Falmouth grunted. He began walking to the dinghies. Ned followed, Jackbird poking at his ribs. Falmouth stopped at the closest boat. ‘They’re all for sale.’

His voice was a wiry scratch. Ned began to look at the dinghies properly, without knowing what he was looking for. They were all lying on the bare dirt, in various states of disrepair. Falmouth was staring as well. Dull revelation on his face, as if he was seeing them for the first time.

‘Were my son’s. He wanted to fix ’em up. He won’t be coming back from the Pacific, so that plan’s done.’ Falmouth blinked at the boats. ‘The boy had funny ideas…I don’t know. Not funny.’

Ned found that when Falmouth said these things he couldn’t look him in the face. He shifted away, focused on the boats. As a collection, they did not look like much. Four beatenup old tubs, sure to be leaky, sure to be treacherous. The smallest would barely hold two adults, while the largest, with its long sweep oar, looked like a retired surfboat. All wore rough wounds in their woodwork. Many of these markings went beyond superficial damage: planks were bent and warped, light worked its way through splintered gaps.

One had a mast, although it wasn’t up; it lay flat in the hull, unattached to the centreboard. It was to this boat that Ned was drawn. A mast meant a sail, which Ned thought important, although there was no sail to be seen. The boat was a drab olive colour. Long scratches ran through its faded paintwork. One of the oars stashed within its body was snapped off halfway down the handle. The bench seat was broken. There was a notch for a rudder, but no rudder in sight. Yet it was not structurally damaged, at least to Ned’s eye, nor did it have any of the gaping holes that the other dinghies did. And the timber revealed by the peeled-back paint was not grey or brown but a hazy, curious blond.

Jackbird noticed Ned’s attention. He kicked a boot into its side, rocking it nearly over, sending dust flying.

‘Looks like it’s in one piece,’ he said.

Ned turned to Falmouth. ‘How much?’

The man did not appear to think much of the question. He took a flap of the paint and tore it free. It crumbled in his fingers, leaving an oily smear and flecks of green on his skin. More blond wood appeared where the paint had been, almost bright, almost shining. Falmouth named a price.

The boat was worn, damaged. Perhaps beyond repair. It was missing vital parts.

Ned nodded. ‘I have to check a few things first.’ Hard fingers gripped his lungs.

~