Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

He looked at me. “Why not?”

“Well…er…don’t know really.”

“I hate not working,” he said, then broke off and glanced towards the lane where a vehicle could be heard approaching. Next moment he was rushing into the lumber shed with the tray and the two empty mugs. I started up the tractor and resumed work just as Mr Pickthall drove into the yard. He pulled up and got out, peering at the much-reduced timber stack, and then at the lumber shed. Eventually, he came over to me.

“Seen my father?” he asked.

“Er…who?”

“The old man from the far end of the house.”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t seen anybody.”

“So how did you know the logs had to go in the lumber shed?”

“Just guessed,” I replied. “All part of the job.”

He looked at me with suspicion for a few moments and then marched into the lumber shed. When he emerged again I was surprised to see he was alone.

“If you do see him,” he said, “don’t let him help you.”

“Righto.”

“I don’t want him working any more.”

“OK.”

He glanced at the timber stack. “You seem to be getting on very quickly.”

“I try my best,” I replied.

After casting me another suspicious look he got into his truck again and drove off. I waited a few more minutes until I was sure he was gone, and then went into the lumber shed to see what had happened to the old man.

“Mr Pickthall?” I called. “Hello?”

There was no reply apart from a knocking noise beneath my feet. It was quite dark in that shed and I’d assumed I was standing on some sort of wooden floor, but as I stepped back I saw a trapdoor rise up. A moment later the old man climbed out from his hiding place.

“Forty years he’s lived here,” he said with triumph. “And he doesn’t know about the hidey-hole.”

“Blimey,” I remarked. “Quite handy, that.”

“If he’d paid more attention to the business he’d know every nook and cranny by now.”

“Didn’t he then?” I asked. “Pay attention to it?”

“Course not!” said the old man. “Made me give it up and then ran it into the ground!”

“Why did he make you give it up?”

“For my health.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s a good idea, isn’t it?”

“Is it hell!” he snapped. “All this doing nothing’s going to kill me! That’s why I have to keep going on long walks, there isn’t anything else to do!”

He picked up a stray log and placed it on top of the pile.

“You can carry on helping me if you like,” I said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Trouble is, he’s likely to come back at any moment.”

“Where does he keep rushing off to then?”

“Oh, don’t ask me. He says he’s going into buying and selling. You know, auctions and so forth. Damn fool business, that is, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Well,” I remarked, “Mr Parker seems to be making a reasonable living from it.”

“Maybe so, but Tommy’s got his head screwed on properly. If he puts his money into something, you know it’s a safe bet.”

“Suppose so.”

“But that doesn’t mean anyone can do it.” The old man looked around the yard and shook his head with disdain. “Sound business we had here,” he said. “But now it’s all finished.”

Shortly afterwards I went back to the saw and prepared to resume work. The senior Mr Pickthall seemed to have decided he couldn’t help me any more, which was a great shame as we made a good team. A few minutes later he gave me a nod and set off walking towards the lake. I looked at the timber stack and realized that in spite of the inroads we’d made during the morning there was still a lot to do. The stack consisted of felled logs, disused beams and broken fence posts, all waiting to be cut up into lengths no shorter than nine inches and no longer than fourteen. I selected an ancient-looking beam and marked it up, then began making the first cut. Suddenly the saw started to produce a strident screeching noise. I pulled the timber away but the noise continued, so I switched off the tractor. Instead of spinning to a halt the blade stopped dead. Then I noticed that there was smoke coming out of the bearings. I placed my hand on them and discovered they were very hot. Cursing slightly, I decided to give the saw time to cool down before trying it again, but I had a sinking feeling that something was seriously amiss. I passed a quarter of an hour carting some more logs into the lumber shed, and then, when there was nothing left to do, I tried starting up once more. Immediately the screeching noise returned and my fears were confirmed: I’d somehow managed to seize the whole thing up. Which was when I remembered the grease gun. Of course! Mr Parker always made a special point of applying grease to all moving parts before and after use, but I’d failed to do it before leaving this morning. Now I had no choice but to pack up and go home. I left the yard as tidy as possible, shovelling the sawdust into a neat pile at one side, then set off.

Halfway along the lane I met the younger Mr Pickthall returning in his pick-up. I noticed he was carrying four empty oil drums in the back. There was no room to pass so I had to reverse all the way to the yard with him following, and as soon as we arrived he got out and came over to the tractor.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Back to Hillhouse.”

“Why?”

“The saw’s seized up.”

“But what about my timber?”

“Well,” I said. “I’ll just have to come back another day.”

“I don’t want you back another day!” said Mr Pickthall, raising his voice. “The contract was for immediate completion!”

“Sorry, but I can’t see what else I can do.”

“Don’t ‘sorry’ me!” he roared. “I’ll be speaking to Mr Parker about this!”

And with that he marched into his house and slammed the door.

Before things went wrong I’d been quite looking forward to the drive back to Hillhouse. Rumbling through hidden country lanes on a tractor would be a pleasant way to end a hard day’s work. Instead, all I could think about was Mr Pickthall making an irate phone call to Mr Parker, and then him losing his temper with me. It was one thing being slow on the uptake and clumsy with tins of paint; it was another matter entirely to put a perfectly good piece of machinery out of action. Bryan Webb and the others had warned me countless times about Tommy Parker’s temper, and this time I was certain I would be on the receiving end of it. Nonetheless, I had no choice but to go home and face the music.

As if to worsen my plight, the skies darkened and it started raining. There was no cab on the tractor, so by the time I got to Hillhouse I was soaking wet. The painted green square in the gateway looked particularly conspicuous in these conditions, and did nothing to lift the feeling of unease which was descending upon me. I briefly considered the idea of claiming to have been ‘rained off’ from the timber work, but I soon dismissed this as a feeble excuse. And anyway, the truth would have to come out eventually, so there was no getting away from it.

No one was around when I put the tractor back in the shed. Mr Parker didn’t seem to be back yet and Gail was still at school, so I changed out of my wet clothes, hung them in the boiler room, and continued work on the boats. I tried to remember the last occasion I’d actually been in here doing what I was supposed to be doing. It seemed like ages although it was probably only a few days. With the rain hammering on the shed roof I got quickly back into the swing of things, and soon picked up where I’d left off. This, I decided, was the project I liked best, and in a few days’ time I would have the first boat ready for painting. After a bit of hard graft with the electric sander I’d practically forgotten all about the problem with the circular saw. Then the shed door opened and Mr Parker walked in.