All Quiet on the Orient Express Read online

  “Oh…er, well, in that case, yes, alright. Thanks.”

  “Same arrangement about the rent, of course. Fix the jetty and you can stay there for free.”

  This deal didn’t seem to balance out properly, but in my exhausted state of mind I couldn’t quite think why. Mr Parker then announced that he had to go off somewhere, but that I could move into the caravan immediately.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said, before driving away.

  After packing my tent, I went up to the top yard. The first thing I noticed when I arrived there was the increased number of oil drums gathered next to the gateway. I’d counted twelve the last time I looked, but now several more had appeared, taking the figure nearer to twenty. Mr Parker was apparently building up his collection.

  In a far corner I found the caravan. It was very neat and tidy inside, quite airy, with wooden panelling and old-fashioned gas lamps. I put my bag on the folding bed and flopped down beside it, intending to unpack one or two things. Before doing so I glanced at a pile of journals on the cabinet nearby. They were all copies of a local publication called the Trader’s Gazette, and I picked one up and began leafing through it.

  The newsprint was of cheap quality, but a banner headline claimed a circulation of several thousand. Inside, it was packed with page after page of goods to buy and sell. As well as an extensive classified section, there were also notices for auctions, debt clearances and other forthcoming public sales. The centrefold carried an array of advertisements for garden sheds and greenhouses, with blurred photographs showing what they looked like when assembled. Somewhere near the back I came across special mail-order bargains for extra-durable leather footwear, the price of each illustrated item displayed inside a star, above the encompassing words ‘ALL SIZES: M & F’.

  For some reason I began working my way through the classifieds to see if there were any boats for sale, and what sort of prices they were likely to change hands for. I ran my eyes down the first column, then the second…

  ♦

  When I woke up it was dark, and there was a knocking sound coming from close by. For a moment I couldn’t think where I was. A journal lay in my hand and my left leg had developed pins and needles. The knocking came again. When I remembered I was in a caravan I felt my way to the door and opened it. Standing in the darkness was Gail Parker.

  “Do you know what the answer to this is?” she asked, shining a torch in my face.

  I could see a school exercise book in her hand, and she was holding it open at a certain page. “Can’t see it,” I said. “Do these lights work?”

  “Should do,” she replied. “Let me have a look.” I stepped out of the way and she came into the caravan and felt around for something. Then I heard a gas tap being opened. She struck a match and the lamp above the wash basin lit up. I could now see that she was out of school uniform again. When she’d lit the other lamp she turned and gave me the exercise book.

  “Question four,” she said.

  I read the question. It was written out in a feminine hand:

  4). The ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter is known as what?

  I glanced at the other questions on the page, some of which had already been attempted. Then I looked up and saw that Gail was watching me intently.

  “Do you know what the answer is then?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Pi.”

  “Pie?”

  “No. Pi. It’s Greek, I think.”

  “How’s it spelt?”

  “Just p…i.”

  “OK.” She sat down on the folding bed to write in the answer. “Thanks.”

  “That your homework, is it?” I enquired.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Geometry. My dad said you were the best person to ask.”

  “Oh,” I said. “So he knows you’re here, does he?”

  She nodded vaguely. “Yeah…Is this right?” She was pointing to the next question.

  “Well, you’ve almost got it, but you’ve spelt hypotenuse wrong.”

  I sat down beside her and took her pencil, writing the word correctly inside the book cover.

  “Thanks,” she said. “What about the other questions?”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you leave it with me and I’ll have a look through them all. When’s it got to be in?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Alright, I’ll give it you tomorrow night then.”

  “OK,” she smiled. “Thanks.”

  She stood up and made ready to depart.

  “Aren’t you a bit…er…grown up to be still at school?” I asked.

  “I’m younger than I look,” she replied. “I can leave when I’m sixteen.”

  “When’s that then?”

  “Easter,” she said. “Anyway, thanks again. Bye.”

  “Yeah, bye.”

