All Quiet on the Orient Express Read online

  “Oh, right,” said Mr Parker. “Well, when you’re ready come up to the house and I’ll sort you out some paint and suchlike.”

  “OK then.”

  I got out of the truck and watched as he continued up the concrete road in the direction of his house. As soon as he’d gone it occurred to me that I’d probably diddled myself. What I should have done was charge him a fiver and he’d most likely have let me off the rent anyway. After all, I was hardly taking up any space in his field. Still, it was too late to worry about that now, and to tell the truth I wasn’t really bothered. It was actually quite nice to have something proper to do for a change, and so as soon as I’d dumped my groceries in the tent I set off up towards the house.

  The camping field was on flat ground, but the concrete road started getting quite steep just after it passed the shower block. It was flanked for some distance by sparse thorn hedges before eventually emerging in a hard gravel yard. As I came up the slope I was aware of the house looming above me, overlooking the yard, the road and the fields below. I passed the lower corner of the building and scuffed some gravel with my boots.

  “That was quick, you must be keen,” said Mr Parker.

  I looked up and saw him standing on a terrace at the side of the house, at the top of some concrete steps.

  “Might as well get on with it,” I replied.

  “That’s what we like to hear.”

  Having arrived in the yard I saw straight away that what I’d taken to be a barn was in fact better described as a corrugated steel shed. It stood opposite the house on a huge concrete platform set into the sloping ground. There were large folding doors at the front, and access to the platform was by means of a concrete loading ramp. Concrete had also been used to create the base for an ancient green petrol pump sited beside the platform. Glancing round, I began to wonder exactly how much concrete had been poured on to this piece of hillside. It seemed to crop up all over the place, like some form of indigenous rock.

  Parked next to the steel shed was a Morris van that didn’t look as if it had been anywhere for years. Further along there were several stone outbuildings, including a hay-loft, as well as a small bothy, apparently unoccupied. The higher side of the yard was bounded by a dry wall, with a gateway through to another area of hard-standing where I could see a group of second-hand oil drums. This, presumably, was what Mr Parker had referred to earlier as the ‘top yard’.

  Not that I had much time to examine my surroundings in detail. Within moments of my arrival he’d come down the steps to join me.

  “Right,” he said. “Let’s go and have a look in the paint shed.”

  He led the way to one of the outbuildings and pushed the door open. Inside, on a series of shelves, were dozens of tins of paint, some pristine and unopened, others not so new. He selected one, handed it to me, and then produced a one-inch brush from another shelf. In doing so he pushed the door open a little further, and the daylight revealed yet more paint stacked at the back of the shed.

  “Now then,” he said, turning to me. “Do you know how to reseal a tin of paint?”

  “No,” I said. “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “Well, I’m surprised about that. I thought you said you worked in a paint shop.”

  “Yeah, but that was spray paint. It all came out of pressure pipes.”

  “Ah, well,” he said. “It’s easy enough done. When you’ve finished painting you put the lid back on nice and tight, and then turn the tin upside down for half a minute.”

  “Oh,” I said. “OK.”

  “And when you turn it back the right way up, it’s sealed. See?”

  “Yep.”

  The tin I was holding had never been opened before. I also noticed there was no label.

  “How do you know what colour it is?” I asked.

  “It’s green,” he replied.

  “Yeah, but how do you know?”

  “I got it in a job lot,” he said. “All the unlabelled ones are green.”

  I looked across the yard at the green petrol pump, and the green-painted doors on the big shed.

  “Nice colour,” I remarked.

  “Can’t stand it myself,” said Mr Parker. “But I haven’t any choice.”

  A quarter of an hour later, having walked down to the front gate, got the lid off the tin and given the contents a stir, I began my work. The gateway was quite wide, about sixteen feet across, presumably so that arriving campers wouldn’t miss the turning. As a result there was a lot of painting to do. I decided that the best way to go about it was to be methodical, so I would start with the hinges, then do the outer frame of the gate before working my way inwards.

