Deep Water Junk

By Wendy Willett

Cilla dumps her fiancé, Matt, and his well-heeled lifestyle to tackle a new future aboard Tindarra, a boat she buys on time-payment. Romance for her will be the Chinese junk sail she plans to sew for her new home.
Matt scoffs and tries to spoil her independence but during her first sail a three-masted junk crosses her path and she makes a tactical error that has far-reaching consequences for that independence.
Sheltered water sailing is the way Cilla wants her boating – that is non-negotiable. Deep water scares her witless. Has it not stolen people she loved?
Why then has she fallen in love with Jim, an architect who loves the ocean and sails it for pleasure and business? She won’t compromise with a partnership that doesn’t involve sharing one hundred percent, and the sea is a no-no.
Jim has reservations too, for a serious relationship would spoil his lifestyle, and yet this petite girl has grabbed his heart. He knows she fears open water and wishes she would accept his help to beat her demons. To win his angel-sprite must he give up all else he loves?
These are star-crossed lovers indeed, and the sea cares no more than the stars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543405736

Wendy Willett

Wendy Willett’s childhood dream to write came to fruition when she and her husband moved to a Queensland island after selling the three-masted Chinese junk they built in New Zealand and called home for many years. Following publication of several short stories and poems, Wendy wrote her novel Chin Up! telling of a young girl’s struggles to cope with the progression of her great-aunt’s Alzheimers Disease which, she feared, would put them both in State care. Deep Water Junk is her first marine novel, finished whilst living with her husband and feline crew on a junk-rigged catamaran.

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Copyright © 2018 by Wendy Willett.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/17/2019

Xlibris

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www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

DEDICATION

In memory of my lovely sister, Susan, who also knew boats like these but did not live to read this story.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to give thanks for, and acknowledge, the endless support of my husband Michael. His help has been essential in keeping the boating side of this story accurate and any errors I have made in things nautical are wholly my own.

My interest in junk rigged boats has been nurtured not only by Michael and our shared boating experiences, but also by the Junk Rig Association, a world-wide organization for junk nuts like us. I would like to acknowledge all the volunteers that make this resource so wonderful.

I also wish to thank author Louise Cusack for her many and detailed comments early in the writing process, and both the Russell Island Writers Circle and Macleay Island Writers Group for their early encouragement.

Writing a novel is a lonesome but exciting journey and people like these scatter welcome flowers along the way.

If someone cares not for the pace set by their companions, let them groove to the swing of their own music.

Felicity Dunbar

CHAPTER 1

Get that blasted cat out of here, Priscilla.

Matt swayed as he swung his foot at the dark bundle of fur that bared its teeth at him.

"No!" Cilla threw her glass of water in the direction of the tabletop and dived for Spag. The splintering of glass and splashes on her legs told her the glass missed.

Ahead of her outstretched fingers Matt’s black shoe connected with her tiny flatmate’s chest and lifted him off the floor out of her reach. Yowling furiously, Spag flew over a chair and slammed into the fridge with a thump that turned Cilla’s muscles into stone for a long second.

A nightmare, surely just a nightmare. But Spag’s mew of pain said it wasn’t.

Spag? My little Spaggy? She scrambled to her feet and rushed to his comatose body. Don’t move him, something could be broken. She crouched and stroked him ever so gently. Spaggy-boy, I’m sorry. Please be alright. Pleeease.

He’d only ever suffered from fleabites before this. What should she do? Why didn’t she do a first aid course? Would one help with animals?

As she stroked along his extended front paw it twitched and his eyes opened, then he rolled upright and shook his head, swaying a little. Careful little fella.

Under her steadying hand she felt his fur lift. With his gaze fixed over her left shoulder he began a low growl that rapidly rose to a harsh rattle. Cilla heard Matt step closer and Spag switched to a venomous hiss that sounded like a snake crossed with a chainsaw.

Ha. Stupid animal. That’ll teach him.

Matt’s scorn sent a flame through her heart and she leapt to her feet. He’d taken his suit jacket off and slung it on the bench but his tie sprawled on the floor. An anger she’d never felt before seared through her veins. She grabbed a ragged breath and launched herself at him.

You, you drunken beast. Pick on someone your own size. She beat his chest with her fists, scared of her audacity but unable to stop herself. Spag’s angry ’cos you yelled at me. What do you expect?

He grabbed her leading fist, his rum-laden breath hot in her face. Some respect from both of you. He swung his other hand and hit her across the face, wrenching her neck and ramming the post of her earring into the flesh behind her ear.

