Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

Still, I could hardly go back now, so I decided to press on. I pulled into Bryan’s yard just as he came out of the house, and was relieved when he gave me a sympathetic smile. As usual he was wearing his cardboard crown.

“Tommy rang up to say you were on your way,” he announced as I got out of the van.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Did he mention, then…about?”

Bryan nodded. “Yes, he did.”

“Oh…right.”

“And you’re manning the breach.”

“Yeah, suppose I am. I’ve brought this.” I handed him the bottle.

“Thanks very much,” he said. “It’s for my Uncle Rupert.”

“Thought so.”

“He likes his homogenized every week.”

“Yes, I remember you saying.”

“In his tea, like.”

“Yes.”

Bryan placed the bottle on a shelf inside his doorway, then turned to me.

“By the way,” he said. “Tommy asked if you could leave the van here and take his pick-up back.”

“OK then.”

“Save him coming for it.”

“Right.”

This was easier said than done. The Dutch barn which had previously housed Mr Parker’s lorry was now home to Bryan’s own pick-up and tractor. The other pick-up was parked behind them, and getting it out involved a good deal of manoeuvring. We spent the next five or ten minutes busily forwarding and reversing various vehicles, swapping them all round until the ice-cream van was at the back of the barn and Tommy’s pick-up in front. Then the two of us stopped for a bit of a chat.

“Got those boats finished yet?” Bryan asked.

“Well, all the preparations are done,” I replied. “As soon as I find a spare moment I’ll get a start on the actual painting itself.”

“What? You haven’t started yet?” He looked quite surprised.

“No, but as I say I’ll be getting going very soon.”

“So you’ll have them done by Christmas, will you?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “That should be no problem at all.”

“Be a bit of a push though, won’t it? December’s almost on us.”

“Well, it hardly matters really. They won’t be going back on the water ‘til Easter.”

“Maybe not,” he said, giving his crown a significant tap. “But it’s Christmas that counts, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by this, so I just nodded and said, “Yeah, suppose you’re right.”

He looked at me for a long moment before a grin slowly appeared on his face. I grinned back and then he laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.

“Good on you!” he said. “You had me there for a minute!”

I joined in the laughter, and Bryan laughed some more, and then I said I’d better be going.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he said, as I departed.

“No, alright,” I replied.

Tomorrow being Thursday I assumed he was referring to the next darts fixture in the Packhorse. I took his remark as meaning that my period of exile was over and I could begin drinking there again. This came as quite a relief. My resolution of the previous evening about ‘not drinking anywhere for the time being’ had seemed very bleak in the cold light of day. After all, what was the point of working if I couldn’t go to the pub at night? Now I had confirmation from the darts captain himself: I could go back to the Packhorse tomorrow evening.

In the meantime I had an engagement with Gail to fulfil, so I put my foot down and sped home. When I arrived in the yard at Hillhouse I noticed Deakin’s pick-up truck parked in front of the big shed. Standing beside it were Mr Parker and Kenneth Turner, deep in conversation about something or other. When they saw me approach they beckoned me to join them.

“We’ve had a word with one or two people,” said Mr Parker.

“And we think you might as well take over the milk round straight way.”

“Take it over?”

“Yes, then you’ll be all set up to keep it going.”

“Better for everyone in the long run,” added Kenneth. “People always need milk.”

“Yeah, but…” I hesitated. “Surely I can’t just seize control of a going concern?”

“Why not?”

“Well…it just doesn’t seem right, that’s all.”

There was a long silence, then Mr Parker said, “I thought you liked Deakin.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I did quite like him.”

“Well, if you took the milk round over you’d be looking after his best interests, wouldn’t you?”

“Suppose so, if you put it like that.”

“Nobody would be getting let down.”

“No.”

“So you might as well start straight away, hadn’t you?”

I shrugged and nodded towards Deakin’s pick-up. “Is it all fully serviced now?”

“Yep,” said Kenneth. “OK for another year.”

“And how will I know where to deliver the milk?”

“Deakin’s order book is in the cab,” said Mr Parker. “All the details are there.”

With my head still reeling from the suddenness of this turn of events, I was shown the order book and also a delivery-route map. Kenneth then handed me a wad of requisition dockets for the dairy at Greenbank.

“If you get there early someone’ll give you a hand loading the crates,” he said.

“What do you mean by early?” I asked.

“Well, Deakin used to start at five o’clock.”

Five o’clock! This was the part of the equation I hadn’t considered. I always thought I got up early when I worked at the factory, but that was only for an eight o’clock start. Five o’clock was three hours earlier, and I began to wonder what exactly I had let myself in for. To get a full night’s sleep of seven hours I would have to go to bed at about half past nine. Which was the time I usually went to the pub. It dawned on me that I was saying goodbye to any social life I had just to keep Deakin’s business going. On the other hand, I couldn’t help feeling quite elated at the prospect of having my own milk round! I decided to buckle down and get used to the idea of becoming an early riser.

Once everything was settled Mr Parker gave Kenneth a lift home, and I went over to the bothy for some tea. Around seven there came a knock on the door. It was Gail.

“Ready for a lesson then?” she asked.

This made it sound as if she would be teaching me, not the other way round, but I let the remark go and produced the dartboard from under my bed. When Gail saw it she took it from me and seemed to hold it rather fondly in her arms. Then she led the way towards the hay-loft.

“By the way,” I said. “What are we going to do for darts?”

“There are some up there,” she replied.

Getting into the hay-loft required going up a wooden ladder and through a trapdoor. Gail found the light switch and went up first, and I followed. After clambering over Bryan’s hay bales we came to a space about four feet wide and ten long. Just enough room for a darts game. By the time I got there Gail had already hung the board up on a hook at one end. The surrounding area of wall, I noticed, showed signs of having being struck many times by pointed objects. There were also a number of scores chalked up on a nearby plank of wood. Someone had even marked out an oche on the floor.

“Done this before then, have you?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Loads of times.”

“Who with?”

“Anyone who happened to be here.”

“So I’m not the first one?”

“No, course not.”

She opened a box in the corner and took out some darts. They were a rough-looking bunch with cheap plastic flights, but they would do for practising. She gave me a set of red ones and chose yellow for herself. Then we began.

I suppose we must have played about fifteen games altogether that evening. Gail knew how to stand correctly on the oche, and her aim wasn’t too bad. Where she fell down was on tactics. She had no idea about the importance of eights and sixteens for a double finish, nor did she recognize the problem of ‘blocking’ until it was too late. Time and again she’d be on three darts to win, and then lose the game because she just couldn’t see an out-shot. This was were I came in. I was able to give her little hints and tips that I’d picked up over the years, and slowly her play became stronger. At first I won game after game, but after a while Gail began to win a few as well. When she’d had the satisfaction of beating me a few times we gave up for the evening and put the darts away. We both agreed that we might as well leave the board hanging where it was.