A Yacht Called Erewhon (13 page)

‘Might have to this time, dear. I might want to do it all, but I haven’t got the strength like these young fellas. There will be plenty of the small fiddly bits for me, though,’ he continued, with glee.

‘Well, it’s up to you, Sam Baverstock. I won’t stand in your way.’

Sam turned and covertly gave me the thumbs-up.

‘Does that mean you’ll be moving into the cottage?’

Sam nodded and Millie beamed. ‘We’ll have to give the landlord a couple of weeks’ notice, but that will give us time to pack.’

Millie walked back by herself to the cottage to sit and dream in the swing-seat, and was soon fast asleep.

Sam stayed in the barn and ran his expert eyes over the hull. ‘Lot of work here, lad, lot of work.’ He reached into his coat pocket and produced his pipe. Leaning down, he banged it on his heel, and the black soot fell on the ground. He reached back into his pocket, produced a penknife and, without taking his eyes off
Erewhon
, scraped the bowl clean. He reached into his other pocket, produced a battered tobacco tin, and stuffed the bowl full. The aroma of freshly lit tobacco filled the barn. We entered through the hole, and Sam eyed every nook and cranny. Dad and I had rigged lights right through the interior, and the old varnish-work glistened.

Sam opened one of the cupboards. ‘Here, lad, stick your head in and tell me what you see on the back of this panel.’

I looked inside and found something carved into the woodwork. I dived out to the workbench, picked up a torch, and returned to the cupboard. There were three sets of initials: JD, CW and SB.

‘Well, the SB must be you, but what about the others?’

‘John Baldock and Ces Williamson were the other two apprentices on the
Erewhon.
Both copped it during the war. Bloody waste of good lives! They were superb boatbuilders and decent blokes to boot. We carved our initials in there about a week before
Erewhon
was launched. Jack would have killed us if he’d known, but in hindsight it serves as a fitting memorial
to two fine young men who will never grow old.’

‘What about you, Sam?’ I asked. ‘Did you go to the war?’

‘Yep, lad, all three of us joined together—the big adventure. Young and bloody stupid, we were. The two of them copped it in the withdrawal from Crete, both on the same day. I must have been the lucky one, but I didn’t feel it on the day. Well, lad, you better take us home. Mill is exhausted.’

I followed him down the path to the cottage. Mum and Mic were walking in our direction as we sat down, and Sam tried to regain his feet.

‘Hello, Mrs Standish,’ he said, as he raised his hand to tip his hat.

‘It’s Jenny, Sam, and don’t stand. How does your wife like the house?’

‘It didn’t require much selling,’ he replied. ‘She was born and bred here. Her father built this cottage, and she was born on the kitchen table.’

Millie stirred, as we chuckled about the coincidence, and came to with a smile. ‘Well, look at me. I must have dozed off for a minute.’

‘More like an hour, old girl!’ Sam chimed in. ‘Now wake up and meet Jenny and Miss—’

Mum hastily stepped over, took her hand, and sat beside Millie on the swing-seat.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Millie, but I can’t believe you were born in this cottage. Is it really true?’

‘I was, but it was a very long time ago.’

Millie looked at Mic and smiled.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Millie,’ Mum continued. ‘This is Mic. She’s a very dear friend of the family and she’s staying with us for a while.’

Mic smiled and shook Millie’s hand.

‘If you are talking of coincidences,’ Sam chimed in, ‘Mic
here is the spitting image of Miss McAlister, the daughter of the original owner of
Erewhon.
She even has the same nickname.’

‘Who’s for another coffee?’ I said, trying to divert the conversation.

‘I’ll make it,’ said Mum, as she dived into the cottage.

Millie chuckled. ‘I think I am going to like living here.’

‘It’s settled then? We’re moving in?’ Sam asked.

‘Yes, dear, we need to go home and get started on the packing!’

Two weeks later, Millie was placing a small posy of flowers on the table, now covered with a neatly ironed, starched white tablecloth. She was humming along to music from her old mantle radio, and enjoying the warm morning sun that streamed through the lace-curtained kitchen window.

Sam had been up and cooked breakfast at six o’clock and was already in the barn, looking over the hull.

A soft knock at the door caught Millie’s attention, and she opened it to find Mum and Mic, armed with fresh scones to welcome her.

Millie beckoned them inside and had the kettle on in a flash.

‘I’m going to love it here!’ she said, as she poured the tea.

Mic sipped the fresh brew and smiled. ‘This tea is wonderful, Millie. My great-grandfather would have approved. He was in the tea industry.’

