“Well, you’ve almost got it, but you’ve spelt hypotenuse wrong.”
I sat down beside her and took her pencil, writing the word correctly inside the book cover.
“Thanks,” she said. “What about the other questions?”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you leave it with me and I’ll have a look through them all. When’s it got to be in?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Alright, I’ll give it you tomorrow night then.”
“OK,” she smiled. “Thanks.”
She stood up and made ready to depart.
“Aren’t you a bit…er…grown up to be still at school?” I asked.
“I’m younger than I look,” she replied. “I can leave when I’m sixteen.”
“When’s that then?”
“Easter,” she said. “Anyway, thanks again. Bye.”
“Yeah, bye.”
And a moment later she was gone. I had meant to ask her what time it was, but for some reason I didn’t get round to it. Eventually I found my watch buried in the bottom of my bag and discovered that it was nine o’clock. Which meant the pub was only open for two more hours! I ran some water into the basin for a quick wash, and it came out brown for half a minute before turning clear. It remained cold though, and I realized that the hot supply I’d been promised wasn’t going to be on tap. I should have known really. After all, this was only a caravan at the end of a farmyard, probably with a hose running to it from one of the outbuildings. If I wanted hot water I was going to have to go over to the house for it. I decided to find out about that in the morning, and make do tonight with a cold wash.
A short while later I was ready to go out. The unscheduled sleep had left me refreshed despite my earlier exertions, so I again set off walking to the pub. As I did so it struck me that I hadn’t been anywhere on my motorbike for several days now, apart from moving it up to the top yard during the afternoon. The engine could really have done with having a proper run somewhere. Still, I’d be making up for the lack of use when I hit the road in a day or two. I could hardly see the repairs to the jetty taking any longer than that.
All the talk in the Packhorse that night was about Bryan Webb’s discovery of the missing boats. I heard the story repeated several times during the evening as new people came into the bottom bar and demanded to hear all the details. Over and over again he recounted the events leading up to the first sighting: how he wouldn’t normally be looking out at that time except that Deakin had left the wrong milk again. I noticed that later versions of the story had Bryan wading out to retrieve the boats, rather than just ‘getting a rope on to them’ as he’d described earlier. Still, this was his privilege. The episode had turned him into a minor celebrity for the time being, and he was entitled to embellish the facts if he so wished. After much speculation about how the boats had got away in the first place, general agreement was reached that the mooring chain must have broken. No one could remember when it had last been replaced, if ever.
“There’s been a mooring there for years,” remarked Bryan. “But I’ve no idea when it was first put down.”
“Well, it’s lost now,” said another drinker. “There’ll have to be a new one made.”
A secondary discussion then ensued concerning Deakin, and how he sometimes got the orders wrong. The bar stool at the end of the counter had its usual occupant, and he gave his opinion on the matter.
“Well, if you ask me,” he said, “Deakin’s taken on too much work. He’s bound to make a mistake occasionally.”
“That’s fair enough,” replied Bryan. “But why’s it always my milk he gets wrong?”
This caused a certain amount of laughter around the bar.
“Did you ring Pickthall’s to intercept him?” someone asked.
“I did after I’d got the boats ashore,” said Bryan, “but they told me he’d already been and gone.”
“So what did you do then?”
“I rang the dairy and left him a message. He’s got until midnight to deliver my homogenized or I’m cancelling all future orders.”
There was more laughter, and Bryan strode triumphantly towards the dartboard. Then, as sets of darts were produced for the evening’s play, another buzz went round the pub.
It seemed that Tommy Parker had arrived in the top bar.
Four
The first I knew of it was when Tony leaned over the counter and said, “There’s a pint of Ex in the pump for you when you’re ready.”
“Where’s that come from then?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly, causing me to glance past him. Beyond the counter in the top bar I saw Mr Parker conversing with the landlord and one or two locals. When he saw me looking he gave me a nod and a quiet smile.
“Courtesy of your boss,” said Tony.
“Er…he’s not really my boss,” I said. “I’ve just been doing some odd jobs for him, that’s all.”
Tony smiled. “Whatever you say.”
I wasn’t the only recipient of Mr Parker’s generosity. There was apparently also a pint in the pump for Bryan Webb. The man on the bar stool received one as well, even though he’d played no part in the rowing boats’ recovery. In the last couple of days I’d gathered that his name was Kenneth, and that he was some kind of mechanic. I guessed this from the number of conversations he had about car engines. He was constantly being asked questions on the subject of carburettors, spark plugs and anti-freeze, to which he always replied, “Bring it round sometime and I’ll have a look at it.”
Shortly after receiving his new pint Kenneth carted it off to the top bar, announcing that he needed to ‘see Tommy about something’.
As the evening continued I glanced from time to time through to where Mr Parker was holding court, and was struck by how important his presence seemed to be. People were continually going up to talk to him, then coming back with looks on their faces that suggested they’d been granted their deepest wish. After half an hour or so it seemed appropriate to buy him a drink in return for the one he’d bought me, so I asked Tony to find out what he’d like.
“He’ll have a light ale with you if that’s alright,” came the reply.
This seemed very reasonable and I happily forked out the price of the drink. I was surprised, however, when Tony returned with a message from Mr Parker.
“He says have you got that pound you owe him?”
“Er…oh, yes,” I said. “I’d forgotten all about that.”
I handed the money over and Tony took it up to the top bar. This incident could have been embarrassing, but most people’s attention was now on the darts, and nobody took any notice. I decided to put it out of mind, and went and chalked my name up on the blackboard.
A little later Tony let it be known that the final drops of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter had at last been consumed, and that there were only keg and bottled beers left. I looked at my empty glass and reflected that it was a good job I was leaving in a couple of days’ time.
Walking back to the campsite after the pub closed I heard again the distant chime from across the lake. Yes, it was definitely ‘Half a pound of treacle’. A moment later I caught a glimpse of the faraway vehicle with its faintly glowing lights. It was moving along the road somewhere near Bryan Webb’s place.
♦
Next morning I found Mr Parker in the big shed amidst a flurry of blue sparks. These were accompanied by a sharp crackling noise. I watched for a while, shielding my eyes until the sparks subsided. Then I saw that he was busy welding some winch-gear onto the front of his trailer. It looked like he’d been having a bit of a sort out inside the shed. The boat we’d moved the day before was now resting on some wooden blocks nearby, and there was quite a lot of space cleared around it. When he saw me standing there he lowered his welding mask.