Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

Then at last he spoke. “You may wish to know we’ve had a new consignment of beans.”

“Have you?” I said.

“Just come in. Would you like to order some?”

“Baked beans, are they?”

“Yes.”

“Baked beans served with a delicious, rich tomato sauce?”

“Correct.”

“Fresh from the factory, in cans with a handy ring-pull lid?”

“That’s the ones,” said Hodge.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve learnt to do without them.”

At that moment the pips went again and I hung up.

♦

I’d been sitting in the Ring of Bells for about ten minutes when Hodge walked in. Giving me barely a nod of recognition he settled down on his usual stool at the counter and ordered a whisky from Cyril.

“Better make it a single,” he remarked. “Business is a bit slack at the moment.”

It was another quiet night at the Ring of Bells. Outside, the late autumn weather was thickening into a sort of perpetual damp gloom. Inside, the prospect was hardly any brighter. Illumination came from a row of mauve-coloured glass lanterns screwed to the pelmet above the bar. These were supposedly intended to cheer the place up a little, but actually they had the opposite effect. Under their dull glow we sat and stared at our drinks, waiting for the evening to pass.

It seemed unlikely that Hodge would begin one of his stilted conversations with me tonight, given the circumstances, and I expected him just this once to leave me in peace. Consequently I was caught unawares when suddenly he turned in my direction and spoke.

“I gather you didn’t get on very well with Mr Pickthall,” he announced.

“Didn’t I?” I said.

“Not from what I’ve been told.”

Hodge had a way of addressing people that meant everyone else in the pub heard it as well, whether they wanted to or not. Apart from him, Cyril and me, there were three or four other drinkers present as well, and as soon as the exchange began I realized that they were all listening with interest. I also saw that I had little choice but to continue.

“Do you mean young Mr Pickthall?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have said we didn’t get on. We just had a minor problem today, that was all.”

“Sounds like more than a minor problem to me,” said Hodge. “Question of impropriety, I’d have called it.”

“Why?”

“From what I heard you pulled out of a job before it was finished.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it couldn’t be helped.”

He shook his head. “I suppose it couldn’t be helped when you let down the Packhorse darts team either.”

“Er…well, that was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh,” he said. “A misunderstanding. I see.”

During this conversation Cyril had been busy at work behind the counter, polishing glasses while at the same time attending to what was being said. Now he joined in with a remark of his own. It was directed at me.

“They brought in the Topham’s especially for you, you know.”

“Who did?”

“The Packhorse.”

“That wasn’t just for me,” I protested.

“Well, no one else drinks it.”

“Oh…don’t they?”

“Seems a bit ungrateful treating them like that,” he said. “No wonder they barred you.”

“They didn’t bar me.”

“Yes they did. That’s why you started coming in here.”

“You can’t keep letting people down all the time,” added Hodge. “Not if you’re thinking of starting a milk round.”

“But I haven’t said I am.”

“You should be trying to make friends, not going about upsetting people.”

At these words the other customers murmured in agreement.

“Alright,” I said, draining my glass. “I think I’d better go.”

“But you’ve only just got here,” said Cyril. “You can’t go yet.”

“Yes I can. Goodnight.”

I headed for the door.

“We’re only offering friendly advice,” said Hodge, as I stepped out into the darkness.

“Goodnight,” I repeated.

“Goodnight,” said a chorus of voices from inside. Then the door swung shut behind me.

I stood in the middle of the square recovering from my recent cross-examination, and swore never again to set foot in the Ring of Bells. Which meant, of course, that I was now effectively exiled from both pubs in Millfold.

OK, well, that was no big deal. I would just have to do without drink for the time being, and that didn’t bother me in the slightest. After all, there were plenty of other things for me to do. Why should I waste my evenings hanging around in pubs?

I decided to walk back to Hillhouse by way of the lakeside path, and as I passed the Packhorse I glanced over the beer garden wall. From the bottom bar came the sounds of glasses tinkling and raucous laughter, and in the window I thought I saw the silhouette of a man wearing a crown.

Then I turned towards the lake. It was a dark night, but I’d done this walk so many times by now that I could probably have found my way blindfold. The main obstacles were usually provided by the roots of trees straying across the path. However, I’d only had one pint of lager tonight so these didn’t present much of a problem. In fact, I hardly took any notice of where I was going at all. Most of the time I found myself thinking about what it would be like if I did indeed start up a milk round, as everyone kept suggesting. For a while it began to seem like an attractive proposition. I quite liked the idea of setting off early in the morning to make my deliveries. There were plenty of potential customers, even though they were spread out a bit, and it would be a good way of getting to know the area properly. Also, if I got the work completed quickly, I’d then have the afternoons free to get on with other things I was interested in, such as looking after Mr Parker’s boats.

Something else came to mind as well. I’d almost forgotten about it, but when I was a child I used to help a milkman on his rounds. It was a holiday job, riding around on the back of a milk-float, plonking bottles on doorsteps and bringing back the empties. This milkman had been coming up and down our road for as long as I could remember, and I’d often wondered if he needed a helper. Then one morning he suddenly pulled up while I was riding my bike along the pavement and said, “Want a job?”

Obviously I’d jumped at the chance, and spent several weeks assisting him until the holidays ended. He always let me do the houses at the end of a row, or at the top of a long flight of steps. Meanwhile he remained with the float and checked off his order book. As far as I knew I was the only kid in the vicinity who was allowed to help him, which gave me a certain amount of local prestige (even though he never actually paid me). If my memory was correct, I had this job the same summer as I’d learnt to row a boat in our local park. All that seemed a long time ago now, but the idea of doing a milk round triggered off some pleasant recollections, so I toyed with it for a while. The reality, of course, was different. How could I set up in business without any capital? For a start I’d need to buy a pick-up (milk-floats were for town suburbs only), and I would have to establish some sort of credit with the dairy which supplied me. Then I’d have to poach all Deakin’s customers off him, which as I said before I had no intention of doing. When I thought about it seriously I realized that the whole project was nothing more than a pipe-dream, and as I wandered along in the darkness I decided to forget all about it.

Approaching the water’s edge I again heard the cries of seabirds from somewhere out in the middle of the lake. There must have been thousands of them gathered together there, but it struck me at that moment that they all sounded quite lonely. I wondered how far from home they were, and why they’d made this their winter sanctuary. After all, the lake was no calm oasis. The water had grown steadily choppier over the past week, and in daylight hours had a permanent grey look to it. The wind that howled through the trees at night was hardly an inviting prospect either.