All Quiet on the Orient Express Page 13

  “Forty years he’s lived here,” he said with triumph. “And he doesn’t know about the hidey-hole.”

  “Blimey,” I remarked. “Quite handy, that.”

  “If he’d paid more attention to the business he’d know every nook and cranny by now.”

  “Didn’t he then?” I asked. “Pay attention to it?”

  “Course not!” said the old man. “Made me give it up and then ran it into the ground!”

  “Why did he make you give it up?”

  “For my health.”

  “Well,” I said, “that’s a good idea, isn’t it?”

  “Is it hell!” he snapped. “All this doing nothing’s going to kill me! That’s why I have to keep going on long walks, there isn’t anything else to do!”

  He picked up a stray log and placed it on top of the pile.

  “You can carry on helping me if you like,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he replied. “Trouble is, he’s likely to come back at any moment.”

  “Where does he keep rushing off to then?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me. He says he’s going into buying and selling. You know, auctions and so forth. Damn fool business, that is, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Well,” I remarked, “Mr Parker seems to be making a reasonable living from it.”

  “Maybe so, but Tommy’s got his head screwed on properly. If he puts his money into something, you know it’s a safe bet.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “But that doesn’t mean anyone can do it.” The old man looked around the yard and shook his head with disdain. “Sound business we had here,” he said. “But now it’s all finished.”

  Shortly afterwards I went back to the saw and prepared to resume work. The senior Mr Pickthall seemed to have decided he couldn’t help me any more, which was a great shame as we made a good team. A few minutes later he gave me a nod and set off walking towards the lake. I looked at the timber stack and realized that in spite of the inroads we’d made during the morning there was still a lot to do. The stack consisted of felled logs, disused beams and broken fence posts, all waiting to be cut up into lengths no shorter than nine inches and no longer than fourteen. I selected an ancient-looking beam and marked it up, then began making the first cut. Suddenly the saw started to produce a strident screeching noise. I pulled the timber away but the noise continued, so I switched off the tractor. Instead of spinning to a halt the blade stopped dead. Then I noticed that there was smoke coming out of the bearings. I placed my hand on them and discovered they were very hot. Cursing slightly, I decided to give the saw time to cool down before trying it again, but I had a sinking feeling that something was seriously amiss. I passed a quarter of an hour carting some more logs into the lumber shed, and then, when there was nothing left to do, I tried starting up once more. Immediately the screeching noise returned and my fears were confirmed: I’d somehow managed to seize the whole thing up. Which was when I remembered the grease gun. Of course! Mr Parker always made a special point of applying grease to all moving parts before and after use, but I’d failed to do it before leaving this morning. Now I had no choice but to pack up and go home. I left the yard as tidy as possible, shovelling the sawdust into a neat pile at one side, then set off.

  Halfway along the lane I met the younger Mr Pickthall returning in his pick-up. I noticed he was carrying four empty oil drums in the back. There was no room to pass so I had to reverse all the way to the yard with him following, and as soon as we arrived he got out and came over to the tractor.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Back to Hillhouse.”

  “Why?”

  “The saw’s seized up.”

  “But what about my timber?”

  “Well,” I said. “I’ll just have to come back another day.”

  “I don’t want you back another day!” said Mr Pickthall, raising his voice. “The contract was for immediate completion!”

  “Sorry, but I can’t see what else I can do.”

  “Don’t ‘sorry’ me!” he roared. “I’ll be speaking to Mr Parker about this!”

  And with that he marched into his house and slammed the door.

  Before things went wrong I’d been quite looking forward to the drive back to Hillhouse. Rumbling through hidden country lanes on a tractor would be a pleasant way to end a hard day’s work. Instead, all I could think about was Mr Pickthall making an irate phone call to Mr Parker, and then him losing his temper with me. It was one thing being slow on the uptake and clumsy with tins of paint; it was another matter entirely to put a perfectly good piece of machinery out of action. Bryan Webb and the others had warned me countless times about Tommy Parker’s temper, and this time I was certain I would be on the receiving end of it. Nonetheless, I had no choice but to go home and face the music.

  As if to worsen my plight, the skies darkened and it started raining. There was no cab on the tractor, so by the time I got to Hillhouse I was soaking wet. The painted green square in the gateway looked particularly conspicuous in these conditions, and did nothing to lift the feeling of unease which was descending upon me. I briefly considered the idea of claiming to have been ‘rained off’ from the timber work, but I soon dismissed this as a feeble excuse. And anyway, the truth would have to come out eventually, so there was no getting away from it.

