“Homework alright, was it?” I asked.
“Yes, thanks,” she replied. “Do you want some more?”
“Breakfast or homework?”
“Homework.”
“Yes, I don’t mind doing it. What have you got?”
She reached into her bag under the table and produced a pile of exercise books.
“History, maths and comprehension.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Mr Parker came back into the kitchen. “That was Bryan Webb. He’s bringing his sheep through today.”
An hour later I’d finished the riveting and was just taking the ladder down when I heard them coming. There was a gateway leading from the top yard out onto the fell, beyond which I could hear someone shouting “Ho! Ho!” again and again. Within moments the leading ewes ventured through the open gate, followed soon afterwards by the whole flock. By this time Gail had gone to school and Mr Parker was away on some business or other, which left only me to direct the sheep through the yard and down the concrete road. Having never done anything like this before I wasn’t sure what to do, but I soon discovered that standing on one spot and waving my arms was the best approach. Eventually Bryan and another man appeared at the back of the nervous throng, accompanied by three efficient-looking dogs. The first thing I noticed about Bryan was that even when he was herding sheep he still wore his cardboard crown. As he passed by he took the time for a brief conversation.
“Getting on alright with that painting, are you?” he asked.
“Well I haven’t got started yet,” I replied. “Had to do some maintenance work on the shed first.”
The two men grinned at each other, and I now recognized the second one as a regular in the Packhorse.
“Well,” remarked Bryan. “You’ll have to get a move on if you’re going to get it done by Christmas.”
“Should be alright.”
“And how’s Tommy’s temper behaving itself?”
“Oh,” I said. “No trouble at all.”
“Really?”
“As long as I pay attention to what he says it’s a piece of cake.”
“That’s the secret, is it?”
“Seems to be.”
“Very good,” he said, grinning again. “Best to keep on the right side of him.”
Soon afterwards Bryan and I said goodbye, the other man nodded, and next thing they were on their way down the hill.
Now, at last, I could get on with the boats. I’d been going in and out of the big shed continually during the last couple of days, checking new rivets, removing old ones and so forth, but I hadn’t had cause to go in there this morning. Now I noticed for the first time that Mr Parker had stacked a number of paint tins just inside the door. To my dismay I discovered that they were all unlabelled, which meant the contents were green. This came as a bit of a disappointment because I’d been under the impression I was supposed to be painting the boats in their original colours. I knew he had lots of green paint, but I’d assumed that was for the workaday jobs: gates and doors and suchlike. Surely boats with classical prows deserved something slightly better. That’s what I’d have thought anyway. Nonetheless, there was plenty of preparation to do before I even opened a tin of paint, so I set my disappointment aside and got started with the electric sander.
It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that whoever painted the boats in the first place had done a very thorough job. Maybe paint was of a better quality in those days, but this stuff almost seemed to be impregnated into the timber. Only by concentrating hard did I make any impression on it at all. Hour after hour I worked with that sander, head down, battling against layer upon layer of stubborn paint and making very slow progress. It was a noisy operation, and for this reason I failed to hear the arrival of a vehicle in the yard outside. Only when the shed door opened did I realize I had a visitor. It was Deakin.
He came inside and I switched off the sander.
“Oh,” he said, as the noise faded away. “Tommy’s got you doing this, has he?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Did you want him?”
“Yes, I could do with having a word with him about something.”
“Well, you’ve missed him again. Why don’t you speak to him when you bring the milk?”
“No time,” he said. “It’s alright, I’ll come back another day.”
“It’s not urgent then?”
“Not really, no.”
He made no move to leave, but instead stood peering around the inside of the shed. After a while his eyes fell on the space occupied by my motorbike.
“Ah,” he said. “I see he’s got rid of the snow plough at last.”
“Er…oh, yes,” I said. “It went the other day.”
“Been in here since we built the shed, that has.”
“Did you help him build it then?”
“Yes,” he said, with a note of pride. “It was me who did all the riveting.”
Soon afterwards he wandered off. I watched him slide open the door and close it behind him. Then I started up the sander again. A few moments later another sound came floating into the shed from outside. I switched off just in time to hear the unmistakable chimes of an ice-cream van. They were playing ‘Half a pound of treacle’.
Quickly I went to the door and looked out, but the yard was completely empty.
♦
Mr Parker returned that evening with some more oil drums. I was just finishing work for the day when he pulled into the top yard in his pick-up, so I went to lend him a hand unloading them. The group of drums by the gateway now numbered something like fifty, but he seemed determined to bring back even more every time he went out. This time there were half a dozen on the trailer, and another four in the rear of the pick-up.
A little later I went into the bothy for a cup of tea. The door was permanently unlocked, and as soon as I entered I realized there’d been another caller that afternoon apart from Deakin. Just inside the doorway someone had left a box containing my grocery order. I went through the items one by one and discovered that everything I’d asked for was there, apart from the biscuits, which were the wrong type. They’d evidently decided that since there were no fig rolls, custard creams or malted milks, I would have to make do with plain digestives instead. Attached to the box was an invoice for the order. It bore a message, written across the bottom in red penciclass="underline" “No more beans after this.”
There was also one large printed word at the head of the invoice: ‘HODGE’. I put the groceries away and lit the kettle.
That night in the Packhorse I played my first Inter-Pub League darts match as a full team member. We had an away game against the Journeyman coming up which I was quite looking forward to, but in the meantime we were facing the Golden Lion at home. It was the usual sort of turnout, with Bryan Webb captaining us to victory once again. The visiting team had no women supporters travelling with them, though, so the evening had a bit of a flat edge to it from that point of view. My opponent from the Golden Lion was a portly bloke called Phil who didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered when I beat him, and instantly rushed off to buy me a pint of lager. When I asked if it would be alright if I had Topham’s Excelsior instead he looked slightly sorry for me, as though I hadn’t been properly weaned or something.
“Better put him a spare one in the pump as well,” he said to Tony.
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks very much. Cheers.”
These darts people certainly were a friendly crowd, and made up for the shortage of women by buying each other lots of drinks. I always seemed to be on the receiving end, but even when I ordered a round of my own I didn’t have to pay. Tony was doubling as vice-captain and barman, and repeatedly gave this as the reason to continue my slate for the time being.