer was introduced to me as ‘Mark’.

  “You can call me Marco,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I replied. He appeared to have a slightly faded sun tan.

  “Mark’s going to be staying with you in the bothy,” announced Mr Parker.

  “Is he?” I asked, with some surprise.

  “Yes. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Well, there’s not really enough room.”

  “I thought you said there was plenty.”

  “When?”

  “When you first moved in.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Did I?”

  As we talked Marco stood with a sort of sneering grin on his face, looking at me.

  “Of course, if it’s too much trouble…” he said.

  “No, it’s alright,” I replied. “I suppose you can have the sofa.”

  I expected him to say thanks for this magnanimous gesture, but he merely gazed across at the bothy as if he’d scored some sort of victory.

  “That’s that settled then,” said Mr Parker. “Now I must get going. I’ve some collections to make this afternoon.”

  As he walked over towards his lorry, I turned to Marco.

  “The door’s unlocked, you can let yourself in.”

  I was damned if I was going to show him, into the place like some kind of estate agent, so instead I went across to the shed and got the stove lit. Then I spent some time giving the boats a look-over. I’d made good progress with the painting during the last week or so, and there was only one boat left to do. All the others were looking pristine in their maroon and gold finish, and I examined them with some pride. Mr Parker still hadn’t been in to see them, but I knew he’d be delighted when he finally got round to it.

  I needed some breakfast, so I went over to the bothy and found Marco lying sprawled across the sofa. Some of his gear was already spread out on the floor in an untidy manner.

  “Been travelling all night?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m completely fucked.”

  “Where’ve you come from?”

  “India.”

  “Oh…right. Good trip?”

  “Yeah, it was cool. But I ran out of money so I had to come back.”

  “Did you go overland?”

  “No,” he yawned. “Couldn’t be arsed with all that. Flew down.”

  “Oh, right.”

  He reached into his bag. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Suppose not.”

  Marco lit a cigarette and I opened a window. Then he lapsed into silence, gazing at the opposite wall as he smoked. I got on with making myself some breakfast.

  “Have you eaten?” I asked, at length.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Had breakfast with Tommy earlier.”

  “So you don’t want anything for the time being?”

  “No.”

  I thought it was a bit cheeky how this Marco kept referring to Mr Parker as ‘Tommy’, like they were old pals or something. It seemed far too familiar for my liking. After all, he was only some part-timer who happened to have been here before. As far as I knew he’d helped with the rowing boats and done a bit of painting during the summer months, yet the way he went on anyone would have thought he owned the place.

  “Incidentally,” I said. “What are you planning to live on at this time of year?”

  “I’ll get by,” he replied.

  “But I thought you’d run out of money.”

  “You don’t need money round here.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Course not. Tommy doesn’t charge rent for this place, does he?”

  “Er…no.”

  “Well, then. All you’ve got to do is run up one or two accounts and you’re in clover.”

  “You mean with Hodge and people like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’ve got to pay them off eventually, haven’t you?”

  Marco gave me a long look of disbelief, slowly exhaling as a
smirk developed on his face. Then he laughed at me, directly and unashamedly.

  “Don’t be a cunt all your life,” he said. “Have a day off.”

  ♦

  There were many signs that Christmas was drawing ever closer. Suddenly all the milk-bottle tops were adorned with tiny sprigs of holly, and advance orders for double cream started to appear on people’s doorsteps. It seemed likely that the workload would increase over the coming weeks, so I was glad to have Mr Pickthall’s continued assistance. After Marco’s arrival I’d half expected the old man to abandon me in disgust, but the following morning he was waiting at the usual place with his canvas bag. I thought it best not to mention the previous day’s events at all, and instead pressed on with the milk round as though nothing had happened. This course of action proved successful, and relations quickly returned to normal.

  Passing through Longridge Scar it was apparent that at last the Christmas trees had begun to be harvested. Where previously we’d seen only impenetrable darkness, there were now open spaces, lit faintly by scattered brush fires still smouldering at dawn. Not all the trees had gone, however. Whole blocks remained untouched, presumably waiting for the following year, or the year after that. We retrieved an empty milk bottle from the side of the road, left a full one in its place, and continued our journey.

  When I next delivered to the house with the rocking horse on the garden gate, I thought there might be a note asking for extras during the festive season. There wasn’t, but nonetheless I decided to leave a complimentary tub of cream as a goodwill gesture. This caused Mr Pickthall to murmur that ‘One customer was no better than the next’, and that any tradesman who gave produce away free of charge needed his head examining.

  Each afternoon went by in the comparative sanctuary of the big shed. With the stove lit and the door closed, I continued work on the final boat uninterrupted. I’d really enjoyed doing this project over the past few weeks, and speculated about what Mr Parker had lined up for me next. Something interesting, no doubt, but I rarely got a chance to speak to him as he was always so busy with the oil drums.

  One evening, however, I met him coming across the yard just after he’d returned from a short trip in his lorry.

  “You won’t forget there’s still that mooring to make, will you?” he said.