It was a bloody tight fit.
He was climbing out of the van, arse hanging in mid air, desperately trying not to knock the driver’s door against the passenger side of the vehicle next to it.
He understood the need to pack ’em in, but jeez …
‘Snap!’ said a female voice, somewhere behind his backside.
Eh?
Trying not to get his left foot stuck behind the brake pedal, he hooked his right hand round the door to protect the neighbour’s Winnebago, his backpack hooked awkwardly over his left elbow, and searched for the floor with his right foot.
Not presenting his best angle to whoever-it-was.
Arrived safely on both feet on the metal deck, he shuffled round to face the speaker.
‘Sorry?’
‘Snap!’ she said again.
What was the silly woman on about?
Then he saw. Like peas in a pod.
The van parked behind him was the twin of his own. Almost identical.
‘Yours?’ he asked.
‘Indeed.’
Not the sort who could answer a simple question with ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, then.
‘Yours?’ she asked in return.
Well, clearly. It was a fair question, though, if you thought about it. There were lots of rentals about. Toyota Hiace campervan conversions with the high top. Standing headroom in a small van – or a slide-out top bunk for gymnasts.
Too small and basic for most tourists these days, mind, except the budget end of the market.
‘My son’s. I’m, err … borrowing it. For a bit.’
She was a nice-looking woman, he suddenly noticed. A few years younger than him. Long, dark, curly hair mingled with grey. Freckles. A fine, elegantly curved nose. The effect was … nice.
All around them, doors were banging. People were gathering their belongings, their children, and heading for the steel sliding doors. Threading their way through the maze of parked vehicles.
‘We’d better … ah …’
‘Indeed,’ she said again. ‘Well, bon voyage. I expect we’ll bump into each other again.’
‘Indeed,’ he parroted without thinking. Then felt the heat rising to his cheeks. How old are you, mate? Blushing like a schoolboy, just because a strange woman talks to you.
She was gone, leaving a memory of a wide smile and hazel eyes.
He’d not been on the Spirit before, he thought. He had hazy memories of a trip on the ‘Spewcat’, though, back when the kids were little.1
That’s right. It’d been rough as, and Mags had insisted on catching a plane back. It would have been ninety-six, thereabouts. She’d been pregnant with Ella, and Stevie – the owner of the campervan – had been just a toddler.
It was a bit bewildering, all the corridors and stairs, bodies milling, getting in your way. Like the first day of a FIFO contract in a strange way. But no job to do, no routine and no purpose.
He still missed Mags in this kind of situation. If she were here, she’d take charge: navigate to their cabin, get them sorted with a drink and a plan for dinner, check out the cinema programme and find them a comfy seat in the nicest bar. Lay out his pyjamas and the next twelve hours of his life.
You’re sixty years old, mate. You can do this.
Eventually he found his cabin. All the even numbers were on the left side. Port.
Not bad. Not bad at all. He’d stayed in dongas worse than this.
Twin beds, crisp white sheets and doonas, decent little ensuite with a shower. Pokey but serviceable. Even a tiny desk with a reading lamp. Good move to get a porthole cabin. Though how much would you see, at night?
He swung his bag onto the spare bed. Then swore.
His book and the bottle of Jack Daniels were still in the back of the van. He’d let that woman fluster him.
PLEASE REMEMBER TO TAKE WITH YOU ALL THE BELONGINGS YOU NEED ON BOARD. YOU WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO ACCESS THE VEHICLE DECKS DURING THE VOYAGE.
He could probably still make it – but against that determined tide of humanity? Down five floors? Causing a fuss and showing himself up?
Stuff that.
It was going to be a long, long night.
He’d just have to go out and mingle, instead of hiding away in here.
He did a round of the ship. Deck seven first.
Then the top deck, deck ten.
Burnt fat from the pizza oven and blaring TV screens. Faces staring straight ahead, already bored. He went outside, but the wind was bitter through his thin shirt. They were moving along a narrow channel, land on both sides. Much closer to the right: the Bellarine Peninsula.
They’d just passed the old Alcoa plant, now decommissioned. How long did it take to get out through the Heads? Three hours??
The bar at the stern of deck nine was clearly intended to have the cosy atmosphere of a snug, but the judder of the diesel engines spoiled the effect. And it was stuffy. Round the corner, a performer was playing a keyboard and crooning an Art and Garfunkel medley.
Jesus. Back down to deck seven, pronto.
There she was.
Sitting by herself, squeezed in behind a little round table. Behind her a glass case containing a shiny copper still, for some reason. On one side a family of five. Squalling kids and two frazzled young parents. On the other a grumpy looking elderly couple.
Elderly? Not much older than him, probably.
He gave her a little smile, ready to let it die on his lips, his eyes slide off somewhere else, if she looked straight through him.
‘Hello.’
She’d already organised herself a drink, had a shawl around her shoulders and a book in her lap. Like she was happy with her own company. But her smile was welcoming. Or just polite?
