All Quiet on the Orient Express Read online

  “Aren’t they?”

  “No, they much prefer keg beers. Lager and suchlike. You know, from a factory.”

  He came back from behind the counter and resumed his darts practice. A moment later he turned to me again with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Did you say you were leaving at the end of the week?”

  “That’s the plan,” I said.

  “But I thought you were doing the painting along there at Hillhouse?”

  “Oh,” I said. “You know about that then, do you?”

  “Gordon said he saw you doing the front gate this afternoon. Said you were talking to Deakin.”

  I knew Gordon was the other barman at the Packhorse. I’d seen him working alongside my present host during previous visits, and had heard his name spoken a couple of times. However, I had no idea who Deakin was.

  “Who’s Deakin?” I asked.

  “You know Deakin,” he said. “Fellow who does the milk round.”

  “Oh, him,” I said. “Yes, well, I wasn’t talking to him really. He was talking to me.”

  “That sounds like Deakin alright.”

  “But I was only doing the one gate,” I added. “Just helping out, you know.”

  “So you’re not staying on then?”

  “Not for long, no.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I see. Play darts, do you?”

  “Now and then, yes.”

  “Want a game?”

  “Well, it’s a while since I’ve thrown a dart in anger.”

  “That’s alright,” he said. “It’ll help pass the time. Got your own arrows?”

  “Er…no.”

  “Right,” he said. “You use these and I’ll get another set.”

  He produced some more darts from behind the counter, and we had a game of 301, which he won. When he chalked up the score he put himself down as T, and I then remembered I’d heard someone call him Tony the night before. Another game followed, which he won again. It seemed that despite the recent absence of a dartboard he’d not fallen out of practice, and once he was onto a double the match would be a foregone conclusion. In the third game, however, I managed to keep up with him, and he didn’t defeat me quite so easily.

  “Shot,” I said, as he landed the required double eight to win.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “You throw a nice dart yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Best of seven?”

  “Might as well.”

  “Tony!” called a voice at the other end of the pub.

  “Back in a sec.”

  He slipped behind the counter and went to serve a newcomer up in the ‘top bar’. “Now then, Bryan,” I heard him say.

  I hadn’t been in the other part of the pub, but I knew that it was always referred to as the ‘top bar’. I had the feeling that it was reserved for the locals, whereas tourists were expected to the use the ‘bottom bar’. For some reason the Packhorse had been built on two levels, and although both halves were joined together the top bar was two steps higher up with its own separate counter and beer pumps. As a result, the people who drank there had a slightly superior and exclusive look about them, when seen from below. The top bar was usually presided over by an older man whom I took to be the landlord, while Tony and Gordon looked after the much busier bottom bar. Tonight, however, things were very quiet and Tony appeared to be running the whole place on his own. As I waited for our darts game to continue, I glanced through at the new customer in the other bar. Yes, I thought, definitely a local, and I knew I’d seen him before because I recognized his cardboard crown. It was silver with three points, and had been repaired at some time or other with Sellotape. I’d noticed this man quite often up in the top bar, and on each occasion he’d had the cardboard crown on his head. When he caught my gaze he grinned and nodded in my direction, saying something to Tony. I couldn’t hear what it was, but it didn’t seem unfriendly.

  A few moments later Tony returned to the dartboard and play began again. It was best of seven, which he won four games to one, so we made it best of nine and he won that as well. Still, as he’d rightly said, it did help pass the time. During the evening a few other customers arrived at the Packhorse, and without exception they turned out to be locals. Most of them headed for the top bar, but one or two came down our end. As they drifted in they gave the impression that it was their first visit to the bottom bar for some time. It was almost as if they were reclaiming lost territory.

  “Peace and quiet at last,” said one man as he walked in, and immediately moved a bar stool so that he could sit with his back to the corner wall. This reminded me of an incident I’d witnessed the previous week when a customer had carted a stool from one end of the bar to the other. The landlord had been on him immediately, ordering him to leave the ‘furniture’ where it was, and if he didn’t like it he could take his custom somewhere else. The hapless victim had been with a large group of others, all tourists by the look of them, and shortly afterwards the whole lot had drunk up and left. Somehow I couldn’t picture a similar episode taking place with any of the present crowd. The rules were different now that the tourist season was over. Locals, it seemed, were free to move the stools wherever they pleased. Nevertheless, at the time this treatment of a paying customer had struck me as quite rude. I suspected that Tony was the landlord’s son, since there was a noticeable resemblance between the two, but fortunately the similarity ended there. Tony couldn’t have been more pleasant, and even though I was technically a ‘tourist’, he’d gone out of his way to make me feel welcome. The same applied to Gordon. Both junior barmen appeared to be roughly the same age as me, and I felt an affinity with the pair of them. I was unable to tell, however, whether they were permanently attached to the Packhorse. They each seemed the type who would probably have been expected to do something ‘better’ than just work in a pub, and I liked to imagine they were only doing this until something else turned up. The idea of just staying here for ever, and never moving on, seemed quite unthinkable.

