Sailmaker Page 2

  ‘We’ll go to Nancy’s for lunch. She’ll pick it up and bring it over in her station wagon. She’s been at me to meet you.’

  ‘Me?’ I’m heaps nervous. People don’t always like me first up. And being Dev’s sister makes it seem like there’s more to lose if she doesn’t. She must be the one that saw my ad in the first place and told Dev about it. Guess I owe her one.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  Nancy turns out to be a bit older than Dev – not much different to Gran really, except she’s heaps bigger. It’s the first time that I wonder if Gran’s not as old as I think she is. I get squeezed into a huge soft hug before I see it coming and can duck. No one’s ever done that before, not when they first meet me. Besides I’d never let them get away with it. Guess it’s because of Dev I let it go and I tell myself not to mind. Dev’s grinning at me, like he knows what I’m thinking. Nancy’s made real spaghetti and sauce, full of olives, anchovies and little green things that look suss. It looks heaps hard to eat. She gives me a spoon and a fork and I watch how Dev does it before I start.

  Dev’s sister sure talks a lot. She’s got black curly hair that jumps up and down and her eyes kind of pop when she gets up speed. She’d make a good auctioneer too. It’s when Dev goes out to the shed to sort through some of his stuff for Nancy to bring over that she sets in motion a tide that shows me what a sandcastle kind of life I have.

  ‘Yes, it was very timely for Dev, that ad of yours.’ And she’s patting my hand. I’m not used to all this touching. From Gran, sure, but not someone I’ve just met. Though, as I squint at her over the orange juice she gave me, I wonder if she’s my aunty now. Maybe I’ll have to put up with it.

  ‘Of course, Dev’s never been one to settle very long in one place – a year here, six months there …’

  I freeze. Somehow the juice finds its way back to the table without spilling.

  ‘There was that time he went up to Queensland – some commune in the mountains. Didn’t last long. Then he was in jail for age – oops!’

  And she stops like I mightn’t know about that, but I do. Dev told me months ago that he lost his wife and child in a bike smash – it wasn’t his fault. Nancy can tell that I know; I haven’t gasped in shock (as if I would anyway). Jumping Jehoshaphat – I can hardly think for all the other stuff she’s rattling on about.

  ‘Terrible thing that – his wife was a singer, you know … the little boy was adorable – only three.’ I wish I had flaps on my ears and could shut them. Has anyone ever called me adorable? Hope she doesn’t say his name – I don’t want to know.

  ‘Only three when it happened …’ Nancy makes it sound like a traffic accident, but I know it was worse than that – it was a biker-club war. Nancy looks sad now. Sad that her little brother can get himself in so much trouble?

  I can’t forget what she first said – that Dev never stays long in one place. He told me once he’d changed in jail – become steadier. Not everyone did, he said. I have to hang onto that, but I can’t sit here any more; I’ve been polite long enough for Dev’s sake. I mumble something about finding Dev and get out of there. Fast.

  4

  On the way home I don’t mention to Dev what Nancy said. He might say don’t be a worrywart (holy moly, are Gran’s habits rubbing off on me?), or he might say something else I won’t like. After all, nothing’s ever been set in stone about how long he will stay.

  Nancy comes a few days later and brings the windsurfer and a cardboard box for Dev. She and Gran hit it off like two lit matches and I don’t want to hang around hearing how Dev can’t settle, so I find Mei. You must have someone with you when you windsurf at the beach and I’d rather have Mei than Shawn and his taunts while I get used to the rig. Mei’s heaps happy for me, but that’s Mei.

  ‘This is so cool, Joel. Your own board and everything.’ I can tell she’s thinking Dev did a nice thing. You don’t have to tell me that. I strap the board to an old golf buggy of Grandad’s I found in the boatshed. It works well as a little trailer; I’ll even be able to tow it with my bike too. I put on the boom and the sail wrapped round the mast. I’ve checked it out – it’s pretty old, seen quite a few waves. The sail’s not too big, shouldn’t pull me over. It’s been restitched in one seam, none of that new Dakron stuff, but hey, it’s okay for a hundred and ten bucks.

  We decide to go down to the closest beach. There are rocks out on the headland but even if the sea’s not quite like a mirror today, the wind’s calm enough. It’ll be okay. Mei watches as I set up. I tell her all about it while I do it. Don’t know why but I get this thing at odd times where I have to explain everything. Mei never tells me to shut up so I guess she doesn’t mind.