She stifled a whimper and tried to pull away but he tightened his hold, using both hands to drag her close.

Ugly with anger and drink, Matt bellowed, Now listen up, woman. If I want you to make me coffee and toasted cheese at one in the morning you’ll do it. You’ll do what you’re told. He shook her till her head rolled and she bit her tongue. If I want you to paint the bedroom blue while I’m at the conference, you’ll do that too. Shake, shake, shake. Just because you’ll be waking there when we’re married doesn’t mean you’ll add a yellow stripe or an apricot curlicue to brighten things up. You’re too flighty as it is. Shake, shake, shake. Just do what you’re told, when you’re told, and get rid of that blasted animal before I do it for you.

He shoved her away and she staggered against a chair which crashed to the floor. Covering her face with her hands she registered one over-warm cheek and one burning cheek. She tried to shake her head but her neck hurt. No. No Matt, I can’t. Spag’s my –

Through her fingers she saw him step forward, his hand a fist this time. She ducked under the blow, for once glad of her small stature, and ran out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind her. Matt’s fist thumped the door a moment later and she heard the timber splinter.

With a low moan she sank onto the toilet lid and rocked herself back and forth as tears – no, they couldn’t be tears, she didn’t do tears – as moisture trickled down her cheeks.

What had got into him lately? He always behaved as if he owned her, but not like this. His aggressive behaviour only started this year and the physical violence seemed to be ramping up all the time. Now she’d have to get the door fixed before her landlady made her next inspection.

If only she’d made him his coffee and toast, but last night had been a late night too, and then there’d been that noisy party next door the night before that. Bushed, that’s how she felt, and achingly tired. But he didn’t care. Matt only cared about Matt nowadays.

This hate session between him and Spag wasn’t new, but they’d kept it to a dull rumble to please her – well, until recently. Spag put up with Matt’s almost daily visits from his house next door as long as things stayed relatively pleasant. The change happened after Matt settled into his new position and captured several influential clients for his law firm. That put a comfortable glow on his future and that of the firm, but some of the glow came from all the extra socialising and drinking the position entailed.

She heard a clattering crash in the kitchen – Matt taking his anger out on another chair? Then the front door banged so hard the whole place shook.

Why didn’t Spag consider the size of his opponent before setting out to protect her from angry people? Would the result have been the same anyway? A violent end to a boring evening listening to complicated legal talk.

Cilla washed her face with shaking hands, then checked the wound on her tongue in the mirror. It looked as bad as it tasted – disgusting. Perhaps rinsing her mouth with warm salty water would help? On her left cheek she saw an ugly red mark. Would her makeup hide it? Thank goodness it was Sunday tomorrow – no, today. She crept to the door, unlocked it and eased it open.

Meuuw?

Oh Spag, I’m so, so sorry. She scooped him up and cuddled his warm body, careful not to squeeze any bruises. He licked her chin as she carried him into the bedroom.

You stay here while I lock the front door and tidy up. I don’t want you with glass in your paws.

They slept curled up close together, or rather Spag snored in a whisper while she lay with her eyes wide open. They just wouldn’t shut, too busy watching each replay of that scary scene. If only she could pause the replay and sleep.

Finally she got the messages in the replays – make herself scarce by morning and think about her future beyond tomorrow.

Matt would sleep till nine o’clock max. Then he’d expect her to be cooking their usual Sunday breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and tomato – the eggs mixed with chopped onion and all stirred up, not gently handled and smooth to ladle out like she loved. Last night’s argument wouldn’t change his breakfast. Nothing changed the start of his Sundays. But after Earl Grey tea they’d be painting his house again – her home when she married him after Easter.

Three years of planning, dreaming. Fancy waking every morning to blue – not even a clean blue but one that traced its antecedents to grey. Cilla shuddered then laughed aloud at the trivial complaint. Before her eyes her silly dreams crumbled to dust. Spag stirred as if he heard, but the whisper snores resumed.

Dawn sent pale fingers of light through the tear in the curtain, Spag’s first mark of true hate. Who could blame him? Didn’t Matt lock him in the cold bedroom alcove when he wanted to defend his mistress last winter? She smiled at the memory of how he hissed when Matt used forceful language to tick her off over not dressing like the prospective corporate wife of a partner of a big law firm.

Fed up to the nostrils, that’s how she felt lately. Why did she have to be groomed for a position she already dreaded? Friends told her how lucky she was to be chosen by the darkly handsome Matthew Sorensen with his high-flying prospects. She believed them at first, proud of his clever legal brain and her role of supporting him. Not anymore. She didn’t even like fancy clothes and fancier houses.

