There’s always one, on every work site. The Awkward Bastard.
The guy who bangs his door extra loud when he leaves for his shift. He’s got to work, so why should you sleep? The guy who looks straight through you when you say ‘G’day’ in the canteen. The guy for whom every little thing you need seems to be too much trouble.
Jamie thought of himself as a friendly bloke. Not in-your-face friendly, but easygoing and unassuming. He didn’t like being disliked.
Sometimes though, you just had to accept the clash of personalities, and that was that. If you could ignore the Awkward Bastard and get on with the contract, then move along with your life, well, that was fine.
The difficulty came when you had to work closely together. When the clash got in the way of the job.
His first impression of Stan hadn’t been a good one, but he’d tried to keep an open mind. More than that. He’d bent over backwards to get along with the bloke, ignoring the sour looks and the passive-aggressive responses.
‘He’s not here. Dunno when he’ll be back.’
‘The boss can’t be running after you, you know.’
‘That’s not part of the schedule of work.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
‘We’ll see.’
Ripping a strip off Lex, when the young lass was just trying to show Jamie how to check that the hull was fair, proud of what she’d learned as a second-year apprentice.
‘Lex! Finished your own work, have you? No? Well, then …’
He understood that Stan, as the yard foreman, was in charge of timekeeping and schedules and allocation of resources, and was protective of his boss. But jeez. It was the tone as much as anything.
That humourless laugh, when you hadn’t said anything funny, as far as you knew.
He tried inviting Stan for a beer after work. Got that laugh.
As it turned out, though, that wasn’t the last of it.
It would have been a week after the knockback. It was Friday arvo and time for the workers to down tools and tidy up. Jamie was still absorbed in his sanding, resigned to working on alone, into the night in the quiet shed. Like most nights.
‘Got time for that drink now, Jamie. If you can fit me into your busy schedule.’
Ignore the tone, mate. Ignore the tone.
‘Sure. Kermandie?’
The Kermandie Hotel was in the heart of Port Huon, on the waterfront. It was a bit posh for two sweaty old blokes with paint-spattered shoes and sawdust under their collars. But it was all there was, and it was prepared to tolerate them.
‘So, Stan, cards on the table,’ said Jamie, after they’d cracked their second stubbies and had run out of safe topics to talk about.
‘Eh?’
‘Have I said or done something to piss you off?’
Silence. Stan sucked on his beer, seemed not to have heard. Conversations and laughter all around. Jamie was on the verge of asking again. Then:
‘I don’t like to see customers taking the piss, Jamie.’
‘Taking the piss? That’s a bit offensive, mate.’
‘I don’t know what else to call it, mate.’
‘Please explain.’
‘You’re prepared to spend two months scraping, decaulking and fairing the hull of your boat, while living in a shoebox on wheels … so it’s not that you lack commitment, or are afraid of hard yakka. You pay your way – as far as it goes. For space in the shed, labour and materials. Not for treating the yard as a caravan park, which is actually contravening OH&S and our zoning, but it’s what you agreed with Doc and we’ll let that one pass …’
‘Thanks. Do go on.’
‘When it comes to learning the basics of seamanship, though, you think Doc’s going to spoon feed you what you need to know. In his spare time. For free.’
Ah. A simple case of jealousy, then.
‘I never asked him to.’
‘He doesn’t want you to kill yourself. Or wreck your boat.’
‘It’s his choice, Stan. To spend time with me away from the job. We’ve become mates.’
‘Mates!? You’re just a punter.’
That’s putting me in my place. Onya, champ.
They sucked on their beers in silence. Looked at the footy on the screen over the bar. Hawthorn vs Port Adelaide. Hawks were getting thumped.
That’s it, then?
Jamie was thinking about making tracks, setting out on the forty-minute walk back to the yard, when Stan suddenly jerked back to life.
‘He’s a fool to himself. He can’t afford the time,’ he blurted. Then, in a quieter voice, leaning in: ‘The yard’s barely breaking even. Three generations it’s been in the Doherty family. Founded by his grandpa. And he’s in danger of losing it. Same again, Baz.’
This last was directed at the barman. Jamie hadn’t finished his second yet: Stan was on a roll. More beers. More silence. More glum staring at a game neither of them gave two shits about.
‘What are you suggesting I do about it, then? Give him the cold shoulder, when he’s trying to be friendly?’
He’s the only friend I’ve got here, after all. We are mates.
‘Go and do a course. Lots of courses. Boat handling. Pilotage. Navigation. Passage planning. Comms …’ Stan counted off the items on his fingers. ‘The fucking COLREGs. Safety at sea. You know nothing about any of those. Nothing. Have you even got your HF licence? Have you fuck.’
‘I’m not much of a one for book learning. Or courses. Reckon I’ll pick it up as I go.’
‘Pick it up as you go? You daft bastard. You’ll toddle off into the D’Entrecasteaux Channel slap-bang into a sou’westerly, then a chopper’ll have to turn out and winch you off your boat. At the taxpayer’s expense. The Audrey Liza will end up as salvage or firewood.’
‘What exactly is your problem with me, Stan?’
‘Lack of respect.’
‘Eh?’
‘Your attitude is simply fucking disrespectful. Disrespectful to the sea and the men who’ve worked their lives on it. Often lost them, too. Disrespectful to your boat. Disrespectful to your family, friends – everyone who’ll grieve when you drown your stupid self.’
‘I don’t know where you’re getting that from.’
‘I’ve explained it to you as best I can. You think you can play at this.’
