by Magnus Mills
“No, OK,” I replied. “The lake seems a bit rough for putting it down though.”
“You could maybe have a go at doing it next week,” he suggested. “The weatherman says we’re in for a calm spell.”
“Oh, right.”
“Get Mark to lend you a hand.”
“OK.”
The idea of Mark (or ‘Marco’ as he preferred to call himself) lending anyone a hand seemed most unlikely. He was quite easily the laziest person I had ever met. Not only did he sleep half the day, getting up ages after I’d finished the milk round, but then he just lounged around in the bothy for hours on end, smoking with the window closed and helping himself to my biscuits. Never did he offer to make a pot of tea or anything like that, even though he knew I was busy. His excuse was that he ‘couldn’t be arsed’, although I noticed he always managed to pour himself a cup if I went to the trouble of making some.
Despite all this, Gail seemed to think he was highly fascinating. She was forever turning up at the bothy on pretexts, such as looking at Marco’s photographs from India. These were interesting enough in themselves, I suppose, but they only needed to be seen once. Not three times.
At one point I asked him what he thought of the place and he said, “Brilliant, but you probably wouldn’t like it.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“You just wouldn’t,” he replied. “You’re the wrong type of person.”
Marco had a very unfortunate way of putting things, but all the same I realized that if we were going to have to share then I might as well try and be friendly. For this reason I asked him if he fancied coming with me to the Packhorse.
“What, and spend the evening with ‘ye yokels’?” he said. “No thanks.”
“Actually, they’re a good crowd,” I remarked. “They’re going to put me on the darts team.”
“Lucky you.”
“We’re playing the Journeyman tonight.”
Marco leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Oh the excitement!” he said. “I can hardly bear it!”
“So you don’t want to come then?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I think I might go and see if young Gail wants to come out to play.”
I didn’t like the sound of this, but I was hardly in a position to do anything about it. Instead, I had a bath and got ready to go out. As I did so I thought about Bryan, Kenneth, Maurice, Tony and the rest of them, and wondered if they’d appreciate being referred to as ‘yokels’.
When I got to the Packhorse I saw that someone had been busy getting ready for Christmas. In a half-barrel outside the door stood a tree decorated with tinsel, while bright fairy lights shone at all the windows. Down in the bottom bar the mood was similarly Jolly. The home team practised with their darts, drank beer and waited for the visitors to arrive. I ordered a pint from Tony and then went and spoke to Bryan, who was giving the scoreboard a wipe with a damp cloth. His crown was on his head as usual, but in the festive surroundings it no longer looked out of place.
“Evening, Bryan,” I said. “You’re looking very seasonal all of a sudden.”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” he replied. “Tell you what, though, it’s been a hell of a year in between.”
A few moments passed as the meaning of his words sunk in.
“Have you been wearing it for a whole year then?” I asked.
“Course I have,” he said. “That’s the bet.”
“What bet?”
“The one I’ve got with Tommy.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know anything about a bet.”
Bryan gave me a surprised look.
“But you must have heard,” he said. “It’s public knowledge round here. Tommy bet me I wouldn’t wear my crown from one Christmas to the next.”
“Oh,” I said, smiling. “I see.”
“And I bet him he’d never find a use for all that green paint he bought.”
“Well, there was rather a lot of it,” I remarked.
“Yes,” said Bryan. “I thought I was on to a winner until you turned up.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“What difference did I make?”
“You saved Tommy’s bacon, didn’t you?” he said. “Once you got going on those boats I didn’t stand a chance.”
There was a flurry of movement around the door, and a new group joined the throng. It was the team from the Journeyman, and as they bustled in Bryan went over to greet them. Trying not to think about what he’d just said, I got some darts and took a few practice shots at the board. As I did so I realized that there was no sign of Lesley. For some reason she was late, and I assumed she would be arriving shortly. In the meantime, the two sides were drawn up, and preparations made for the first game. Only then did I discover that I hadn’t been selected.
“We’ve decided you’re not quite ready yet,” explained Tony. “But don’t worry, it’s only a matter of time.”
“So I’ll get on the team eventually, will I?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Eventually.”