As it deteriorated, Matt’s behaviour whittled away her love and support. In their place a hidden portion of her spirit began to stir and stretch its muscle. After last night she imagined it standing tall and testing its wings.

A door banged and she jumped. Calm down, silly, it’s only Jon from the flat next door leaving for work.

Okay, she needed a plan, some way out of it all. Right now she wished those spirit wings could fly her out on a sunbeam, right out of Northland, out of the North Island, even out of New Zealand altogether – taking Spag, of course. He needed a new future too.

She sighed and mentally gave herself a shake. Get real, stupid. Use your head.

Well, at least she could start asserting herself by bailing out of this Sunday. Even wimps like her could achieve that much.

Hot water eased her taut muscles and makeup covered most of the red mark on her face. She shoved her hair in a rubber band, not caring how it looked. Food? Could her stomach and tongue handle apricot yoghurt? A small tub, the last of a pack of four, joined her water bottle in the backpack.

What about pussycat food? She put a bowl of dry food out and refilled the water bowl. Spag still slept under the bedcover when she slipped out into the nippy air heading for Basil, her pushbike.

Eight metres away Matt’s kitchen window overlooked the entry to her flat, the second in a line of three extending behind her landlady’s weatherboard house. Although just over the fence from Matt’s bedroom window, the tree to which she chained Basil provided cover for both the bike and her body if she kept close to its trunk.

After a careful check of the lightly curtained windows she flitted across the cracked and weedy driveway and then a patch of lawn resembling a bathroom mat with mange. Safely hidden under the tree she paused to draw a settling breath, but her hands still shook as she tried to insert the key in the padlock. Hidden in the leaves above her head, several birds did their best to cover the tiny rattles of the chain as she eased it free and coiled it in the seat cover which travelled in the basket attached to the handlebars. Now to get out to the road unnoticed.

As she free-wheeled down the drive she picked up a whiff of rum on the light breeze. Did Matt throw up in the bushes last night? Serve him right.

Then the camellia at the gate rustled and Matt stepped into her path clad only in a pair of black shorts matching the black hairs running down his chest.

Priscilla, where do you think you’re going?

Blast. Now what? She tried to steer around him but he grabbed her handlebars.

Let me go, Matt. I’ve got to be somewhere. Yeah, like away from him.

First listen to me. I need to apologise –

Tough. His eyes became slits and she saw her escape shrinking. Look, it’ll have to wait. A friend needs me in a hurry. Not a lie, the friend being her own body.

Hey, I understand your anger but you can’t go off like that. Anyway, you never go anywhere on Sundays. What say you come over and listen to my new CD of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto while I brush that beautiful hair. Then you can leave it loose. You know how brushing calms you. We can talk then.

She shuddered despite loving the sound of the clarinet. Nowadays Matt brushed as if caring for a possession. Thanks but … How should she put it? Saying no to him wasn’t her strong suit.

Matt must have taken her thanks as a yes for he released the handlebars and stepped back. She half-turned Basil as if to return him to his tree then kicked the pedals into position and took off, aiming again for the road.

No you don’t.

His hand clutched at her sleeve but with a small rending sound she shook it off, dodged around a car entering the driveway and pedalled onto the road. Ignoring an approaching motorbike, she zipped across to the other side and took off as if the devil wanted her skin.

At the main road she wriggled her shoulders to settle her pack more comfortably, grimaced at the minor tear in the three-quarter sleeve of her cheesecloth blouse, and turned south towards town. Where to now? What about her mother’s, to pick up the sketchbook she’d left behind last weekend?

Traffic was light as she passed through the edge of the shopping centre and her mind strayed to devils. Nowadays her devil was her own lack of courage, whereas as a kid she’d been the opposite – and been called a devil once or twice by her oldest brother, Paul, and her father. So, if she dusted off her courage, how could she change direction? And to what?

Shifting back to the family home wouldn’t work as Matt visited Paul frequently. Cheap flats like her current one? Hard to find. What about a boarding or sharing situation? Cheaper than a flat – but sharing facilities with strangers who might be into drugs? And what about Spag? Having flatmates could discourage Matt from hanging around but she might have to keep shifting and that cost money.

No answers came by the time she reached the tree-lined street containing her mother’s home, a single storied brick and timber place with a gable in the centre over the front porch.

