Magnus Mills: All Quiet on the Orient Express

“Isn’t all this a bit of a waste of water?” I asked.

“Not really,” she replied. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Oh, OK,” I said.

“Have you got all that then?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Good.”

She started to head back towards the men’s block.

“And you are?” I enquired.

“Gail Parker.”

“So you’re Mr Parker’s daughter, are you?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh well, thanks again for your help. Bye.”

“Bye.”

And she was gone. I stood outside the men’s block listening for a few moments as she began swishing the showers with her mop, and then I went back to the tent to get dressed. After that there was nothing to do except go down the pub. I had a choice between walking or going on the bike. If I took the bike it meant I would have to drink less, maximum three pints. Or I could walk and have five. I thought of the money I’d saved by painting Mr Parker’s gate, and decided to walk.

Half an hour later I arrived at the ‘bottom bar’ of the Packhorse. There were two entrances. One was through the front door, past the pay-phone and down a carpeted hallway. The other one, which I preferred, was by a side door from the beer garden. On the door was a notice: ‘DARTS IN PROGRESS’, it said, ‘KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING’.

I ignored this and pushed open the door.

“Wait a sec!” said an urgent voice within.

I stopped and waited. There followed the sound of three gentle thuds.

“Alright,” said the voice. “You can come in now.”

I entered and was greeted by the barman I’d seen earlier in the day. He was withdrawing three darts from a board in the corner behind the door. Glancing round I saw that I was the only customer.

“No one uses that door in the winter,” he said with a friendly smile. “You’d be better off coming round by the top bar.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Sorry, I’ll do that in future.”

I’d seen the warning notice before, of course, but never really taken it seriously. After all, I’d come through the same doorway every night up to now, and there’d been no obvious risk of being impaled by a dart. In fact, there hadn’t even been a dartboard: just an empty wooden frame full of tiny holes. Above this was a shaded metal lamp, and at one side a black scoring margin with the words ‘HOME’ and ‘AWAY’ in stencilled gold lettering. Until tonight, however, the dartboard itself had remained absent. Now it was back in use, and the door to the beer garden was not recommended.

“I’ll have to lock that,” said the barman. “Don’t want any accidents, do we?”

“No, I suppose not,” I replied. “Does that mean the beer garden’s out of bounds now?”

“Well, it’s only there for the tourists really,” he said. “And they’ve all gone.”

“Except me.”

“You don’t count.”

“Don’t I?”

“Not if you’re still here at this time of year, no,” he said. “Pint of Ex?”

By now he’d gone behind the counter, and had in fact already begun working the hand pump before asking what I wanted.

“Yes, please,” I said.

“You’ll have to make the most of it,” he announced. “This is the last barrel. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“That’s alright by me,” I remarked. “I’m only here ‘til the end of the week.”

“Oh well,” he said. “You can help see it off then, can’t you?”

He placed a perfect pint of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter on the counter, and I paid him.

“Won’t you be getting any more after that?” I asked.

“We’d never sell enough to make it worth while,” he replied.

“What about the locals though? Don’t they drink it?”

“Course not,” he said with a grin. “They’re not interested in real ale.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No, they much prefer keg beers. Lager and suchlike. You know, from a factory.”

He came back from behind the counter and resumed his darts practice. A moment later he turned to me again with a puzzled look on his face.

“Did you say you were leaving at the end of the week?”

“That’s the plan,” I said.

“But I thought you were doing the painting along there at Hillhouse?”

“Oh,” I said. “You know about that then, do you?”

“Gordon said he saw you doing the front gate this afternoon. Said you were talking to Deakin.”

I knew Gordon was the other barman at the Packhorse. I’d seen him working alongside my present host during previous visits, and had heard his name spoken a couple of times. However, I had no idea who Deakin was.

“Who’s Deakin?” I asked.

“You know Deakin,” he said. “Fellow who does the milk round.”

“Oh, him,” I said. “Yes, well, I wasn’t talking to him really. He was talking to me.”

“That sounds like Deakin alright.”

“But I was only doing the one gate,” I added. “Just helping out, you know.”

“So you’re not staying on then?”

“Not for long, no.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see. Play darts, do you?”

“Now and then, yes.”

“Want a game?”

“Well, it’s a while since I’ve thrown a dart in anger.”

“That’s alright,” he said. “It’ll help pass the time. Got your own arrows?”

“Er…no.”

“Right,” he said. “You use these and I’ll get another set.”

He produced some more darts from behind the counter, and we had a game of 301, which he won. When he chalked up the score he put himself down as T , and I then remembered I’d heard someone call him Tony the night before. Another game followed, which he won again. It seemed that despite the recent absence of a dartboard he’d not fallen out of practice, and once he was onto a double the match would be a foregone conclusion. In the third game, however, I managed to keep up with him, and he didn’t defeat me quite so easily.

“Shot,” I said, as he landed the required double eight to win.

“Thanks,” he replied. “You throw a nice dart yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“Best of seven?”

“Might as well.”

“Tony!” called a voice at the other end of the pub.

“Back in a sec.”

He slipped behind the counter and went to serve a newcomer up in the ‘top bar’. “Now then, Bryan,” I heard him say.

I hadn’t been in the other part of the pub, but I knew that it was always referred to as the ‘top bar’. I had the feeling that it was reserved for the locals, whereas tourists were expected to the use the ‘bottom bar’. For some reason the Packhorse had been built on two levels, and although both halves were joined together the top bar was two steps higher up with its own separate counter and beer pumps. As a result, the people who drank there had a slightly superior and exclusive look about them, when seen from below. The top bar was usually presided over by an older man whom I took to be the landlord, while Tony and Gordon looked after the much busier bottom bar. Tonight, however, things were very quiet and Tony appeared to be running the whole place on his own. As I waited for our darts game to continue, I glanced through at the new customer in the other bar. Yes, I thought, definitely a local, and I knew I’d seen him before because I recognized his cardboard crown. It was silver with three points, and had been repaired at some time or other with Sellotape. I’d noticed this man quite often up in the top bar, and on each occasion he’d had the cardboard crown on his head. When he caught my gaze he grinned and nodded in my direction, saying something to Tony. I couldn’t hear what it was, but it didn’t seem unfriendly.

A few moments later Tony returned to the dartboard and play began again. It was best of seven, which he won four games to one, so we made it best of nine and he won that as well. Still, as he’d rightly said, it did help pass the time. During the evening a few other customers arrived at the Packhorse, and without exception they turned out to be locals. Most of them headed for the top bar, but one or two came down our end. As they drifted in they gave the impression that it was their first visit to the bottom bar for some time. It was almost as if they were reclaiming lost territory.