“Have you spoken to Tommy about the van yet?”
“I haven’t had time. Is he here now?”
“No,” I said. “Should be back later though.”
“Right,” said Deakin. “As soon as I’ve got these deliveries finished I’ll come back and see him.”
There seemed to be a certain resolve in the way Deakin said this, which I thought was a positive sign that he really did intend to get the matter sorted out at last. Shortly afterwards he was on his way again, charging off down the hill as the chimes gave yet another rendition of ‘Half a pound of treacle’.
I’d done about an hour’s work on the boats when Mr Parker returned in the lorry and got me to help him load it up. The top yard was now crowded with oil drums, well over a hundred, and it took us some time to get them all stacked and roped. As we worked I noticed that Mr Parker was becoming increasingly irritable. Loading all those drums was no easy business, and every time one of them jammed in an awkward position he would curse under his breath and shove at it violently until it moved. I couldn’t quite understand what was bothering him, so I adopted my usual approach of saying little and making myself as useful as possible. Finally, all the drums were securely tied on the back of the lorry and it was ready to go.
Then, after a brief rest, Mr Parker said, “Right. We’d better get that mooring weight put down.”
I glanced towards the lake and quickly concluded that this wasn’t the best day to do the job. There was a cold wind blowing across the hillside and I could see the tops of the distant trees swaying. Still, I wasn’t going to argue with Mr Parker. If he wanted to put the weight down today, then so be it.
The first thing we had to do was transport it to the shore. We couldn’t use Mr Parker’s pick-up because he’d left it over at Bryan Webb’s when he went for the lorry this morning. The tractor still had the saw attached, and the only other vehicle available was the old Morris van parked by the side of the shed. To my surprise it started first time, and he soon had it manoeuvred round to where the weight lay. The van’s springs creaked as the two of us struggled to lift the concrete-filled wheel into the back, as well as the accompanying length of chain and mooring buoy. Once again there was a lot of cursing involved as Mr Parker’s mood continued to deteriorate, but eventually we got all the gear inside and shut the rear doors. Then we drove slowly towards the lake.
As we approached I saw that the water was still as grey and choppy as it had been yesterday. I looked at the mooring raft as it bobbed up and down beside the jetty, and wondered if it really was as stable as I thought.
Mr Parker seemed to be pondering the same question. He stood on the jetty for a long time looking at the raft, occasionally pressing his foot down on one corner to see how much resistance there was.
“Rocks about a lot, doesn’t it?” he said. “Are you sure you’ve built it properly?”
“Should be alright,” I replied.
Obviously he needed convincing, so I stepped completely onto the raft to prove I had full confidence in it. To my relief it felt OK, and I was able to move about on the small deck without fear of toppling over.
“We’ll need to take one of the oars,” I said. “So we can guide it.”
Mr Parker unlocked the green hut and tried the door.
“The flaming paint’s stuck again,” he said, giving it a pull.
Every time I examined the paintwork on this hut I noticed yet more runs and badly done areas. It certainly was a poor piece of workmanship, and did nothing to improve Mr Parker’s humour. Only with a sharp tug did the door come open, after which I went inside and got one of the oars. Then we had the tricky job of transferring the mooring weight (plus the chain) from the van to the raft. It wasn’t too bad moving it along the jetty, as we were able to roll it slowly to the end. But getting it from there onto the raft itself was a real battle, accompanied by many more grunts and curses from Mr Parker. We’d just succeeded in getting the weight safely aboard when we heard ‘Half a pound of treacle’ coming towards us through the trees.
Not now, Deakin, I thought to myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. Next thing the ice-cream van had pulled up by the green hut, where it gave another impromptu blast of its wayward chimes.
“What a flaming racket!” roared Mr Parker, steadying his balance on the mooring raft and keeping well away from the edge. As I looked at his awkward movements it suddenly dawned on me why he was in such an irritable mood. All the signs pointed towards it: for some reason he was afraid of the water. This explained both his distrust of the raft and his lack of interest in the rowing boats. When he was on dry land Tommy Parker bore himself with as much self-assurance as any man I’d ever met. He was strong, independent and successful in business. He could do a thousand and one things that many other people wouldn’t even know how to attempt. Yet out here on the water all his confidence just disappeared. Which was obviously why he felt it necessary to shout at Deakin.
“Can’t you turn that bloody thing off!” he yelled, as the hapless milkman approached us along the jetty.
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about,” replied Deakin, with a look of determination on his face.
“We’re a bit busy just now,” I said, attempting to defuse the situation. “Why don’t you come back later?”
In order to get away from Deakin I quickly cast off from the jetty, using the oar to propel the raft. Once again the van trumpeted its presence nearby. Suddenly the raft rocked sharply and I realized that Deakin had stepped on board as well.
“What are you doing now?” snapped Mr Parker.
“I’ll come with you and give you a hand,” replied Deakin. “Cos I could do with having a word with you really.”
Mr Parker and Deakin were now holding each other steady. Around their feet lay many yards of mooring chain, and this suddenly caught Deakin’s attention.
“Looks like you’ve got a bit of a tangle there,” he said. “Let’s see if we can get it sorted out.”
He crouched down amongst the chain and began rearranging lengths of it across the raft’s deck. I soon realized that there was hardly room for the three of us on board, as well as the mooring weight, the buoy and all that chain. Worse, as we moved away from the shore the lake became noticeably rougher, so that the raft pitched and rolled quite a lot. By the time we’d got far enough out to drop the mooring, Mr Parker had begun to look very unhappy. He was gripping onto the weight with both hands, and staring down at the black water below. Meanwhile, Deakin continued to fiddle about with the chain, coiling it into loops and so forth, and making some sort of adjustment to the mooring buoy.
“Right,” I said. “Stand back, Deakin. We’re going to let it go now.”
With Mr Parker’s help I shoved the mooring weight over the edge. It plummeted into the depths followed by the long, rattling chain, and a moment later it was gone.
So was Deakin.
Nine
As he shot beneath the surface a surge of water rose up and swirled around our feet. “No!” cried Mr Parker, arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance. He looked in danger of toppling after Deakin, so I caught him by the hand and the two of us remained swaying there for several seconds, during which time I noticed the mooring buoy floating nearby. There was nothing attached to it.
“He’s gone down with the chain!” I said, raising my voice against the breeze. “Can he swim?”
“Can he hell!” groaned Mr Parker. “Can you?”
“No, sorry.”
“Well, I bloody can’t either!”
A gust of wind battered us and moved away across the lake. The raft was now drifting rapidly, which meant we were already some distance from the spot where Deakin had disappeared. Nevertheless, I kept expecting him to pop up next to us at any moment so we could pull him to safety. It was only after half a minute had gone by that this began to seem increasingly unlikely. Then, on the receding shore, we heard the ice-cream van give a forlorn hoot.