After leaning Basil against the inside of the hedge out of sight from the road, she jogged up the drive pausing here and there to draw in great whiffs of her favourite roses. She and her mother believed their rich colours and perfumes provided food for the soul but Matt and Paul just complained about their thorns so close to the driveway. Gerry, her other brother and the middle sibling of the three of them, didn’t mind because his Volkswagen wasn’t greedy for space.

She slowed to a walk as she came abreast of the orange Beetle. Gerry wanted to sell it before he left New Zealand for England and Matt kept pressuring her to use some of the bequest from her father’s estate to buy it. The car ran well but so did Basil, and he didn’t strain her purse.

A flash of yellow in the shade under the driver’s door caught her eye and she bent to investigate.

Ho, she whispered, What key are you guarding?

The plastic dolphin just grinned and clung to the key as she snatched it up.

You’re the colour of Gerry’s yacht. I bet your key replaces the one at the bottom of the river. At least you’ll float. The cheeky grin didn’t waver and she couldn’t resist smiling back.

Then her brain clicked into gear and began to whir. Wow. This could be it – the opportunity to change everything, to oust Matt and grab control of her life.

Gerry’s plans for Tindarra altered when Anita, his fiancée, drowned after falling off her cousin’s yacht in rough seas north-east of the Bay of Islands. Instead of living on board and working as a chef, he planned to spend a year or three overseas with a mate travelling and working.

So far his ads to sell the yacht had been a waste of money because no-one was interested in a boat with a half-finished Chinese junk rig. Gerry had built and installed the mast, and the spars lay on the boat waiting for the sail, but that only existed on paper.

Cilla held the dolphin against her thumping heart. Could she live on Tindarra and finish the job? Did she have the courage to go against what everyone expected of her, dump her engagement and learn a whole new lifestyle?

Sewing she could handle and Katie would help with the tricky bits after work, using the workshop machines. As close friends they always helped each other, like that time she’d typed oodles of stuff for Katie and Luke’s fight with the Council when they wanted to erect their garage with its pit for working on the undersides of cars.

Their boss at Jenkins and Carbrook Canvas couldn’t complain either. Didn’t they owe her a favour for all the unpaid overtime she’d put in last autumn in the office when the rush was on? Only Katie and the other tradespeople in the workshop received overtime for their work getting awnings, dodgers, sail covers and other canvas items ready for departing yachts.

Priscilla! What are you doing here so early?

She jumped guiltily and swung around. At the end of the house Paul leant out of his bedroom window, his torso bare and his coal black hair tousled. Like their father and Matt, he refused to shorten her name. I – I’m just…

Where’s Matt?

Um… not sure. We had a late night. He knows about the new start time for golf.

Two have dropped out so it’s changed again. Tell him it’s eleven now.

I… ah, I’ve got to do something first. Can you ring him in case I forget?

Paul sighed and disappeared inside.

That was silly. Now Paul would tell Matt where to find her. Could she get away first? To think she used to enjoy being bossed around and cared for. Now, besides feeling stifled she felt afraid, afraid of what Matt was morphing into, and afraid of her own future.

At eighteen, when he first took her out, he’d already been her knight in shining armour for two years. Goodness, almost eleven years together! But now – well now that shining armour hung corroded and threadbare revealing a man with many of her father’s bad faults, faults that drove her to abandon her Mum and go flatting.

Her brain leapt away from Matt to wonder how her mother felt about the abandonment. A visiting daughter, no matter how frequently she dropped in, may not have helped as much as her guilty conscience imagined. Cilla shied away from examining her conscience further and turned her attention to Matt and his feelings.

Did he still love her? Surely he wouldn’t have chosen a fancy diamond ring for her and paid for it with the profit from his first investment property if he didn’t. Or did diamonds rate as an investment? Probably.

To think she once panted like a star-struck teenager for marriage to this arrogant man! But his career always came first, didn’t it? Now, with a fistful of new clients and several big cases under his belt, he thought the time ripe for tying the knot. Except her blinkers lay in tatters and she knew the time to be overripe – overripe turning rotten like a mouldy orange.

Investments interested Matt more than the wellbeing and desires of his fiancée. Look at the hair brushing business for starters. Matt loved brushing her dark chestnut waves until they gleamed – not to give her pleasure, but to tend an investment. The hair might belong to her and grow out of her scalp, but if she dared to chop it off, rid herself of its time-consuming weight, she would be hamburger mince – dog food if he’d been drinking.

What if she slammed the door on financial security and used that twenty thousand dollars from her father’s estate as a deposit on Tindarra? Would Gerry let her pay off the remainder?