From beneath the counter he then produced a number of cardboard crowns, all folded flat. “Do me a favour and hand these round, will you?”
The crowns were made to the same pattern as Bryan’s. I passed amongst the players giving them out, and kept one for myself. It was gold, with three prongs. Bryan chose a new silver one to replace the old one on his head.
“Might as well be comfortable,” he remarked with a grin.
I didn’t enjoy the evening very much, despite having being given a yuletide crown to wear. I watched the darts without any sense of involvement, and as one game followed another it gradually dawned on me that Lesley wasn’t going to turn up. When I went for another beer I asked Tony if he knew where she was.
“Oh, we won’t be seeing her for a good while,” he replied. “She’s gone off on her travels.”
“Has she?”
“Yes,” he said. “Decided there was more to life than playing darts every night. She’s gone overseas, I think.” He handed me my pint. “By the way, this one’s paid for, courtesy of your boss.”
For the first time I realized that Tommy Parker was present in the Packhorse. Glancing through to the top bar I saw him standing with the landlord and his cronies. He gave me a nod and I raised my glass in thanks. It felt like a consolation prize.
♦
Sometime later a cheer went up, signalling that the home side had won the match. As hands were shaken and darts put away, I spoke to Tony about paying off my slate. He took a notebook from beside the till and studied it for a few moments.
“Right,” he said. “Forty-one pounds and ninepence I make it. Call it forty for luck.”
“Oh…OK,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Do you want to pay your darts subs while we’re at it?”
This turned out to be another tenner, and apparently covered the cost of the sandwiches which I’d always assumed were free. By the time I’d sought out Kenneth and Bryan, and paid what I owed them, I had less than ten quid left. I thought about my outstanding debt with Hodge and realized that, despite all my hard work, I was more or less skint. Not until I went round collecting the milk money would I have any cash again, and that’d have to wait until after Christmas.
“Oh, I meant to tell you,” said Bryan. “My Uncle Rupert sends his regards.”
“Does he?” I replied. “Er, right…thanks.”
“Very impressed with how early you’re delivering his milk.”
“Is he one of my customers then?”
“Of course he is,” Bryan grinned. “You know his place. Out at Wainskill. Got a rocking horse on the garden gate.”
A bell rang.
It was last orders at the Packhorse, but as usual no one took the slightest bit of notice. The darts team had won yet another victory, and they were now in celebratory mood. As a result, I was the only person actually to leave at closing time. I slipped out of the door and walked across the square
past the Ring of Bells. Through the window I could see the gloomy minority seated round the bar. Everything seemed to be the same as it always had been. Then I headed home in the darkness, still wearing my pretend crown.
When I arrived back at Hillhouse I noticed that the light was on in the hay-loft. It was well past Gail’s bedtime, but I guessed she must have been up there with Marco all evening.
Entering the bothy I contemplated the untidiness he’d created. His clothes and bedding were lying all over the place, and on the table were unwashed cups and plates. I looked in my biscuit tin and found that it was completely empty. Even the plain digestives had gone. I was too tired to clear up now, so I went straight to bed and fell asleep immediately.
Some time later Marco came back, making no attempt to be quiet. He fiddled about for ages with his bag, taking stuff out and putting it back in again, until he heard me stir.
“Oh, you’re awake are you?” he said.
“No,” I replied.
“Enjoy the match?”
“It was alright.”
I heard him light a cigarette, and then he said, “I’ve been getting a bit of practice in myself.”
“Have you?” I asked.
“Yeah.” There seemed to be a sneer in his voice again. “From what I’ve heard you spend all your time playing round the outside.”
“Well, yes,” I said. “That’s the best way to start, isn’t it?”
Now he was smirking audibly. “No, my son, you’ve got it all wrong. You should have gone straight for the bull’s-eye.”
♦
When I got back from the milk round next morning I saw Deakin’s ice-cream van parked in the yard. Beside it stood Bryan Webb. It was usually a pleasure to see Bryan, but on this occasion the sight of him made me very uneasy, especially as he was wearing his silver crown.
“Morning,” I said, attempting to sound cheerful. “Tommy not around?”
