Nonetheless, the milk round was going perfectly. We cut through Longridge Scar daily, picking up an empty milk bottle from the side of the road and replacing it with a full one. Sometimes we caught a glimpse of Mr Pickthall’s old pal working amidst the Christmas trees, and he would give us a wave. Then a few more days would pass without a sighting.
Another call we made was to a small detached house in Wainskill. This was a ‘special order’, Fridays only, for one bottle of homogenized milk. The property lay slightly back from the road, at the end of a cinder path, and I took a liking to it from the very start. Whoever lived there seemed to have found an altogether pleasant spot to call home. A rocking horse carved on the garden gate gave the place a very welcoming look, as did the apple trees and the neat borders. The house itself was in darkness when I made my delivery, but an outside lamp cast a friendly light along the footpath. According to the order book the customer’s name was Pemberton, which told me nothing about whether it was a he or a she. A vase of flowers in the window, however, suggested a female presence, and I soon began to get the feeling that this was where Lesley stayed. After all, no one except a young woman living on her own could make a bottle of milk last the whole week. I imagined she led a busy life, and only had time for a quick cup of tea every now and then. The empty bottle on the doorstep, I noticed, was always rinsed to perfection.
Having discovered where Lesley lived, I then realized that the information was of little use since I could hardly go knocking on her door at half past six in the morning. All the same, when I saw her at the forthcoming darts match it would do no harm casually to mention that it was me who delivered her milk.
♦
We rarely encountered any traffic at this early hour, but one morning on the approach to Millfold a pick-up truck appeared, coming from the opposite direction. As soon as he saw it Mr Pickthall said, “Watch out, here’s John,” and then laid flat across the seat.
Next moment the other vehicle came by and I saw his son sitting behind the wheel. Stacked in the rear were four oil drums. Mr Pickthall the Younger nodded at me briefly, and then he was gone.
My assistant sat up and glanced behind him.
“Is that his name?” I asked. “John?”
“Yes, we’re all Johns in our family,” replied the old man.
“Do you think he was looking for you?”
“I doubt it. He’s more interested in some damn-fool scheme with oil drums.”
“Oh,” I said. “Mr Parker’s involved with those as well.”
“I know,” said Mr Pickthall. “And John’s going to run himself into a lot of trouble if he’s not careful.”
“Is he?”
“Of course he is. Getting right out of his depth, trying to exploit a market he knows nothing about.”
“Suppose so.”
“Still, perhaps it’ll teach him a lesson.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Hello, who’s this?”
On the road ahead of us was a hitch-hiker, a young bloke about my age, carrying a rucksack. When he saw us coming he stuck out his thumb.
“Don’t stop for him,” ordered Mr Pickthall.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling up. “I always stop for hitchhikers.”
The young man came to the passenger window, which was a quarter open.
“Going up to Tommy Parker’s?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Hop in.”
“There isn’t room in here,” said Mr Pickthall, through the opening. “You’ll have to go in the back with the crates.”
This struck me as a bit churlish, but the hitch-hiker didn’t seem to mind and had soon clambered aboard. Then we set off again.
“That’s the lad I told you about,” muttered the old man. “We don’t want him here, he’ll spoil everything.”
“Seems alright to me,” I said. “Most hitch-hikers are usually OK.”
“Why didn’t he walk then? It’s only a mile.”
“Don’t know.”
“Because he’s an idle perisher, that’s why.”
Mr Pickthall fell silent and sat glaring through the windscreen, while our passenger rode with us to Hillhouse. I wondered why anyone would choose to turn up here in December. After all, the weather was terrible, and there was nowhere to stay.
“Maybe he’s just passing through,” I remarked.
The old man said nothing.
Mr Parker was standing on the back of his lorry coiling ropes when we arrived in the yard. Over the past few days he’d been running air over the place, gathering up more oil drums and taking them down to the factory when he had a full load.
He’d returned from one such trip late the previous evening.
“Now then. Tommy!” called the hitch-hiker from the rear of the pick-up, before leaping down. I noticed he had a rather loud voice.
Mr Parker peered at him for a long moment and then said, “Oh hello, Mark. You decided to come back then?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
“Yes, I suppose you did.”
In the meantime I’d got out and delivered the milk. I waited a while to give the newcomer a chance to thank me for the lift. Instead, he ignored me and continued talking to Mr Parker, so I got back into the pick-up.
“Are we going then?” asked Mr Pickthall, with a note of impatience in his voice.
“Er…yeah, sure,” I replied, selecting a gear.
As we drove away I saw Gail’s face behind the kitchen window, but she wasn’t looking at me.
♦
Mr Pickthall said little as we continued the milk round, speaking only when spoken to and giving the bluntest of replies. The arrival of the hitch-hiker had disgruntled him for some reason, and he seemed to be taking it out on me for offering a lift. I couldn’t see what difference it made really. After all, as he himself had pointed out, the journey had only been a mile. The guy would have got there anyway, with or without my help. However, the last thing I wanted to do was fall out with Mr Pickthall, so I made no comment on the matter.
Around eleven o’clock I dropped him off at the usual place and said, “See you tomorrow then.”
He muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, and then wandered off towards his home.
When I arrived back at Hillhouse, the kitchen door was wide open. I parked the pick-up and got out just as the hitch-hiker emerged onto the terrace with a coffee cup in his hand. Behind him came Mr Parker.
“Have you got a minute?” he called. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I went up the steps and the newcomer was introduced to me as ‘Mark’.
“You can call me Marco,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied. He appeared to have a slightly faded sun tan.
“Mark’s going to be staying with you in the bothy,” announced Mr Parker.
“Is he?” I asked, with some surprise.
“Yes. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Well, there’s not really enough room.”
“I thought you said there was plenty.”
“When?”
“When you first moved in.”
“Oh,” I said. “Did I?”
As we talked Marco stood with a sort of sneering grin on his face, looking at me.
“Of course, if it’s too much trouble…” he said.
“No, it’s alright,” I replied. “I suppose you can have the sofa.”
I expected him to say thanks for this magnanimous gesture, but he merely gazed across at the bothy as if he’d scored some sort of victory.
“That’s that settled then,” said Mr Parker. “Now I must get going. I’ve some collections to make this afternoon.”
As he walked over towards his lorry, I turned to Marco.
“The door’s unlocked, you can let yourself in.”
I was damned if I was going to show him, into the place like some kind of estate agent, so instead I went across to the shed and got the stove lit. Then I spent some time giving the boats a look-over. I’d made good progress with the painting during the last week or so, and there was only one boat left to do. All the others were looking pristine in their maroon and gold finish, and I examined them with some pride. Mr Parker still hadn’t been in to see them, but I knew he’d be delighted when he finally got round to it.