  Not long after I’d begun, Mr Parker came by in his truck, again with the trailer in tow. As he passed he slowed down and looked at the job in progress, but said nothing.

  The same sort of thing happened every time a vehicle went past on the public road. There wasn’t much traffic, but occasionally someone would go by, and they always eased up a little to see who was painting Mr Parker’s front gate. I wondered whether I looked like a professional painter. Probably not. A genuine tradesman would more than likely have had a van parked near at hand, with the back doors open and a radio blaring out. He’d be in proper overalls as well, whereas I was clad only in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. My equipment consisted of no more than a brush and a tin of paint. Obviously an amateur. Someone who’d been roped in to do the job because he had nothing better to do. Nevertheless, I was surprised at the interest my presence seemed to arouse amongst passers-by. There must have been thousands of visitors to the area throughout the summer, and the locals would surely be used to outsiders by now. Yet just because a stranger was painting someone’s gate, he immediately came under local scrutiny.

  Not that I was bothered by all this. The vehicles that went by were few and far between, and their passing broke the monotony of the job. It was actually taking much longer than I’d expected, and although being outside in the sunshine was quite pleasant, I began to find all the fiddly corners and underneath bits rather tedious. I was just working along one of the diagonals when I heard a clinking noise coming along behind the hedgerow. Glancing round, I saw a pick-up truck go by, loaded with crates full of empty milk bottles. It slowed down as it passed, and a moment later the clinking stopped. There then followed the clunk of a gearbox, and the truck came reversing back up to the gateway.

  A man wearing a brown linen coat got out.

  “Oh,” he said, looking at the gate. “Tommy’s got you doing this, has he?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, without stopping work.

  “Well, it probably needed doing then.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re best painting the outside first and the middle’ll look after itself.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” I said.

  He cocked his head sideways and peered along the gate.

  “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “You are.”

  At this time I happened to be working with the gate half open and half closed, so that I could get at both sides easily. The man now came round the end of the gate and stood beside me, observing.

  “Well,” he said at length. “You seem to be very handy with a paintbrush.”

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  “I’ll just put this a bit nearer. By the way, is Tommy in?”

  “No,” I said. “He went out earlier.”

  “Did he say when he was coming back?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just that there’s something I ought to see him about really.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Nothing very important, but I’ve got to see him sometime.”

  “OK,” I said. “Shall I tell him you came?”

  “No, I shouldn’t bother,” he replied. “It’ll keep.”

  “Right.”

  He fell silent for a moment, and when I looked up I saw he was gazing across at my tent. I’d been crouched down painting for quite a while now, so I st
ood upright to give my knees a rest.

  “Camping here, are you?” he asked.

  “Yes, just for a few days.”

  “Do you want milk delivered then?”

  “It wouldn’t be worth your while, would it?”

  “I don’t mind delivering to tents.”

  “Well, I’ve been getting milk from the shop actually.”

  “What, Hodge?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s the one.”

  “But he only does it in cartons. Mine’s in bottles, straight from the dairy.”

  “Oh, right. Er…the thing is, I won’t be here much longer.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “That’s alright. If you change your mind, just let me know.”

  “Right.”

  “I’d best be off now.”

  “OK then. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  He went back to his truck, then drove off after giving me a wave, and I resumed my painting. I now had only one short section left to do, so I swung the gate round to leave it hooked in the ‘open’ position. As I did so it caught the tin and knocked it flat, spilling green paint over the concrete. I cursed and quickly grabbed the tin to put it upright again, then set about trying to transfer as much of the lost contents onto the gate as possible. At the same time I pondered how the accident had happened. All afternoon I’d been very careful about where I put the tin in order to avoid this very thing. Now, despite my efforts, there was paint spread everywhere. Then I recalled the words of the dairyman when he said, “I’ll just put this a bit nearer.” I hadn’t really taken any notice of what he was doing, but he must have moved the tin. I was sure he didn’t put it where it would get knocked over on purpose, but nonetheless he shouldn’t have interfered. I got the gate finished as soon as I could, and then turned my attention to the mess on the ground. There was a bright green splodge more than a yard long across the concrete, and it looked terrible.

