Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

Which reminded me: we would have to get the new mooring weight put down soon.

A few days ago Mr Parker had spoken as though this was a matter of the utmost urgency, but since I’d finished building the raft he’d engaged me in a string of other tasks and the job had been put off. When I passed the jetty I stopped to check that the raft was still tethered there safely. It was. I could just about see it in the blackness, gently rocking back and forth.

♦

Next morning Deakin was late with the milk. His usual arrival time came and went but there was no sign of him, and I began to wonder if there was some sort of problem. I didn’t bother mentioning the matter to Mr Parker though. He seemed to have something on his mind this morning and wasn’t in a very conversational mood. Besides, it was hardly important what time Deakin turned up really, as there was always some spare milk in the fridge. We’d been sitting at the breakfast table for about fifteen minutes when the phone rang. As usual, this caused Gail to rise instantly from her seat.

“I’ll get it,” she said, darting into the next room. A moment later she came back.

“Dad, it’s for you.”

After Mr Parker had gone to take the call Gail turned to me and said, “Shall we start practising tonight then?”

“You mean darts?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can if you like.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“No, course not. Come over about seven.”

She smiled. “Alright then, thanks.”

Her father came back into the room. “That was Bryan Webb. He was ringing up to find out if we’d heard from Deakin this morning. He’s worried about his Uncle Rupert’s homogenized.”

“Blimey,” I said. “Deakin must be way behind schedule if he hasn’t even got to Bryan’s yet.”

“That’s what I said,” agreed Mr Parker. “Anyway, I haven’t got time to worry about Deakin now. I want to go over to Bryan’s and fetch the lorry, so we can load up those oil drums. Then I suppose we’d better get that mooring weight put down before the weather gets any worse.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I was going to mention that.”

Instead of acknowledging my remark Mr Parker fell unusually silent, and it again struck me that there must be something on his mind.

It wasn’t until well after ten o’clock that Deakin finally arrived, and I saw straight away why he was late: he was making the deliveries in his ice-cream van. The inside of the vehicle was laden with milk crates which clinked and rattled as he came up the hill, heralded by an uncontrolled double blast of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

Poor Deakin. He had such a harassed look on his face that I felt quite sorry for him. To get at the milk he had to open the access door at the back of the van, squeeze inside between the crates, and then squeeze out again. It looked like a real struggle, especially since he had so many calls to make.

“Better late than never!” I called by way of encouragement, as he did a frantic dash across the yard. “Where’s your pick-up then?”

“Kenneth Turner’s giving it a full service,” he replied, dodging up the steps to the house. “Otherwise it’ll never get through the winter.”

“Have you spoken to Tommy about the van yet?”

“I haven’t had time. Is he here now?”

“No,” I said. “Should be back later though.”

“Right,” said Deakin. “As soon as I’ve got these deliveries finished I’ll come back and see him.”

There seemed to be a certain resolve in the way Deakin said this, which I thought was a positive sign that he really did intend to get the matter sorted out at last. Shortly afterwards he was on his way again, charging off down the hill as the chimes gave yet another rendition of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.

I’d done about an hour’s work on the boats when Mr Parker returned in the lorry and got me to help him load it up. The top yard was now crowded with oil drums, well over a hundred, and it took us some time to get them all stacked and roped. As we worked I noticed that Mr Parker was becoming increasingly irritable. Loading all those drums was no easy business, and every time one of them jammed in an awkward position he would curse under his breath and shove at it violently until it moved. I couldn’t quite understand what was bothering him, so I adopted my usual approach of saying little and making myself as useful as possible. Finally, all the drums were securely tied on the back of the lorry and it was ready to go.

Then, after a brief rest, Mr Parker said, “Right. We’d better get that mooring weight put down.”

I glanced towards the lake and quickly concluded that this wasn’t the best day to do the job. There was a cold wind blowing across the hillside and I could see the tops of the distant trees swaying. Still, I wasn’t going to argue with Mr Parker. If he wanted to put the weight down today, then so be it.

The first thing we had to do was transport it to the shore. We couldn’t use Mr Parker’s pick-up because he’d left it over at Bryan Webb’s when he went for the lorry this morning. The tractor still had the saw attached, and the only other vehicle available was the old Morris van parked by the side of the shed. To my surprise it started first time, and he soon had it manoeuvred round to where the weight lay. The van’s springs creaked as the two of us struggled to lift the concrete-filled wheel into the back, as well as the accompanying length of chain and mooring buoy. Once again there was a lot of cursing involved as Mr Parker’s mood continued to deteriorate, but eventually we got all the gear inside and shut the rear doors. Then we drove slowly towards the lake.

As we approached I saw that the water was still as grey and choppy as it had been yesterday. I looked at the mooring raft as it bobbed up and down beside the jetty, and wondered if it really was as stable as I thought.

Mr Parker seemed to be pondering the same question. He stood on the jetty for a long time looking at the raft, occasionally pressing his foot down on one corner to see how much resistance there was.

“Rocks about a lot, doesn’t it?” he said. “Are you sure you’ve built it properly?”

“Should be alright,” I replied.

Obviously he needed convincing, so I stepped completely onto the raft to prove I had full confidence in it. To my relief it felt OK, and I was able to move about on the small deck without fear of toppling over.

“We’ll need to take one of the oars,” I said. “So we can guide it.”

Mr Parker unlocked the green hut and tried the door.

“The flaming paint’s stuck again,” he said, giving it a pull.

Every time I examined the paintwork on this hut I noticed yet more runs and badly done areas. It certainly was a poor piece of workmanship, and did nothing to improve Mr Parker’s humour. Only with a sharp tug did the door come open, after which I went inside and got one of the oars. Then we had the tricky job of transferring the mooring weight (plus the chain) from the van to the raft. It wasn’t too bad moving it along the jetty, as we were able to roll it slowly to the end. But getting it from there onto the raft itself was a real battle, accompanied by many more grunts and curses from Mr Parker. We’d just succeeded in getting the weight safely aboard when we heard ‘Half a pound of treacle’ coming towards us through the trees.

Not now, Deakin, I thought to myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. Next thing the ice-cream van had pulled up by the green hut, where it gave another impromptu blast of its wayward chimes.

“What a flaming racket!” roared Mr Parker, steadying his balance on the mooring raft and keeping well away from the edge. As I looked at his awkward movements it suddenly dawned on me why he was in such an irritable mood. All the signs pointed towards it: for some reason he was afraid of the water. This explained both his distrust of the raft and his lack of interest in the rowing boats. When he was on dry land Tommy Parker bore himself with as much self-assurance as any man I’d ever met. He was strong, independent and successful in business. He could do a thousand and one things that many other people wouldn’t even know how to attempt. Yet out here on the water all his confidence just disappeared. Which was obviously why he felt it necessary to shout at Deakin.