More importantly, could she do it without letting Matt bully her into returning like the weakling she’d become? Even now her heartbeat stumbled in trepidation.

Relax, stupid, you can do it. Remember his kick? Remember Spag’s pain?

Anger steadied her heartbeat and her hands curled into fists, the bite of the key and dolphin in her palm strengthening her resolve. No, never again. No more violence against her or her pussycat. She hated violence, even in a movie.

Outside her mother’s back door she paused to inhale the healing scent of a late-flowering daphne while her thumb caressed the dolphin. Faintly the sound of a piano drifted out of the house. A waltz – Strauss probably. Her mother lost herself in music and all her tensions eased away. Lucky woman.

Hey, little fellow, she whispered, what about it, eh? Would you help me ease the tensions out of my own life?

Although it could only be her imagination, she felt his wriggle of excitement and smiled to herself. Yes, he held a tangible key to the psychological trap she’d allowed Matt to weave in her life.

Cilla flung the screen door open and strode through her mother’s spotless laundry into the hall. First the sketchbook from her old bedroom, and then Gerry.

During her last visit she’d copied a wonderful old photograph from Gerry’s book on China’s Yangtse River. The junk with its three sails and broad stern decorated with a lavish pattern would make a perfect illustration for the huge farewell card she planned for her favourite brother. She could give the black and white image from the book all the browns, reds and yellows it might have sported in real life. Like her brother, she dreamed of sailing aboard such a boat one day, and she knew the card would keep his dream alive.

Tindarra lacked the panache of a junk but if Gerry agreed to the deal she could live a slice of her own dream. She would need a tough skin for no-one else understood the way they felt. She recalled Paul’s grating voice during her mother’s birthday dinner last winter, just before Anita left for that ill-fated cruise.

"Why can’t you be normal like the rest of us, Gerald, instead of throwing good money away? Junk rigs are useless to windward and you’ll ruin Tindarra’s resale value. You should be investing in real estate. Buy some of that land they’re developing down the Harbour. Thank heavens Priscilla has Matt to keep her sensible."

Sensible! That’s one of the things that irritated her about Matt and Paul. Neither of them ever did something just for the hell of it, nor would they willingly stick their necks out. Anita had rolled her eyes at Cilla for she, too, liked to be different, even if it threatened her neck, like her love of coastal rock-climbing which once left her with months of pain from damaged tendons in her neck after slipping and jamming her head in a crevice.

Flickering twinges made her rub her own neck as she entered the bedroom. Unless occupied by a visitor, this room made a handy sanctuary when Matt and Paul got yakking and her mother wanted peace to paint or play the piano. Here she could sketch the garden outside or copy boats from Gerry’s books to develop into scenes at home. Although he saw it as a waste of time, Matt tolerated her sketching – because it fitted into his idea of a well behaved corporate solicitor’s wife keeping in the background.

After checking the sketch would suit the size of the card, she began sliding the sketchbook into the light canvas bag she used to protect it, but a tug on her hair made her jump and spin around. It could only be Gerry.

You came back for it, Prissy.

Gerry’s half-grin banished her ponderings. His full grin had disappeared when Anita drowned. So had his deep honey tan, for now he spent too many hours working or at his computer instead of on board Tindarra. Even the auburn highlights in his black hair behaved in a more subdued manner.

Gerry! Cut it out, or I’ll keep this key I found. You know I hate that name.

Only teasing, little sis. He snatched it out of her raised hand. Thanks.

Humph. Here, you can put your own book away. She shoved it into his hands. Ger, I need to talk to you urgently before you fly out.

Two long horn blasts penetrated from the road. Matt. Her spirits sank. Paul did ring him, or he came anyway. If it weren’t for the Henderson’s teenage German Shepherd she’d scale the back fence. No, better to play submissive, then escape him forever before he caught on. She shook the bag to settle the sketchbook inside and slipped past her brother’s lanky form into the corridor. If Matt refused to put the bike on his fancy roof rack she might still get to go her own way today.

Gerry indicated Matt’s direction with his thumb. Your lord and master will stir up old Mrs Brewster again and Mum just calmed her with a miniature rose plant. He scratched his day-old growth of beard. "What about Juke’s Coffee Lounge at twelve-fifteen tomorrow? I don’t start at the restaurant till two on Mondays. And it’s my last Monday so I can be late if you’re held up."

Okey-doke. Hopefully I won’t have an urgent quote for canvas work on some boat to type up like last time. Byee.

