She sat down on the folding bed, while I moved to the opposite side of the caravan before resuming.
“Right, ready?”
“Yeah.”
“‘The place where I live is different to many other places’.”
I paused while she wrote it down.
“No, wait a sec. Change that to ‘different from many other places’.”
She tutted. “Couldn’t you just write it and I’ll copy it out after?”
“What, you mean you want me to do the whole thing?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You’ll be better at it than me.”
“Well, I was planning to go out tonight.”
She smiled. “It won’t take you long.”
“No, I suppose not,” I said. “But you might have trouble with my handwriting.”
“I expect I’ll be alright.”
I thought about it for a moment. “OK then, I’ll do a basic version and you’ll have to tidy it up.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll leave it on the shelf here.”
“Right.” She rose from the bed and went to the doorway before giving me another smile. “Thanks again.”
“Er…when did you say you were sixteen?” I asked.
“Easter,” she replied.
“Oh well, happy birthday in advance.”
“Thanks, bye.”
And she disappeared into the night.
I spent about three-quarters of an hour writing that essay, but I probably could have done it in ten minutes if I’d had to. It was a piece of cake really, as easy as painting by numbers. I simply described the maroon boats at rest near the wooded margins of the lake, and the looming fells brooding in the autumn gloom. There was also a bit at the end about the fulsome moon waxing against a starry backdrop, which I thought sounded quite nice. Then I fetched a bucket of hot water, had a wash and went out. I didn’t want to drink too much tonight, so I decided to take the motorbike for a change. When I got to Millfold I parked it in the square and entered the Packhorse through the front door. As I passed by the top bar I noticed it was fairly quiet, but this deficit was made up for in the bottom one, which seemed to be quite full, although I didn’t recognize many faces. The moment I walked in I was greeted by Gordon from behind the counter.
“Glad you’ve turned up,” he said. “We’re playing the Journeyman at darts tonight, and we’re a man short. Can you help us out?”
“Well,” I replied. “I’m not very experienced at match play.”
“That’s alright. We just want you to make the numbers up.”
I glanced round the crowded bar. “Doesn’t anyone else want to play?”
“They’re all from the Journeyman,” said Gordon.
“Well, I’m not a local,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that. You’ve been in here enough times to qualify.”
“Oh, OK then. Where is the Journeyman anyway?”
“Wainskill, about ten miles up the road.”
In this unexpected way I was roped in for a full-scale Inter-Pub League darts match. It came as no surprise to find that Bryan Webb was captain of the Packhorse team. Tony was supposed to be vice-captain, but because his father had been called away somewhere his services were required behind the counter to assist Gordon. Which was why they needed my help. Bryan quickly adopted me into his side and introduced me to the rest of the team, which included the mechanic Kenneth. As it happened, they all seemed to know who I was anyway, and spoke to me as if we’d been acquainted for years.
It was a good night. The players and their supporters from the Journeyman were numerous enough to give the match a proper competitive atmosphere, and to my surprise I won two of my games. I also noticed that there were quite a few women present, including the one I’d seen talking to Gordon and Tony on previous occasions. After a while I gathered that she was a sort of player-manager for the Journeyman team, and that she’d been over the other night to go through the arrangements for the match. It didn’t take long to find out her name was Lesley.
“Shame we haven’t got any Ex for you,” remarked Gordon when I went to the bar for my second pint of keg beer.
“Good job really,” I said. “Otherwise I might have ended up staying here for ever.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s right, you’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Well I should try to get away as early as possible. We’ve got some rain coming.”
The increasingly murky climate outside the Packhorse was easily forgotten on an evening like this. Everyone was getting stuck into the drink as usual, and I began to regret bringing my bike since it meant I couldn’t have any more after this. As the darts match progressed I also started to realize that Lesley was paying me quite a bit of attention.
