“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?”