‘Your great-grandfather was in the tea industry, too?’ she asked. ‘Just like the chap who owned the
Erewhon
?’

‘Yes, my great-grandfather
was
the owner of
Erewhon
.’

Millie was now completely confused. ‘Did your great-grandfather remarry later in life?’

‘No, I wish that he had, but I believe he died a lonely old hermit.’

Millie frowned. ‘Then who—’

Mum jumped in and filled some of the gaps as Millie listened intently.

She sat back in her chair. ‘You’d better not tell Sam about this just yet. He’s always believed Miss McAlister died that day.’

Mic smiled. ‘He’s not the only one.’

S
am and Dad surveyed the hull, the old man with a notebook in his hand and a pencil at the ready. ‘What do you reckon? Do you think we can repair her?’ Dad asked.

‘They put a man on the moon back in ‘69, so anything is possible. We’ve got a little work to do between now and when she floats down the harbour, though!’

Dad smiled. He liked Sam’s dry sense of humour. ‘Where do we start?’

‘We’ll have to strip all the broken and rotting planks off the hull, and that hole is our major concern. Once we get all the rubbish out of the way, we’ll be better able to judge what needs to be done.’

Dad’s arm was still in plaster, and he was supposed to have it in plaster and then a sling for at least six more weeks, but that wasn’t stopping him. ‘Let’s do it!’ he said, as he reached for a hammer.

‘Whoa, young fella!’ Sam yelled. ‘I want all the planks I can save. I can use them as patterns for the new ones.’

‘Sorry, Sam, it’s just that I’ve taken two weeks off to get you started, and I’m keen to make a move.’

‘A little bird tells me the two weeks is supposed to be time for your arm to get a decent rest.’

‘The arm’s OK. It just needs exercise!’ Dad replied.

Sam looked at Dad over the top of the notebook. ‘Take an old fool’s advice, laddy: take time now for your arm to heal
properly, or you’ll regret it in later life.’

Dad stepped back and was about to reply, when he looked at Sam’s face. Sam didn’t need to say another word. ‘We’ll number the planks from the gunwale to the keel stub. Now that’s your job,’ he continued, as he handed a marker pen to his helper.

‘Yes, boss!’ Dad replied with a cheeky grin.

‘I’ll start drilling the copper fastenings. It’ll come apart like a giant jigsaw.’

And so the restoration began. Over the next week, the outer planking on the port side was stripped and carefully stacked. The diagonal layers around the hole were peeled away to reveal the ribs and frames underneath. The timber was in remarkable condition.

Sam was in his element and, while not moving as quickly as he used to, still had a spring in his step. Once the planking was stripped back, Sam and Dad sat down to work out what timber they would need.

‘Where are we going to find enough kauri to repair the old lady?’ Sam mused. ‘To do it properly, the outer skin needs to be in one-piece planks with no joints or scarves.’

‘What do you mean, Sam, by one-piece?’

‘Those planks near the gunwale are 140 feet long, and Jack was adamant when she was built that they mustn’t have a joint in them.’

Dad sucked through his teeth. ‘Didn’t know that. We’ll just have to find some 140-foot lengths of kauri, won’t we?’

‘And just where do you think you’re going to find kauri of that length? I haven’t seen any since Jack had the original log milled when we built this thing.’

‘Easy. I’ll get Fatman onto it!’

It was Sam’s turn to suck through his teeth. ‘I wish him luck.’

‘Do you want fries with that, Bollocks?’ Hepi replied, when Dad phoned through Sam’s request. ‘Or maybe a bag of frog’s feathers?’

Dad laid down the challenge. ‘Listen, Fatman, I don’t want any crap—just get me the bloody timber! Sam reckons you won’t find any.’

‘This’ll cost you more than a couple of beers, Bollocks.’

Hepi walked out into the yard, searching the depths of his memory. He’d seen kauri in the lengths Jim wanted, but couldn’t remember where. He wandered over into the shade of an old lean-to and sat down on a pile of wood, still thinking hard.

