Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

“It’s quite heavy,” I said. “How are we going to get it out onto the lake?”

“You’re the boat man,” he replied. “You tell me.”

“Well, if we use the tender it’ll tip straight over.”

“Will it?”

“Yeah. We need a proper mooring raft really, with a hole in the middle to drop the weight through.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

When Mr Parker first told me he knew nothing about boats I hadn’t really taken him seriously, but over the past few weeks I’d come to realize it was true. He didn’t seem to have any idea about how to lay a mooring, and I now saw that I was going to have to take charge of the operation.

“So how do we make a mooring raft?” he asked.

“Quite easily,” I replied. “It just takes four empty oil drums and some planks.”

“Well I can’t spare any oil drums.”

“Oh…can’t you?”

“Not really,” he said. “I wanted to sell them all to that factory of yours.”

“Is that why you’ve been collecting them?”

“Of course it is. You told me I’d get a good price.”

“Yeah, but…it’s miles away.”

“That’s alright. I don’t mind how far I have to go as long as I make a profit.”

“How will you get them all there though?”

“On my lorry.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Yes, you’ve seen it. Over in Bryan Webb’s barn.”

“Oh, right.”

“He keeps his hay here, I keep my lorry there.”

“Sounds like a handy arrangement.”

“It’s mutually beneficial and saves exchanging cash.”

I nodded and we fell silent. Mr Parker gazed at the mooring weight and appeared to be pondering my suggestion.

“Well,” he said at length. “I suppose I could set aside four drums at a push. Can you build this raft?”

“Can if you like, yes.”

“OK then,” he said. “The job’s yours.”

As usual in the evening I treated myself to a bath. This was probably the best thing about staying in the bothy. There was plenty of hot water, and although the bath took a long time to fill, it was always a luxurious moment at the end of a hard day. I generally waited until after I’d taken my evening meal, and then spent an hour or so wallowing before going out to the pub. Tonight was no exception. Round about eight o’clock I began running the taps and slowly the bathroom filled with steam. Ten minutes later I slid into the hot water, easing myself down until it lapped over me. How long I’d been lying there before I was interrupted I wasn’t sure. I had my ears below the surface and my feet up on the sides of the bath when I became aware of a knocking noise. For a moment I thought it was a loose panel on the shed, but then I remembered it couldn’t have been that. No, this noise was coming from somewhere much closer. I sat up and listened again. Someone was tapping the window from outside. Leaving the bath I went over and peered through the frosted glass. I could just make out a pink oval in the darkness.

“Hello?”

It was Gail.

“We’ve just had the Packhorse on the phone,” she said. “You’re supposed to be at darts.”

“But it’s the wrong night,” I said.

“That’s the message,” she replied, and the pink oval was gone.

Wondering how much she’d seen through the glass, I quickly got dried and dressed. The message made no sense at all. Every darts match up until now had been on a Thursday. Today was only Tuesday, so I had no idea what they wanted me for. Surely they wouldn’t ring up just to get me to a practice session? It was only a game, after all. Still, I thought I’d better get going right away, so I went across to the big shed to get my bike out. Finding that Mr Parker had locked it up for the night, I decided to walk instead. I’d long come to the conclusion that this was more sensible anyway, judging by the amount of beer that flowed at these darts nights. In the event, though, it probably would have been better to take the bike.

The moment I walked into the bottom bar I knew something was wrong. It was half past nine and the place should have been packed out on a darts night. Instead it was almost deserted. There was no sign of Tony or Gordon. The landlord was talking to one or two people in the top bar and took no notice of me for some time. When at last he did decide to serve me he was far from friendly.

“Yes?” he said.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“They’re playing at the Journeyman,” he replied. “Where you’re supposed to be.”

“But I thought darts was on Thursdays.”

“That’s home games!” he snapped. “Away matches are Tuesdays.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Don’t you ever read the fixture list?”

“Er…no, sorry.”

“Well, you’re too late now. The match’ll be half over.”

“Sorry.”

“What do you want?”

“Pint of Ex, please.”

“Barrel’s finished.”

“Oh.” I said. “Well, I don’t mind waiting while you change it.”

“I’m not going to change it.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

And with that he returned to the top bar, where his cronies all seemed to be glaring down at me. I remained standing there feeling awkward and wondering what to do, when I noticed that I wasn’t quite alone. Also present in the bottom bar was Bryan Webb’s accomplice from the sheep-moving day. Since that occasion we’d become slightly better acquainted, and I now knew that his name was Maurice. Apparently he was the man who drove the school minibus. He beckoned me to join him, so I went over and he spoke quietly.

“Understandable mistake,” he said. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“No,” I said. “I’d have come earlier if I’d known. I’ve been looking forward to playing the Journeyman again.”

“I know you have, but you’ve gone and upset them all now, so you’ll have to keep your head down for a while.”

“What shall I do then?”

“Well, your best bet is to drink somewhere else for a week or two, until they’ve forgotten all about it.”

I felt a sudden surge of dismay.

“But there’s only the Ring of Bells,” I said.

Maurice looked at me with sympathy. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”

The following afternoon I was working inside the shed when ‘Half a pound of treacle’ came floating in from the yard. Quickly I went over and peered through the crack in the door just as a yellow and white ice-cream van pulled up outside. It was a very traditional sort of vehicle. There was a large plastic cornet mounted on the roof, below which were written the words ‘SNAITHES OF WAINSKILL’ in blue letters. The vehicle came to a halt with its refrigerator unit whirring away, and all its lights blazing. For a few moments I couldn’t see the driver, whose head was hidden as he fiddled about underneath the dashboard. He seemed to be having considerable trouble with the chimes, which kept repeating ‘Half a pound of treacle’ at random, and over which he apparently had no control. They were quite loud too. The sound emanated from four silver horns at the front of the vehicle before echoing off the various buildings around the yard. I slid the shed door open and went outside. Looking into the cab I could see that the driver was desperately trying to relocate various wires in an attempt to influence the chimes, but to little effect. I knocked on the window and he glanced round. It was Deakin.

“These damn chimes,” he said, sliding across the driving seat and climbing out. “They keep getting stuck.”

“Can’t you turn them off altogether?” I suggested.

“No,” he replied. “If I do that the headlights go out and the refrigerator stops working.”