All Quiet on the Orient Express Read online

  Not until the third such evening did the subject of groceries come under discussion, and even then it was only brief. Hodge turned to me at the end of a particularly quiet interlude and said, “By the way, we’ve got a new consignment of beans at the shop.”

  “Baked beans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  “Just thought I’d let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  After that we both returned to contemplating our drinks, and the matter wasn’t raised again.

  Walking home it occurred to me that I could have gone over to the Journeyman to see if Lesley was around. After all, she’d been very friendly on that first night we played darts together, offering to buy me a drink and then saying, “Maybe another time.” This had seemed like a very obvious hint. The only trouble was that I didn’t have a good enough ‘excuse’ for suddenly turning up at her local. Wainskill was a good ten miles away and the road went there specially, so I could hardly walk in and say that I just happened to be passing through. The darts match I’d missed would have provided the perfect opportunity to get to know her better, but unfortunately this chance had gone. Now I had no idea when I would see her again.

  ♦

  Meanwhile, I spent my days trying to get on with the boats, only for the work repeatedly to be postponed by Mr Parker. It seemed there was always something else cropping up that was more urgent. One morning, soon after I’d agreed to build the mooring raft, he announced that all the materials I required were waiting for me down by the jetty.

  “Do you want to get started on it today?” he asked.

  “Could do,” I replied. “Of course, it means I’ll have to abandon the work on the boats for the time being.”

  “That’s alright,” he said. “Christmas is still weeks away.”

  His word was my command, so a little later I found myself amidst a collection of oil drums and planks. There was also a box of coach bolts to hold everything together. Assembling these components into a complete unit took a lot of trial and error, despite my carefully drawn ‘plan’, and the work took all day. The finished raft looked fairly robust, but whether it would float or not was a different matter. I tried hauling it to the water’s edge for a buoyancy test and discovered it was quite heavy. In fact, I could only move it with the greatest difficulty. This was something I hadn’t thought of. I was struggling with some spare planks trying to make a sort of slipway when someone came up behind me and said, “Need a hand there?”

  It was the old man who’d helped me repair the jetty.

  “Oh thanks,” I said. “Yes, two of us should be able to get it launched.”

  “You built this, did you?” he asked, examining the raft.

  “Yeah, just finished it.”

  “Wouldn’t have caught that other lad making anything like this.”

  “No?”

  “Never. Just lounged about all day long, playing with the girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “All of them,” he said. “Holidaymakers, day-trippers. Didn’t do a stroke apart from pulling them in with his boathook.”

  “Sounds like nice work,” I remarked.

  “Work?” snapped the old man. “That’s not work!” He walked round the other side of the raft and found a suitable hand-hold. “Well, do you want a lift with this or not?”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “That’d be a great help.”

  I grabbed the raft on my side and the two of us succeeded in dragging it to the water’s edge. Another pull and it was floating beside the jetty. Then I tied it up and tried walking about on the deck.

  “Stable, is it?” he asked.

  “Seems alright,” I replied. “Yes, I’m quite pleased.”

  I came ashore and began tidying up the remaining gear.

  “You’ve done a good job there,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I hear you’re working at our place tomorrow.”

  “Am I?”

  “With the circular saw.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Er…yeah, right.”

  “Eight o’clock, you’re coming.”

  “OK.”

  Obviously Mr Parker’s advertisement in the Trader’s Gazette had brought some response, but this was the first I’d heard of it. No doubt he planned to tell me about it in his own good time. Meanwhile, I was struck by the thought that I always seemed to be the last to find out about anything round here. Even the old man knew before I did.

  “Where is it you live again?” I asked.

  “Stonecroft,” he said, pointing along the lake. “Second turning on the left.”

  “Righto.”

  “About time we got all that timber cut.”

  “Yes.”

  “Six months it’s been lying there.”

  “Well,” I said. “Should be able to get a start on it tomorrow.”

  He nodded and wandered off into the trees without saying goodbye. I carried on tidying up, and shortly afterwards Mr Parker arrived in his pick-up.

  “Finished then?” he asked, as he got out.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Do you want to test it?”

  “Could do, I suppose.” He walked onto the jetty and made as if to step onto the floating raft, but then seemed to change his mind. “No, I’ll take your word for it.”

  “It’s quite safe,” I said.

  “Quite probably,” he replied. “But there’s no point in taking unnecessary risks.”

  “No, suppose not.”

  I loaded the remaining equipment into the back of Mr Parker’s pick-up, and then waited as he surveyed my handiwork.

  “By the way,” he said at length. “I’ll be taking you off the boats again tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, OK. Why’s that then?”

  “We’ve got a hire contract for the circular saw, up at Pickthall’s. It’ll be a day’s work cutting firewood.”

  “Right.”

