Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

The Packhorse was through to the second round of the Inter-Pub Darts League. This was the news that greeted me on my next visit, and it seemed to be generally agreed that I’d played a valuable part in the campaign.

“We wouldn’t have beaten the Golden Lion without your help,” said Tony as he pulled me a pint of Ex. “We’ll have you back on the team as soon as there’s a place.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Just keep turning up and you’re bound to be selected in the end.”

A quick look at the fixture list told me that we were to face the Journeyman again in ten days’ time. This was one game I was determined not to miss, so I made a careful note of the date. Then I took my pint and joined the others for darts practice.

In spite of Tony’s assurances, I still felt I was a bit of an outsider at the Packhorse, not quite fully accepted. This was in part due to the fact that I always had to leave before closing time, in order to get to bed at a reasonable hour. As a result, I never partook of ‘after hours’ drinking with Bryan and the rest of them. I was the only one who didn’t stay up late, and I couldn’t help thinking I was missing out on something. They were all friendly enough, but I remained uncertain about whether they were actually ‘friends’.

The same went for old Mr Pickthall, with whom I spent more time than anyone else. My early-morning companion travelled round with me for hours on end, yet I had no idea if he actually liked my company or not. We made a good team and worked well together, there was no doubt about that, but if I ever made a mistake, for example by taking a wrong turn, he would snap at me and call me a damn fool. Sometimes I wondered if I wasn’t a great disappointment to him.

Nonetheless, the milk round was going perfectly. We cut through Longridge Scar daily, picking up an empty milk bottle from the side of the road and replacing it with a full one. Sometimes we caught a glimpse of Mr Pickthall’s old pal working amidst the Christmas trees, and he would give us a wave. Then a few more days would pass without a sighting.

Another call we made was to a small detached house in Wainskill. This was a ‘special order’, Fridays only, for one bottle of homogenized milk. The property lay slightly back from the road, at the end of a cinder path, and I took a liking to it from the very start. Whoever lived there seemed to have found an altogether pleasant spot to call home. A rocking horse carved on the garden gate gave the place a very welcoming look, as did the apple trees and the neat borders. The house itself was in darkness when I made my delivery, but an outside lamp cast a friendly light along the footpath. According to the order book the customer’s name was Pemberton, which told me nothing about whether it was a he or a she. A vase of flowers in the window, however, suggested a female presence, and I soon began to get the feeling that this was where Lesley stayed. After all, no one except a young woman living on her own could make a bottle of milk last the whole week. I imagined she led a busy life, and only had time for a quick cup of tea every now and then. The empty bottle on the doorstep, I noticed, was always rinsed to perfection.

Having discovered where Lesley lived, I then realized that the information was of little use since I could hardly go knocking on her door at half past six in the morning. All the same, when I saw her at the forthcoming darts match it would do no harm casually to mention that it was me who delivered her milk.

♦

We rarely encountered any traffic at this early hour, but one morning on the approach to Millfold a pick-up truck appeared, coming from the opposite direction. As soon as he saw it Mr Pickthall said, “Watch out, here’s John,” and then laid flat across the seat.

Next moment the other vehicle came by and I saw his son sitting behind the wheel. Stacked in the rear were four oil drums. Mr Pickthall the Younger nodded at me briefly, and then he was gone.

My assistant sat up and glanced behind him.

“Is that his name?” I asked. “John?”

“Yes, we’re all Johns in our family,” replied the old man.

“Do you think he was looking for you?”

“I doubt it. He’s more interested in some damn-fool scheme with oil drums.”

“Oh,” I said. “Mr Parker’s involved with those as well.”

“I know,” said Mr Pickthall. “And John’s going to run himself into a lot of trouble if he’s not careful.”

“Is he?”

“Of course he is. Getting right out of his depth, trying to exploit a market he knows nothing about.”

“Suppose so.”

“Still, perhaps it’ll teach him a lesson.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Hello, who’s this?”

On the road ahead of us was a hitch-hiker, a young bloke about my age, carrying a rucksack. When he saw us coming he stuck out his thumb.

“Don’t stop for him,” ordered Mr Pickthall.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling up. “I always stop for hitchhikers.”

The young man came to the passenger window, which was a quarter open.

“Going up to Tommy Parker’s?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Hop in.”

“There isn’t room in here,” said Mr Pickthall, through the opening. “You’ll have to go in the back with the crates.”

This struck me as a bit churlish, but the hitch-hiker didn’t seem to mind and had soon clambered aboard. Then we set off again.

“That’s the lad I told you about,” muttered the old man. “We don’t want him here, he’ll spoil everything.”

“Seems alright to me,” I said. “Most hitch-hikers are usually OK.”

“Why didn’t he walk then? It’s only a mile.”

“Don’t know.”

“Because he’s an idle perisher, that’s why.”

Mr Pickthall fell silent and sat glaring through the windscreen, while our passenger rode with us to Hillhouse. I wondered why anyone would choose to turn up here in December. After all, the weather was terrible, and there was nowhere to stay.

“Maybe he’s just passing through,” I remarked.

The old man said nothing.

Mr Parker was standing on the back of his lorry coiling ropes when we arrived in the yard. Over the past few days he’d been running air over the place, gathering up more oil drums and taking them down to the factory when he had a full load.

He’d returned from one such trip late the previous evening.

“Now then. Tommy!” called the hitch-hiker from the rear of the pick-up, before leaping down. I noticed he had a rather loud voice.

Mr Parker peered at him for a long moment and then said, “Oh hello, Mark. You decided to come back then?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose you did.”

In the meantime I’d got out and delivered the milk. I waited a while to give the newcomer a chance to thank me for the lift. Instead, he ignored me and continued talking to Mr Parker, so I got back into the pick-up.

“Are we going then?” asked Mr Pickthall, with a note of impatience in his voice.

“Er…yeah, sure,” I replied, selecting a gear.

As we drove away I saw Gail’s face behind the kitchen window, but she wasn’t looking at me.

♦

Mr Pickthall said little as we continued the milk round, speaking only when spoken to and giving the bluntest of replies. The arrival of the hitch-hiker had disgruntled him for some reason, and he seemed to be taking it out on me for offering a lift. I couldn’t see what difference it made really. After all, as he himself had pointed out, the journey had only been a mile. The guy would have got there anyway, with or without my help. However, the last thing I wanted to do was fall out with Mr Pickthall, so I made no comment on the matter.

Around eleven o’clock I dropped him off at the usual place and said, “See you tomorrow then.”