After a few minutes, he decided he had better things to be doing with his time, and slid forward, only to feel a sharp pain in his rear. A splinter had embedded itself firmly in his buttock, and as he stood up it snapped off, leaving a large piece protruding. He dropped his shorts and, with some difficulty and not a little pain, extracted the offending object. He held it up at eye level, swore at it, and threw it away. The instant he let it go, he wanted to take another look at it and took a step forward, only to remember, too late, that his shorts were still around his ankles. He toppled and fell on his face. Swearing profusely, he stood up, hoisted his shorts over his copious belly, and found himself face-to-face with the pile of old timber. Not just old timber, old beams. Very old beams and very long…

The baulks were kauri. He raced over to his shed, hunted out his longest tape, and hobbled back to measure the beams. When the tape ran out at 100 feet, he scratched a mark on the
ground, wound the tape up to forty feet, and kept on walking the length of the pile. The tape exceeded some of the beams, but at the bottom of the stack three beams exceeded the tape by two or three feet.

He walked back to the shed and dialled Jim’s cellphone. ‘Where do you want this bloody timber?’

‘I’ll be buggered,’ Dad said. ‘How long are they?’

‘The longest is about 145 feet, and the rest are close.’

‘Where the hell did they come from?’

‘Remember about thirty years ago we pulled down the old Dingdale building? I saved them from there. I thought we might need them.’

‘Are they sound?’

Sam butted in. ‘Sound, laddie? That’s heart kauri. We’ll mill the outer couple of inches off each beam to eliminate any old nails and cracks, and the centres will give us more than enough planking for the repairs.’

Dad sat back down. ‘Fatman, your blood’s worth bottling!’

‘Speaking of blood, I’ve lost heaps and it needs topping up. It’s your shout at the Rose ‘n’ Anchor.’

After a hearty breakfast of the previous night’s leftovers and two mugs of tea, Sam gave Millie a peck on the cheek and headed off to the barn. Dad was coming down the path and could see that Sam was under the weather. ‘No need to ask how you’re feeling,’ he chuckled.

Sam grunted. ‘How much did we drink last night, and how did we get home?’

‘Did you get into trouble?’

‘I think so. I got last night’s dinner for breakfast.’

‘The boys picked us up. Don’t you remember?’

‘All I remember is going with you and Hepi to the Rose ‘n’ Anchor for a quick one. Next thing, I’m eating cold pork chops for breakfast. I’m too bloody old for that lark!’

The morning peace was shattered as a large truck and trailer ground its way up the drive. The engine roared as the driver wheeled the rig around in front of the barn. The brakes hissed as he stopped, and the cab door swung open. Two huge boots hit the ground, followed by short gnarled legs attached to a big beer-belly that seemed to make up the larger part of Max Green, cartage contractor.

‘How are ya?’ he said, as he walked over to Dad.

Dad clasped the sweaty paw, returning his greeting.

‘Where do you want them?’ Max asked, nodding towards his load.

‘Reckon you could swing them alongside the barn over there?’ Dad replied. ‘Old Chisel Crookshank can set his mill up ahead of them and run the planks from there.’

‘Bloody long planks! What the hell are you building?’ Max asked.

‘Rebuilding!’ Dad corrected him. ‘Come and have a look.’

Max blinked as he entered the semi-dark barn. ‘Well I’ll be!’ he exclaimed, when his eyes adjusted. ‘That’s the bloody
Erewhon
!’

‘Yep,’ Dad replied.

‘I thought she went to the bottom years ago. My old man was really upset when he heard she’d sunk. Where did you find her?’

As Dad explained, Max became more animated. ‘I’ve got a compass at home my old man reckoned came from her. He bought it off a Maori fella in a pub up north. The bloke
reckoned he’d found it washed up on a beach. He obviously didn’t know its true value, because Dad bought it for a dozen beer! Would you like it? I inherited it, and it’s just sitting in my shed gathering dust. I haven’t had the heart to get rid of it, because I know how much Dad loved
Erewhon.
I’m sure he’d be happy to see it back where it belongs.’

It didn’t take Dad long to accept, and as Max climbed back into the cab he yelled to Dad that he’d drop the compass off the next time he was passing.

Sam had covers over the timber in a flash, then disappeared into the barn to erect racks for the milled planks. Dad joined him. ‘I’ve got to go back to work next week. We need to think about getting some help for you. How many hands do you want?’

Sam picked up his pipe. ‘That depends on how quickly you want her floating,’ he replied. ‘If you’re in a hurry’—he paused as he lit the bowl—‘I’d need quite a few, but if you leave it to me and can afford the time, I could do it on my own, with a boy.’

‘Which way do you want to go?’ Dad asked, knowing the answer.

‘Well,’ replied Sam, sucking on his pipe and blowing a large cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth. ‘I don’t want anyone else working on my boat. I’d like the opportunity to train another boy while I can, if you find a suitable lad.’