  “Mr Pickthall wants you there at eight o’clock. Make sure you do a proper job for him, won’t you?”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “That’s good.”

  It was almost dark now, so we got into the truck and drove up to the yard. Entering the bothy I noticed immediately that Gail had been in and taken the history homework I’d left on the shelf inside the door. In its place she’d deposited her geometry book, along with a note saying the latest exercises had to be handed in the day after tomorrow. It occurred to me that Gail was starting to take advantage of my good intentions. I didn’t mind doing the homework as it was quite easy and gave me something to do after dark. There was even something to learn from it. I’d discovered over the past few weeks, for example, that her geography teacher was very interested in limestone. Questions about stalactites, stalagmites and swallow holes cropped up regularly, and any answers which included the words ‘sediment’ and ‘precipitation’ were sure to receive favourable marks. Meanwhile, the English teacher had a fascination with the concept of irony. Questions about the ironic condition seemed to be his or her stock-in-trade. I only had to suggest in an essay that such-and-such a fictional character seemed to be mocked by fate or circumstance, and I’d be rewarded with a red star and ‘v.g.’ beneath my final paragraph.

  Nevertheless, I was slowly beginning to recognize that Gail did much better out of the arrangement than me. After all, she only had to present the latest batch of homework at the bothy and it was completed at the drop of a hat, which left her free every evening to do whatever she liked. The least she could have done in return was bring it over while I was at home. On the other hand, I had to admit I sometimes found it hard to concentrate when she was present. The homework always took twice as long if she was sitting on the sofa waiting for me to finish it off, so maybe delivering it in my absence was just her way of being considerate.

  I glanced casually through the geometry exercises, which all seemed fairly straightforward. Gail had already answered one of them
herself, and I was quite pleased to see that she’d got it right, apart from spelling hypotenuse incorrectly.

  ♦

  There was no sign of Mr Parker when I arose next morning, but the doors of the big shed had been left open and the tractor and circular saw were all ready to go. I felt quite professional when I arrived at Stonecroft at eight o’clock on the dot. The place was completely different to Hillhouse in that it was sited very low down at the foot of steeply rising ground. Access was by means of a long deep lane running between two hedgerows, and I would never have found the entrance if the old man hadn’t told me it was the second on the left. After a quarter of a mile or so the lane ended in a farmyard, above which loomed a towering fell. As expected, the house was made entirely of stone. I must have got used to being high up at Mr Parker’s, because this place seemed really low down and hemmed in. Also very damp. It was a gloomy day, but I couldn’t imagine the sun shining much here even in the summer. There was a lot of bare rock round about, much of it covered with a mossy sheen as though it never dried out properly. And, of course, the lake was completely lost from view, the only thing to see being the grassy slopes that soared up into the clouds.

  The man who emerged from the house to meet me showed signs of having lived in the shade all his life. There I was arriving fully equipped to do some important work for him, and all he did was point glumly to a stack of timber at the far side of the yard. He then looked at his watch to check that I’d turned up on time. Despite this lacklustre greeting, however, I decided to try a bit of friendly chat. Switching the engine off, I got down from the tractor.

  “Morning,” I said in a cheery way. “Mr Pickthall, is it?”

  “That’s right, yes,” he replied.

  “Oh…er, well, I’ve brought the saw.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” he said. “And you’re the operator are you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Right. Well, I want logs for firewood no less than nine inches and no more than fourteen. Got that?”

  “No more than nine and no less than fourteen. OK.”

  Mr Pickthall gave me a funny look when I said this. He glanced at the machinery and then back at me. “You do know what you’re doing, do you?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, with a reassuring nod.

  “Right, well, it’s ten past eight so you’d better get started.”

  Obviously I didn’t look as professional as I thought. I started the tractor again and set the circular saw into operation, aware that Mr Pickthall was watching my every move. After doing a couple of important-looking safety checks I chose a piece of timber from the stack and began cutting it into chunks. Each one looked as if it was between nine and fourteen inches to me, but after a while he produced a tape from his pocket and took a measurement. Then he came over to the tractor.

  “Haven’t you got a yardstick?” he demanded.

  “Er…well, no,” I replied. “Don’t usually bother with one.”

  “So you’re just guessing the lengths, are you?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head. “Well, I haven’t got time to stay here any longer, but there had better not be any mistakes.”

  “OK.”

  “Otherwise Mr Parker’ll hear about it.”

  “Right.”

