Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

“Well, you’ll need to get away early,” he said. “We’ve got some rain coming.”

“Yes, I thought it looked a bit gloomy.”

“The weatherman says the isobars are closing in.”

“Does he?”

“It’s 978, falling rapidly.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

Mr Parker had been peering at the opposite shore of the lake, but now he turned to me.

“You’ll not have seen it rain here, will you?”

“It did rain a bit the other day, yes.”

“That was nothing,” he said. “You haven’t seen this place until you’ve seen it rain properly.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Teems down, it does.”

“I bet.”

“So I’d get away early if I were you.”

“OK.”

And with that he turned and made his way back to the truck. We loaded the spare planks between the oil drums, then he drove off while I followed in the tractor.

I was slightly disconcerted that he’d made no mention of how much he was going to pay me, but it occurred to me that there was no particular hurry as I wasn’t leaving until the next day.

More disappointing was the fact that he hadn’t remarked on the quality of my workmanship. It didn’t bother me unduly, but it would have been nice if he’d at least said something about it. Even if it was just to note that I’d sawn all the timber straight.

Then I realized that it was probably no big deal to him, nothing more than another job finished and out of the way. The last thing he was going to do was heap praise on someone for doing a bit of joinery.

After we’d put the gear in the shed, however, he paused by the door.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I probably owe you something for that work you’ve done for me.”

“Er…well, it doesn’t matter really,” I replied.

“Of course it does,” he declared. “It was quite remiss of us not making a proper arrangement beforehand.”

“Suppose it was.”

“So I really must let you have something before you leave.”

“Right.”

He indicated the green petrol pump beside the shed.

“How would you like me to fill your tank up?”

“Oh…OK,” I said. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “That’s the least I can offer.”

I went round and got my bike, and he squeezed two and half gallons into the petrol tank.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied. “I hope you’ve been comfortable in the caravan, have you?”

“Oh,” I said quickly. “Yes, it was very kind of you.”

“That’s good.”

He locked the pump and then turned to me.

“Right. Well, I might not see you when you leave, so have a good trip and come back sometime if you can.”

We shook hands and he headed across to his house, where I noticed the lights inside had already been turned on for the evening. This gave it a very warm, comfortable appearance and made the rest of the yard seem fairly bleak in comparison. When I got round to my caravan I realized the wind was increasing steadily. Somewhere in the mounting gloom I could hear an irregular clanging that suggested one of the corrugated sheets on the big shed had come loose. Several times during the next hour I went out to see if I could identify the exact source of the noise, but it was soon too dark to see. I decided there was probably nothing much wrong anyway. No doubt Mr Parker knew about the problem and would get it fixed in his own good time. Meanwhile, I set about preparing some supper. After that I planned to get my stuff packed and work out what I’d need for the journey next day. One particular item was of great importance. Somewhere in the bottom of my bag lay a set of waterproofs, and I was thankful I’d remembered to bring them.

With the wet weather gathering outside it was odd to think that when I first arrived here it had still felt like summer. That seemed a long time ago now, but actually it was less than a fortnight. I was trying to imagine what an entire winter would be like when a knock came on the caravan door. It was Gail.

“I’ve brought you the spare key to the boiler room,” she said.

“Oh thanks,” I replied. “Er…you know I’m going tomorrow, do you?”

“Yeah, but I thought you might like some hot water tonight.”

“Oh right. Well, thanks again.”

She remained standing in the doorway.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They’ve set this essay at school and I don’t know how to do it.”

Just then the wind caught the door and slammed it back against the caravan.

“Come in a sec,” I said. “It’s getting cold out there.”

She stepped inside and I reached round and closed the door.

“Now what’s this essay about?”

“It’s called ‘Where I live’.”

“Is that the title?”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s got to be a description really.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” I said. “I’d have thought that would be fairly straightforward.”

“Why?”

“Cos you live somewhere quite interesting, don’t you? With the fells and the sheep and everything. And the lake.”

“What’s so interesting about that?”

“Well, nothing really, I suppose. But it should be easy enough to describe.”

“So what do I put then?”

While we were speaking I’d become aware that she had a rough exercise book in her hand. She now opened it and stood ready with a pencil.

“You want some suggestions, do you?”

“Please,” she said.

“OK, you could start with, “ I live in a place …” No, hang on. “ The place where I live is …”Er…maybe it would be better if you were sitting down.”

“Alright then.”

“Tell you what, you sit there and I’ll stand here.”

“OK.”

She sat down on the folding bed, while I moved to the opposite side of the caravan before resuming.

“Right, ready?”

“Yeah.”

“‘ The place where I live is different to many other places ’.”

I paused while she wrote it down.

“No, wait a sec. Change that to ‘ different from many other places ’.”

She tutted. “Couldn’t you just write it and I’ll copy it out after?”

“What, you mean you want me to do the whole thing?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’ll be better at it than me.”

“Well, I was planning to go out tonight.”

She smiled. “It won’t take you long.”

“No, I suppose not,” I said. “But you might have trouble with my handwriting.”

“I expect I’ll be alright.”

I thought about it for a moment. “OK then, I’ll do a basic version and you’ll have to tidy it up.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave it on the shelf here.”

“Right.” She rose from the bed and went to the doorway before giving me another smile. “Thanks again.”

“Er…when did you say you were sixteen?” I asked.

“Easter,” she replied.

“Oh well, happy birthday in advance.”

“Thanks, bye.”

And she disappeared into the night.

I spent about three-quarters of an hour writing that essay, but I probably could have done it in ten minutes if I’d had to. It was a piece of cake really, as easy as painting by numbers. I simply described the maroon boats at rest near the wooded margins of the lake, and the looming fells brooding in the autumn gloom. There was also a bit at the end about the fulsome moon waxing against a starry backdrop, which I thought sounded quite nice. Then I fetched a bucket of hot water, had a wash and went out. I didn’t want to drink too much tonight, so I decided to take the motorbike for a change. When I got to Millfold I parked it in the square and entered the Packhorse through the front door. As I passed by the top bar I noticed it was fairly quiet, but this deficit was made up for in the bottom one, which seemed to be quite full, although I didn’t recognize many faces. The moment I walked in I was greeted by Gordon from behind the counter.