Dad chuckled. ‘OK, at your pace, and I’ll look around for a suitable apprentice. Now let’s get back to work while I’m still available.’

I roared up the drive that night, threw my briefcase through the door, and raced out to the barn. Sam and Dad were nowhere
to be seen, but the pile of planking was growing against the wall. They’d even started stripping the underneath diagonals from around the hole, exposing the broken stringers and frames. I was intrigued to see how the planking fitted together, wondering how many hours had been spent on each plank to make it fit.

I’d been working since soon after returning home from the Waiora, and it was a relief to get out into the barn among the tools, shavings, sawdust, fresh-cut timber, and aroma of glue. I’d been accepted as a junior executive with a property development company, a job I’d always thought I’d enjoy, but I was quickly becoming disenchanted with the office politics. Being the junior, I knew all too well that I had to keep my mouth shut, but today had been particularly bad.

Sam wandered in, smoke billowing from his pipe. ‘Gidday, young fella, how was it?’

‘Don’t ask, Sam.’

Sam smiled and looked at his tools on the bench. ‘Help me put these away,’ he said, pulling out an oily rag and wiping each tool before tucking it neatly into its place in his tool-chest.

‘Do you do this every night?’ I asked, as I ran the cloth over the saw.

‘These are my lifeblood, and without them I couldn’t work. I’ve had most of them since my apprenticeship, and when you spend three weeks’ wages on each one you learn to look after them.’

His tool-chest had been purpose-made and, although old, like Sam’s tools, was in perfect condition. The lid was inlaid with what looked like the outline of
Erewhon.
I ran my hand over it to brush off the day’s dust.

‘That was my first job,’ Sam said, ‘building my tool-chest. Old Alf Slattery, one of the builders on the
Erewhon
, stood over me while I made it. The grumpy old bastard used to give me
a crack across the knuckles with his three-foot rule if he saw me doing something he didn’t like. Needless to say, building my box was a very painful experience, and I’ve kept it as a reminder to do things correctly. But let’s see if Millie’s got the kettle on. I’d offer you a beer, but after last night…’

I laughed and followed him along the path.

‘Hello, Ben,’ said Millie. ‘Where did you find this old reprobate?’ She poured the steaming water into the teapot.

‘Oh, he was hanging around the barn,’ I replied, with a chuckle.

Millie looked at Sam. ‘If he comes home again like he did last night, he’ll be hanging around in the barn a lot more! I’m surprised at your father for encouraging him.’

The tea by now was brewed and poured out, and there was a plate of fresh pikelets on the table. ‘Don’t eat too many, or you’ll spoil your dinner,’ she insisted.

Sam, who by now was sitting back in his chair sipping his tea, lifted his eyes from the table. ‘Not enjoying your job then, lad?’ he asked, trying to get himself back in the conversation.

He’d caught me by surprise. ‘It’s just all the bullshit—oh sorry, Millie, I mean nonsense—that gets to me.’

‘I’ve been talking to your old man about getting an apprentice to help me with
Erewhon
, and I was wondering if you would be interested?’

I sat back in the chair.

‘Don’t answer now, lad. Go home and talk it through with your dad and mum.’

‘I don’t know if Mum’ll be too keen—she always wanted me to be a brain surgeon. She reckoned it took her twenty years to get Dad into a collar and tie, and as far as she’s concerned that’s where Matt and I are going to start.’

Millie chuckled. ‘I never won that round with Sam. He reckons collars and ties are for weddings and funerals.’

I laughed and picked up the last two pikelets. ‘Thanks, Millie. I’d better go and see what’s for dinner.’ I turned back to Sam. ‘I’ll think about it and let you know in the morning.’ I reached out and shook his gnarled hand.

My mind was racing as I walked up the path to the house. Excitement and trepidation fought each other as I neared the patio. The chance to learn the boatbuilding trade from a master craftsman certainly had appeal, but what would Mum and Dad think of my career path? Was there, in fact, a career path? I needed time to think this one out.

I woke up early the next morning, flicked on my computer, and typed my letter of resignation. Even if Sam hadn’t made the offer, I knew it was only a matter of time before I would have been writing the letter anyway.

As I walked down the path, I could hear noises coming from the barn. It was only seven-thirty, but Sam was already beavering away. When I told him my news, he took the time to stop and reload his pipe. I was to learn over the coming months that Sam’s pipe was a good barometer for his mood. If he stopped to fill it, he was happy. If he snuffed it out and put it in his pocket, he didn’t want to be interrupted. If he threw it down on the bench, it was time to keep out of his way.