‘It is play for me. I’ve worked my arse off, all my adult life. Don’t smirk, I really have. Built a home for my family, put the kids through school, through uni; helped my wife to follow her dream. Much thanks I got for that in the end. I haven’t got enough left to buy another house – not anywhere I’d want to live. And I’m tired. So bloody tired. So I’m doing this. And along comes a miserable bastard like you and wants to suck all the joy out of this, too, just because I’m not a professional fucking mariner.’
Stan dismissed all that with a wave of his right hand. Knocked his bottle into the drip tray behind the bar. Baz put it back with a nigh-imperceptible shake of his head.
‘Go an’ do a Yachtmaster. Three months. Two thousand miles at sea. I mean, Yachtmaster skippers are wankers, but at least they know enough to know they don’t know nothing.’
Jamie could see Stan reviewing that last pearl of wisdom, wondering himself whether it made sense.
‘Have you not been listening, Stan? Do you not have eyes in your big boof head? Look at me. Not exactly a spring lamb, am I? My knees are rooted and I hear myself wheezing sometimes when I tie my shoelaces and I think “Fuck.” My eyesight’s buggered and my hearing isn’t what it was, either. How many more good years do you reckon I’ve got in me? Ten? Fifteen?’
‘Tops.’
‘Yeah, thanks for that.’
Stan grinned. This time he looked genuinely amused. He nodded to the barman. ‘Two more, Baz … Yeah, we’ll get a cab, alright?’
Baz’s lips pursed, but he set them up.
‘So I haven’t got the time or the money to go off doing courses,’ Jamie continued, ‘and what time and money I do have, I want to spend on the Audrey Liza, not on some arsewipe piece of paper from a poncey bloody yacht school.’
He was getting riled now. Must be the beer.
‘It’s the best advice I can give you, other than start fifty years ago.’
‘I would’ve. My dad was a crayman. I should’ve followed him, learned the trade, taken over the boat one day, but it was taken out of my hands. Went to work in the mines instead.’
‘Yeah, well then I’m sorry, Jamie mate, but that ship has sailed.’ He smirked into his beer at his own pun.
‘No it fucking well hasn’t.’
‘He hasn’t got time.’
‘You keep on saying that. Doc’s a big boy now. He can make his own decisions.’
Stan sighed.
‘Annie’s got dementia,’ he muttered, staring up at the TV screen. ‘Early onset Alzheimer’s, they reckon.’
‘Oh, fuck.’
Jamie woke up wishing he hadn’t.
His throat was parched, yet drool dripped from the three-day growth of beard on his cheek. They’d only had four beers. Maybe five. When he sat up, there were little sparkly things in the air. Twinkling. As they faded, he became aware of the vice his head was clamped in.
Then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniels in the little campervan’s sink. The empty bottle. The two tumblers on the bench. And remembered.
The hot, black coffee smelled wonderful, and the mug felt comforting between his fingers, as he sat on the step of his van. Cormorants were perched on the posts of the pier, trying to catch some warmth from the chilly morning sun.
He needed to get away for a couple of days. The weekend. Process last night’s conversation.
He also needed company.
The woman from the ferry came back to him. Leigh Something-Frenchy-with-a-P.
He found her in his phone. Pelletier.
Wonder what she’s up to, after all this time? Four weeks. Probably back in Melbourne. Damn. Meant to keep in touch, would have liked to see her again. Would have been interesting to see her orchard. Damn, damn.
He typed out a text anyway, laboriously. (Where were his reading glasses?)
Leigh are you still in Tassie
Jamie from the boat
Sooner than he expected, a reply:
Yes! I’m still here. You?
He started to type again, screwing his eyes up, forcing them to focus.
What the hell? Just call her.
She answered immediately. Her voice sounded crackly and far away.
‘Hello, Jamie! How are you? I was wondering how you were getting on, and feeling bad about not getting in touch, but you know how it is, when you’re engrossed in a project the time just flies and I’ve been sooo engrossed here, you wouldn’t believe. And the house! Oh, God, the house … Oh, but you must tell me your news.’
‘Yeah, uh, could we do this in person, as in, face-to-face?’ he croaked. ‘Not quite with it yet.’
So why did you not wait? Phone her later, after a shower and some breakfast?
‘Meet up? Yes, of course. That would be lovely. What – when do you have in mind?’
‘Uh, now? Ish? Say, an hour? Two? About ten o’clock?’
Was he even safe to drive?
‘Oh, I’m really not … I mean, well …’ She sounded flustered.
‘Sorry, sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Later then, or another day?’
‘No, no, it’s fine, come now. That is, you wanted to come here? Maybe not. I just assumed …’
‘Yes, Leigh, I’d like to see your orchard. Now.’
‘Well, come then. Good. Lovely.’
‘But I don’t have the address.’
‘No … I’ll send it to you.’
‘Great.’
‘Be prepared, though. It’s wild up here. You won’t get reception much past the Judbury bridge. Text or call me when you get to the bridge, and I’ll come down the drive to meet you.’
‘No reception. Then how are you … ?’
‘Satellite phone. Iridium. Didn’t you notice the number?’
‘Ah. No. Will this call cost me an arm and a leg, then?’
‘Probably.’
Coming up:
This Friday in The Last Orchard: Leigh feels oppressed by the enormity of the task she has taken on. (Paid subscription.)
Next Tuesday in Audrey Liza: Jamie gets the grand tour of Leigh’s orchard, and puts a bold question to her.
The footy? lol. Never heard soccer called that before. I have to learn to speak Australian, eh?