Magnus Mills - All Quiet on the Orient Express

When he spoke again his tone of voice had returned to normal.

“We’ll have to have a look at this hatch sometime,” he remarked. “Seems to be sticking at one side.”

“Yes,” I agreed, casting an expert eye over the hatchway. “Must be the new paint.”

“Or perhaps a bit of sagging in the timber.”

“Could be, I suppose.”

“Right, then. Can you give me a hand with the tender please?”

Leaning against the back wall of the hut I could see a tiny boat, no more than five feet long. By the time I got inside he’d already begun struggling to lift it, so I quickly grabbed the other end. We lugged it out of the hut and across to the water’s edge, our legs moving in short little jerks like a beetle. After a moment’s rest we continued along the jetty. In so doing I became increasingly aware that the structure wasn’t in particularly sound condition. It was alright for normal walking about on, but under the additional weight of the boat a few planks creaked and made other ominous noises. Finally, however, we got to the end, where we put the boat down. Mr Parker then walked back along the jetty, giving it an inspection as he went. I could see that several planks were cracked and insecure, while others showed early signs of rot. There were even one or two missing altogether.

“Needs a bit of maintenance here,” he remarked. “Do you want to come and get some oars?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Forgot about them.”

I followed him back to the hut, where he handed me the oars before locking up.

“Pull the tender in among those reeds when you’ve finished,” he said. “Should be safe there for the time being.”

“OK.”

“Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

“How long shall I stay out for?” I asked.

“As long as you like,” replied Mr Parker. “There’s no one else here.”

After he’d gone I went back to the end of the jetty and launched the tender. Then I stood looking at it, wondering what to do next. I’d assumed that he meant me to use it to get to the full-sized rowing boats out on the mooring, but I wasn’t entirely certain about this. Maybe I was just supposed to potter around in this tiny thing for a couple of hours, and then come back. After all, he’d never actually mentioned the other boats while he was here. And I hadn’t liked to ask. So now I found myself in a bit of a quandary.

Yet surely on a lake this size someone would need to be in a proper boat to make it worth while. Wouldn’t they? Yes, I decided, of course they would. Especially if they were paying a pound for the privilege. With this in mind I set off towards the mooring. I was pleased to find that I hadn’t forgotten how to row, and once I’d got used to the balance I was soon well on my way.

As I approached the line of moored boats I began to realize that they bore a strong resemblance to the ones in my childhood park. They were all an identical shade of maroon, and even the gold paintwork along the gunwales looked the same. Most striking of all, though, were the ornate prows that rose up at the front of each boat. As a child I’d always been impressed by these because they reminded me of the curved ships from famous legends and fables. For some reason the raised prows made the boats seem ancient, so that it was impossible to tell whether they were constructed ten, twenty or even fifty years before. It was this sense of age-lessness that had always attracted me to them.

Not that I planned to have an ‘adventure’ in one of these vessels. After all, I was fully aware that they were just simple pleasure craft, built to be hired out by the hour. I was going for nothing more than a simple jaunt on the lake, enjoying the sunshine whilst taking in the scenery from a new perspective. Nevertheless, by the time I’d chosen a boat and clambered aboard, the thought had been planted in my head that I didn’t just want to spend the morning aimlessly rowing about. It would be much better actually to go on a journey somewhere. Not long after that I hit on the idea of making my way towards the end of the lake, and then having a pint of beer in the Packhorse.

From out here on the water I was made aware of the vastness of the surrounding fells. Silent except for the bleating of distant sheep, they looked as though they went on for ever, although in reality of course I knew they didn’t. Less than ten miles to the east a modern motorway cut a swathe right through them. Along this strip of tarmac pounded an endless stream of traffic in the headlong charge between England and Scotland. There was also a railway line, and a procession of electricity pylons carrying power from one industrial centre to another.

Yet from my boat I could see no evidence of any of this. There was just empty land, and trees, with occasional farms and dwellings scattered along the lakeside. What caught my eye most of all was Mr Parker’s house perched high up on the slope. With the huge shed looming in the background, it seemed to dominate the locality, giving the impression that there was someone inside keeping watch. I was sure he had better things to do than spy on me from his window all day, but all the same I felt more at ease when I’d rowed half a mile and the house finally disappeared behind a spur of land.

The boat was moving along quite nicely, and I had to admit that this was a very pleasant way to pass the time. Unfortunately my back had begun complaining about the unaccustomed strain it was under, so I was glad to see the end of the lake drawing near. I knew from my previous walks to the pub that there was a good place to go ashore not far from the car park. I managed to pull the boat on land without getting my feet wet, and as a precaution I tied the mooring rope to a nearby sapling. Then I set off on foot towards the Packhorse.

As I approached I saw that Tony was at work in the beer garden, applying black paint to the outside windowsills of the pub. The walls were whitewashed, with some black beams across the middle, and I assumed that this was meant to make the building appear to be Tudor in origin.

“Doing a good job there,” I said, walking towards the side door. “Safe to go in, is it?”

“Should be,” he replied. “But knock first, just in case.”

I knocked and entered the bottom bar, which was deserted. A moment later Tony came in, served me a pint of Ex and then went out again. It was too nice a day to remain inside for very long, so I followed him out into the beer garden where he resumed his painting. I had planned to sit at one of the wooden picnic tables, but I discovered they’d all been treated with wood preserver and stacked one on top of the other in the corner. For this reason I went and sat on the stone wall instead, placing my beer beside me while I waited for it to settle. Occasionally I glanced across the square, but there seemed to be no one about. The only sign of activity this morning was Tony at work with his brush, applying new black paint over the black paint that was already there. A few minutes passed as he completed yet another window-sill. Then I heard a vehicle coming down the road from the direction of the church, and casually looked round to see Mr Parker go by in his pick-up with the trailer in tow.

Suddenly this trip to the Packhorse didn’t seem such a good idea. I’d hardly touched my pint before his unexpected appearance, but now I felt the urge to finish it and get back to where I’d tied up. After all, I was supposed to be out on the lake, not lounging in a pub garden. I wasn’t sure whether he’d noticed me sitting there, but I was certain he wouldn’t be very pleased about one of his boats being left unattended. I drained my glass and headed across the square. As I did so it occurred to me that even at this moment there might be someone making off with the boat. I broke into a run, charging through the deserted car park and up the path to the lake. It was difficult running with the newly swallowed beer inside me, and by the time I got to the water’s edge I felt quite sick. The boat was lying exactly where I’d left it, of course, completely safe. As I collapsed out of breath in the grass nearby I realized I’d panicked over nothing, and all because of that conversation last night in the pub. It had been the thought of Mr Parker losing his temper that’d brought me rushing back instead of taking the time to enjoy my beer properly. This now struck me as ridiculous. The episode at the boat-hire hut with the sticking hatch had shown me, if anything, that he controlled his temper very well. I soon came to the conclusion that the whole thing was some sort of local myth, not to be taken seriously.