As Cilla ran down the hall, Matt’s macho horn began blasting a throaty broar-braa-braa-braa-broar. A goat that knows he’s a lion or a lion pretending to be a goat? She giggled nervously.

*     *     *

On Monday Gerry didn’t even bat one of his long-lashed eyelids at her plans.

Good on you, Sis. I see he’s been at you again. Time you gave him the heave-ho before you suffer his mother’s fate.

What fate? She flushed, annoyed at him seeing her camouflaged bruise. That fall down the stairs was an accident.

Not what I overheard in the restaurant last week. His father has a nerve when he wants to be Mayor over there. Surely you’ve seen the signs when you visit?

Cilla frowned. I just thought she and her daughter were accident prone. That’s what Mr. Sorensen said. I know he has a quick temper like Matt’s but –

Quick temper? Yeah, and the rest. You just chuck his fancy rock in his fancy car and go. By the by I noticed he refused to put that old bike of yours on his classy roof rack.

And did you notice I escaped on the bike? He lost me when I shot into the park and through those trees we used to climb. I ended up down at the Basin where I could sketch and dream.

Well, you might have escaped but our Mum didn’t. Mrs Brewster stomped over and harangued Mum about Matt blasting his horn outside and all the way down the street.

Cilla giggled. Oh dear, poor Mum. I’ll buy her a block of Caramello, she loves those, especially if she can hide them from you.

She shares willingly, I’ll have you know. I don’t pinch more than a square or two.

Or three or four.

Gerry shook his head. Balls. I do not. Now look here, Sis, about this moving away from Matt, why the dickens do you want to move on a boat? You’re crazy. Anyway, knowing you he’ll talk you into returning even before you get rid of his rock.

Cilla glanced down at the rock and suppressed a shudder. She couldn’t wait to remove it, but not yet. No way, Gerry. Not after Saturday night. Being a partner’s changed him and with all the business socialising he drinks too much as a matter of course. I can understand solicitors are stuffy about standards and there’s a lot of stress so he likes things just so but lately he’s gone overboard. She pulled a face and shrugged. I guess he used to understudy Dad’s behaviour, and now Paul, so he knows how to lay on arrogance laced with alcohol.

Automatically she began to chew one of her little fingernails but her teeth couldn’t get a grip. The other was no better. If she didn’t leave Matt soon she would start on her ring fingers – and have another bruise from his displeasure to hide with makeup.

Gerry snorted. Alcohol isn’t a problem as far as Dad and Paul are concerned, and neither is real violence.

Cilla waited for a long burst of noise from the coffee machine at the counter to stop before saying, No, thank goodness, but the alcohol goes with Matt’s territory.

Yeah maybe. Well I’m glad you’ve seen the light. Pity about waiting till you’re engaged. After all those pranks you pulled off as a youngster I could never understand you kowtowing to him all these years. Talk about moonstruck.

She poured a glass of water from the jug to hide her embarrassment and decide how to save her dignity. Attack. Suffering seahorses, Gerry. This is about the boat, not me. Anyway, I remember you sticking with that dill-brain Audrey despite being two-timed for months.

Blimey I was only seventeen then and drowning in those monster blue eyes of hers. When do you plan to put those seahorses out of their misery?

"I’ll do that when they’re safe from marauding men. Now let’s get to the point. You don’t need Tindarra and I do. She’s for sale and I’m a keen buyer so let’s deal."

Gerry slowly shook his head and she braced herself for their usual argument about how long it took to bring about change in a traditional industry and so on. Instead, after polishing off his glass of pineapple juice, he licked his upper lip, reached for the coffee pot and said, Okay. I’m not sure it’s a good idea but you’re right about me needing the money, even if it’s partly drip-fed.

She breathed a sigh of relief and downed her water. It is a good idea, Gerry, you’ll see. Pulling her bag up from the dark timber floor she said, I think my stomach can handle a sandwich to go with the coffee now you’ve agreed. Do you want anything more?

When she returned with her salad sandwich and his slice of banana cake, he laid down a stub of pencil on a serviette covered with figures.

Thanks Sis. How about we set up auto payments to cover the balance? He saw the look on her face and said, Yes, I know you won’t renege but –

Gee thanks. I’m not planning on stretching it to the new century. By 2000 this will all be ancient history.

True. His gaze, thoughtful now, slid away to a window. I wonder what you and I will be doing in five years. He shook his head and brought his gaze back to her face. Sis, if you’d mentioned it earlier I could’ve taken you through everything but… He shrugged.

"That’s fine. I know you’ve run out of time and I have been out on Tindarra enough not to make an ass of myself."

