Magnus Mills: All Quiet on the Orient Express

“I thought I’d better catch you before you go,” he said. “Expect you’ll be leaving today, will you?”

“Hadn’t planned to,” I replied.

“A lot of people choose to leave on Monday mornings.”

“Well, I thought I’d give it another week, actually. The weather seems quite nice.”

“So you’re staying on then?”

“If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

I’d been wondering when he would come to collect the rent. Several times in the past few days he’d gone round calling on everyone else, but for some reason he kept leaving me out. Now, on the sixth morning, he had finally made his approach. I emerged from my tent, barefoot, and the conversation continued.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Yes,” he said. “We like it very much. Of course, I’ve been here all my life, so I don’t know any different.”

“Suppose not.”

“But everyone who comes here says they like it.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He opened the palm of his hand and for the first time I noticed he was holding a wooden tent peg.

“This yours?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Mine are all metal ones.”

“Do you want it? You can have it as a spare if you like.”

“Is it nobody else’s?”

“There’s no one else left,” he said. “They’ve all gone.”

I glanced around the field. “Oh yes, you’re right. Shame really.”

“One speck of rain and they all flee. Then the sun comes back and they miss it.”

“That’s always the way, isn’t it?”

“Almost always. Do you want this then?”

“OK,” I said, taking the peg. “Thanks.”

“Would you like to pay some rent?”

“Oh yes. How much do I owe you?”

He adopted a businesslike smile. “It’s a pound a night.”

“That’s six pounds so far then.”

“If you’ve been here six nights, yes.”

“Right.” I took a five-pound note from my back pocket and handed it over, and then began fishing for some coins.

“That’s quite expensive really, isn’t it?” he remarked. “Just for you, your tent and your motorbike.”

“Seems alright to me,” I replied.

“I ought to be giving you a bit of discount if you’re staying another week.”

“A pound a night’s fine,” I said, giving him the balance.

“Alright then,” he said. “That’s grand.”

Now that the transaction was over I expected him to make his excuses and move on, but after he’d taken the money he replanted his feet and looked up at the sky.

“On holiday, are you?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Well, sort of.”

He smiled again. “Which?”

“Well, I’m between things at the present. I’ve been working all summer to save some money so I can go East during the winter.”

“You mean the east coast?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Sorry. Abroad East. You know, Turkey, Persia, and then overland to India.”

“I see,” he said, nodding towards my bike. “You’ll be going on that, will you?”

“Probably not, actually,” I replied. “There’s a train you can catch a good part of the way.”

“Is there now? Well, that’s handy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

He looked at my tent. “So what brings you to this part of the country then?”

“Well,” I said. “I’ve always fancied seeing the lakes, so I thought I’d have a couple of weeks here first.”

“And do you like it so far?”

“What I’ve seen, yeah.”

“That’s good. You going out today?”

“Not sure what I’ll be doing really.”

“We’ve noticed you go out most days.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, we don’t miss much from our window.”

I was slightly surprised by this. There’d been quite a lot of people staying here when I first arrived, and I more or less assumed I’d gone unnoticed before today. After all, I was only one tent and a motorbike. Some of the families who’d been around during the week had set up huge encampments that extended across large areas of the field, with countless children running in all directions. By comparison I’d occupied hardly any room at all. Nevertheless, it had taken me some time just to find a reasonable space for myself, where I wouldn’t be encroached upon. The previous evening a mass exodus had taken place following a brief spell of rain, but not until this morning did I realize I was the only visitor left. All that remained was an expanse of grass marked out in yellowing squares. The absence of other paying customers probably explained the proprietor’s sudden interest in me, yet it turned out he’d been aware of my presence all along.

His remark about the window caused us both to look up at the house, perched on the sloping ground above. Behind it I could make out the outline of a very large barn, as well as some other outbuildings, and beyond them lay the upper slopes of the fells. The whole place was bathed in sunlight, but I knew after yesterday’s rain that it wasn’t always like this.

As we stood there taking in the view a thought occurred to me.

“What I’d really like to do is hire one of those rowing boats down by the lake.”

“Oh yes?” he said.

“Yeah, but every time I go down there the boat-hire place seems to be closed.”

“Bit late in the season really.”

“Suppose so.”

“Still, I’ve no doubt you’ll find something else to do.”

And with that he gave me a smile and a nod before strolling off in the direction of the house.

“Nice talking to you,” I said to his back, and he raised a hand in acknowledgement.

I watched him go, then delved in my bag for a can of baked beans and set about preparing some breakfast. It was a simple affair, because all I had was a stove, a pan and these beans. I heated them up and ate them ‘cowboy-style’, without a plate. Then I went over to the tap, washed the pan out and brought back some water for making tea.

While I was waiting for it to boil I sat in the grass and wondered how I was going to occupy myself today. That was the only trouble with this place: the scenery was great and everything, but there was nothing to do except ‘take it in’, and, to tell the truth, I’d already had enough of that. I’d ridden round and round the area a few times on my motorbike, going along the edge of lakes and traversing high mountain passes, but there was a limit to how much enjoyment could be derived from this, especially with all the cars travelling nose to tail everywhere I went. Admittedly the roads would be quieter now that the majority of tourists had gone home, yet the idea of spending another day motorcycling didn’t really appeal to me. The alternative, of course, was going for a walk. There were miles and miles of footpaths going off in every direction all over the fells, most of them worn down by sheep, but some, apparently, attributable to the Romans. I’d read somewhere that you could walk over the fells for a year and never use the same pathway twice. Impressive enough, but the disadvantage of going for long walks was that I’d probably never meet anybody all day long. So that wasn’t particularly attractive either.

However, I was aware that my supply of baked beans was running low, so I decided to take a short walk along the side of the lake and get some more. There was a place called Millfold about a mile away at the northern end, with a shop, two pubs, a phone box and a churchyard. I’d taken quite a liking to one of the pubs, the Packhorse, and spent every evening there, watching people come and go. I had no intention of calling in for a lunchtime drink, though, as I didn’t want the day to dissolve into an alcoholic blur. Once I’d bought my supplies I would have to think of something else to do in the afternoon.