“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.”