You’ve never brought her into the mooring single-handed and there’s heaps to do to get her rigged. As he spoke, Gerry used a wet finger to pick up the last crumbs of his cake. Maybe… He frowned and shot her a worried look. Cil, I could be letting my needs over-shadow my good sense.

A loud crash of crockery on the other side of the room accentuated his words so they punched at her newly born future.

What do you mean? Cilla pushed her half-eaten sandwich away and crossed her fingers under the table. When Gerry called her anything but Sis or Prissy it made her nervous. This dream didn’t deserve a cot death so soon after birth, especially with her love for it waxing like a harvest moon.

It’s just… well… are you sure you could cope on your own?

Of course I could. And think how handy it’ll be to work. No biking on that busy road morning and night. Some motorists go out of their way to unbalance me.

But Sis, boats aren’t easy and you won’t have anyone to call on. All your life you’ve had a male of some sort to look out for you. He frowned as he tapped a tattoo on his coffee mug with his spoon and clicked his tongue in time.

Listen Ger, I’m quite able – She got no further because he slammed the spoon down on his plate and shook his head.

No, it won’t work. I’m being selfish. This is a crap idea. Forget it. He sat back with his arms crossed.

Hey, that’s not fair, Gerry. It’s time I –

Look what happened when you were left to yourself while Matt was in Sydney a few years ago. Paul and I were off sailing with Dad and those fishermen had to rescue –

Crap. I didn’t have the bike so I let them take me off the rocks. I could have climbed back up to the road, even with a kitten. Spag was shivering fit to self-destruct so I took the easy way. Anyway I knew them from hanging around the wharf when I was a kid.

You should’ve left the little twerp. That was twice in a week. He’s obsessed with water.

Beast. She wanted to punch him or tug the black hair curling over his ears, not act like a lady. It wasn’t Spag’s fault. The noise of a truck frightened him on the way to the vet and he scrabbled free of the box. He’s avoided water ever since, even little spills in the kitchen or bathroom.

Gerry looked up from pouring himself another coffee, his lips pursed and one eyebrow cocked.

Sceptical sod. Always teasing and riling her up. Cilla’s hand shook with the effort to control her indignation and her spoon trickled a white trail across the blue lace of the tablecloth and the remains of her sandwich on its way to her coffee. As she stirred, her mind went back four years to her first sight of Spag as a tiny kitten fighting to save himself among frothy rocks. Despite looking like a drowned rat when she hauled him out of the waves, he instantly snuggled into her heart with his purring.

Hey Sis, what’s with the dopey grin?

She blinked and realised Gerry was tapping her arm with his spoon. Ow, that’s hot if you don’t mind. She rubbed her arm theatrically.

You needed it. You haven’t heard a word I just said and that coffee must be giddy by now, what’s left of it.

Huh? She glanced at the lake around her mug and put her spoon down to grab some serviettes. It’s your fault. Besides, I was just remembering. You couldn’t have left the poor beggar there to drown any more than I could.

That mottled scrap of werbyscourge? No wonder Matt hated him from first sight.

Pushed beyond caring and with Matt’s drunken attack colouring her mind, Cilla abandoned her ladylike behaviour and thumped his shoulder.

Cut it out, Sis!

You’re getting as bad as Paul. Why didn’t Mum give me decent brothers?

Come on, that hurt. He rubbed his shoulder. You’re doing too much work at the gym. How can I travel with a broken shoulder? He swung his arm around and winced. Besides, you must admit a pure black cat would’ve been better. Imagine the ring of ‘Cilla and Blackie’. Heaps better than ‘Cilla and Spag’ on the bottom of Christmas cards.

Although the couple at the next table was obviously eavesdropping on her argument with her brother, Cilla felt too annoyed to lower her voice. Okay, you’ve received your last card from me, Gerry Dunbar, and next time I thump you you’ll be on the floor.

Gerry held up his hands. Sor-ry. You know I’m only stirring. If you didn’t rise like a hungry fish I’d give up baiting you. Paul’s the one with a bucket load of Dad’s beastly genes. He gave her a slow smile that crept into the corner of his honey-coloured eyes. Actually, despite his awful name, your Spag isn’t too bad now he’s started spitting at Matt. He’s got more spunk than you. I bet he gets even for that cowardly kick before long.