Whatever part of the bar I was in, I noticed that she would soon be standing nearby. Once or twice I tried moving around to see what happened, and each time she moved too, although not obviously enough for anyone else to detect. When victory fell at last to the home side and all the players were going round shaking hands with one another, she came up to me.
“Nice game,” she said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Er…no thanks,” I replied. “Any more and I’ll be over the limit. Thanks anyway.”
She smiled. “Maybe another time.”
“Probably not,” I said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Going anywhere interesting?”
“Yeah, India.”
“Really?” Her eyes sparkled.
“Yeah, I’m thinking of going overland. You know, Turkey and Persia, that way.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“Have you done much travelling yourself?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Just waiting for the chance.”
“Oh, right.”
“You sure you don’t want that drink?”
“Yeah, sure…thanks.”
Quietly I cursed my luck. What a wasted opportunity! This would have to happen on my last night in the place, and on the only occasion I’d come out on the bike. Next thing Lesley had rejoined her team-mates and our brief conversation was over. I slipped out of the pub shortly afterwards without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. There were now heavy drops of rain on the wind, which was becoming progressively more blustery. When I got back to Hillhouse I remembered Mr Parker’s offer about putting my bike in one of the sheds. I should really have taken him up on it when I had the chance, but it was too late now. The whole place was in darkness when I pulled into the top yard, and I guessed that all the doors would be locked for the night. I parked by the caravan and went inside. Lighting the gas lamp I happened to glance at the shelf where I’d left Gail’s essay. It was gone.
Five
I didn’t sleep well that night. For some reason the beer made me sweat a lot, and I kept waking up all in a tangle. The wind was no help either. It continued to work on the loose sheet of corrugated steel, causing it to clang spasmodically for hour after hour. In fact the whole shed now seemed to be creaking in sympathy with the increasing gusts. It must have been well into the early hours before I drifted off properly, and next thing I knew there was daylight coming through the caravan window. More noticeable, though, was the rain drumming on the roof. It was very tempting to turn over and go back to sleep, but I knew I had to get going before the weather worsened even more. Somehow I dragged myself out of bed. I’d used up the last of my food supplies the previous evening, and planned to get a few miles behind me before stopping somewhere for breakfast. I unrolled my waterproofs. They were dry and stiff, and I realized it was a long time since I’d last had cause to use them.
When everything was ready I went outside and started the bike. It had been out in the rain all night, but fortunately seemed to be running OK. Then, after a quick check round the caravan, I set off. There was no sign of activity in the bottom yard or the house as I passed by, nor did I see anyone on the road to Millfold. The rain was coming down hard now, and it struck me as a daft day to be travelling. All the same I had no inclination to alter my plans. I’d had enough of the place, nice as it was, and now wanted to get moving. It was just tough luck that it happened to be raining the day I’d chosen to leave. Besides, I had a feeling that I only had to go fifty or sixty miles and I’d probably run into better weather. A few minutes later I passed the Packhorse and the Ring of Bells, both with their shutters firmly closed, before crossing the bridge and joining the road southward. For a moment I caught a glimpse of Mr Parker’s house on the opposite side of the lake, and then it was lost from sight. The only place I knew beyond that was Bryan Webb’s. Again there was nobody to be seen as I went by. Not long afterwards the rainwater began running down my neck. Motorcycling was a wretched affair in these conditions, and I prepared myself for a long and dismal journey. I’d read somewhere that the lake was supposed to be nine miles in length, but I knew from my previous trips that the road distance was much further. There were no end of twists and turns, and I’d clocked up more than twenty miles before I finally left the lake behind. This had taken almost an hour, because of having to slow right down on the bends. Now I began climbing as I headed for the first mountain pass. As I did so I wondered why I hadn’t simply gone north from Millfold and then picked up the motorway. That would have been much easier than slogging along this twisty road. On the other hand, if I had taken the motorway I’d have had to contend with the spray from all those juggernauts. In truth, whatever way I went I was going to get soaked, and at least the route I’d chosen was traffic-free today.