Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

“Rained off?” he asked.

“Yes…Well, no…Sort of,” I replied.

He smiled. “Which?”

“Haven’t you spoken to Mr Pickthall then?”

The smile disappeared. “No, I’ve only just got back. Why?”

“Well, I seem to have had a bit of trouble with the saw.”

He glanced towards the tractor. “What sort of trouble?”

“I think it’s seized up.”

“But you went round it with the grease gun before you started, didn’t you?”

Mr Parker had now begun to examine the saw closely. He placed his hand on the circular blade and tried to give it a spin, but it refused to move.

“No, sorry,” I said. “I forgot.”

He turned to me sharply. “Forgot? How could you forget when I’ve shown you over and over again?”

“Don’t know.”

A moment passed, during which I expected Mr Parker to lose his temper. Instead, he simply sighed and shook his head.

“Dear oh dear oh dear,” he said. “What are we going to do with you?”

I stood in silence as he continued to survey the damage.

The evidence suggested that the bearings had indeed seized up. Vaguely I wondered how much it would cost to replace them, and how long it would take.

“Mr Pickthall’s a bit upset ‘cos I didn’t finish the job,” I ventured at last.

“I’m sure he is,” said Mr Parker. “And of course I won’t be able to send him a full invoice.”

“No, I suppose not.”

He sighed again. “Bit of a lost day, really, isn’t it? Luckily the saw came with a spare set of bearings. You won’t go ruining those as well, I hope?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

“Tell you what then, come back after tea and we’ll get it fixed.”

“Right. Er…what about Mr Pickthall?”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“OK…thanks.”

I left the shed and headed across the yard feeling quite jaunty. It seemed as if I’d got off fairly lightly. Halfway to the bothy I remembered I had some clothes drying in the boiler room so I cut back to collect them. It was dark now, and as I approached the door I noticed that the light was on inside. Without giving it a second thought I entered and saw Gail standing in her underwear.

“Oops, sorry,” I said, backing out again.

“It’s alright,” she said. “You can come in if you like.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s OK.”

I went in and started to collect my clothes from the drying rack, on which now hung most of Gail’s school uniform.

“Got caught in the rain,” she said with a smile. “Just giving it a dry.”

“Oh…right. Er…haven’t you got a dressing gown or anything?”

“Hardly worth it,” she replied. “Another ten minutes and it’ll all be ready.”

“Yes,” I said. “It does get quite hot in here, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

In those few moments I couldn’t help noticing the whiteness of her brassiere. Also the slight impression it made in the soft flesh of her shoulders. Bundling up my dry clothes I headed for the door. “Right, bye.”

“Is it alright to bring over some geography homework later?” she asked.

I turned at the door and faced her. “Well, actually I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah. You see, the thing is, I’m beginning to find it a bit difficult.”

“Why?”

“I just am.”

“But I thought you said it was easy.”

“Well, the homework itself is easy, yeah. But you’re growing up very quickly and…er…I really think you should start trying to do it yourself.”

She shrugged. “OK then.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Course not. I’ll be leaving school soon and probably forget it all anyway.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

She took her blouse from the rack, slipped it on and began doing up the buttons.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you teach me something else instead?”

There were five buttons altogether, not including the one at the top.

“What sort of something?” I asked.

“Give me some darts lessons.”

“Darts?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“So that we can have a game, silly.”

“Oh…er…right.”

“We can play up in the hay-loft.”

“I thought that was full of Bryan Webb’s hay.”

“It is almost, but he’s left a space at one end.”

“What about a dartboard?”

“There’s one under your bed in the bothy.”

♦

As soon as I got home I looked under the bed, and sure enough there was a dartboard lying there. It was a red and black model, and I could tell it had been used many times by the number of holes in it. I also noticed a metal tag under the number six, indented with the words: “ Property of Inter-Pub Darts League. Do not remove .”

I wondered what sort of person would pinch a dartboard from a pub.

By the time I’d had my tea and gone back across to the big shed, Mr Parker had almost finished dismantling the circular saw.

“Need any help?” I asked.

“Bit late for that,” he replied. “I’ve practically done it myself.”

His tone wasn’t quite as forgiving as it had been earlier, so I took care to make myself as useful as possible. He was about to fit the new bearings, and he got me to hold them in position.

“I suppose you never forget to grease your motorbike,” he remarked, while he tightened up the nuts.

“Try not to,” I replied.

“Well, try not to forget when it’s my equipment you’re using.”

“No, alright. Sorry about that.”

Half an hour later we had the whole outfit put back together and in full working order.

“Do you want me to go back to Mr Pickthall’s tomorrow?” I enquired.

“No,” replied Mr Parker. “Best let him cool off for a while first.”

“OK, then.”

“By the way, I’m going down to that factory of yours in a day or two.”

“Oh, are you?”

“I bought some more oil drums today, so I’ve now got enough to make a full load.”

“Oh, well, I hope it works out alright.”

“Yes,” he said. “It looks like you might have put me onto a good bit of business there.”

This seemed an opportune moment to mention my wages, but then it struck me that Mr Parker had just spent several hours repairing the damage I’d done, so I decided to wait until another time. Instead I went back to the bothy, had a bath and then went out.

I needed to order some more groceries, so before going into the Ring of Bells I stopped at the phone box. As usual there was a long wait before Hodge answered, and then another delay while he went off to find something to write on. This was the fourth or fifth time I’d rung in, and by now I had a more or less fixed list of the items required. The only uncertain element was the biscuits, which I always left until the end. As usual, the selection on offer was very limited.

“Have you got any fig rolls yet?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Hodge.

“Custard creams?”

“No.”

“Malted milks?”

“No.”

“Tartan shorties?”

“Wait a minute, I’ll go and have a look.”

“OK.”

A minute passed during which the pips went and I had to put another coin in the slot. Then Hodge came back to the phone.

“Did you say Tartan shorties?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we haven’t got any.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “You’ve got plain digestives, I presume?”

“Yes, we have.”

“Alright then. I’ll have those.”

The choice of biscuits generally signified the end of the conversation, but on this occasion Hodge seemed to be waiting expectantly for something else. For my part I said nothing, and meanwhile the moments continued to tick away.