  ‘You push the mast up through the sail, then the boom goes on the mast.’ I tie down the hole rope. ‘The battens go in the sail like this, to give it some shape.’ There are Velcro bits to keep them in. Then I fit the rig onto the board. It clips in. Mei hands me the dagger board and I slip it through the board so it’s sticking out a bit at the bottom. And I’m ready. Summer wetsuit on – it can get cold in the wind, especially if I fall in, which is likely with a new rig. The buoyancy jacket’s on too. Just imagine Gran if she caught me not wearing that – goodbye, windsurfing.

  I put the board in the water. I know I have to start with the wind at my back, the mast tilting in the direction I’m heading. It’s different from Shawn’s – a bit like starting fresh. I get on, wobble a bit, then pull the sail forward and climb the rope with my hands like Shawn taught me. He goes to one of those clubs at Black Point. It’s hard to keep my balance without the foot straps that I got used to on Shawn’s rig.

  Mei settles down on the sand with a pile of pebbles and pieces of smooth coloured glass. Amazing what waves do to a broken bottle that’s been thrown into the sea. She’ll be happy sorting through it all. She’s got a clear glass bowl of water in her bedroom half full of things she finds down here. Besides, she knows I’ll want to try the rig first since it’s mine. Wonder if she’ll want a turn after? I’m just getting a feel for the wind, got my hips forward, leaning back, pulling on the boom. The board skims across a wave and I go further out. I pull back some more and it goes faster; I see the wash behind, like a miniature version of when I’m out in Grandad’s boat with Dev. I grin. There’s no one there to see but it doesn’t matter.

  That’s when I decide to try tacking. Not enough wind for gybing – not that I’m good at that yet anyway. I’d most probably fall off changing sides. The first one goes okay, bit wobbly. Then I try again. I want to head back to the beach; the rocky headland’s behind me. I’ll have to zigzag, but as I lean the mast towards the back of the board, I’m not fast enough. A wave comes and I turn the board downwind. It’s a mistake; I should have turned into the wind. I get blown where I don’t want to go; the wind’s picked up and now I’m too close to the rocks. I try again, and this time I can hear Mei shouting. Bet she’s telling me what I already know. The waves are choppier here – bad move to let myself get so close in. I try to turn, shuffle round the front of the board, but it doesn’t work.

  Suddenly I lose my balance and I’ve somersaulted under the water. It’s like diving into green froth before you’re ready, and I surface, coughing. I manage to kick and keep myself off the rocks; give Mei a wave to say I’m okay. The board’s bobbing not far away and I swim for it. Then Mei’s there, helping me to pull it up as I scramble up the rock. Maybe there’s time to have another go. It sailed well before I got everything wrong.

  ‘Careful with the sail,’ I warn, but as I say it I see the tear. I try not to swear in front of Mei. Funny, six months ago I would have let all those bad words spill without a thought. A rip. How am I going to mend it? It’s Mei who reminds me about the old guy on the island. ‘Dad says old Vern Solomon used to be a sailmaker.’

  ‘What? Before he took the lease out there?’

  Mei nods, her black eyes shining. Vern Solomon does the maintenance on the island, keeps an eye on the old keepers’ houses and t
he bird sanctuary. The lighthouse is automatic, solar-powered now; no more lighthouse keepers, just Vern Solomon. We hardly see the old guy in the town. Steve Pengelly, who runs the tourist boats, takes supplies over.

  ‘Maybe Mr Pengelly would take us,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t fit the sail in a tinnie.’ Besides, taking our tinnie the two miles out there could be risky unless the sea was like glass.

  5

  I haven’t been out to the island for a while. Not since Gran and I went to see the baby penguins a year ago. The tide’s out so Mr Pengelly has to put his long boots on and pull the Shark Cat in until we reach his rusty old tractor. He puts a towrope on and the tractor winches us in to the lighthouse. There’s all this sand around it and I can see that when the tide comes in it’ll be up to the lighthouse walls. Years ago the lighthouse used to be in the middle of the island.

