‘Bullshit.’ Jackbird started walking, kicking stones, reeling off his thoughts. ‘You could get a new reel. New hooks, new sinkers. Better line. We’ll actually catch something. Or a new bike, maybe. You need one. The chain’s about to rust off the thing you’re riding at the moment. You need new boots too. Sorry, mate, but you do. You need new everything. Or how about a new rifle? One with a scope. Hit starlings on the wing. You could…’

‘I was thinking a boat.’ The words came out unbidden. He couldn’t help it.

Jackbird stopped. His eyes shot wide. ‘Oh, Neddy.’ A breath paused in his chest. ‘Yes.’

He ran across the street. Ned called after him, had no choice but to follow. He was angry, swearing, more at himself than Jackbird. At how he’d let his plan unravel. How little control he had over himself.

Ned caught up to him beside a wire fence. Beyond it lay two rows of raised yachts, keels plunging dirtward, masts towering into the sky. Behind them were a group of scattered dinghies. Ned turned to Jackbird. ‘No.’

‘We’ve got time.’ Jackbird was already walking through the gate.

Ned thought about staying outside but realised how petulant that would look, so he followed him in. Nobody else was in the boatyard. Just dry yachts, dry boats, dry earth. A tall white gum leaned in a corner, bark hanging in curled strips from its pale trunk.

Once Ned was in the yard, surrounded by sleek metal and smooth timber, his buzzing worries settled. A quiet thrill rattled through him. Jackbird darted around the yachts, bending his neck, whistling at their size, but Ned moved straight to the dinghies. There was a range of sizes, of designs, some with simple bench seats, others with semi-enclosed cabins. All were clean and seemed in good condition. Fresh paintwork coated each wooden slat, each miniature detail. The colours glowed in the sunlight. Red, blue, white. Ned wondered if the owner of the boatyard was French.

These dinghies were gorgeous things. He tugged his mind, put himself in each boat, put the boats on the river. Tried to imagine tacking into a wind. How each would handle the swirl of currents off Limberlost’s shore. He put a hand to a stern. Imagined water drenching his calves as he pushed out into the water. Saw himself leap into the hull.

‘So that’s where your money’s headed.’

Jackbird’s father. He was standing behind Ned, arms crossed. Ned snapped up straight and felt an instinct to apologise. Jackbird’s father leaned around him.

‘Not many people buying boats right now. You’d get a good price, I imagine. But you can’t have enough for one of these.’