Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

He muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, and then wandered off towards his home.

When I arrived back at Hillhouse, the kitchen door was wide open. I parked the pick-up and got out just as the hitch-hiker emerged onto the terrace with a coffee cup in his hand. Behind him came Mr Parker.

“Have you got a minute?” he called. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I went up the steps and the newcomer was introduced to me as ‘Mark’.

“You can call me Marco,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied. He appeared to have a slightly faded sun tan.

“Mark’s going to be staying with you in the bothy,” announced Mr Parker.

“Is he?” I asked, with some surprise.

“Yes. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Well, there’s not really enough room.”

“I thought you said there was plenty.”

“When?”

“When you first moved in.”

“Oh,” I said. “Did I?”

As we talked Marco stood with a sort of sneering grin on his face, looking at me.

“Of course, if it’s too much trouble…” he said.

“No, it’s alright,” I replied. “I suppose you can have the sofa.”

I expected him to say thanks for this magnanimous gesture, but he merely gazed across at the bothy as if he’d scored some sort of victory.

“That’s that settled then,” said Mr Parker. “Now I must get going. I’ve some collections to make this afternoon.”

As he walked over towards his lorry, I turned to Marco.

“The door’s unlocked, you can let yourself in.”

I was damned if I was going to show him, into the place like some kind of estate agent, so instead I went across to the shed and got the stove lit. Then I spent some time giving the boats a look-over. I’d made good progress with the painting during the last week or so, and there was only one boat left to do. All the others were looking pristine in their maroon and gold finish, and I examined them with some pride. Mr Parker still hadn’t been in to see them, but I knew he’d be delighted when he finally got round to it.

I needed some breakfast, so I went over to the bothy and found Marco lying sprawled across the sofa. Some of his gear was already spread out on the floor in an untidy manner.

“Been travelling all night?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m completely fucked.”

“Where’ve you come from?”

“India.”

“Oh…right. Good trip?”

“Yeah, it was cool. But I ran out of money so I had to come back.”

“Did you go overland?”

“No,” he yawned. “Couldn’t be arsed with all that. Flew down.”

“Oh, right.”

He reached into his bag. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Suppose not.”

Marco lit a cigarette and I opened a window. Then he lapsed into silence, gazing at the opposite wall as he smoked. I got on with making myself some breakfast.

“Have you eaten?” I asked, at length.

“Yeah,” he said. “Had breakfast with Tommy earlier.”

“So you don’t want anything for the time being?”

“No.”

I thought it was a bit cheeky how this Marco kept referring to Mr Parker as ‘Tommy’, like they were old pals or something. It seemed far too familiar for my liking. After all, he was only some part-timer who happened to have been here before. As far as I knew he’d helped with the rowing boats and done a bit of painting during the summer months, yet the way he went on anyone would have thought he owned the place.

“Incidentally,” I said. “What are you planning to live on at this time of year?”

“I’ll get by,” he replied.

“But I thought you’d run out of money.”

“You don’t need money round here.”

“Don’t you?”

“Course not. Tommy doesn’t charge rent for this place, does he?”

“Er…no.”

“Well, then. All you’ve got to do is run up one or two accounts and you’re in clover.”

“You mean with Hodge and people like that?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve got to pay them off eventually, haven’t you?”

Marco gave me a long look of disbelief, slowly exhaling as a smirk developed on his face. Then he laughed at me, directly and unashamedly.

“Don’t be a cunt all your life,” he said. “Have a day off.”

♦

There were many signs that Christmas was drawing ever closer. Suddenly all the milk-bottle tops were adorned with tiny sprigs of holly, and advance orders for double cream started to appear on people’s doorsteps. It seemed likely that the workload would increase over the coming weeks, so I was glad to have Mr Pickthall’s continued assistance. After Marco’s arrival I’d half expected the old man to abandon me in disgust, but the following morning he was waiting at the usual place with his canvas bag. I thought it best not to mention the previous day’s events at all, and instead pressed on with the milk round as though nothing had happened. This course of action proved successful, and relations quickly returned to normal.

Passing through Longridge Scar it was apparent that at last the Christmas trees had begun to be harvested. Where previously we’d seen only impenetrable darkness, there were now open spaces, lit faintly by scattered brush fires still smouldering at dawn. Not all the trees had gone, however. Whole blocks remained untouched, presumably waiting for the following year, or the year after that. We retrieved an empty milk bottle from the side of the road, left a full one in its place, and continued our journey.

When I next delivered to the house with the rocking horse on the garden gate, I thought there might be a note asking for extras during the festive season. There wasn’t, but nonetheless I decided to leave a complimentary tub of cream as a goodwill gesture. This caused Mr Pickthall to murmur that ‘One customer was no better than the next’, and that any tradesman who gave produce away free of charge needed his head examining.

Each afternoon went by in the comparative sanctuary of the big shed. With the stove lit and the door closed, I continued work on the final boat uninterrupted. I’d really enjoyed doing this project over the past few weeks, and speculated about what Mr Parker had lined up for me next. Something interesting, no doubt, but I rarely got a chance to speak to him as he was always so busy with the oil drums.

One evening, however, I met him coming across the yard just after he’d returned from a short trip in his lorry.

“You won’t forget there’s still that mooring to make, will you?” he said.

“No, OK,” I replied. “The lake seems a bit rough for putting it down though.”

“You could maybe have a go at doing it next week,” he suggested. “The weatherman says we’re in for a calm spell.”

“Oh, right.”

“Get Mark to lend you a hand.”

“OK.”

The idea of Mark (or ‘Marco’ as he preferred to call himself) lending anyone a hand seemed most unlikely. He was quite easily the laziest person I had ever met. Not only did he sleep half the day, getting up ages after I’d finished the milk round, but then he just lounged around in the bothy for hours on end, smoking with the window closed and helping himself to my biscuits. Never did he offer to make a pot of tea or anything like that, even though he knew I was busy. His excuse was that he ‘couldn’t be arsed’, although I noticed he always managed to pour himself a cup if I went to the trouble of making some.

Despite all this, Gail seemed to think he was highly fascinating. She was forever turning up at the bothy on pretexts, such as looking at Marco’s photographs from India. These were interesting enough in themselves, I suppose, but they only needed to be seen once. Not three times.

At one point I asked him what he thought of the place and he said, “Brilliant, but you probably wouldn’t like it.”