And, head down, Danny trudged toward the door, a futureless, homeless, penniless void opening up before him.
‘Mr Yates?’ she said.
He stopped.
‘You’ve left something behind.’
He turned, puzzled, not aware of having brought anything in with him.
She took an item from beneath the counter, tossing it to him, then resumed her chin on palm pose.
He unfolded the thrown object. It turned out to be a sailor’s hat. Baffled, he looked at her.
‘Try it on,’ she said.
He did. It didn’t fit. But smiling, she winked. ‘You look a mighty fine sailor to me.’
‘This is where you’ll be staying, the sleeping quarters; or “cabin”, as we call it to make sea dogs feel at home.’
‘It’s empty.’ Danny stood at the room’s centre. Crunchingly narrow, its decor loosely echoed a galleon’s lower quarters. Ship’s wheels alternated with port holes along the walls. Lanterns hung from the low ceiling.
The nun stayed by the door. ‘Completely empty.’ She opened a steel locker beside the door, hauled out a rolled up web of knotted ropes and carried it across to the wall nearest him. She tied one end around a hook projecting from the wall and yanked it tight.
‘You have to remember, Mr Yates, Wheatley is over sixty miles from the sea, in all directions. In its history, the town has produced just one, nominal, sailing man; Peghead Flannaghann, scourge of the leisure boat industry. Of course, back then there were no leisure boats, nor indeed a canal, nor any large stretch of water in Wheatley, nor any boat makers, nor sail manufacturers. Rigging was hard to come by, and expensive. All in all, Peghead Flannaghann’s adventures are a bit of a let down to the thrill seeker.’
‘Shouldn’t that be pegleg?’ asked Danny, watching her.
‘In 1694, Declan Flannaghann, self-declared buccaneer of the pavements – though pavement quality was much poorer then than now – came down with a headache following an all night drinking session. To relieve his pain, his friends, for he had many among the underclasses, sawed off his head and replaced it, in grand pirate tradition, with a peg.’
His jaw dropped. ‘They sawed off his head?’
‘Sadly, none of his friends were medically trained. Nor were they reivers. Nor were they a full shilling. They may have misunderstood the term “cut throat pirate”.’
‘But they sawed off his head?’ Danny was horrified. It was the sort of act he’d thought only Lucy capable of.
The sister continued. ‘Undeterred by his lack of mobility, his shipmates’ descendants kept him mummified in a public house where regulars would amuse themselves by spinning plates on his peg head, until the canal was built. Whereupon he was placed on a small barge and left to drift, causing aimless terror and consternation among passing traders, in conjunction with Sqwark the peg head parrot.’
Danny frowned. ‘Are you making this up?’
‘It’s in the reference books. Flannaghann and Sqwark were accompanied by Bark the peg head dog, and Mark the peg head cabin boy. Atop the mast was Krark the peg head albatross. Once his friends had got into the groove, they just couldn’t stop themselves. It must all have been quite a sight emerging from the mist, peg-heading toward you.’
And she crossed to the opposite wall. ‘No one knows what happened to him after the 1880s. Some say his ghost still stalks the canal though boats no longer sail it. Some claim a daring soul has replaced his peg with a wonderful mechanical limb possessing a mind of its own; which is just as well, considering he himself lacks any sort of mind.’
She tied the webbing’s other end to the wall. Its narrow span bisected the room at waist height. ‘Some may say Peghead Flannaghann wasn’t much of a hero for Wheatley to have but I like to think he was rather noble in his battle against the odds. And by all accounts …’ she became flushed, ‘… quite rough.’
She yanked tight the rope, tied a final knot then stood back, admiring her handiwork. ‘There.’ Quietly satisfied hands clapped themselves free of dust.
Danny looked at her, across the newly completed hammock. ‘So why does Wheatley have a seaman’s mission?’
‘Sister Remunerable.’
‘Who?’
‘My partner in this venture, and best friend in all the world. She was my bunkmate at the convent; taught me to drink gin, which was naughty of her but fun. The Mission was her idea. “Sister Theresa,” she said. “Every town should have a seaman’s mission, regardless of need.” She was most insistent. She’ll be delighted we have our second ever guest.’
‘You have another?’
‘We had. He packed his bags and set off to make his way in this world, not forty-five minutes ago. In many aspects he was not unlike you, a man who’d given up all hope until he found us. But I’ve blathered on enough. You want to get settled in. I’ll leave you to unpack.’
‘I don’t have anything to unpack.’
She headed for the door, not looking back, said, ‘Regardless,’ and left.
Her footsteps receded, leaving Danny to test the hammock. He didn’t bother. He’d seen enough sit-coms to predict the outcome. Setting the hammock creaking back and forth he considered the floor, deciding it’d be better to sleep on than the street. And he had this whole room to himself. And, unlike Lucy, a nun wouldn’t help herself to his property, claiming Finders Keepers as English Law’s one inviolable principle – when the item had been ‘found’ in a locked drawer, using a crowbar.
The sister’s footsteps returned.
Her head popped round the door, her fingers wrapping around its frame. ‘Do you play a musical instrument, Mr Yates?’
‘No. Why?’
She just smiled then left.
Danny was lying on the floor when Sister Theresa returned. Smiling mischievously, she was hiding something behind her back. ‘Hello again, Mr Yates. Lying on the floor are we?’
He said nothing.
She lay beside him. The hidden thing droned like a trod on octopus. Produced from behind her back, one end strapped to one hand, the once hidden thing distended and sprawled like an sick caterpillar across her chest. The thing dribbled to the floor and expired.
It was a squeezebox.
He squinted at it, suspicious.
The sister made herself more comfortable. ‘I thought we could have a sing along. Do you know any sea shanties, Mr Yates?’
‘None.’ He hoped to discourage her.
‘Fortunately, I know one. It’s called The Rhyme of Long Gone Hats and is so authentic it practically reeks of salt. A sailor taught it me in a Liverpool bar.’