  After a while the two bars became busy enough to keep Tony fully occupied, so he was forced to abandon the darts. Other players came forward, though, and I had several more games, and even won a few. Shortly we were joined in the bottom bar by the man in the cardboard crown. He’d obviously come down for a game of darts, because he went and added a ‘B’ to the list of people waiting to play. The local rule was winner-stays-on, and there were two initials ahead of his, so in the meantime he went and talked to the man who’d moved the bar stool.

  I wasn’t really taking much notice, but I thought they nodded towards me a couple of times during their conversation. A moment later the one with the crown addressed me directly.

  “Was that you who painted the green square up at Tommy Parker’s?” he asked.

  “Well, sort of,” I answered. “But it wasn’t entirely my fault.”

  They were both grinning at me, and I suddenly became aware that the other customers standing round the bar were all listening to the exchange.

  “Whose fault was it then?”

  Not wishing to incriminate anyone I said, “It was just an accident, that’s all.”

  “You mean you accidentally painted a green square?”

  This caused several people to laugh out loud.

  “No,” I said. “But that’s how it ended up.”

  “Well, Tommy’s not going to be best pleased about it.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “No, he is not.”

  The laughter faded away.

  “I suppose you won’t have seen him lose his temper yet?” said someone over by the dartboard.

  “Er…no,” I replied. “I haven’t, no.”

  I must have started to look quite alarmed because the man in the crown suddenly stepped forward and slapped me on the back.

  “Don’t you worry about it, lad,” he said. “It’s not the end of the world. Come on, we’ll buy you a drink.”

  Next thing there was a full pint of beer in my hand,
paid for by the man in the cardboard crown. The rest of the evening passed in a haze of beer drinking and darts playing. I ended up buying him two pints back for the one he’d bought me, but as I told myself later, it was the thought that counted. When last orders finally came I decided I’d had enough drink for one night, and left them all buying further rounds for each other. Ten minutes later I was wandering along the side of the lake, tripping over tree roots as I tried to follow the footpath in the dark.

  It was the drink, I suppose, that made me decide to come this way instead of going along the road. Just as it was the drink that impelled me on to the jetty when I got to the boat-hire place. I went and stood at the very end, from where I could just make out the seven rowing boats lined up on their mooring. There was another road running along the far side of the lake, and while I was standing there I noticed a vehicle’s lights coming up from the south. It was over half a mile away, but even from that distance it struck me as being very brightly lit. As well as the headlights I could see a number of glowing shapes on the roof, but I was unable to make out what they were. The vehicle disappeared for a moment or two as it passed amongst some trees, and then emerged again further along the lakeside. By now it was almost opposite to where I stood. A slight breeze had got up during the evening, and this carried the noise of a whirring engine, and the rumble of tyres on the distant road surface.

  And then another sound drifted across the lake. It only lasted for a few seconds and I couldn’t tell where it came from, yet it seemed vaguely familiar. A remote melody was being chimed out in the darkness, and I recognized a small segment from a nursery rhyme. The part that went ‘Half a pound of treacle’. Then it had gone again, and all that remained was the sound of the trees gently stirring, and the lake lapping against the shore.

  ♦

  I had a headache when I woke up next morning. It had been my intention to take a drink of water from the standpipe before I went to bed, but by the time I got back to the campsite I’d forgotten all about it. Instead I’d crawled into my tent and gone straight to sleep, and now I had a hangover. This was the price for drinking five pints of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter. Or was it six? I couldn’t recollect clearly, but I decided that a quick shower would clear away the fuzziness. As I approached the shower block I remembered about having to turn the supply on, so I discreetly entered the ladies’ and went through the routine the schoolgirl had shown me. It all seemed to work OK, but when I went round to the men’s block I found the water was running completely cold. I then realized that the few moments of warm water I’d enjoyed the previous evening must have been the last drops of the heated supply. From now on, if I wanted a shower, it was going to be cold water only. This struck me as a bit of a swizz. After all, if someone paid rent to stay at a campsite, they should surely be entitled to some hot water. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually paid any rent for this week. I’d painted a gate instead. Therefore I had no choice but to brace myself for a thirty-second cold shower. I stepped under the nozzle and stood naked and shivering in the icy deluge.

  Which was when I recalled the man in the cardboard crown, and his questions about the green square. Had he really interrogated me in front of the entire pub? Yes, he had. They’d all stood round listening, and then someone had asked if I’d seen Mr Parker lose his temper yet. Obviously, of course, I hadn’t. I’d only been here a few days and had barely set eyes on him. Yet they’d all behaved as though the matter was of great importance. Well, personally I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Alright, so I accepted that Mr Parker wouldn’t be delighted by the sight of a green-painted square in the middle of his gateway. This was fair enough, but I could hardly imagine him losing his temper over it. On the contrary, he seemed to be the sort of man who took such things in his stride. He’d been nothing but polite and courteous in his dealings with me so far, and I had no doubt that he would remain the same despite this episode with the spilt paint.