  And with that he went back into the house and closed the door. A few minutes later he came out again, glanced towards me, and then headed for a low-roofed shed inside which was parked a pick-up truck. I felt quite relieved when he got in and drove away up the lane without a further word. As soon as he’d gone I switched off and stopped for a rest. I’d begun work so quickly after arriving that I’d barely had a chance to look at the place, so now I stood peering around for a few minutes. The first thing I noticed was that the house seemed to be divided into two parts. The door Mr Pickthall had used was nearest to me, and on the step was an empty milk bottle. At the far end of the building I now saw another doorstep with a milk bottle of its own. For a moment I thought I caught sight of a pink face in the window, peeping out, but there was no time for further observation. Suddenly I heard a vehicle coming along the lane, and thinking it was Mr Pickthall returning I started up and got back to work.

  A moment later Deakin arrived in the yard.

  As usual he was in a great hurry, running to the two doorsteps with fresh milk and retrieving the empty bottles. When he noticed me standing by the tractor he gave me a frantic wave.

  “Seen Tommy yet?” I called.

  “No!” he replied. “Haven’t had time! But I will!”

  “Well, make sure you do!”

  “Alright!”

  Next thing Deakin was gone, charging off down the lane to continue his milk round, which was beginning to look like a very thankless task. Why everybody round here thought I’d be interested in ‘taking over’ was beyond me. Even Hodge seemed to have picked up the idea from somewhere. The previous evening in the Ring of Bells he’d started going on about there being ‘room for improvement in the milk business’, and how a good candidate ‘wasn’t a million miles away’. I’d pretended to take no notice of all this, of course, and didn’t engage in any direct conversation with him. Nevertheless, I got the strong impression that several people were convinced I seriously was considering being their milkman. As far as I knew I’d done nothing to substantiate this belief, and the last thing I wanted to do was usurp Deakin. He had enough troubles already without me adding to them.

  With these thoughts in mind I returned to the circular saw and continued work. Shortly afterwards I noticed someone emerging from the far end of the house. It was the old man. He was wearing some heavy-duty gloves and work boots, and heading straight in my direction. In his hand was some sort of stick. As he crossed the yard he glanced at the near end of the house from time to time, and also at the shed where the pick-up had been parked. Finally he joined me and waved the stick.

  “Measuring rod,” he said by way of greeting. “Don’t expect you’ve got one, have you?”

  “No,” I replied. “Thanks.”

  “What’s he told you? Nine to fourteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so. Alright, carry on.”

  Next thing he was dragging a huge length of timber towards the saw. Then he went along with the measuring rod marking off lengths for cutting. As usual his presence speeded up the operation appreciably, and in the next hour I got a good deal of work done. Mr Pickthall hadn’t mentioned it, but the completed logs were apparently supposed to be deposited in a nearby lumber shed. The old man soon had a wheelbarrow lined up next to the saw, and was carting the logs away as fast as I could cut them. We carried on in this way for some time, and then he came and shouted in my ear.

  “Want a cup of tea?”

  “Wouldn’t mind!”

  “Alright, then. Wait here!”

  He disappeared into his house, returning several minutes later with a tray bearing two steaming mugs and some doughnuts. I switched off the tractor and as the noise faded away the pair of us enjoyed a well-deserved break. It seemed very peaceful in that yard without the din of the engine, and for a while we stood and drank our tea in silence.

  “You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of work,” I remarked at length.

  “Ought to do,” replied the old man. “I ran a timber business for forty years.”

  “What, here?”

  “On this very spot,” he said.

  “You’ve retired now, though, have you?”

  “Sent to the knacker’s yard, more like.”

  “Ah well, you can’t work for ever.”

  He looked at me. “Why not?”

  “Well…er…don’t know really.”

  “I hate not working,” he said, then broke off and glanced towards the lane where a vehicle could be heard approaching. Next moment he was rushing into the lumber shed with the tray and the two empty mugs. I started up the tractor and resumed work just as Mr Pickthall drove into the yard. He pulled up and got out, peering at the muc
h-reduced timber stack, and then at the lumber shed. Eventually, he came over to me.

  “Seen my father?” he asked.

  “Er…who?”

  “The old man from the far end of the house.”

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t seen anybody.”

  “So how did you know the logs had to go in the lumber shed?”

  “Just guessed,” I replied. “All part of the job.”

  He looked at me with suspicion for a few moments and then marched into the lumber shed. When he emerged again I was surprised to see he was alone.

  “If you do see him,” he said, “don’t let him help you.”

  “Righto.”

  “I don’t want him working any more.”

  “OK.”

  He glanced at the timber stack. “You seem to be getting on very quickly.”

  “I try my best,” I replied.

  After casting me another suspicious look he got into his truck again and drove off. I waited a few more minutes until I was sure he was gone, and then went into the lumber shed to see what had happened to the old man.

  “Mr Pickthall?” I called. “Hello?”

  There was no reply apart from a knocking noise beneath my feet. It was quite dark in that shed and I’d assumed I was standing on some sort of wooden floor, but as I stepped back I saw a trapdoor rise up. A moment later the old man climbed out from his hiding place.