‘All right if I join you?’
What the hell are you doing, mate?
‘Oh, you’re the man from the van! Of course. I’m Leigh.’
‘Jamie.’
She held out her hand. It was slim, dry and cool. He was careful not to squeeze it too hard. He’d been scolded for his crushing handshake.
Empty chairs were bloody thin on the ground. Then there was a queue for the bar, and only one girl serving. By the time he came back with his beer, she was ensconced in her book again.
‘Cheers!’
She raised her face, her glass, then set her book aside.
‘On holiday, or going home?’ She didn’t look like someone on holiday, somehow.
‘Neither the one nor the other. Though I am taking long-service leave. What about you, Jamie?’
‘Neither the one, nor the other, Leigh.’
She gave a short little laugh.
He could see he wasn’t going to get away with just that. She’d think he was taking the piss. It was the second time he’d parroted her words.
‘Actually, I’ve just bought a boat.’
‘Ooh, a boat!? How exciting!’
That’d got her attention.
‘And are you going to sail this boat back to, ah, wherever it is you live?’
‘I don’t really live anywhere,’ he found himself saying. ‘I’m going to fix her up, and then live aboard her.’
It was the first time he’d admitted it to anyone. Being homeless. Technically speaking.
‘That sounds very adventurous,’ she said, without skipping a beat. ‘So, is it – she – an older vessel?’
‘Yeah. Ex cray boat. Forty-four foot. Built on the Derwent in fifty-nine.’
‘Wonderful! And where is she berthed?’
‘Huon River, between Cygnet and Franklin.’
‘Lovely. Do you have photos?’
‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’
It’d just popped out. He sat there aghast.
She looked stunned for a split second. Then she laughed. A longer laugh this time. He laughed along in relief.
‘I don’t know. Does he?’
Keen to move along, he flicked through his phone, found the photos from the broker. ‘Here you go.’
‘Lovely. Audrey Liza. And is she going to need much restoration?’
‘Probably.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘I haven’t … ah … actually seen her yet,’ he mumbled, the heat rising again.
She stared at him for a moment.
‘You’ve bought an old wooden fishing boat, sight unseen?’
‘Yup.’
‘A brave man,’ she said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Brave, foolish, or very rich.’
‘I’m not rich, so it’ll have to be one of the other two. Probably both.’
‘Probably. So, Jamie, tell me what you know. I want to hear all the details.’
‘You’ll be sorry you said that.’
‘No, I won’t,’ she said, with a little gleam in her eye.
You asked for it, girl.
So he took her at her word.
The rest of the bar faded from his attention. They may have been listening intently, they may have been oblivious. He didn’t care.
An hour or more must have passed before he sat back and looked around. He was vaguely aware of being hungry. The passengers around them had thinned out. They were probably off Sorrento by now. It was dark outside.
He realised that he’d been talking almost the whole time. He hadn’t directed a single question at her, just answered hers at great length and in tedious detail.
‘Sorry, Leigh. You must think I’m rude.’
‘Why ever should I think that?’
‘I haven’t asked you a thing about yourself – what you’re planning to do in Tassie, anything.’
‘I haven’t invited you to. I wanted to hear about your Audrey Liza.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘But since you ask … I’ve inherited a farm. An orchard. On the Huon River.’
It was his turn to lean forward.
‘Got any photos on you?’
‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’
‘Ha!’
‘Actually, I really don’t. Just a couple of kerbside shots of the entrance, and a recent aerial survey shot. But I do have vague memories of going there, as a little girl.’
‘Tell me what you know, Leigh. I want to know all the details.’
‘I suppose I asked for that. We ought to get some dinner, though. If we don’t watch out, the kitchen will be closing, and I really can’t make it through the night on Willie Smith’s Bone Dry and Nobby’s Nuts.’
Coming up:
This Friday in The Last Orchard: Leigh’s version of the trip to Tassie.
Next Tuesday in Audrey Liza: Jamie reflects on a memorable night and the challenge ahead.
Author’s note:
The protagonists of Audrey Liza (Jamie) and The Last Orchard (Leigh) feature occasionally in each other’s story. The stories can be read separately, and will make perfectly good sense that way. However, reading them together will add depth and contrast to the reading experience.
To give you all a feeling for how this will work, I’m sending the first three chapters of The Last Orchard free to all subscribers.
The ‘Spewcat’ was more formally called the Cat, the Lynx, the Devil Cat and the T&T Express during its short service. Wave-piercing aluminium catamarans to a world record-breaking design, their endurance exceeded that of their passengers, on the 200-nautical mile crossing of stormy Bass Strait. The current Spirit of Tasmania conventional fast ferries offer a more comfortable, if less exciting ride.
Great start to the two new stories Steve! I'm going to enjoy spending this time down in Tassie with Jamie and Leigh. And lovely photos too.