  When I’d got dressed I went round to turn the water off, and then headed back to my tent. On the way I noticed Mr Parker standing by the gate, opening and closing it and giving the paintwork a thorough examination. I decided I might as well go across straight away and make sure he was satisfied with my efforts, so I casually strolled over. As I approached and joined him he gave me a brief glance, but then continued gazing at the gate in a preoccupied way. He appeared to pay no attention to the green square under his feet, or to the person who painted it. Instead he just stood there in silence. Not until several long moments had gone by did he turn and speak at last.

  “Did you say you wanted to take a boat out?”

  “Er…yes,” I said. “I would quite like to.”

  “Well, you can if you wish.”

  “Oh, right. You can fix it up, can you?”

  He smiled. “I can fix anything up.”

  “So are they your boats?”

  “I have the main interest in them, yes.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I never realized that.”

  “Do you want to go this morning?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  “Alright, well, I’ll come by in about half an hour and we’ll go and sort you one out.”

  “OK,” I said. “Thanks.”

  After he’d gone I looked again at the green square and wondered why the men in the pub had made such a big deal about it. After all, Mr Parker hadn’t even mentioned the subject. Admittedly the square was very difficult to ignore, especially in the broad light of a new day, but I soon came to the conclusion that they were trying to create something out of nothing because they had little else to talk about. I decided to put the whole thing out of my mind and instead make the most of this morning’s generous offer.

  Mr Parker came back in his pick-up shortly after I’d finished my breakfast of baked beans and a mug of tea.

  “Very sparse existence you’ve got here,” he remarked as I joined him in the cab.

  “Well, it’s only for a few days,” I said. “Makes a nice change, really.”

  “You like hardship then, do you?”

  “Not particularly, but as I say, it’s only a few days.”

  “And then you’ll be off on your travels?”

  “That’s the plan, yes.”

  As we talked we had been slowly trundling towards the entrance to the lower field, where we now arrived.

  “Unlock the gate, will you?” said Mr Parker.

  He handed me a key and I got out and unchained the gate. It was another sunny day, and as we continued in the direction of the lake I felt quite privileged to have the whole place to myself. Mr Parker drove at a leisurely pace, and appeared to be inspecting the property as we passed through it. At the far side of the field he paused to look at some fallen branches scattered amongst the mossy trees. Also to examine the broken remains of an upturned boat lying beside the dirt track. I’d seen this boat each time I went by on the way to the pub, and guessed it had lain abandoned for many years. There were several species of plants and small trees growing through the bottom where the wood had rotted, and to my eyes it made quite an attractive landmark.

  “We’ll have to get rid of that sometime,” announced Mr Parker.

  “Don’t you like it then?” I asked.

  “No, I do not,” he said. “Most unsightly.”

  “I think it looks quite nice myself,” I remarked. “Very rustic.”

  He shook his head. “It’s no good it being rustic if it’s no use.”

  “Oh, well, no,” I said carefully. “No, I suppose not.”

  We carried on to the lake, and pulled up beside the green boat-hire hut. Mr Parker produced another key and after a couple of tries unlocked the door. As it opened there was a cracking of new paint, and I realized that the hut had been given its coat of green quite recently.

  “Someone’s been busy,” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “We like to keep on top of the painting.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  To tell t
he truth, whoever painted it hadn’t done a very good job. There were runs everywhere and the door seemed to have been shut before the paint was even dry. Definitely not a piece of professional workmanship. However, I made no comment on the matter, and waited while Mr Parker peered into the hut, as if trying to get accustomed to the gloom within.

  “By the way,” he continued. “Have you done any rowing before?”

  “Well, not since I was a child,” I said. “We used to live near a park with a boating pond.”

  “So you can row, can you?”

  “Yeah, it’s like riding a bike.”

  “I mean to say, we wouldn’t want you getting into any difficulties.”

  “No, I’ll be OK. Thanks.”

  “You won’t need rescuing after ten minutes then?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Very good.” He turned and faced me in the doorway. “Right, that’ll be one pound for the hire of a boat please.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize…”

  He glanced at the lake and then back at me. “Something wrong?”

  “Er…no, it’s alright. Have you got any change?”

  “Not on me, no.”

  “The thing is, I’ve only got notes. Sorry.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  “Can I owe it you for the time being?”

  He considered this for a moment, peering into the hut again.

  “I suppose you can, yes,” he said at length. “For the time being.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now then, while we’re both here we’ll just see if we can get this open.”

  He disappeared inside, and I could hear him unfastening some bolts behind a hatchway in the front of the hut. It sounded like he was having a bit of a struggle, so I tried to see what I could do to help from the outside. The hatch was about four feet long and looked as if it was supposed to open outwards. Unfortunately, the paint seemed to be sticking, so I began prodding and poking at various points. As I did so, Mr Parker continued speaking in a muffled tone from inside the hut.

  “I’ve never taken to boating myself.”