“He’s inside making a phone call,” replied Bryan.
“Oh, right. What brings you here then?”
“I’ve come to have a look at these boats,” he said. “It’s only a formality, of course. I know I’ve lost the bet.”
“What was the stake?” I asked. “Just out of interest.”
“If I won I could choose anything out of the big shed. If I lost I had to wear my crown for another year. As a sort of penance.”
“Is that why you picked a new one?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “Come on then, let’s get it over with.”
We walked over to the shed and I slid open the door, revealing the line of newly painted boats.
When he saw them Bryan turned pale.
“Oh dear,” he said. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear.”
“They were supposed to be green, were they?” I asked in a resigned way.
He nodded. “Tommy’ll blow his top.”
While Bryan stood gazing at the boats in stunned silence, I gave the paintwork an inspection. Running my hands along the gunwales and over the prows, I concluded that the job I’d done was perfect. Unfortunately, I’d used the wrong paint.
Next moment I heard Mr Parker’s boots scuffing the gravel as he approached from across the yard. I braced myself when he entered the shed, knowing that this time he really would lose his temper.
And lose his temper he did. The displays I’d seen on previous occasions were nothing compared to this. He took one look at the boats, and then his face turned from pink to purple.
“Flaming hell!” he roared. “Now what have you done?”
“Well…” I tried, but it was no good, he wasn’t listening.
“Are you trying to ruin me or something? Ever since you came here it’s been one thing after another! Paint spilt all over the place! Machinery wrecked! You cost me a contract up the road, and then go and charge me a hundred pounds…a hundred pounds!…to tart up these bloody old tubs! What the hell do you think this is, a flaming bottomless pit?”
He turned towards Bryan, who was still muttering ‘Dear oh dear’ to himself.
“Alright, Bryan! You’ve beaten me fair and square! So what are you going to take? Eh? How about my tractor? Or my welding gear? Come on, take your pick! There’s lots to choose from!”
“It’s alright, Tommy,” Bryan managed to say.
“No, it’s not alright!” cried Mr Parker. “You’ve got to have something! Tell you what, you can take one of these bloody boats off my hands! Here!”
He seized hold of the nearest boat and started hauling it towards the door single-handedly. The sudden exertion made the veins stand out in his neck, so that it looked as if he would do himself an injury. For this reason I grabbed the other side to lend a hand. I winced as the boat came off its wooden blocks, and scraped across the concrete.
“Tommy,” pleaded Bryan.
Mr Parker ignored him and kept heaving with all his might.
“Tommy!”
We drew nearer to the door. Beyond it lay the loading ramp and the gravel yard.
“Tommy!” Bryan tried again. “Tommy…please, listen…I don’t want a boat…really, I don’t…look, there’s something else I can take.”
♦
Ten minutes later, Bryan rode away on my motorbike. We watched as he crossed the yard and descended towards the front gate, still wearing his cardboard crown.
Then Mr Parker turned to me.
“Well now,” he said. “That’s that settled nicely, isn’t it?”
“Suppose so,” I replied.
“You hardly ever used it anyway.”
“No.”
“So it might as well go to a new home.”
“Yeah.”
By this time his mood had returned to normal, and he seemed content to give the boats their long-awaited examination.
“You’ve done a good job there,” he conceded. “But I think we’ll have them painted green all the same, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh…OK then.”
“It’ll give you something to do for the rest of the winter.”
“Right.”
“And after that Mark can take over.”
“Mark?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he going to do with them?”
“Mark always looks after the boats in the summer. He’s just the right type of person for the job.”
“But what about me?”
“Well,” said Mr Parker. “To tell the truth I had you in mind for selling a few ice-creams.”
I stayed in the shed until about half past two, but did nothing more than open a tin of paint, stir the contents and replace the lid again. The rest of the time I spent gazing at the boats, while I considered my options.
Finally, I emerged into the pale afternoon light and stood looking across the yard. The lorry-load of oil drums had gone, which meant that I had the whole place to myself.
Almost.
I glanced towards the bothy, where Marco lay sleeping behind drawn curtains. Then I started the concrete mixer, and prepared a length of galvanized chain.
EOF
