Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

There was no sign of Mr Pickthall’s old pal when we cut through Longridge Scar the following morning, and I wasn’t sure where to leave his milk.

“Just put it at the side of the road,” suggested Mr Pickthall. “He’ll see it when he turns up.”

“Won’t someone take it?” I asked.

“Course not,” he replied. “No one else comes up here.”

“What about birds pecking the top?”

“There aren’t any birds here.”

“Aren’t there?”

“None at all.”

“But I thought birds liked trees.”

“Not these trees, they don’t. My pal sprays them with every chemical going.”

It occurred to me that this plantation was no less remote than some of the other places we visited each day. The only difference was that there wasn’t a doorstep to leave the milk bottle on. So I did as Mr Pickthall suggested and left it at the side of the road.

At least his old pal was an identifiable customer. Most of the early drops we made were to darkened houses containing sleeping strangers. I knew few of the names listed in the order book, and realized that it would take a long time before I became acquainted with them all. Eventually I was going to have to go round collecting the money they owed me, but I decided that this was probably best left until I was fully established.

One client I would always recognize, of course, was Bryan Webb. When we pulled into his yard some two hours later he was wearing his usual cardboard crown. I got out to speak to him, while Mr Pickthall remained in the cab with a look of disapproval on his face.

“I don’t think the old lad likes me,” said Bryan.

“It’s your crown he doesn’t like,” I replied.

“Oh, well, can’t be helped. Anyway it’s not long now ‘til Christmas.”

“No, suppose not.”

“I’ve got your groceries here.” He stepped into his kitchen and emerged again with a box. “I took the liberty of ordering you some beans. They weren’t on your list but Hodgey’s doing them at half price so I thought I’d snap them up.”

“Oh, right, thanks,” I said. “What biscuits did you get?”

“All of them,” he replied. “Fig rolls, custard creams, malted milks. That was right, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s great. How much do I owe you then?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that for the moment. Want a cup of tea?”

“No. Thanks all the same. We’d better keep moving.”

“Righto,” he said. “By the way, where’s Tommy been going off to in his lorry every day?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “Has he gone again this morning then?”

“Yes, I saw him leaving about six o’clock. I could see his headlights.”

“Something to do with oil drums, I think.”

“Oh, well,” said Bryan. “Tommy always knows a good bit of business when he sees it.”

To tell the truth, I was quite glad that Mr Parker was keeping busy. It meant I could get on with my painting uninterrupted, and with a bit of luck I would have the first boat finished before he saw it. With this in mind I completed the milk round as quickly as possible, said goodbye to Mr Pickthall, and then went home and got the stove going in the big shed. When the place had warmed up a bit I selected a tin of gold paint and started work. I wanted each boat to look perfect, and knew that this part of the job could not be rushed. Therefore, I took great care as I applied my paintbrush to the gunwales, the prow and the stern-post.

It was a process that lasted all afternoon. Outside, the weather had begun to turn very wintry indeed, with flecks of sleet occasionally dashing against the shed’s corrugated walls. Inside, however, it was quite cosy and felt like a proper workshop. When I finally stepped back to see the results of my labours, I couldn’t have been more pleased. Yes, I thought, a truly professional finish.

I was having my tea in the bothy when I heard Mr Parker return that evening, so I went out into the yard to meet him. On the back of the lorry were about fifty second-hand oil drums.

“It’s bloody marvellous what they’re doing at that factory,” he said, getting down from the cab. “Runs like clockwork.”

“Thought you’d be impressed,” I replied.

“They put these old, battered drums in at one end, and when they come out the other end they’re fully reconditioned. It’s like new lamps for old.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“They’ve said they’ll take as many as I can bring in,” he continued. “So I’ve been rushing all over the place chasing them up.”

He seemed to be in an expansive mood, so I said, “There’s a fully reconditioned boat in the shed, awaiting your inspection.”

“That’s good,” he replied.

“And the others are in various stages of completion.”

“Well,” he said. “I haven’t really got time to look at them at the moment, if you don’t mind. I’m rushed off my feet with all these oil drums.”

“Oh…right.”

“So I’ll just leave you to it.”

“OK then.”

“As long as the painting’s done by Christmas, that’s the main thing.”

“Right.”

It was a bit disappointing that Mr Parker didn’t want to inspect my handiwork, but I could understand his reasons. A moment passed and then I spoke again.

“Er…there was something else I wanted to speak to you about, actually.”

“Oh yes?”

“It’s just that I’ve been putting a lot of hours in on the boats just recently.”

“Suppose you must have been, yes,” he agreed.

“And…well, I was wondering if you could let me have some money.”

It was a dark evening, but not dark enough to hide the look of surprise that crossed Mr Parker’s face.

“Money?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“So I can pay off my debts.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“I wouldn’t ask normally,” I explained. “But the thing is I owe money to Bryan Webb, and I’ve also got a slate at the Packhorse, an account with Kenneth Turner and another one with Mr Hodge. Oh yes, and one with Deakin.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that last one,” said Mr Parker.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Plough it back into the business.”

“Alright,” I said. “But I can’t go on much longer like this. I’m used to having a bit of cash on me.”

“You’ve run out, have you?”

“Practically, yes.”

Mr Parker stood looking at the ground, as if reviewing the conversation we’d just had. Then he looked across at the big shed, up at the sky and down at the ground again. Finally, he spoke.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose I’d better let you have something to tide you over.”

He reached into his back pocket and produced a wad of twenty-pound notes. Then slowly he peeled one off and handed it to me, placing it in the palm of my hand. A second note followed. Then a third. All this was done in silence, but I could sense that it was causing Mr Parker a certain amount of distress. Nonetheless, I remained holding my hand out, and he continued laying note upon note until I had a hundred pounds.

Then he paused.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Will that settle it?” he asked.

“Yep,” I replied. “That’s fine.”

He counted the rest of his money and returned it to his back pocket before glancing at me again.

“By the way,” he said. “No one at the factory seems to have heard of you.”

“Don’t they?”

“Afraid not. I asked one or two people around the place, but none of them could think who you were.”

“Well, I was only there a few months,” I said. “Expect they’ve forgotten me.”

“Yes,” he replied. “That’s what it sounds like.”