♦
With the rest of the afternoon free I could at last get on with the boats. It seemed like ages since I’d finished preparing them, and now I was quite looking forward to applying some paint. Mr Parker had given me the keys so I let myself into the paint store, selected a couple of brushes, and then went over to the big shed. Inside, the boats were all lined up on their wooden blocks just as I’d left them. I opened a tin of green paint, stirred it, and then began work on the first one. As I said before, whoever painted these boats originally had done a very thorough job. In all the hours I’d spent with the electric sander, I had only managed to dull down the old paintwork, rather than remove it completely. The first boat’s hull remained a faded but very obvious maroon colour. And as I began going over it with fresh green paint I began to get an odd feeling of unease. It was almost as if I was painting over something irreplaceable. I’d been expecting this part of the job to be the most satisfying, but I soon found it was quite the opposite. With every brush stroke the boat looked less majestic and more mundane. Even worse was when I had to paint over the gunwales and the curved prow, whose ancient lines had looked so outstanding in gold. As the old paintwork disappeared under the new I discovered that I was rapidly losing interest in the task. After all, my idea had been to restore these boats to their former glory, not reduce them to mere tubs. I also realized that I was working at a much slower rate than I had been at the outset, but put this down partly to the fact that I was now quite tired, having been up since the early hours. I was just pondering whether to pack in for the day when I heard a vehicle arrive outside. Mr Parker had evidently returned from wherever he’d been, and a few moments later came into the shed to see how I was progressing.
“Well,” he said, giving the boat a glance-over. “The paint seems to be going on quite nicely, doesn’t it?”
“Suppose so,” I replied, without enthusiasm.
“It’ll need several coats, won’t it?”
“Expect so.”
“Well, don’t worry about slapping on as many as it takes.”
“OK.”
“I’ve brought back some more chain and a wheel hub,” he continued. “So when you’ve got a moment can you make up another mooring?”
I wasn’t sure when he expected me to ‘get a moment’ exactly, but I just said OK again, and watched as he moved towards the chimney stove in the corner.
“Bit chilly in here,” he remarked. “I think we’ll get this going for you, keep the place nice and warm.”
Next thing we were clearing away the bits and pieces around the stove, and finding suitable pieces of timber to burn. To tell the truth I’d been so preoccupied with the boats that I hadn’t noticed how cold the weather had turned. No wonder I felt lethargic and sluggish. In contrast. Tommy Parker seemed to be in a very expansive mood. Soon there were flames darting up from within the stove, and he was making adjustments to the air regulator on the front. As the shed warmed up I began to feel less fed up than I had earlier.
“There you are,” he said, when he’d got the stove going full blast. “That’ll keep it cosy in here.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m off down south with the oil drums tomorrow, so I’ll leave you to it.”
“Right.”
Shortly afterwards I had another visitor. Around five o’clock the door opened and Gail came in. I noticed she’d already changed out of her school uniform.
“There’s a message for you from Mr Wanless,” she said.
“Who’s that then?” I asked.
“You know,” she replied. “Drives the school bus.”
“You mean Maurice?”
“I’ve always called him Mr Wanless.”
“Oh…right,” I said. “What’s the message?”
“He says it’ll be alright to go back to the Packhorse tonight.”
“Ah, that’s very good of him. I’ll have to buy him a pint.”
Gail looked disappointed. “Does that mean we won’t be able to have any more darts practice?”
“No, no, should be able to squeeze some in, although I’m a bit busy just at the moment.”
“So we will do it again then?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Promise.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
I watched her walk to the door and go out, and had to remind myself not for the first time that she was only fifteen. Maybe I should have just said I had no time available to spend with her and left it at that. After all, it would have been practically the truth. Apart from having a milk round to look after and all these boats to paint, there was also a mooring weight to make and put down, as well as a timber contract to complete. On top of all that there was my commitment to the darts team, which seemed rather more important than giving lessons to a teenage girl in a hay-loft. In fact, when I thought about it there was hardly a moment to spare, and now that the shed had warmed up I decided to bash on with the painting for another couple of hours. By seven o’clock I’d got the first coat finished on the boat I was doing and it looked OK, although I remained unhappy about the choice of colour. After that I dashed over to the bothy, had my tea and then went out.
When I arrived at the Packhorse I discovered I’d taken far too much for granted about my status in the darts team. I was made welcome enough, but the demands of the fixture list had obliged them to recruit other players during my absence, and there were no spare places. Bryan Webb bought me a pint and then explained that I would have to play myself back into the side by turning up for future matches on a reserve basis. This sounded fair enough to me, so I sat on a stool in the corner and prepared to watch the action. The visitors tonight were from the Rising Sun, and seemed to be a friendly enough bunch. Unfortunately, they were one of those teams that brought no women with them, so there was nothing much to look at apart from men lobbing darts. The first game was won by the Packhorse, and the second by the Rising Sun. Then suddenly everybody was laughing about something. I blinked once or twice and saw Bryan and the rest of them standing in a half-circle, grinning at me and studying my face.
“Is he or isn’t he?” someone said.
“Well, he isn’t now, but he definitely was,” said Bryan, and they all laughed again.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“You’ve just slept through half the match,” he said. “Watch out, you’re spilling your beer.”
I glanced down. The glass in my hand was lying at a haphazard angle, its contents lapping the rim. Quickly I straightened it, and got up from the stool.
“Blimey,” I said. “I must be more tired than I thought.”
“Well, you can’t burn the candle at both ends,” remarked Kenneth Turner. “You’d better go home and get your head down.”
“Yes, I think I will. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” they all chorused as I walked out.
Despite not getting a game of darts, I felt quite good about my first evening back at the Packhorse. Nobody had said anything about me ‘letting them down’ on that previous occasion, and I assumed from their silence on the subject that I was forgiven. Now it was just a matter of time before I was fully accepted as a team member again. The way Bryan had bought me a pint beforehand suggested that this wouldn’t be too long at all. Feeling fairly contented about the way things had gone, I wandered back to the bothy and went straight to bed. I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, waking again at half past four feeling fully refreshed. After a quick cup of tea I set off in the pick-up, and realized I was actually looking forward to embarking on my milk round once more.