  No one was around when I put the tractor back in the shed. Mr Parker didn’t seem to be back yet and Gail was still at school, so I changed out of my wet clothes, hung them in the boiler room, and continued work on the boats. I tried to remember the last occasion I’d actually been in here doing what I was supposed to be doing. It seemed like ages although it was probably only a few days. With the rain hammering on the shed roof I got quickly back into the swing of things, and soon picked up where I’d left off. This, I decided, was the project I liked best, and in a few days’ time I would have the first boat ready for painting. After a bit of hard graft with the electric sander I’d practically forgotten all about the problem with the circular saw. Then the shed door opened and Mr Parker walked in.

  ∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧

  Eight

  “Rained off?” he asked.

  “Yes…Well, no…Sort of,” I replied.

  He smiled. “Which?”

  “Haven’t you spoken to Mr Pickthall then?”

  The smile disappeared. “No, I’ve only just got back. Why?”

  “Well, I seem to have had a bit of trouble with the saw.”

  He glanced towards the tractor. “What sort of trouble?”

  “I think it’s seized up.”

  “But you went round it with the grease gun before you started, didn’t you?”

  Mr Parker had now begun to examine the saw closely. He placed his hand on the circular blade and tried to give it a spin, but it refused to move.

  “No, sorry,” I said. “I forgot.”

  He turned to me sharply. “Forgot? How could you forget when I’ve shown you over and over again?”

  “Don’t know.”

  A moment passed, during which I expected Mr Parker to lose his temper. Instead, he simply sighed and shook his head.

  “Dear oh dear oh dear,” he said. “What are we going to do with you?”

  I stood in silence as he continued to survey the damage.

  The evidence suggested that the bearings had indeed seized up. Vaguely I wondered how much it would cost to replace them, and how long it would take.

  “Mr Pickthall’s a bit upset ‘cos I didn’t finish the job,” I ventured at last.

  “I’m sure he is,” said Mr Parker. “And of course I won’t be able to send him a full invoice.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  He sighed again. “Bit of a lost day, really, isn’t it? Luckily the saw came with a spare set of bearings. You won’t go ruining those as well, I hope?”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  “Tell you what then, come back after tea and we’ll get i
t fixed.”

  “Right. Er…what about Mr Pickthall?”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “OK…thanks.”

  I left the shed and headed across the yard feeling quite jaunty. It seemed as if I’d got off fairly lightly. Halfway to the bothy I remembered I had some clothes drying in the boiler room so I cut back to collect them. It was dark now, and as I approached the door I noticed that the light was on inside. Without giving it a second thought I entered and saw Gail standing in her underwear.

  “Oops, sorry,” I said, backing out again.

  “It’s alright,” she said. “You can come in if you like.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s OK.”

  I went in and started to collect my clothes from the drying rack, on which now hung most of Gail’s school uniform.

  “Got caught in the rain,” she said with a smile. “Just giving it a dry.”

  “Oh…right. Er…haven’t you got a dressing gown or anything?”

  “Hardly worth it,” she replied. “Another ten minutes and it’ll all be ready.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It does get quite hot in here, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  In those few moments I couldn’t help noticing the whiteness of her brassiere. Also the slight impression it made in the soft flesh of her shoulders. Bundling up my dry clothes I headed for the door. “Right, bye.”

  “Is it alright to bring over some geography homework later?” she asked.

  I turned at the door and faced her. “Well, actually I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yeah. You see, the thing is, I’m beginning to find it a bit difficult.”

  “Why?”

  “I just am.”

  “But I thought you said it was easy.”

  “Well, the homework itself is easy, yeah. But you’re growing up very quickly and…er…I really think you should start trying to do it yourself.”

  She shrugged. “OK then.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Course not. I’ll be leaving school soon and probably forget it all anyway.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  She took her blouse from the rack, slipped it on and began doing up the buttons.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you teach me something else instead?”

  There were five buttons altogether, not including the one at the top.

  “What sort of something?” I asked.

  “Give me some darts lessons.”

  “Darts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What for?”

  “So that we can have a game, silly.”

  “Oh…er…right.”

  “We can play up in the hay-loft.”

  “I thought that was full of Bryan Webb’s hay.”

  “It is almost, but he’s left a space at one end.”

  “What about a dartboard?”

  “There’s one under your bed in the bothy.”

  ♦

  As soon as I got home I looked under the bed, and sure enough there was a dartboard lying there. It was a red and black model, and I could tell it had been used many times by the number of holes in it. I also noticed a metal tag under the number six, indented with the words: “Property of Inter-Pub Darts League. Do not remove.”

  I wondered what sort of person would pinch a dartboard from a pub.

  By the time I’d had my tea and gone back across to the big shed, Mr Parker had almost finished dismantling the circular saw.

  “Need any help?” I asked.

  “Bit late for that,” he replied. “I’ve practically done it myself.”

  His tone wasn’t quite as forgiving as it had been earlier, so I took care to make myself as useful as possible. He was about to fit the new bearings, and he got me to hold them in position.

  “I suppose you never forget to grease your motorbike,” he remarked, while he tightened up the nuts.