  And a moment later she was gone. I had meant to ask her what time it was, but for some reason I didn’t get round to it. Eventually I found my watch buried in the bottom of my bag and discovered that it was nine o’clock. Which meant the pub was only open for two more hours! I ran some water into the basin for a quick wash, and it came out brown for half a minute before turning clear. It remained cold though, and I realized that the hot supply I’d been promised wasn’t going to be on tap. I should have known really. After all, this was only a caravan at the end of a farmyard, probably with a hose running to it from one of the outbuildings. If I wanted hot water I was going to have to go over to the house for it. I decided to find out about that in the morning, and make do tonight with a cold wash.

  A short while later I was ready to go out. The unscheduled sleep had left me refreshed despite my earlier exertions, so I again set off walking to the pub. As I did so it struck me that I hadn’t been anywhere on my motorbike for several days now, apart from moving it up to the top yard during the afternoon. The engine could really have done with having a proper run somewhere. Still, I’d be making up for the lack of use when I hit the road in a day or two. I could hardly see the repairs to the jetty taking any longer than that.

  All the talk in the Packhorse that night was about Bryan Webb’s discovery of the missing boats. I heard the story repeated several times during the evening as new people came into the bottom bar and demanded to hear all the details. Over and over again he recounted the events leading up to the first sighting: how he wouldn’t normally be looking out at that time except that Deakin had left the wrong milk again. I noticed that later versions of the story had Bryan wading out to retrieve the boats, rather than just ‘getting a rope on to them’ as he’d described earlier. Still, this was his privilege. The episode had turned him into a minor celebrity for the time being, and he was entitled to embellish the facts if he so wished. After much speculation about how the boats had got away in the first place, general agreement was reached that the mooring chain must have broken. No one could remember when it had last been replaced, if ever.

  “There’s been a mooring there for years,” remarked Bryan. “But I’ve no idea when it was first put down.”

  “Well, it’s lost now,” said another drinker. “There’ll have to be a new one made.”

  A secondary discussion then ensued concerning Deakin, and how he sometimes got the orders wrong. The bar stool at the end of the counter had its usual occupant, and he gave his opinion on the matter.

  “Well, if you ask me,” he said, “Deakin’s taken on too much work. He’s bound to make a mistake occasionally.”

  “That’s fair enough,” replied Bryan. “But why’s it always my milk he gets wrong?”

  This caused a certain amount of laughter around the bar.

  “Did you ring Pickthall’s to intercept him?” someone asked.

  “I did after I’d got the boats ashore,” said Bryan, “but they told me he’d already been and gone.”

  “So what did you do then?”

  “I rang the dairy and left him a message. He’s got until midnight to deliver my homogenized
or I’m cancelling all future orders.”

  There was more laughter, and Bryan strode triumphantly towards the dartboard. Then, as sets of darts were produced for the evening’s play, another buzz went round the pub.

  It seemed that Tommy Parker had arrived in the top bar.

  ∨ All Quiet on the Orient Express ∧

  Four

  The first I knew of it was when Tony leaned over the counter and said, “There’s a pint of Ex in the pump for you when you’re ready.”

  “Where’s that come from then?” I asked.

  He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly, causing me to glance past him. Beyond the counter in the top bar I saw Mr Parker conversing with the landlord and one or two locals. When he saw me looking he gave me a nod and a quiet smile.

  “Courtesy of your boss,” said Tony.

  “Er…he’s not really my boss,” I said. “I’ve just been doing some odd jobs for him, that’s all.”

  Tony smiled. “Whatever you say.”

  I wasn’t the only recipient of Mr Parker’s generosity. There was apparently also a pint in the pump for Bryan Webb. The man on the bar stool received one as well, even though he’d played no part in the rowing boats’ recovery. In the last couple of days I’d gathered that his name was Kenneth, and that he was some kind of mechanic. I guessed this from the number of conversations he had about car engines. He was constantly being asked questions on the subject of carburettors, spark plugs and anti-freeze, to which he always replied, “Bring it round sometime and I’ll have a look at it.”

