All Quiet on the Orient Express

by Magnus Mills

  When I got back in the cab Mr Pickthall was examining the route map.

  “Mind if I borrow this?” he said.

  “No, of course not,” I replied. “Any particular reason?”

  “I’ve got a feeling there’s a few short-cuts we could make, but I need a bit of time to think them over.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “You’re coming tomorrow then, are you?”

  “If you want me to, yes.”

  “Well, that’d be fine by me.”

  “Right,” he said. “Then I will.”

  We agreed that I would do the last dozen or so deliveries on my own, and I dropped him off just before the entrance to Stonecroft. He cut through a small wicket gate in the hedge, quickly disappearing from view as I continued towards the house. When I got there his son came out to speak to me.

  “Seen my father?” he asked.

  “Fraid not,” I replied, handing him his milk. “Maybe he’s gone for a walk.”

  “Yes, well as long as it is only a walk.” He took the bottle and gave me an empty in return. “By the way, when are you coming back to finish off that timber contract?”

  “Er…should be sometime soon,” I said. “When I get the nod from my boss.”

  “Your boss?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you were your own boss now.”

  “I am for the milk, yes. But the other things I do for Mr Parker.”

  “Sounds like a funny arrangement to me.”

  “Does it?”

  “Neither one thing nor the other.”

  “I’m not that bothered really.”

  “No, well, maybe you should be.”

  It struck me that this was the type of conversation I usually had with Hodge, a sort of cross-examination with no apparent purpose other than to delve into my personal affairs. I wondered if the two of them ever got together to discuss other people’s business. This seemed quite unlikely when I thought about it, as young Mr Pickthall came over as a singularly friendless individual.

  It didn’t take long to finish the milk round after that, and I was back at Hillhouse by eleven, which I thought was pretty good going. Now I had the rest of the day to get some serious painting done. I took a late breakfast in the bothy, and then went over to the big shed to get the stove lit. Remembering the firewood Gail had mentioned, I stopped by Mr Parker’s truck and glanced into the back. To my dismay I saw the abandoned boat from the lower field lying there in pieces. I recognized the broken gunwales, the stern-post and the soft-rotted keel, all piled up ready to burn. With deep misgivings I lifted out two or three fragments, then carried them into the shed.

  ♦

  It took me quite a while to get that stove going. The previous afternoon Mr Parker had managed to kindle a flame in a matter of minutes, after which he’d quickly piled in some additional fuel and closed the lid. Soon it was blazing strongly and required no further attention. By contrast, I had no such instant success. Possibly this was due to my never having lit this kind of stove before, but it seemed more likely to stem from my reluctance to let a once-proud vessel go up in smoke. Time and again I tried, yet failed to get beyond a yellow flicker which would last a few moments before fading away again. None the less, the weather was getting too cold to work without some kind of heating, so I was obliged to persist. Eventually, after several attempts, I tried adjusting the air regulator as Mr Parker had done, and at last the stove roared into life. Then slowly I began feeding the ruined boat into the flames.

  ♦

  Once the shed had started to warm up I chose a brush and prepared to commence work. I’d already got through the first tin of green paint, so I opened another one and stirred the contents. This was a slow task. The cold weather had caused the paint to become very thick and set, and it was going to take a lot of stirring before it could be used. For five minutes I stirred, thinking vaguely of an idea that had evolved during the morning. I stopped and gazed at the green paint, then stirred some more, and the idea came to fruition.

  Resolutely, I replaced the lid on the tin and put it back with the others. Next, I went over to the paint store and scanned the shelves. Surely, amongst all these different paints, I would be able to find what I was looking for. After all, only the unlabelled tins were green. One by one I picked up the others and examined them. There were priming paints, zinc paints, emulsions, undercoats and external glosses, in all varieties of colours. I found special yellow paint for use on caterpillar tractors, and red paint for Post Office vans. Some paints had names dreamt up by the manufacturers: Arctic Blue, Eggshell Blue and Deep-sea Blue. Not quite what I was after, but they gave me hope and I continued searching. Somewhere near the back of the store I came across some cardboard boxes, unopened, each containing a dozen tins of paint. I checked the label on the first one. It was Royal Maroon. The second was even better: Burnished Gold. With a feeling of vindication I lifted the boxes down and carried them back to the big shed.

  Obviously, Mr Parker couldn’t have known he had these paints stashed away in the depths of his store. Otherwise there was no doubt he would have asked me to use them instead of the moribund green. He was probably so busy that he’d lost track of just what he did and didn’t have, so by seeking them out I had, in effect, done him a favour. Now the boats could be finished in their proper colours.

  I started work straight away, repainting the craft I’d done the day before, then moving on to the next one. The results were so pleasing that I decided to press on into the evening and not bother to go to the pub. This would be the second time in a week that I’d missed going out, but I was sure Bryan and the others would understand. After all, there were no darts fixtures for a day or two, and they were fully aware of the commitments I’d taken on. With these reassuring thoughts in mind I continued applying the maroon paint, and as I did so the boats began gradually to regain their former elegance.

