Next moment I heard Mr Parker’s boots scuffing the gravel as he approached from across the yard. I braced myself when he entered the shed, knowing that this time he really would lose his temper.
And lose his temper he did. The displays I’d seen on previous occasions were nothing compared to this. He took one look at the boats, and then his face turned from pink to purple.
“Flaming hell!” he roared. “Now what have you done?”
“Well…” I tried, but it was no good, he wasn’t listening.
“Are you trying to ruin me or something? Ever since you came here it’s been one thing after another! Paint spilt all over the place! Machinery wrecked! You cost me a contract up the road, and then go and charge me a hundred pounds…a hundred pounds!..to tart up these bloody old tubs! What the hell do you think this is, a flaming bottomless pit?”
He turned towards Bryan, who was still muttering ‘Dear oh dear’ to himself.
“Alright, Bryan! You’ve beaten me fair and square! So what are you going to take? Eh? How about my tractor? Or my welding gear? Come on, take your pick! There’s lots to choose from!”
“It’s alright, Tommy,” Bryan managed to say.
“No, it’s not alright!” cried Mr Parker. “You’ve got to have something! Tell you what, you can take one of these bloody boats off my hands! Here!”
He seized hold of the nearest boat and started hauling it towards the door single-handedly. The sudden exertion made the veins stand out in his neck, so that it looked as if he would do himself an injury. For this reason I grabbed the other side to lend a hand. I winced as the boat came off its wooden blocks, and scraped across the concrete.
“Tommy,” pleaded Bryan.
Mr Parker ignored him and kept heaving with all his might.
“Tommy!”
We drew nearer to the door. Beyond it lay the loading ramp and the gravel yard.
“Tommy!” Bryan tried again. “Tommy…please, listen…I don’t want a boat…really, I don’t…look, there’s something else I can take.”
♦
Ten minutes later, Bryan rode away on my motorbike. We watched as he crossed the yard and descended towards the front gate, still wearing his cardboard crown.
Then Mr Parker turned to me.
“Well now,” he said. “That’s that settled nicely, isn’t it?”
“Suppose so,” I replied.
“You hardly ever used it anyway.”
“No.”
“So it might as well go to a new home.”
“Yeah.”
By this time his mood had returned to normal, and he seemed content to give the boats their long-awaited examination.
“You’ve done a good job there,” he conceded. “But I think we’ll have them painted green all the same, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh…OK then.”
“It’ll give you something to do for the rest of the winter.”
“Right.”
“And after that Mark can take over.”
“Mark?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he going to do with them?”
“Mark always looks after the boats in the summer. He’s just the right type of person for the job.”
“But what about me?”
“Well,” said Mr Parker. “To tell the truth I had you in mind for selling a few ice-creams.”
I stayed in the shed until about half past two, but did nothing more than open a tin of paint, stir the contents and replace the lid again. The rest of the time I spent gazing at the boats, while I considered my options.
Finally, I emerged into the pale afternoon light and stood looking across the yard. The lorry-load of oil drums had gone, which meant that I had the whole place to myself.
Almost.
I glanced towards the bothy, where Marco lay sleeping behind drawn curtains. Then I started the concrete mixer, and prepared a length of galvanized chain.
EOF