Spunk? Yes, she needed to grow more of that – and lighten up to win Gerry’s co-operation. She returned his smile and said, Ger, you know how he hates Paul? Well, you should’ve seen him when Paul dropped some papers off for me to read and sign the other day. Those ones for the bequest. He did more than spit. I was proud of him. She swallowed some coffee and grimaced. It was barely warm with all that stirring. She pushed it aside and pulled the sandwich closer. I read somewhere that Hitler and Bonaparte despised cats just like Matt and Paul do.

And Dad. All the strays you and I brought home he murdered.

She lowered her sandwich without biting into it. How? I thought he just dumped them so I imagined them finding someone with a more welcoming home.

I caught him holding something white down in a bucket of water that evening you tried to sneak in the pure white one you called Foamball.

Oh Gerry, that’s horrible. She shuddered. How did we get a brute for a father? I bet Matt’s capable of that too. I’m not into kids for years yet but I’d hate them to have a father like ours. She lapsed into silence. What an idiot she’d been, mooning after someone like Matt.

Gerry shook his head. If you don’t like your merry-go-round, stop paying for rides, Sis.

"I’m going to, and you can help by selling me Tindarra, or are you playing the spoil-sport? Spag and I need somewhere safe and the boat has water all round. I’m glad it’s not on a jetty."

He heaved a sigh. It’s not going to work, Sis. Even if I do, Mum’ll go crook and Paul will put some sort of hammer in the works for sure.

"We won’t tell them till it’s all over and you’re gone. Please Ger. It solves your problem as well as mine and my job at Jenkins and Carbrook is safe. We’re getting more canvas and tarp work than ever now Rankins have closed. They did a lot of the agricultural stuff."

Gerry frowned then rubbed his face with both hands. Sure, your income’s safe but I just don’t know. He groaned like an old dog being prodded to his feet, then ruffled his hair till it offered the perfect hideaway nest for a homeless bird.

Although tempted to giggle, Cilla forced herself to concentrate on willing him to yield to her arguments. Ger, don’t forget you won’t have to pay for Tindarra’s upkeep out of your holiday money. No boat to worry about while you’re travelling.

Mmm, you know how to tempt a fella, eh? If you really, honestly think you can manage it on your own I guess it’s your funeral if you mess it up and damage the boat or someone else’s. I –

Exactly. I want that chance, the same as you and anyone else gets. I could have a natural talent. Remember how I always outdid you on pushbikes and billycarts? As big pleading eyes didn’t work on Gerry she crossed as many fingers as she could under the table and willed him to give in.

Boats aren’t the same but I take your point. It’s just that… He huffed a sigh.

It’s just what? It’s all straight forward and sensible.

Gerry shoved his chair back and crossed to the nearest window where he appeared to be looking at the clouds and blue patches for inspiration. Finally he ran his hands over his head, destroying the bird’s nest in the process, and returned to his seat.

Cilla pounced before he could say no. Ger, don’t forget I did that engine course and beat most of the fellas when they tested us at the end of eight weeks.

Diesel engines are different.

But I still –

"Alright, alright. I give in. I’ll do it. Make sure you get full insurance though. Luckily Tindarra’s new motor’s a breeze to start, so you’ll be okay with that. Yanmar’s are good."

"I guess I’d be struggling with the old Lister. I watched Shortie, a vertically challenged fisherman on that grey trawler, Sara J, trying to get his to co-operate one evening. He used a decompression lever to start it but that time it flatly refused to even turn over and he missed a night’s fishing just when the bank wanted a loan payment for the boat."

"Mm, I remember Shortie. Always banged his head on the tops of doorways. Do you remember that Lister on Sea Seeker?"

Yeah, you could eat your lunch off it. I’ll keep the Yanmar like that if I can.

Remember hiding behind the Lister when you were six or seven? You took off when Dad threatened to wallop you for damaging his best chisel on your broken billycart.

Of course I do. I told him I’d use my pocket money to pay off a new one for him but he just yelled over the top of me and picked up that whippy bamboo stick of his. Could you blame me for disappearing?

No, that’s why I didn’t let on I’d found you when he sent me out to bring you back.

"I should think not. Gerry, back to Tindarra, do you have a plan for the sail?"

Not really. I lost interest. He looked embarrassed and she reached out to squeeze his hand.

It’s okay, bro. I’ll manage fine.

How about I lend you my copy of Practical Junk Rig"?

Hasler and McLeod’s book? That would be beaut. It’s got everything.

Treat it like the Crown jewels. I’m not finished with junk rigs and it cost an arm and an ankle.

As a waitress cleared their table, Cilla collected her bag from between her feet and recalled the time she’d pored over the pages of diagrams in that book. Junk sails were complicated by the way the rope forming the