  “Try not to,” I replied.

  “Well, try not to forget when it’s my equipment you’re using.”

  “No, alright. Sorry about that.”

  Half an hour later we had the whole outfit put back together and in full working order.

  “Do you want me to go back to Mr Pickthall’s tomorrow?” I enquired.

  “No,” replied Mr Parker. “Best let him cool off for a while first.”

  “OK, then.”

  “By the way, I’m going down to that factory of yours in a day or two.”

  “Oh, are you?”

  “I bought some more oil drums today, so I’ve now got enough to make a full load.”

  “Oh, well, I hope it works out alright.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It looks like you might have put me onto a good bit of business there.”

  This seemed an opportune moment to mention my wages, but then it struck me that Mr Parker had just spent several hours repairing the damage I’d done, so I decided to wait until another time. Instead I went back to the bothy, had a bath and then went out.

  I needed to order some more groceries, so before going into the Ring of Bells I stopped at the phone box. As usual there was a long wait before Hodge answered, and then another delay while he went off to find something to write on. This was the fourth or fifth time I’d rung in, and by now I had a more or less fixed list of the items required. The only uncertain element was the biscuits, which I always left until the end. As usual, the selection on offer was very limited.

  “Have you got any fig rolls yet?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” replied Hodge.

  “Custard creams?”

  “No.”

  “Malted milks?”

  “No.”

  “Tartan shorties?”

  “Wait a minute, I’ll go and have a look.”

  “OK.”

  A minute passed during which the pips went and I had to put another coin in the slot. Then Hodge came back to the phone.

  “Did you say Tartan shorties?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we haven’t got any.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “You’ve got plain digestives, I presume?”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Alright then. I’ll have those.”

  The choice of biscuits generally signified the end of the conversation, but on this occasion Hodge seemed to be waiting expectantly for something else. For my part I said nothing, and meanwhile the moments continued to tick away.

  Then at last he spoke. “You may wish to know we’ve had a new consignment of beans.”

  “Have you?” I said.

  “Just come in. Would you like to order some?”

  “Baked beans, are they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Baked beans served with a delicious, rich tomato sauce?”

  “Correct.”

  “Fresh from the factory, in cans with a handy ring-pull lid?”

  “That’s the ones,” said Hodge.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve learnt to do without them.”

  At that moment the pips went again and I hung up.

  ♦

  I’d been sitting in the Ring of Bells for about ten minutes when Hodge walked in. Giving me barely a nod of recognition he settled down on his usual stool at the counter and ordered a whisky from Cyril.

  “Better make it a single,” he remarked. “Business is a bit slack at the moment.”

  It was another quiet night at the Ring of Bells. Outside, the late autumn weather was thickening into a sort of perpetual damp gloom. Inside, the prospect was hardly any brighter. Illumination came from a row of mauve-coloured glass lanterns screwed to the pelmet above the bar. These were supposedly intended to cheer the place up a little, but actually they had the opposite effect. Under their dull glow we sat and stared at our drinks, waiting for the evening to pass.

  It seemed unlikely that Hodge would begin one of his stilted conversatio
ns with me tonight, given the circumstances, and I expected him just this once to leave me in peace. Consequently I was caught unawares when suddenly he turned in my direction and spoke.

  “I gather you didn’t get on very well with Mr Pickthall,” he announced.

  “Didn’t I?” I said.

  “Not from what I’ve been told.”

  Hodge had a way of addressing people that meant everyone else in the pub heard it as well, whether they wanted to or not. Apart from him, Cyril and me, there were three or four other drinkers present as well, and as soon as the exchange began I realized that they were all listening with interest. I also saw that I had little choice but to continue.

  “Do you mean young Mr Pickthall?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have said we didn’t get on. We just had a minor problem today, that was all.”

  “Sounds like more than a minor problem to me,” said Hodge. “Question of impropriety, I’d have called it.”

  “Why?”

  “From what I heard you pulled out of a job before it was finished.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But it couldn’t be helped.”

  He shook his head. “I suppose it couldn’t be helped when you let down the Packhorse darts team either.”

  “Er…well, that was a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh,” he said. “A misunderstanding. I see.”

  During this conversation Cyril had been busy at work behind the counter, polishing glasses while at the same time attending to what was being said. Now he joined in with a remark of his own. It was directed at me.

  “They brought in the Topham’s especially for you, you know.”

  “Who did?”

  “The Packhorse.”

  “That wasn’t just for me,” I protested.

  “Well, no one else drinks it.”

  “Oh…don’t they?”

  “Seems a bit ungrateful treating them like that,” he said. “No wonder they barred you.”

  “They didn’t bar me.”

  “Yes they did. That’s why you started coming in here.”

  “You can’t keep letting people down all the time,” added Hodge. “Not if you’re thinking of starting a milk round.”