  Mr Pengelly’s starting to do his tourist spiel to the overseas and interstate visitors; their eyes are big and excited as they ‘ooh’ over being dragged in to the island. Like the African Queen, one old duck said, gushing all over poor Mr Pengelly. Some people are so dumb; I bet Africa is nothing like this. Mei says she was talking about a boat.

  Mei and I take the sail and hot-tail it up to the old keeper’s cottage where Vern Solomon lives. It’s unnerving knocking on the door of someone you hardly know, especially someone you’ve only heard quirky stories about. According to Gran, he’s a bit of a recluse.

  I knock on the door. We both move closer, like it’ll be better to have a united front. Don’t they do that in wars? Then I hear this clatter from inside and a voice.

  ‘Someone’s at the door, ol’ son.’ I know about guys calling their kids ‘ol’ son’. Dev does it to me sometimes. It makes me feel warm just to remember it. Then I hear another voice: ‘Yeah, Dad.’

  ‘Better see who it is, then.’

  ‘Yeah, Dad.’ The younger guy sure doesn’t sound like he wants to answer the door. Must be visiting.

  ‘Well, go on then. Open the door.’

  ‘Okay, Dad.’

  And just then the door opens. There’s this really old guy standing there in shorts and boots. He’s got a long grey beard, but you can tell it must have been ginger at one time. His eyebrows are so long they stick out like a two-piece galvanised iron verandah and underneath them he’s wearing huge brown-rimmed glasses. ‘What do you want?’ he says.

  Mei takes a step backwards which means I have to take a step forward.

  ‘W-we heard you were a sailmaker.’

  ‘So?’ He’s sure not making this easy and for some weird reason I think of Nancy and how she hugs you first off, and drags you inside. Not that I want this guy to hug me but a bit of a ‘howdy do’ wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘I wondered if you could help me fix my sail.’

  The old guy’s standing there, watching us. Mei gives me a glance; she’s thinking what I’m thinking – we shouldn’t have come.

  Then, surprise, we get to go inside. He stands aside while I try to see where the guy is who must be the son but all I can spot is a shaggy golden retriever sitting by the table. It must be old – it didn’t even come to the door to check us out. Just puts its nose down on its paws as it looks out of the corner of its eye at me, and barely moves its tail when Vern Solomon brushes its head as he walks past. ‘Okay, ol’ son,’ he murmurs. Maybe the old guy’s lost his marbles.

  He leads us through the kitchen with a two-way radio murmuring, to a room where there’s an ancient sewing machine. It looks weird, not like Gran’s. This one has a very long neck. Not only that, but it’s set into the floor. You’d have to sit down under the floorboards to use it. The old guy sees me staring.

  ‘That’s for sewing sails. Some of ‘em are too big and heavy to fit on a table. The floor’s the table, see? And you’d never get canvas to fit through the gap on an ordinary machine.’ Sails aren’t made of canvas much any more are they? Is he even going to know how to fix a windsurfing sail? Then he starts getting talkative.

  ‘This is my sail loft. In the old days that’s where sails were made. We knew how to make sails back then, heh, heh. None of this computer business. Then, you had to work out the wind velocities yourself, design ‘em so they worked. Now all they think of is speed. Speed and winning races.’

  He’s watching us as he keeps talking, like we’re a wind he has to read to know which way to tack. ‘Now the Vikings, they used wool for their sails, not cotton.’

  Vikings? How’d he jump to Vikings? Mei’s trying to be polite. ‘Wouldn’t wool have been too heavy?’ Unless she’s actually interested.

  ‘Had different sort of ships then, didn’t they? They spun and wove it before it was sewn. Sewed it with a bolt of horsehair.’

  ‘Horsehair?’ Holy moly, is he crazy or what?

  There’s something in the man’s eyes I can’t work out. Gran would call it a twinkle. Wonder if he’s taking the mickey out of us.

  ‘Horsehair was more flexible. Adjusted better to wind pressure and all. Those were the days, eh?’ I’m not so sure.

  ‘So you still make sails?’ I ask. Maybe we’ve wasted our time.

  ‘Not much any more. This is a fishing town. Just mend some of the sails for the tourists while they’re here.’

  ‘You’ve done one for Dad,’ Mei chimes in.

  ‘Have I now?’ He squints at Mei like the light is dim. ‘That’d be the trawler then. Surprised I was, that he’d use them. Thought things were changing.’

  Just then the old dog walks in – staggers, more like it.