  Shortly after receiving his new pint Kenneth carted it off to the top bar, announcing that he needed to ‘see Tommy about something’.

  As the evening continued I glanced from time to time through to where Mr Parker was holding court, and was struck by how important his presence seemed to be. People were continually going up to talk to him, then coming back with looks on their faces that suggested they’d been granted their deepest wish. After half an hour or so it seemed appropriate to buy him a drink in return for the one he’d bought me, so I asked Tony to find out what he’d like.

  “He’ll have a light ale with you if that’s alright,” came the reply.

  This seemed very reasonable and I happily forked out the price of the drink. I was surprised, however, when Tony returned with a message from Mr Parker.

  “He says have you got that pound you owe him?”

  “Er…oh, yes,” I said. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

  I handed the money over and Tony took it up to the top bar. This incident could have been embarrassing, but most people’s attention was now on the darts, and nobody took any notice. I decided to put it out of mind, and went and chalked my name up on the blackboard.

  A little later Tony let it be known that the final drops of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter had at last been consumed, and that there were only keg and bottled beers left. I looked at my empty glass and reflected that it was a good job I was leaving in a couple of days’ time.

  Walking back to the campsite after the pub closed I heard again the distant chime from across the lake. Yes, it was definitely ‘Half a pound of treacle’. A moment later I caught a glimpse of the faraway vehicle with its faintly glowing lights. It was moving along the road somewhere near Bryan Webb’s place.

  ♦

  Next morning I found Mr Parker in the big shed amidst a flurry of blue sparks. These were accompanied by a sharp crackling noise. I watched for a while, shielding my eyes until the sparks subsided. Then I saw that he was busy welding some winch-gear onto the front of his trailer. It looked like he’d been having a bit of a sort out inside the shed. The boat we’d moved the day before was now resting on some wooden blocks nearby, and there was quite a lot of space cleared around it. When he saw me standing there he lowered his welding mask.

  “Morning,” he said. “Just thought I’d get this done while I had the time.”

  “Looks like it could be useful,” I remarked.

  “Yes, a winch can be very handy. I’ll be finished in a minute. Pass me a new rod, will you, please?”

  I stood watching as he completed the work, and then he moved the welding equipment out of the way.

  “Right, we’ll give it a quick test.”

  There was a length of cable wrapped around the winch drum, with a hook attached to one end. Mr Parker gave me the hook and got me to pull it away across the shed to a distance of about thirty feet. Then he cranked a handle and wound me back in again, until the hook settled against the winch housing.

  “That seems to work alright,” he said. “Now then, are you ready to learn about this saw?”

  “Ready as ever,” I replied.

  “Good. I’ll move the tractor and we can get it fixed on.”

  The circular saw remained suspended on the hoist where we’d left it. Mr Parker climbed onto the tractor, started up and manoeuvred it into position. I could see that there were some fixing points on the saw which presumably corresponded with others on the back of the tractor, but unfortunately I didn’t know what went where. As a result Mr Parker had to do most of the connecting up himself, which meant him getting on and off the tractor several times. During the process there were occasional moments when I thought impatience was going to get the better of him. His voice became raised with frustration as he gave his orders, and this seemed to indicate an oncoming crisis. The trouble was, I’d never operated such machinery before and had little idea how it worked. Mr Parker, on the other hand, was obviously well versed in such matters, and couldn’t see why I found any of it difficult. Even when he asked me to lower the hoist slightly I managed to pull it the wrong way so it went upwards instead of down, nettling him yet more.

  After ten minutes, however, we had the saw properly connected to the tractor, and he was at ease again. Then he went round the apparatus with a grease gun, applying lubricant to all the bearings. Finally he turned to me.

  “Now, I don’t need to tell you that this is a piece of highly dangerous equipment,” he said. “So I think we’d better start with a short demonstration.”

