Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

He came inside and I switched off the sander.

“Oh,” he said, as the noise faded away. “Tommy’s got you doing this, has he?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Did you want him?”

“Yes, I could do with having a word with him about something.”

“Well, you’ve missed him again. Why don’t you speak to him when you bring the milk?”

“No time,” he said. “It’s alright, I’ll come back another day.”

“It’s not urgent then?”

“Not really, no.”

He made no move to leave, but instead stood peering around the inside of the shed. After a while his eyes fell on the space occupied by my motorbike.

“Ah,” he said. “I see he’s got rid of the snow plough at last.”

“Er…oh, yes,” I said. “It went the other day.”

“Been in here since we built the shed, that has.”

“Did you help him build it then?”

“Yes,” he said, with a note of pride. “It was me who did all the riveting.”

Soon afterwards he wandered off. I watched him slide open the door and close it behind him. Then I started up the sander again. A few moments later another sound came floating into the shed from outside. I switched off just in time to hear the unmistakable chimes of an ice-cream van. They were playing ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

Quickly I went to the door and looked out, but the yard was completely empty.

♦

Mr Parker returned that evening with some more oil drums. I was just finishing work for the day when he pulled into the top yard in his pick-up, so I went to lend him a hand unloading them. The group of drums by the gateway now numbered something like fifty, but he seemed determined to bring back even more every time he went out. This time there were half a dozen on the trailer, and another four in the rear of the pick-up.

A little later I went into the bothy for a cup of tea. The door was permanently unlocked, and as soon as I entered I realized there’d been another caller that afternoon apart from Deakin. Just inside the doorway someone had left a box containing my grocery order. I went through the items one by one and discovered that everything I’d asked for was there, apart from the biscuits, which were the wrong type. They’d evidently decided that since there were no fig rolls, custard creams or malted milks, I would have to make do with plain digestives instead. Attached to the box was an invoice for the order. It bore a message, written across the bottom in red pencil: “ No more beans after this .”

There was also one large printed word at the head of the invoice: ‘HODGE’. I put the groceries away and lit the kettle.

That night in the Packhorse I played my first Inter-Pub League darts match as a full team member. We had an away game against the Journeyman coming up which I was quite looking forward to, but in the meantime we were facing the Golden Lion at home. It was the usual sort of turnout, with Bryan Webb captaining us to victory once again. The visiting team had no women supporters travelling with them, though, so the evening had a bit of a flat edge to it from that point of view. My opponent from the Golden Lion was a portly bloke called Phil who didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered when I beat him, and instantly rushed off to buy me a pint of lager. When I asked if it would be alright if I had Topham’s Excelsior instead he looked slightly sorry for me, as though I hadn’t been properly weaned or something.

“Better put him a spare one in the pump as well,” he said to Tony.

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks very much. Cheers.”

These darts people certainly were a friendly crowd, and made up for the shortage of women by buying each other lots of drinks. I always seemed to be on the receiving end, but even when I ordered a round of my own I didn’t have to pay. Tony was doubling as vice-captain and barman, and repeatedly gave this as the reason to continue my slate for the time being.

“You can settle up when we’re less busy,” he kept saying, before returning to the oche for another game.

“Yes, alright,” I replied. “But I must pay you what I owe you soon.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a grin.

I judged from my treatment by the locals that they all knew I would be staying around for the foreseeable future. I was already aware that everyone knew everybody else’s business round here, and this was confirmed time and again as the days passed. Kenneth Turner, for example, kept saying that he would have to come and have a look at my bike sometime, while Bryan Webb was forever enquiring about my progress with the boats. And there was always some new story about Deakin delivering the wrong milk, or arriving too late;

At the end of one such account Bryan turned to me and said, “You ought to take over from Deakin.”

I wasn’t sure whether this remark was meant to be treated seriously or not, but as he said it a definite murmur of assent went round the bottom bar.

♦

A few evenings later as I crossed the yard on my way to the pub, I became aware of a rhythmic thumping noise inside the big shed. It was about nine o’clock and the electric lights had all been switched on, so I went over and peered through the doorway, which was open by about one inch. I saw straight away that the thumping noise was coming from the concrete mixer. Its diesel engine had been put back together and started up, and it was now being watched intently by Mr Parker and Kenneth Turner. Kenneth was wearing a blue boiler suit and stood holding an adjustable spanner in his hand. Both of them seemed to be mesmerized by the mixer’s bucket, which rotated slowly round and round before their eyes. For a whole minute they looked at it, then another minute after that, while I stood outside in the dark, watching them. Eventually Mr Parker said something and Kenneth nodded. He dropped the spanner into a deep pocket and they walked over towards my motorbike. Next moment Kenneth was astride it and kicking the engine over. To my surprise it roared into life, and he spent some time revving it up and listening to it closely, while the concrete mixer continued to throb away unattended. Eventually Kenneth cut the bike engine again, and he and Mr Parker stood examining the paintwork and the chrome. Then they turned and had a look at the boat I’d been working on during the day. Kenneth picked up one of the tins of paint that were still waiting unopened nearby. When he saw it had no label he grinned broadly at Mr Parker. Then the two of them clambered over the packing cases in the direction of the other motorcycles at the back of the shed. At this point I tired of spying on them and continued on my way down the yard. Glancing at the house I realized that Gail must have been on her own inside, and casually I wondered what she did during the evenings now she had no homework to occupy her.

With a sudden shock I remembered I had some grammar to hand in by tomorrow morning! I’d been having a bath for the last hour and gone and forgotten all about it! Now I had to rush back to the bothy and get it done before I could go out. It seemed to take longer than usual, and as a result I didn’t get going to the pub again until almost ten, by which time the big shed was in complete darkness. When I arrived at the Packhorse I saw Kenneth sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter. He said, “Hello,” but didn’t mention his visit to Mr Parker’s place, so I didn’t mention it either.

Next morning I was woken up by the rhythmic thumping again. Looking through the curtains I saw that Mr Parker was already up and about. He’d opened the shed doors wide and hauled the concrete mixer outside onto the loading bay. It stood there with the engine running, and the bucket going round and round. After a while I saw him look at his watch and then peer in the direction of the bothy. I took this as a signal that it was time to get up, so I heaved myself out of bed. Something told me I wouldn’t be getting much work done on the boats today, but he didn’t reveal his plans until we were sitting having breakfast.