  I couldn’t leave it like that, not right in the middle of Mr Parker’s front entrance. So after some consideration I decided to paint it into a square. I marked out the shape with a piece of chalky stone, using one of my tent poles to get a straight line. Then carefully I began filling it in. By the time I’d finished doing this the gate was touch dry. I stood looking at the new green square and wondered if I’d done the right thing or not. Still, it was too late to worry now. After I’d cleaned the paintbrush I went and made a cup of tea. It struck me that I’d not eaten for several hours, so I prepared a pan of beans as well. Finally, I sat down for a rest.

  About twenty minutes later the blue minibus I’d seen in the morning drew up outside the front entrance. My watch now said four o’clock. I saw the schoolgirl get out of the vehicle, wave to someone inside as it drove away, and then walk up the concrete road towards the house. This time she took no notice of me at all. After she’d gone I went across to the gate to see if she’d left any footmarks on the green square.

  She hadn’t.

  Night was falling when I saw a pair of headlights come along the public road and turn into the gateway. I could just make out the outline of Mr Parker’s pick-up truck and trailer, which seemed to be loaded with something bulky. As the lights flashed up the hill, I got my towel and went over to the shower block. There was an orange-coloured lamp mounted above the men’s entrance, and I allowed its dull glow to guide me through the darkness. During the last few days I’d got used to passing between dimly lit tents in which muffled conversations were being held. Tonight, though, there was only me in the entire field, walking silent and barefoot across the grass. I entered the block and was at once dazzled by a powerful fluorescent light set above the wash basins. It shone on the white tiles and the whitewashed walls, making the place seem very stark and bare. When my eyes had become accustomed to the brightness I chose a shower cubicle and turned the tap on. Oddly enough I discovered it was already fully open, but there was no water coming out. I tried the tap in the next cubicle and it was the same. I was just about to test a third one when for some reason all the showers came on together. The water seemed quite warm so I got under one of them straightaway and began applying some soap. It wasn’t as steaming hot as it had been on previous occasions, but it would do for a quick splash. Half a minute later, however, the water ran cold so I quickly rinsed the lather off and came out again. I was standing there wondering what had happened when the schoolgirl walked into the shower block carrying a mop.

  ∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧

  Two

  “Have I interrupted?” she asked.

  “No, it’s OK,” I replied. “I’ve just finished.”

  “Well, will you be wanting another shower at all?”

  “Er…not today, no. Thanks.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Oh yes, I’d like one in the morning.”

  “It’s just that we’ll be turning the water off at nights now.”

  “Why’s that then?”

  “In case there’s a sudden frost.”

  “It gets that cold, does it?”

  “It might do,” she said. “And there’s a lot of exposed piping.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, what will I do about a shower?”

  “I’ll have to show you how to turn it on and off.”

  All the showers were still going at full force as we were talking, so we had to raise our voices a little to make ourselves heard. I stood with the towel wrapped around my waist while this young girl explained the plumbing system.

  She started by pointing into the cubicle. “All you do is leave the shower taps turned fully on. You needn’t touch them at all. Then if you’ll just follow me.” She led the way out of the men’s block, through the darkness outside and back into the empty ladies’ section. The layout here was just the same as in the men’s, except that there were more mirrors. All the ladies’ showers were going at full belt as well.

  “This big tap here is the stopcock for the main supply,” she continued. “So you open it up before you have your shower and shut it off after.”

  “Open before and shut after,” I repeated. “Right.”

  “And the other red tap down the bottom is for draining the entire system out. So you close it first, and open it after.”

  “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.”