Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

“By the way,” I asked. “Where did it come from?”

“Don’t know,” she replied. “Marco got it from somewhere.”

“Who’s Marco?”

“The one who was here before you.”

♦

That night I made the mistake of going to bed early, assuming it was what people did if they had to get up at half past four.

At ten o’clock I was tucked under the sheets with my head on the pillow, but still wide awake. The thought hadn’t occurred to me that it would be better to catch up on lost sleep after I’d lost it, rather than before. As a result I spent several long hours trying desperately to drift off, while all the time worrying in case I overslept.

Finally, about four o’clock, I got fed up with tossing and turning, so I rose from my bed and put the kettle on. I was bleary-eyed, but began to feel better once I’d worked my way through a whole pot of tea. At twenty to five I went out into the yard, found Deakin’s pick-up in the darkness, and set off towards the dairy at Greenbank. I’d never been in that direction before, but it was marked clearly on the map and I was there for five o’clock. As I approached the building a loading bay came into view, where some other vehicles were waiting. There were a few men in overalls standing around, and one of them signalled me to reverse in next to a pile of full crates. By the time I’d got out of the cab he was already swinging them into the back of the pick-up, so I climbed up to lend a hand.

“Morning,” he said, without any introduction. “Got a docket for me?”

“Oh yes, sorry,” I replied, producing the paperwork from my pocket. “I’m new to this game.”

“Don’t worry,” he grinned. “You’ll soon settle into it.”

I gave him a requisition docket, which he separated in two, giving the bottom half back to me. Then he got me to sign the sheet on his clipboard.

After we’d finished loading he said, “Right. That’s your lot. If you take my advice you’ll go down the side of the common first, get rid of your gold-tops, then you’ll have an open run for your pasteurized as far as Millfold. After that it should be plain sailing. Oh, don’t forget homogenized is on ‘specials’ Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to take it all in.

None of this information meant anything until I got back in the pick-up and studied the order book and route map together. Then I realized that planning a milk round was no less than an applied science. The route included loops, short-cuts and unavoidable dead-ends, but every effort had been made to minimize wasted mileage. As I began making my deliveries I came to understand that the man on the loading bay had spoken with the wise voice of experience. As he’d predicted, the crate of gold-topped (extra cream) milk was empty by the time I’d cleared the common below Greenbank, and I then had an unbroken run of silver-topped pasteurized as far as Millfold.

Nevertheless it was only my first day, and despite the useful advice I soon fell behind schedule. The trouble was that a lot of the delivery points were at the end of remote lanes, and I seemed to waste a lot of time turning round in tiny spaces, and going through endless sets of gates. I quickly came to the conclusion that I would get along much more efficiently if I had an assistant: someone to open gates and plonk bottles on doorsteps while I kept the vehicle moving.

Another problem, of course, was that I frequently got lost. The map was quite detailed but it had obviously been in use for a good while, and as a result some small destinations were lost in the folds. The only way I could complete these deliveries was by guesswork, making random forays up unmarked roads and hoping I’d find the right place eventually. Usually I did, but once or twice I went seriously wrong and had to retrace my journey before trying again.

Less difficult to find was Wainskill, where I had a fair number of drops to do. It was dominated by the ice-cream factory, and quite a few of my customers seemed to live close by. Dawn was breaking as I delivered two pints of milk to the Journeyman, and one each to a small row of dwellings a little further along the road. I wondered in passing if Lesley occupied any of these sleeping households.

By the time I got to the Millfold area I was running very late, but interestingly enough I heard not one word of complaint. Arriving at various farms and business premises I began to recognize familiar faces from the Packhorse (and the Ring of Bells), and in spite of my lateness received nothing but encouragement. In many cases it was obvious that they’d actually been waiting for me to appear with their milk so they could start breakfast. I would have expected this to put them in a bad mood, yet when I finally turned up I was invariably given a cheery wave from the kitchen window. If the door happened to be open I would slip the bottle just inside and say ‘Thank you’ in a sing-song sort of voice before continuing on my way.

Along the road towards Hillhouse I met the school bus coming in the opposite direction, and as our vehicles passed Maurice sounded his horn in a friendly manner. I thought I saw Gail’s face amongst those looking out, but I couldn’t be certain.

After making two deliveries at Hillhouse, one to Mr Parker’s door and one to my own, the next call was at Stonecroft, which I hadn’t visited since the episode with the circular saw. Again there were two drops, one for young Mr Pickthall and a second for his father at the other end of the house. I was hoping to see the old man and maybe have a brief chat, but when I turned round in the yard there was no sign of him. What did catch my eye though, apart from the stack of timber still waiting to be sawn up, was a large collection of oil drums gathered together in one corner. I was just wondering what young Mr Pickthall was planning to do with them all when he emerged from the house, carrying an empty bottle.

“Seen my father on your travels?” he asked in an abrupt tone.

“No, sorry,” I replied, handing him his milk and accepting the empty in return. “Gone for a walk, has he?”

“Seems like it,” he said, with a grunt of disapproval. “Half the time I don’t know what he’s getting up to.”

It struck me that the old man should be free to do as he wished at his age. However, I didn’t say anything since it really had nothing to do with me. I wanted to get away quickly before the unfinished timberwork was mentioned, so I nodded politely, and then went off to deliver his father’s milk. When I returned to the pick-up I glanced across the yard and saw young Mr Pickthall standing amongst the oil drums, marking each one with a piece of chalk. He looked up as I departed and I gave him a wave, but he failed to acknowledge me.

There were only two or three deliveries left to do after that, yet for some reason I still had a full crate of milk remaining. When I stopped and looked at the order book I realized with a shock that I’d missed out a section of the route! I was supposed to do Bryan Webb’s side of the lake first and then come along here afterwards, but for some reason I’d got it the wrong way round. As fast as I could I completed the drops on this side, then tore off towards Bryan’s place. He was standing in his yard when I arrived, the cardboard crown upon his head.

“Only an hour and half late,” he said with a grin. “Not bad for your first day.”

Apparently he’d been watching my progress along the lake from his window, and had already put the kettle on for a pot of tea. This was most welcome as I’d been going continually without a break since before five o’clock.

“Made one or two wrong turns this morning,” I said, as we sat in his kitchen. “Should be able to speed up though as I get used to it.”