“You can settle up when we’re less busy,” he kept saying, before returning to the oche for another game.
“Yes, alright,” I replied. “But I must pay you what I owe you soon.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a grin.
I judged from my treatment by the locals that they all knew I would be staying around for the foreseeable future. I was already aware that everyone knew everybody else’s business round here, and this was confirmed time and again as the days passed. Kenneth Turner, for example, kept saying that he would have to come and have a look at my bike sometime, while Bryan Webb was forever enquiring about my progress with the boats. And there was always some new story about Deakin delivering the wrong milk, or arriving too late;
At the end of one such account Bryan turned to me and said, “You ought to take over from Deakin.”
I wasn’t sure whether this remark was meant to be treated seriously or not, but as he said it a definite murmur of assent went round the bottom bar.
♦
A few evenings later as I crossed the yard on my way to the pub, I became aware of a rhythmic thumping noise inside the big shed. It was about nine o’clock and the electric lights had all been switched on, so I went over and peered through the doorway, which was open by about one inch. I saw straight away that the thumping noise was coming from the concrete mixer. Its diesel engine had been put back together and started up, and it was now being watched intently by Mr Parker and Kenneth Turner. Kenneth was wearing a blue boiler suit and stood holding an adjustable spanner in his hand. Both of them seemed to be mesmerized by the mixer’s bucket, which rotated slowly round and round before their eyes. For a whole minute they looked at it, then another minute after that, while I stood outside in the dark, watching them. Eventually Mr Parker said something and Kenneth nodded. He dropped the spanner into a deep pocket and they walked over towards my motorbike. Next moment Kenneth was astride it and kicking the engine over. To my surprise it roared into life, and he spent some time revving it up and listening to it closely, while the concrete mixer continued to throb away unattended. Eventually Kenneth cut the bike engine again, and he and Mr Parker stood examining the paintwork and the chrome. Then they turned and had a look at the boat I’d been working on during the day. Kenneth picked up one of the tins of paint that were still waiting unopened nearby. When he saw it had no label he grinned broadly at Mr Parker. Then the two of them clambered over the packing cases in the direction of the other motorcycles at the back of the shed. At this point I tired of spying on them and continued on my way down the yard. Glancing at the house I realized that Gail must have been on her own inside, and casually I wondered what she did during the evenings now she had no homework to occupy her.
With a sudden shock I remembered I had some grammar to hand in by tomorrow morning! I’d been having a bath for the last hour and gone and forgotten all about it! Now I had to rush back to the bothy and get it done before I could go out. It seemed to take longer than usual, and as a result I didn’t get going to the pub again until almost ten, by which time the big shed was in complete darkness. When I arrived at the Packhorse I saw Kenneth sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter. He said, “Hello,” but didn’t mention his visit to Mr Parker’s place, so I didn’t mention it either.
Next morning I was woken up by the rhythmic thumping again. Looking through the curtains I saw that Mr Parker was already up and about. He’d opened the shed doors wide and hauled the concrete mixer outside onto the loading bay. It stood there with the engine running, and the bucket going round and round. After a while I saw him look at his watch and then peer in the direction of the bothy. I took this as a signal that it was time to get up, so I heaved myself out of bed. Something told me I wouldn’t be getting much work done on the boats today, but he didn’t reveal his plans until we were sitting having breakfast.
“It’s about time we made a new mooring weight for the boats,” he announced. “If we leave it any longer the lake’ll be too rough.”
“Gets bad in the winter, does it?” I asked.
“Can do,” he said. “And there’s no point in putting the job off until spring.”
“No, spose not.”
“You know how to make a mooring weight, do you?”
“Got a rough idea, yeah.”
“That’s good. I’ve got all the tackle ready for you. There’s a lorry wheel, some long chain and plenty of concrete.”
“Right.”
“All you’ve got to do is mix it.”
“OK.”
A few moments passed. Across the yard the rhythmic thumping continued.
“Did you get that homework done?” asked Gail.
“Oh yes,” I replied. “Forgot to bring it over. It’s all finished, you can collect it when you want.”
“Thanks,” she said. “By the way, your essay won a prize.”
“Did it?”
“Yeah, they printed it in the school magazine.”
“Well,” I said. “I’m quite pleased about that really. What was the prize?”
“A book token.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Do you want it?”
“Don’t you want it?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, OK then.”
“You can have it as a reward for doing all that homework.”
“Er…thanks.”
She reached down into her school bag and produced the book token, placing it on the table.
“You’d better sign that on the back,” remarked her father.
I thought he was making a joke, but next thing Gail had a biro in her hand and was solemnly writing her signature.
“Thanks,” I said again as she handed me the token. “Have you got a copy of the magazine so I can see myself in print?”
“Oh no, sorry,” she replied. “I threw it away.”
A clinking noise outside heralded the arrival of Deakin’s pick-up. We watched through the window as he rushed about making his hurried deliveries, first to the house, then to the bothy, before quickly departing.
“I gather they’re on strike again in the south,” said Mr Parker.
“Oh, are they?” I said. “I hadn’t heard.”
“It was on the television last night.”
“Have you got a television then?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Well, I just didn’t think people round here bothered with televisions. What with the scenery and everything.”
“Oh yes, we have one through there,” he said, nodding towards the next room. “Got it for One Man and His Dog.”
“What are they on strike about?” asked Gail. She was looking at me.
“They’re probably worried about unemployment,” I suggested.
“So how does going on strike help?”
“Er…well, it doesn’t really,” I said. “It’s supposed to be a sort of statement.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see.”
“I don’t believe in unemployment,” said Mr Parker.
“Don’t you?”
“No such thing. There’s always something to do.”
“Spose.”
“Did they have many strikes at that factory of yours?”
“Not while I was there, no.”
“Sounds like an efficient little operation.”
“Yes, it seemed to be doing very well.”
“Pay good wages?”
“Not bad.”
“Get plenty saved up, did you?”
“A bit, yes.”
“That’s good.”
The way the conversation was going it struck me as an appropriate time to bring up a matter I’d been avoiding for the last week or so. The problem was that when I’d agreed to work on the boats we’d failed to discuss how much I was going to get paid. I had no idea if I was supposed to be getting a fixed sum for the job, or an hourly rate, or what, so I decided to broach the subject now.