Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

All the talk in the Packhorse that night was about Bryan Webb’s discovery of the missing boats. I heard the story repeated several times during the evening as new people came into the bottom bar and demanded to hear all the details. Over and over again he recounted the events leading up to the first sighting: how he wouldn’t normally be looking out at that time except that Deakin had left the wrong milk again. I noticed that later versions of the story had Bryan wading out to retrieve the boats, rather than just ‘getting a rope on to them’ as he’d described earlier. Still, this was his privilege. The episode had turned him into a minor celebrity for the time being, and he was entitled to embellish the facts if he so wished. After much speculation about how the boats had got away in the first place, general agreement was reached that the mooring chain must have broken. No one could remember when it had last been replaced, if ever.

“There’s been a mooring there for years,” remarked Bryan. “But I’ve no idea when it was first put down.”

“Well, it’s lost now,” said another drinker. “There’ll have to be a new one made.”

A secondary discussion then ensued concerning Deakin, and how he sometimes got the orders wrong. The bar stool at the end of the counter had its usual occupant, and he gave his opinion on the matter.

“Well, if you ask me,” he said, “Deakin’s taken on too much work. He’s bound to make a mistake occasionally.”

“That’s fair enough,” replied Bryan. “But why’s it always my milk he gets wrong?”

This caused a certain amount of laughter around the bar.

“Did you ring Pickthall’s to intercept him?” someone asked.

“I did after I’d got the boats ashore,” said Bryan, “but they told me he’d already been and gone.”

“So what did you do then?”

“I rang the dairy and left him a message. He’s got until midnight to deliver my homogenized or I’m cancelling all future orders.”

There was more laughter, and Bryan strode triumphantly towards the dartboard. Then, as sets of darts were produced for the evening’s play, another buzz went round the pub.

It seemed that Tommy Parker had arrived in the top bar.

The first I knew of it was when Tony leaned over the counter and said, “There’s a pint of Ex in the pump for you when you’re ready.”

“Where’s that come from then?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly, causing me to glance past him. Beyond the counter in the top bar I saw Mr Parker conversing with the landlord and one or two locals. When he saw me looking he gave me a nod and a quiet smile.

“Courtesy of your boss,” said Tony.

“Er…he’s not really my boss,” I said. “I’ve just been doing some odd jobs for him, that’s all.”

Tony smiled. “Whatever you say.”

I wasn’t the only recipient of Mr Parker’s generosity. There was apparently also a pint in the pump for Bryan Webb. The man on the bar stool received one as well, even though he’d played no part in the rowing boats’ recovery. In the last couple of days I’d gathered that his name was Kenneth, and that he was some kind of mechanic. I guessed this from the number of conversations he had about car engines. He was constantly being asked questions on the subject of carburettors, spark plugs and anti-freeze, to which he always replied, “Bring it round sometime and I’ll have a look at it.”

Shortly after receiving his new pint Kenneth carted it off to the top bar, announcing that he needed to ‘see Tommy about something’.

As the evening continued I glanced from time to time through to where Mr Parker was holding court, and was struck by how important his presence seemed to be. People were continually going up to talk to him, then coming back with looks on their faces that suggested they’d been granted their deepest wish. After half an hour or so it seemed appropriate to buy him a drink in return for the one he’d bought me, so I asked Tony to find out what he’d like.

“He’ll have a light ale with you if that’s alright,” came the reply.

This seemed very reasonable and I happily forked out the price of the drink. I was surprised, however, when Tony returned with a message from Mr Parker.

“He says have you got that pound you owe him?”

“Er…oh, yes,” I said. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

I handed the money over and Tony took it up to the top bar. This incident could have been embarrassing, but most people’s attention was now on the darts, and nobody took any notice. I decided to put it out of mind, and went and chalked my name up on the blackboard.

A little later Tony let it be known that the final drops of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter had at last been consumed, and that there were only keg and bottled beers left. I looked at my empty glass and reflected that it was a good job I was leaving in a couple of days’ time.

Walking back to the campsite after the pub closed I heard again the distant chime from across the lake. Yes, it was definitely ‘Half a pound of treacle’. A moment later I caught a glimpse of the faraway vehicle with its faintly glowing lights. It was moving along the road somewhere near Bryan Webb’s place.

♦

Next morning I found Mr Parker in the big shed amidst a flurry of blue sparks. These were accompanied by a sharp crackling noise. I watched for a while, shielding my eyes until the sparks subsided. Then I saw that he was busy welding some winch-gear onto the front of his trailer. It looked like he’d been having a bit of a sort out inside the shed. The boat we’d moved the day before was now resting on some wooden blocks nearby, and there was quite a lot of space cleared around it. When he saw me standing there he lowered his welding mask.

“Morning,” he said. “Just thought I’d get this done while I had the time.”

“Looks like it could be useful,” I remarked.

“Yes, a winch can be very handy. I’ll be finished in a minute. Pass me a new rod, will you, please?”

I stood watching as he completed the work, and then he moved the welding equipment out of the way.

“Right, we’ll give it a quick test.”

There was a length of cable wrapped around the winch drum, with a hook attached to one end. Mr Parker gave me the hook and got me to pull it away across the shed to a distance of about thirty feet. Then he cranked a handle and wound me back in again, until the hook settled against the winch housing.

“That seems to work alright,” he said. “Now then, are you ready to learn about this saw?”

“Ready as ever,” I replied.

“Good. I’ll move the tractor and we can get it fixed on.”

The circular saw remained suspended on the hoist where we’d left it. Mr Parker climbed onto the tractor, started up and manoeuvred it into position. I could see that there were some fixing points on the saw which presumably corresponded with others on the back of the tractor, but unfortunately I didn’t know what went where. As a result Mr Parker had to do most of the connecting up himself, which meant him getting on and off the tractor several times. During the process there were occasional moments when I thought impatience was going to get the better of him. His voice became raised with frustration as he gave his orders, and this seemed to indicate an oncoming crisis. The trouble was, I’d never operated such machinery before and had little idea how it worked. Mr Parker, on the other hand, was obviously well versed in such matters, and couldn’t see why I found any of it difficult. Even when he asked me to lower the hoist slightly I managed to pull it the wrong way so it went upwards instead of down, nettling him yet more.