  He waved me out of the way and then reached over to the tractor. I heard a clunk as he engaged the driving gear, and instantly the huge blade began to turn. After regulating the engine speed he took a plank from the nearby pile. Carefully positioning his feet, he ran the plank across the blade, cutting it into two. After repeating this a couple of times he stood back and let me have a go at it. Then he showed me how to cut a plank properly to size by making certain adjustments. All the time he kept reminding me to keep well away from the blade because, as he himself pointed out, the safety cover was missing.

  “It must have gone astray sometime in the past,” was his only explanation.

  He disengaged the power and the blade spun slowly to a halt. Then the two of us set about loading planks onto the trailer, until there were enough to replace all the old ones on the jetty.

  “Driven a tractor before?” he asked.

  No, I replied, I hadn’t. There next followed a short lesson in how to drive a tractor. Finally we were ready to go. I drove slowly down to the lake, and Mr Parker followed in his pick-up with the trailer in tow. When we arrived beside the jetty he produced a selection of tools from his cab. These included a hammer, a small crowbar and a handsaw. There was also a box of nails.

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll just get you started and then the job’s all yours.”

  He seized the crowbar and jammed it under the first plank on the jetty, giving it a deft twist. There was a creaking noise and the plank lifted a little. He then repeated the action at the other end. A moment later the plank had come away and he threw it to one side before starting on the next one.

  When he’d removed another three or four he turned to me and said, “Well, that’s easy enough done. I think I can leave you to it now. Be careful with that saw bench, won’t you?”

  “I’ll try to be,” I replied with a grin. “Otherwise it’ll only be me who regrets it.�
��

  He smiled vaguely and gave me a nod before climbing into his truck and driving away. Then I took the crowbar and set about removing the next plank. I discovered straight away that the task wasn’t as simple as Mr Parker had made it look. Several attempts were required just to get the crowbar in the right position, and even then the plank refused to yield without a fight. When it did finally come away it was in several broken pieces. I realized again that Mr Parker was much stronger than me, despite being perhaps twenty years older. He’d most likely been doing manual work around the place all his life, and it showed. Tools and equipment seemed to be obedient in his hands, whereas I always had a struggle of some kind or other. Still, I had a feeling that the job would become more straightforward as I got used to it, so I pressed on. An hour later I’d successfully removed about a dozen planks. Whoever fixed them on in the first place had certainly done a good job and many of the nails were proving to be particularly steadfast, even though they were quite rusty. Nevertheless, I was beginning to get the better of them. I decided it was now time to cut some new timber. I started up the tractor, walked round it a couple of times to make sure everything looked right, and then engaged the drive. As the saw blade began turning I took a plank from the pile and marked the correct length and width, using one of the old planks as a template. Then I began sawing. To my surprise the first piece of cut timber came out exactly the right size. I was so pleased with it that I stopped the saw and went straight to the jetty to get it nailed on. Suddenly I had a picture of what the completed job would look like. I was rebuilding a jetty at the edge of a lake, and realized that in this way I would be leaving my mark on the place. If I ever returned I could come to the waterside and examine my handiwork to see how it was lasting against the elements. Maybe point the jetty out to someone and say, “It was me who built that.”

  Or rebuilt it anyway.

  I spent the rest of the morning cutting planks and fixing them in position, before prising off some more of the old ones. It had slowly dawned on me as the hours passed that this wasn’t going to be a quick job that I could knock off in one day, but that didn’t seem important any more as I was quite enjoying it. I had no idea how much Mr Parker was planning to pay me for this work as we hadn’t discussed the matter, but presumably he had a figure in mind based on how long it took to complete. No doubt I’d find out what it was in due course. Meanwhile, I was feeling slightly peckish, so I walked up to the caravan and had something to eat. There was no sign of Mr Parker or his pick-up truck, so I guessed he was out on some business or other. His absence made the yard seem very quiet. For one moment I was tempted to go and poke around in the big shed to see what else was stored there, but I thought I had better not in case he suddenly came back. Instead I strolled down to the lake and continued work.