  Of course, an alternative way to spend the evening would have been to go up in the hay-loft with Gail. I was half expecting her to appear at any moment and suggest it, but for some reason she didn’t, and instead remained alone in the house. Finally, when fatigue caught up with me, I packed my paintbrushes away and went to bed. All in all it had been quite a satisfactory day.

  In the dead of night Mr Parker returned. I was woken by an engine and the flash of headlights in the darkness as his lorry pulled into the top yard. I must have drifted straight back to sleep because I heard no other sounds after that.

  Next thing I knew, the hour had ticked around to four-thirty and it was time to get up again.

  Actually, I was surprised how quickly I’d got used to being an early-riser. Here I was on only my third day as a milkman, making a pot of tea at half past four in the morning as though I’d been doing it for years. I even found myself wondering how people could lie in their beds until six or seven a.m., when instead they could be up and about like me. After all, this was the best part of the day, and nothing could compare with the crunch of cold gravel under my boots as I emerged in the pre-dawn murk.

  Someone who was up at the same time, of course, was Mr Pickthall. I found him waiting down on the road, canvas bag in hand.

  “Morning,” I said as he slid into the passenger seat.

  “You don’t have to bother with all that nonsense,” he replied. “I’m fully aware that it’s morning.”

  “Oh…er…yeah, sorry.”

  “We’ve got a job to do and there’s no need for idle chit-chat.”

  “No, you’re right. Sorry.”

  “And stop saying sorry!”

  “OK.”

  “Now then,” he continued. “I’ve been having a look at this route map and I’ve decided that Deakin was taking the wrong road from Wainskill.”

  “You know about Deakin then, do you?” I asked.

  “Well, of course I know about Deakin!” he snapped. “Everybody does.”

  “Oh…do they?”

  “Now, do you want to hear my proposal or not?”


  “Yes, please.”

  “Right.” Mr Pickthall produced the route map and spread it out on his knee. “I think what we should do is take the upper road out of Wainskill, and then cut through Longridge Scar.”

  “I thought that was private property,” I said.

  “It is,” he replied. “But it belongs to an old pal of mine and I can square it with him.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Should save us a full six miles by my reckoning.”

  “Great.”

  “There are a few other minor adjustments as well, but I can show you those as we go.”

  “Alright.”

  He then lapsed into silence and the journey continued. I was beginning to get used to Mr Pickthall’s gruff manner, and had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t meant to be personal. On the contrary, it was very kind of him to take such an interest in improving the efficiency of the milk round, and I felt quite grateful. Apart from exchanging the occasional remark about the weather, we travelled on without a further word, arriving at the dairy for five o’clock. The loading-up was soon done and then we were on our way again, working quickly through the gold-top deliveries along the common below Greenbank.

  When we got to Wainskill, Mr Pickthall suggested that I did the drop at the Journeyman pub while he dealt with the nearby row of houses.

  “Ought to save us a good ten minutes,” he announced, transferring half a dozen bottles into a carrier crate.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind the extra walk?” I asked.

  “I’d say if I did, wouldn’t I?” he replied.

  “Suppose so.”

  “Well, then.”

  Next thing he was striding off towards the houses, while I rushed two pints over to the Journeyman. This arrangement certainly helped speed us through Wainskill, and we were soon leaving by way of the so-called ‘upper road’. After a mile we came to a turning on the left, with a signpost: ‘LONG-RIDGE SCAR’. A second sign said: ‘PRIVATE’.

  As soon as we’d made the turn I became aware of being surrounded on all sides by something dark and impenetrable. I flicked the headlights onto main beam and saw that we were passing between dense conifer plantations which stood motionless in the gloom.

  “Christmas trees,” said Mr Pickthall.

  A hundred yards ahead of us a truck was parked beside the road, its reflectors glowing red as we approached. Then I noticed an elderly man working at the edge of the trees. He turned towards us, shielding his eyes from the glare. I dipped the lights while my companion peered out through the windscreen.

  “That’s a bit of luck,” he said. “It’s the old pal I told you about. Stop here.”

  I did as I was ordered and pulled up. Mr Pickthall got out and slammed the door, addressing a few words to the other man. I was unable to hear what was being said because of the noise of the engine, but next moment the two of them were shaking hands. I could now see that Mr Pickthall’s ‘old pal’ was holding some sort of metal instrument, but I had no idea what it was, nor why he was here in this wilderness at such an hour. Their conversation was brief, and then the two of them glanced towards me. This made me feel as if I was on display in a glass case, but I gave a little wave all the same. In return I received a nod of acknowledgement. Next they wandered over to the trees, examined a few branches between their fingertips, and appeared to concur with each other on some matter. I was just beginning to wonder exactly how long this would go on for when Mr Pickthall returned to the pick-up and got in.

  “Alright,” he said. “That’s all settled. We can use this road as often as we like. Drive on.”

  There didn’t seem to be any question of me meeting our benefactor in person, so after giving him a friendly toot of the horn I set off again.

  “By the way,” added Mr Pickthall. “He says if we’re coming through every day we might as well drop him off a pint of milk.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Starting tomorrow.”

  “OK…er…What was he doing? I couldn’t quite see.”

  “He was gauging the trees. Seeing if they’re the right size yet.”

