A moment later Deakin arrived in the yard.
As usual he was in a great hurry, running to the two doorsteps with fresh milk and retrieving the empty bottles. When he noticed me standing by the tractor he gave me a frantic wave.
“Seen Tommy yet?” I called.
“No!” he replied. “Haven’t had time! But I will!”
“Well, make sure you do!”
“Alright!”
Next thing Deakin was gone, charging off down the lane to continue his milk round, which was beginning to look like a very thankless task. Why everybody round here thought I’d be interested in ‘taking over’ was beyond me. Even Hodge seemed to have picked up the idea from somewhere. The previous evening in the Ring of Bells he’d started going on about there being ‘room for improvement in the milk business’, and how a good candidate ‘wasn’t a million miles away’. I’d pretended to take no notice of all this, of course, and didn’t engage in any direct conversation with him. Nevertheless, I got the strong impression that several people were convinced I seriously was considering being their milkman. As far as I knew I’d done nothing to substantiate this belief, and the last thing I wanted to do was usurp Deakin. He had enough troubles already without me adding to them.
With these thoughts in mind I returned to the circular saw and continued work. Shortly afterwards I noticed someone emerging from the far end of the house. It was the old man. He was wearing some heavy-duty gloves and work boots, and heading straight in my direction. In his hand was some sort of stick. As he crossed the yard he glanced at the near end of the house from time to time, and also at the shed where the pick-up had been parked. Finally he joined me and waved the stick.
“Measuring rod,” he said by way of greeting. “Don’t expect you’ve got one, have you?”
“No,” I replied. “Thanks.”
“What’s he told you? Nine to fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so. Alright, carry on.”
Next thing he was dragging a huge length of timber towards the saw. Then he went along with the measuring rod marking off lengths for cutting. As usual his presence speeded up the operation appreciably, and in the next hour I got a good deal of work done. Mr Pickthall hadn’t mentioned it, but the completed logs were apparently supposed to be deposited in a nearby lumber shed. The old man soon had a wheelbarrow lined up next to the saw, and was carting the logs away as fast as I could cut them. We carried on in this way for some time, and then he came and shouted in my ear.
“Want a cup of tea?”
“Wouldn’t mind!”
“Alright, then. Wait here!”
He disappeared into his house, returning several minutes later with a tray bearing two steaming mugs and some doughnuts. I switched off the tractor and as the noise faded away the pair of us enjoyed a well-deserved break. It seemed very peaceful in that yard without the din of the engine, and for a while we stood and drank our tea in silence.
“You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of work,” I remarked at length.
“Ought to do,” replied the old man. “I ran a timber business for forty years.”
“What, here?”
“On this very spot,” he said.
“You’ve retired now, though, have you?”
“Sent to the knacker’s yard, more like.”
“Ah well, you can’t work for ever.”
He looked at me. “Why not?”
“Well…er…don’t know really.”
“I hate not working,” he said, then broke off and glanced towards the lane where a vehicle could be heard approaching. Next moment he was rushing into the lumber shed with the tray and the two empty mugs. I started up the tractor and resumed work just as Mr Pickthall drove into the yard. He pulled up and got out, peering at the much-reduced timber stack, and then at the lumber shed. Eventually, he came over to me.
“Seen my father?” he asked.
“Er…who?”
“The old man from the far end of the house.”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t seen anybody.”
“So how did you know the logs had to go in the lumber shed?”
“Just guessed,” I replied. “All part of the job.”
He looked at me with suspicion for a few moments and then marched into the lumber shed. When he emerged again I was surprised to see he was alone.
“If you do see him,” he said, “don’t let him help you.”
“Righto.”
“I don’t want him working any more.”
“OK.”
He glanced at the timber stack. “You seem to be getting on very quickly.”
“I try my best,” I replied.
After casting me another suspicious look he got into his truck again and drove off. I waited a few more minutes until I was sure he was gone, and then went into the lumber shed to see what had happened to the old man.
“Mr Pickthall?” I called. “Hello?”
There was no reply apart from a knocking noise beneath my feet. It was quite dark in that shed and I’d assumed I was standing on some sort of wooden floor, but as I stepped back I saw a trapdoor rise up. A moment later the old man climbed out from his hiding place.
“Forty years he’s lived here,” he said with triumph. “And he doesn’t know about the hidey-hole.”
“Blimey,” I remarked. “Quite handy, that.”
“If he’d paid more attention to the business he’d know every nook and cranny by now.”
“Didn’t he then?” I asked. “Pay attention to it?”
“Course not!” said the old man. “Made me give it up and then ran it into the ground!”
“Why did he make you give it up?”
“For my health.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s a good idea, isn’t it?”
“Is it hell!” he snapped. “All this doing nothing’s going to kill me! That’s why I have to keep going on long walks, there isn’t anything else to do!”
He picked up a stray log and placed it on top of the pile.
“You can carry on helping me if you like,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied. “Trouble is, he’s likely to come back at any moment.”
“Where does he keep rushing off to then?”
“Oh, don’t ask me. He says he’s going into buying and selling. You know, auctions and so forth. Damn fool business, that is, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Well,” I remarked, “Mr Parker seems to be making a reasonable living from it.”
“Maybe so, but Tommy’s got his head screwed on properly. If he puts his money into something, you know it’s a safe bet.”
“Suppose so.”
“But that doesn’t mean anyone can do it.” The old man looked around the yard and shook his head with disdain. “Sound business we had here,” he said. “But now it’s all finished.”
Shortly afterwards I went back to the saw and prepared to resume work. The senior Mr Pickthall seemed to have decided he couldn’t help me any more, which was a great shame as we made a good team. A few minutes later he gave me a nod and set off walking towards the lake. I looked at the timber stack and realized that in spite of the inroads we’d made during the morning there was still a lot to do. The stack consisted of felled logs, disused beams and broken fence posts, all waiting to be cut up into lengths no shorter than nine inches and no longer than fourteen. I selected an ancient-looking beam and marked it up, then began making the first cut. Suddenly the saw started to produce a strident screeching noise. I pulled the timber away but the noise continued, so I switched off the tractor. Instead of spinning to a halt the blade stopped dead. Then I noticed that there was smoke coming out of the bearings. I placed my hand on them and discovered they were very hot. Cursing slightly, I decided to give the saw time to cool down before trying it again, but I had a sinking feeling that something was seriously amiss. I passed a quarter of an hour carting some more logs into the lumber shed, and then, when there was nothing left to do, I tried starting up once more. Immediately the screeching noise returned and my fears were confirmed: I’d somehow managed to seize the whole thing up. Which was when I remembered the grease gun. Of course! Mr Parker always made a special point of applying grease to all moving parts before and after use, but I’d failed to do it before leaving this morning. Now I had no choice but to pack up and go home. I left the yard as tidy as possible, shovelling the sawdust into a neat pile at one side, then set off.