“Thanks,” I said. “That was a great help.”
“About time this job was done,” he replied.
“Yes,” I agreed. “It wouldn’t have been safe to leave it much longer.”
“That other lad should have done it while he was here.”
“What other lad?”
“The one who was helping with the boats.”
“Oh,” I said. “You mean Bryan Webb.”
“That fool who goes round in the cardboard crown?”
“Er…yeah.”
“No,” said the old man. “I’m not talking about him.”
“Well,” I replied. “I don’t really know anyone else.”
He shook his head with impatience. “There was a lad here during the summer, supposed to be looking after the boats. Idle perisher, he was.”
“Was he?”
“Never did a stroke.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know they had someone doing that.”
“As soon as there was any proper work to be done he took off. Last thing he did was paint that hut, and you can see what a pig’s ear he made of it.”
I glanced towards the hut and remembered the problems we’d had getting the hatch open a couple of days ago.
“Yes,” I remarked. “I noticed the paintwork was a bit slapdash.”
“Bit slapdash?” snapped the old man. “He shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near a paintbrush!”
“No, suppose not.”
“You look like you’d do a much better job.”
“Thanks.”
“Shame you had to go and spill green all over Parker’s gateway though.”
“Oh…er…yes.”
“Still, at least you had the sense to make it into a square.” He now turned his attention to the pile of planks. “Good load of timber, this.”
“I don’t really know anything about it.”
“Well, take my word for it,” he said. “It’s good.”
Shortly afterwards I resumed work on the jetty. The elderly man seemed to know something about joinery and stayed to help out for a while, positioning the planks and occasionally adding a few extra nails here and there. As the afternoon progressed, however, he began to show signs of tiredness, and eventually wandered off after telling me I was doing a ‘reasonable’ job. I thanked him for his help and said goodbye before he receded into the trees. Then I got back to work.
The light was beginning to fade when Mr Parker appeared in his pick-up truck. He got out and walked onto the jetty, pressing the new planks with his boots and generally carrying out a thorough examination. Meanwhile, I watched and awaited his verdict.
“I thought you’d have got a bit further than this,” he said at length.
“Should get it finished tomorrow,” I replied.
“That’s alright then. Can you put the tractor in the shed overnight, please?”
“OK.”
He went over to the pick-up and got the grease gun, before going round the machinery once again to treat all the moving parts. When he’d finished I started up the tractor and set off towards the shed. By the time I got back to the caravan darkness was falling and I felt like I’d done a good day’s work. I had a cup of tea and then went over to the house to see about getting some hot water, taking Gail Parker’s completed homework with me. It was she who answered the door.
“Here you are,” I said. “Shouldn’t be any mistakes now.”
“Thanks,” she said with a smile, putting the exercise book to one side without even glancing at it.
“Is there any chance of a bucket of hot water, so I can get a wash?”
“You can get it from the boiler room,” she replied. “Just a sec.”
She took a key from a hook and led me round the foot of the house to another outside door. Unlocking it, she went inside and turned on the light.
“You’ll probably find it quite hot in here,” she remarked as I followed her in.
In the dim light I could see a large boiler throbbing away in the middle of the room, beneath a black aluminium flue. There were a number of water pipes leading up to the ceiling, and one of them had a tap plumbed into it.
“Got a bucket?” asked Gail.
“Oh,” I said. “Er…no.”
“There’s one there.”
I turned and saw a bucket in the corner and went to reach for it. At the same moment Gail squeezed past me to do the same thing.
“Sorry,” I said as we bumped together.
“That’s alright,” she said, smiling as she handed it to me. “Will you be wanting any more after this?”
“Any more what?”
“Hot water.”
“Might do, yes,” I replied.
“Right, I’ll see if I can find you a spare key.”
“Thanks.”
She left me filling the bucket and went out. I thought she’d be coming straight back so I waited a while, but after ten minutes there was no sign of her. I eventually gave up and returned to the caravan, where I enjoyed the luxury of my first wash and shave in hot water for several days. Then I perused the Trader’s Gazette over supper before going out for the evening.
During the day I’d decided it might be nice to visit Millfold’s other pub before leaving the area, just for a change of scenery. I hadn’t gone there before because it didn’t look as lively as the Packhorse, and seemed to cater for more staid types of people. Nevertheless, I thought it might be worth giving a try. It was called the Ring of Bells and occupied the opposite side of the square, next door to Hodge’s shop.
It came as no surprise to find that Hodge was one of the few customers. He showed some sign of recognition when I walked in, and murmured something to the landlord before greeting me with a nod. He was sitting at the end of the counter with a whisky glass. Another man occupied a stool some distance away, and there were two others sitting at a table by the window, but apart from these people the place was deserted. The landlord seemed friendly enough, however, and took a beer glass from the shelf the moment he saw me.
“Pint of?” he asked.
“Got any Topham’s Excelsior?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Not enough demand for it round here.”
“Oh, OK,” I said. “Pint of lager then, please.”
“Right you are.”
While the landlord was pouring my drink, Hodge decided to start up a conversation.
“On the bike tonight?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “Prefer to walk.”
“Don’t use it much, do you?”
“Not for short journeys, no.”
“Haven’t seen you out and about on it for several days.”
“No, well, I’ve been busy.”
“But I thought you were supposed to be on holiday.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “I am.”
To tell the truth, I found this Hodge bloke quite irritating and was beginning to regret coming into the Ring of Bells. After all, it wasn’t much of a pub as far as atmosphere went. There was no dartboard, no raucous character in a cardboard crown, and no subtle division between top and bottom bar. All there was were these people sitting around sipping whisky and asking banal questions. Alright, so the Packhorse wasn’t exactly the centre of the galaxy, but it beat the Ring of Bells hands down for entertainment value. I spent a dull evening wondering what it would be like living here if this was the only pub, and made a mental note not to bother coming back.