I’d made up my mind about that, and was just brewing the tea, when a movement caught my eye. Walking down the narrow concrete road that led from the house came a teenage girl in school uniform. I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. I’d seen this girl go by every day last week, passing the field full of tents on her way to the front gate. Here she would stop and stand waiting with a school bag dangling at her feet. On previous occasions she’d paid no attention to me as she walked past, always looking straight ahead, but this morning she glanced in my direction so I gave her a friendly wave. She waved back and then continued to the gate. The tea now being ready, I poured it into my tin mug and added milk. A few moments later, when I again looked towards the gateway, the schoolgirl had gone. Behind the hedge I could see the roof of a blue minibus moving away along the road.
♦
There was a modest sign fixed to the outside wall of the shower block, ‘HILLHOUSE CAMPING’, it said, ‘PROPRIETOR: T. PARKER’.
After taking a shower I zipped up the tent and set off on my lakeside walk, going out through the main gateway, then across the public road to another gate leading into a second field. Until yesterday this other gate had been wide open and held that way with a chain, giving full access to the lake. It was even open late last night when I came back from the pub. Now, however, the same chain had been used to keep the gate shut, which seemed to indicate that the holiday season was definitely finished. I climbed over and crossed the field by way of a dirt track, passing between some mossy trees before eventually arriving at the lake, where a number of rowing boats were moored. There were seven boats all told, tied up one behind the other, about sixty yards from the shore. As usual the green boat-hire hut was ‘closed until further notice’, but I went and stood at the end of the small jetty for a while, on the off chance that someone would turn up.
Nobody did, so after a few minutes spent gazing at the water I continued my journey along the shore. Finally, I arrived at the north end of the lake, passed through a kissing gate, and walked across a deserted car park to a sort of square occupied by the shop and the two pubs.
The shopkeeper was standing in his doorway, and appeared to be sunning himself. Above his front window was one large word: ‘HODGE’.
“Morning,” he said, as I approached. “No bike today?”
“Er…no,” I replied. “I thought I’d walk.”
“You’re the chap staying up at Tommy Parker’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Not leaving yet then?”
“No, I thought I’d stay on a bit longer.”
“Oh, I see.”
As I came forward he made a move as if to step back into the shop, but then he paused and remained blocking the doorway instead. As a result I found myself standing quite close to him.
A moment passed as he glanced up at the sky.
“Not a bad sort of day, is it?”
“No, it’s very nice,” I agreed, looking up at the same sky.
He seemed content with this answer, and moved aside. Then he followed me into the shop and slipped behind the counter.
“Now then. What can I do you for?”
“Just a few things,” I said. “Starting with six cans of baked beans.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “You like your beans, don’t you?”
“Yeah, well, they save worrying about meals and everything.”
“Best things ever invented, beans are,” he announced. “Right then, six cans coming up.”
“Those eggs fresh, are they?” I asked, indicating a box.
“Quite fresh, yes.”
“OK, half a dozen eggs as well, please.”
I bought a carton of milk too, and then paid him.
As he handed over my change he said, “That motorbike of yours. You thinking of selling it?”
“Not really, no,” I replied.
“I noticed it’s quite an early model.”
“Yes,” I said. “Pre-unit.”
“But it’s not for sale?”
“No.”
“Well, if it was, Tommy could sell it for you. Knows all about auctions.”
“Does he?”
“Oh yes. He’s always buying and selling things.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I’ll bear that in mind if I suddenly decide to sell it.”
He gave me a funny look when I said this, but I wasn’t bothered really because I thought his questioning was a bit too familiar. After all, I was only a temporary visitor passing though the area, who happened to be buying a few groceries. What did he expect? My life history?
I left the shop and headed across the square. For some reason I’d decided to return to the campsite directly along the public road. There was now a vague notion in my head that I would give the bike a bit of a check-over, and then maybe polish up the chrome. It seemed like a good idea while the nice weather held. Outside the Packhorse a brewer’s lorry was making a delivery and collecting a few empty beer barrels. Beside it was one of the barmen, and as I passed by he gave me a nod of recognition.
“How’re you doing?” he asked in a cheery manner.
“Alright, thanks,” I replied, and went on my way wondering what sort of lives these people would lead now that the seasonal throng had departed. Despite the sunshine and the chirping birds there was no one else around but me.
I’d just stopped to admire the sheer density and thickness of the churchyard wall, when a pick-up truck with an empty trailer in tow pulled up beside me. Behind the wheel was Mr Parker.
“Want a lift?”
I felt I really ought to decline the offer as it seemed to be my duty to walk on such a pleasant day. But I got in all the same.
“Thanks,” I said, joining him in the cab.
We moved off and then he said, “Don’t mind me asking, but this job of yours you had.”
“Oh, yes?”
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing very special. It was in a factory.”
“Get away.”
“No,” I said. “Really. It was.”
“What, with chimneys and everything?”
“There was one chimney, yes.”
“But I thought all the factories were supposed to have closed down.”
“Not this one,” I said. “It was doing quite well actually.”
“Was that down south?”
“Well, south-west really.”
“But you’re from the south, aren’t you?”
“Er…no,” I said. “Middle, to be exact.”
“Because most of the people who come here are from the north-east.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“Not all of them, of course, but most.”
“Yes.”
It had taken me almost an hour to walk to the shop from the campsite, what with hanging around by the boat-hire place and everything, but in the truck the return journey took only a matter of minutes. We very quickly arrived at Mr Parker’s gateway, where he pulled up. Slipping the gears into neutral, he sat tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
“So what did they make in this factory of yours?” he asked.
“Well, factory’s probably the wrong word,” I said. “It was recycling oil drums. You know, cleaning them out, getting rid of the dents, painting them up.”
“Then they’d sell them off, would they?”
“That’s right.”
“And you say they’re doing quite well at it?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“I’ve got some oil drums up in the top yard. Do you think they’d buy them off me?”
“I’m not sure really,” I said. “How many have you got?”
“About a dozen,” he replied. “Picked them up in a job lot.”