Joe takes one look, "Ah Jesus, nightmares," and kneels down, gathering his son into his arms. Another time, she thinks.
Tide Out
Very early morning, fine and mild.
("You reckon we ought to go? After last night?"
"Yeah, he's all right. Box of birds.")
The sea is mid-tide, on its way out, but flat and quiet. The water curls sleepily onto the beach, stays awhile in a flat silver sheet, and then seeps back into itself. There isn't a wave anywhere to speak of.
"Urn, has he been out in a boat since being shipwrecked?"
"No." He whispers it, reluctant to break the silence of the dawning.
"Ye gods and little fishes…."
What will we get? Pandemonium? Or he'll just be scared shitless?
She picks up a lifejacket.
"Give him that, it's smallest… this can be yours. O, and tell him he better go to the toilet now, because it's okay for pissing out there, but anything else is bloody awkward."
Joe glances at her and his eyes twinkle. He says in an ordinary voice, "Don't worry, he's already been. So've I."
"Okay…."
"Can I carry anything for you?"
"No. I'll take the rods and the bait, and you can bring him. Led, carried, or whatever."
He goes back to the bach, and Kerewin heads for the boat.
Her craft back at Whangaroa is a 36 foot converted fishing trawler, with a 100 h.p. inboard. It has a galley, bunks, and lockers, and is equipped with everything she thought useful or decorative. Radar, depth sounder, electronic compass, marine radio, chart library. She could live on board, for everything necessary is there, from the small fridge and cooker to the extraordinary shower and WE arrangement. To date, she's taken the vessel out on three fishing trips. The Aihe II is, as yet, a plaything among playthings in plenty.
The craft waiting for her at the water's edge is a 12 foot clinker-built dinghy, and it's powered by a temperamental 5 h.p. outboard. There is a splashboard at the bow, and three seats, and no gadgetry at all. As Kerewin's brothers were apt to say, there was precious little comfort either.
But the boat is as old as she is. She practically grew up in it, learned to swim from it, row in it, handle it in seas and weather of most kinds. She knows and loves every inch of the nameless little ship, from the screw gouges the motor has made on the sternboard,
to the set of grooves at the bow where she's hauled up the anchor times out of mind.
You've been taken care of, she thinks. Someone has repainted the boat during the past six years — the blue is darker than the last coat she'd given her — and one of the curved pieces of wood holding the port rowlock shaft has been neatly replaced. There's new canvas covering the lattice in her bottom, and the anchor rope is nylon now, not sisal.
But if only I could have taken you when I pinched the coffee-grinder-
She'd swap the Aihe for it, right now.
She stows the two rods under the seats, the thermos flasks in the bowlocker together with fruit and smokes and sandwiches and first aid kit. She can hear the crunch of footsteps on sand behind her, and Joe talking steadily, quietly.
"All well?" as she clambers out of the boat.
"More or less. Do you want a hand to shove off?"
"Help us get her right afloat, and then you and Sim get aboard. I'll do the rest."
The dinghy is heavy and hard to shift on land, but in the sea it's a different story. She stands, sea near the top of her boots, holding the boat steady as Joe wades to the stern carrying his son, lifts him aboard.
"Sit in the middle," says Kerewin to the child, who has squatted in the bottom as soon as he could.
"I'll sit with him." Joe climbs awkwardly over the side. The dinghy rocks and sidles, and the boy hunches his shoulders as though he's been struck.
Hell, we should leave him behind,
but she keeps her face impassive.
She pushes out hard, and in the same movement, swings herself nimbly up on the sternboard, kneeling by the motor a second before stepping onto the seat.
"You've done that a few times…" Joe has settled himself on the middle seat, holding Simon.
"Yeah, but you should have seen some of the other performances. Distinctly inelegant, to say the least… I've brought her in broadside, and nearly turned her over. Gone out on a wrong wave and ended up bum in the air, boots waving goodness knows where. Lost oars, dented her bow, bent the propeller blade on a rock I somehow didn't see. One of the neatest though," she's winding the starter cord round the motor-head, "was a time when I was half-drunk. I should never have gone out, but I wanted to check some pots," she pulls the cord and the motor sputters, but doesn't keep going, "damn." She squeezes the bulb on the petrol feedline again. "Anyway, I do this
act, get her launched, push her out — it's a sea like this, calm as a duck pond — and swing myself on board. I ended up under water. I remember thinking, 'Shoot, were'd the boat go?' as I sank." She pulls the cord again, and this time the motor spins into life. She keeps it in neutral a moment, the noise crackling round the bay as she revs it. Before she puts it in gear she adds, "They were killing themselves on shore. They could see it was all going to happen. I apparently hopped up on the stern all right, and then kind of forgot she was still moving. She cruised out from underneath me while I was still plotting where to put my feet next."
In gear, and the boat heads out past the reef for the open sea. Joe says something to Simon, and maybe to her, but she can't hear what it is above the outboard's racket, so she smiles and shrugs to him.
The dinghy is riding badly, and normally she handles well in any kind of sea. It's the weight of the Gillayleys, parked midcentre so the bow lifts high.
"Hey! Go forward!"
"What?"
Kerewin idles the motor. "The boat's out of trim. Too much weight this end. If you go forward, we'll ride that much easier eh?"
Joe glances down.
"Ah hell," she says, and switches off the motor.
She has been avoiding looking at Simon on the principle that if you ignore something unpleasant, it often goes away. If the brat's going to throw a wobbly, she doesn't want to know about it. It is awkward not to see someone a yard away, however, once your attention has been drawn to them.
The boy is huddled into himself, even though his father's arms surround him. His face is white, and his eyes are tightly closed. Presumably he thinks that if he stops looking at the sea, it might go away too.
Is he sick with the motion, with fear, or with memory? At least he's not making a fuss.
Then again, says the snark, he's inclined not to.
Afterwards, she doesn't know why she says it. She uses bits of languages a lot, but why this snippet at this time, except to preserve her hardboiled image, she really doesn't know.
"Sheeit," says Kerewin, "we'll have to go back. You can't have the bloody pauvre petit en souffrant like that," and the child's eyes snap open. They're black and blank and his face has twisted in terror. He jolts out of his father's arms as though he's been banged with a cattle prod and falls against the side of the boat. Next moment, he's spewing his heart out over the gunwales.
Joe moves almost as fast as his child. The dinghy rocks wildly as the weight shifts dangerously to one side.
She sits back hard into the opposite side of the stern, singing out oaths in a stream, for Joe to get back, for someone to tell her what on earth or heaven or hell is going on.
And all the time her busy mind, Pidgin French, M C de V, I'll bet it was Saint Clare beach, Citroen cars… I'll lay a thousand on it there's a French connection somewhere. Worldly peregrinations, was it? Why not France as well… Watching the boy hawk, then lay his head wearily against the wood, the vomiting spasm over, she thinks wryly, But I don't think I'll pursue that matter right now-