  ‘Here, ol’ son,’ and Vern Solomon pats an old cushion down on the floor. It takes a while, but finally the dog sits down. Only half of him lands on the cushion though. He decides it’s too much effort to do it all again. ‘Olsen’s been me mate for sixteen years. Long before you were born I ‘spect.’ He only calls the dog Olsen when he’s talking about him – it’s heaps confusing. ‘Saved my life once, didn’t ya, ol’ son?’ The dog lifts his head, shows his gums. It’s like he’s grinning.

  Then Mei says, ‘We thought your son was here, Mr Solomon.’

  The old guy chuckles. ‘Did you now. By the way, me name’s Vern. Yeah, but Olsen’s like me son, see. Have to talk to someone – wouldn’t want to forget how to do it now, would I?’

  Put like that it doesn’t sound so weird.

  ‘Come on then, loft out the sail, boy … Lay it out,’ he says, when he sees I don’t understand. We put it on the floor. ‘Hmm,’ as he looks it over, ‘one of those, eh?’

  There’s a low table by the machine with tools on it. He picks up a leather thing like a glove and puts it on his hand. He sees us staring. ‘This is what I always used. It’s called a palm. See?’ We look and there’s even a part where the needle can hit and it won’t hurt your hand, like Gran’s thimble. Then he gets these huge scissors and cuts off a length of black Dakron. Never thought he’d have modern stuff like that. I check out the gear on the table – a magnifying glass (hope he can see okay), a hook that looks like something you’d catch a baby shark with, an old spoon, a ruler and a thick pencil.

  ‘This is the only way to mend these sails, boy. We’ll stick a bit of this on.’ He sits while he’s peeling the paper off the back. ‘And then we’ll stitch over the top. It should fix it for a while.’ I don’t like the sound of his ‘a while’. And besides, wouldn’t superglue be easier? He puts the strip down where the rip is, just like the tape Dev uses on old wires, then he takes this long needle out of an ancient tin with oil in it, wipes it on his trousers, threads it with the thickest black thread I’ve even seen and starts to stitch. He’s sure done this bit before.

  He invites us to sit on the floor and I suddenly wonder about payment. Mr Pengelly let us on his boat because we’re local and he knows us but I can’t expect everyone to do things for nothing and I wonder how I’m going to bring it up. Wish I could think of things beforehand.

  ‘Um …’ I say, but it’s like he knows. He glances across at me. It’s hard to tell because of th
e beard all over his mouth, but I think he’s smiling; his beard moves a fraction.

  ‘This is just a little job. You come and visit me again. Next time you get a rip I’ll show you how to do it, eh?’ Does that mean he doesn’t want payment? The payment is the visit? Mei’s nodding and saying thank you.

  ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ he asks as he breaks the thread in his teeth. I wonder how he does that; it looks as strong as fishing line. The sail sure doesn’t look like the princess of sails, but hey, it’ll still take the wind.

  It’s when we’re drinking the tea in the kitchen, Olsen finally under the table, that the old sailmaker tells us about the ghost.

  6

  ‘Ghost?’ Mei’s horrified, I can tell. Gran’s never been one for ghosts; guess I’m not either. Vern’s enjoying Mei’s reaction.

  ‘Yeah. He’s been real quiet for years – just a clang up the lighthouse stairs every now and then – but lately,’ he shakes his head, ‘I’ve heard him at night – here – in the kitchen. Rustling.’ It’s like Vern’s voice is rustling too and he leans closer; so does Mei.

  ‘Rats?’ I say, before I think how they’d get on an island.

  ‘Bigger noises than rats, me boy.’

  I glance across at Olsen. Maybe he gets in the kitchen at night. Vern sees me. ‘Olsen sleeps with me, don’t you, ol’ son?’ Olsen gives his tail a weary lift. ‘He’s too tired to make noises in the night.’

  Or to chase ghosts, I bet.

  The pupils in Mei’s eyes are huge. I can’t tell where they finish and the other part starts. ‘So what do you do?’ she asks.

  ‘I came out and looked one night. Nothin’ ’ere. Can’t see ghosts. They just move things around.’

  ‘Why?’ This is stupid and it’s scaring Mei.

  ‘How do I know? I’m not a ghost …’ he chuckles and coughs before he says the last word, ‘yet.’