  “And are they?”

  “Not quite. Should be ready in another ten days or so.”

  “Just in time for Christmas then?”

  Mr Pickthall sighed. “Well, of course in time for Christmas,” he said. “No point in growing them otherwise, is there?”

  “No,” I replied. “Suppose not.”

  After that I dropped the subject of Christmas trees and instead concentrated on driving. The short-cut had certainly made a great deal of difference to the journey, and we rejoined the main road almost twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

  We were still keeping good time when we arrived at Hill-house a couple of hours later. To my surprise I saw that the flatbed lorry had already gone from the yard. Presumably this meant that Mr Parker had managed to land some additional business which entailed setting off early, but I had no idea what it might be.

  He was still absent when I returned home just before eleven, having dropped Mr Pickthall off at the usual place. It had been another thoroughly agreeable morning, with the old man proving himself more than useful (as well as providing tea and doughnuts).

  Now I had the entire afternoon free to do some more painting. In the next few hours I managed to apply second coats to the vessels I’d done the day before, as well as getting started on the next one. The sight of all those Christmas trees waiting to be put on the market had reminded me how quickly time was going by, and spurred me into working at a more productive rate. In fact, I realized that my whole pace of living had gone up a gear, in order to accommodate everything that needed to be done. No sooner had I got back to the bothy that evening than Gail turned up requesting some darts practice. As usual I found it difficult to refuse, and we spent a pleasant hour in the hay-loft making further improvements to her technique. Not until ten o’clock did I finally make it to the Packhorse for a quick pint of Ex before bedtime.

  There was no sign of Mr Pickthall’s old pal when we cut through Longridge Scar the following morning, and I wasn’t sure where to leave his milk.

  “Just put it at the side of the road,” suggested Mr Pickthall. “He’ll see it when he turns up.”

  “Won’t someone take it?” I asked.

  “Course not,” he replied. “No one else comes up here.”

  “What about birds pecking the top?”

  “There aren’t any birds here.”

  “Aren’t there?”

  “None at all.”

  “But I thought birds liked trees.”

  “Not these trees, they don’t. My pal sprays them with every chemical going.”

  It occurred to me that this plantation was no less remote than some of the other places we visited each day. The only difference was that there wasn’t a doorstep to leave the milk bottle on. So I did as Mr Pickthall suggested and left it at the side of the road.

  At least his old pal was an identifiable customer. Most of the early drops we made were to darkened houses containing sleeping strangers. I knew few of the names listed in the order book, and realized that it would take a long time before I became acquainted with them all. Eventually I was going to have to go round collecting the money they owed me, but I decided that this was probably best left until I was fully established.

  One client I would always recognize, of course, was Bryan Webb. When we pulled into his yard some two hours later he was wearing his usual cardboard crown. I got out to speak to him, while Mr Pickthall remained in the cab with a look of disapproval on his face.

  “I don’t think the old lad likes me,” said Bryan.

  “It’s your crown he doesn’t like,” I replied.

  “Oh, well, can’t be helped. Anyway it’s not long now ‘til Christmas.”

  “No, suppose not.”

  “I’ve got your groceries here.” He stepped into his kitchen and emerged again with a box. “I took the liberty of ordering you some beans. They weren’t
on your list but Hodgey’s doing them at half price so I thought I’d snap them up.”

  “Oh, right, thanks,” I said. “What biscuits did you get?”

  “All of them,” he replied. “Fig rolls, custard creams, malted milks. That was right, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s great. How much do I owe you then?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that for the moment. Want a cup of tea?”

  “No. Thanks all the same. We’d better keep moving.”

  “Righto,” he said. “By the way, where’s Tommy been going off to in his lorry every day?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Has he gone again this morning then?”

  “Yes, I saw him leaving about six o’clock. I could see his headlights.”

  “Something to do with oil drums, I think.”

  “Oh, well,” said Bryan. “Tommy always knows a good bit of business when he sees it.”

  To tell the truth, I was quite glad that Mr Parker was keeping busy. It meant I could get on with my painting uninterrupted, and with a bit of luck I would have the first boat finished before he saw it. With this in mind I completed the milk round as quickly as possible, said goodbye to Mr Pickthall, and then went home and got the stove going in the big shed. When the place had warmed up a bit I selected a tin of gold paint and started work. I wanted each boat to look perfect, and knew that this part of the job could not be rushed. Therefore, I took great care as I applied my paintbrush to the gunwales, the prow and the stern-post.

  It was a process that lasted all afternoon. Outside, the weather had begun to turn very wintry indeed, with flecks of sleet occasionally dashing against the shed’s corrugated walls. Inside, however, it was quite cosy and felt like a proper workshop. When I finally stepped back to see the results of my labours, I couldn’t have been more pleased. Yes, I thought, a truly professional finish.

  I was having my tea in the bothy when I heard Mr Parker return that evening, so I went out into the yard to meet him. On the back of the lorry were about fifty second-hand oil drums.

  “It’s bloody marvellous what they’re doing at that factory,” he said, getting down from the cab. “Runs like clockwork.”

  “Thought you’d be impressed,” I replied.