by Mel Campbell
‘Sometimes I worry that my artsy-fartsy parents have spoiled me for normal relationships,’ Rose said to Nicola.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re such snobs about everything,’ Rose said. ‘Maybe they’ve taught me to be too critical, you know? Holding out for the perfect guy?’
‘Your parents thought Marco was perfect, but that’s only because he’s an artiste,’ said Nicola. ‘I still can’t believe that embarrassing Guardian article your mum wrote about how it broke her heart when he moved to New York.’
‘I just want a man who gets things done,’ Rose said. ‘Is that too much to ask for?
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Nicola said. ‘That’s why I thought you might click with Alistair. He’s a go-getter.’
‘Good.’
‘But –’ Nicola held up a finger – ‘you have to be proactive too. Maybe if you were looking at other guys, I wouldn’t have had to set you up with Alistair.’
‘Nobody forced you to!’ Rose said, unable to keep a sulky note out of her voice. ‘It’s not like a chore.’
‘Listen, Rose, I’m doing this because I want to see you happy.’ Nicola pointed at Rose’s dog-eared paperback. ‘Maybe it’s those romance novels that are spoiling you. In real life, you don’t just … bump into the perfect man.’
‘Well,’ Rose said, ‘I actually saw a cute guy when I went for the job today. He was a contestant on Mansions in the Sky –’
‘What! You’re working on Mansions in the Sky?’
‘Um, no. I’m on The Dock.’
Nicola sighed. ‘That garbage show where they fix up trash barges? Last season they all got scurvy.’
‘I don’t think that’s how scurvy works …’
‘They did a crossover promo with Nude Island and they got lost at sea. Three months adrift. One of them married a basketball!’
‘Oh,’ Rose said. ‘What kind of show have I got myself on?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Nicola. ‘Tell me more about this hot guy.’
‘I don’t know, we just had a connection. He said his name was Dave.’
‘Hmmm, I’m on it,’ Nicola said.
‘He seemed really nice. He had really nice eyes.’
‘Nice eyes. Got it.’
‘We didn’t talk that much, but he seemed … kind,’ Rose said.
‘I’m not going to help you stalk him if you’re gonna make it weird.’
‘Look,’ Rose said with a laugh, ‘he was no Willie McCabe, Lord Dalwhinnie.’
‘That’s right, girl, keep your eyes on the prize. I respect that you’re holding out for a fictional Scottish earl,’ said Nicola. She kissed two fingers and reached out to touch them to her screen. ‘Love you.’
Rose repeated the gesture on her own computer. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you more when you’re on reality TV.’
Rose had been walking around the docks for the last fifteen minutes and she hadn’t found any evidence that a television show was being filmed nearby. Twenty years ago, commercial ships had unloaded their cargo here, but nowadays it was only used as a marina for yachts and small fishing vessels. There were plenty of people working on their boats in the crisp morning air – she just couldn’t tell who was working on them for a TV audience.
She’d called Old Steve the previous night to break the news.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Old Steve had said, in between coughs and the pounding of the waves. He claimed he needed to live by the beach for the health-giving ‘sea air’; Rose suspected it was because a beach shack was the only kind of dwelling the council would let him make entirely with his own hands. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You need a cough lolly?’ Rose had said, shaking her head.
‘I’ll live,’ he’d said, ‘hopefully.’
Rose hadn’t taken the bait. ‘Anyway, Steve … I don’t know how to tell you …’
‘You don’t need to,’ Old Steve had said after an elaborately phlegmy intake of breath. ‘I know you’ve found work,’ he coughed, ‘down the docks.’ He repeated the final syllable. ‘Dohhhhcks.’
‘What?’ Rose had been taken aback. ‘That’s not –’
‘Bernie called me this afternoon. He wanted to check your credentials.’
‘So … what did you tell him?’ she’d said.
‘That you were the most promising nail shaper I’d seen in years. I said that I was just about to let you … let you …’ He’d sniffled.
‘Use a hammer?’ Rose had said.
‘Hold a hammer. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘Look Steve, I really appreciate everything you’ve taught me over these last six months. But it’s time for me to –’
At this point, a fresh burst of coughing had come down the line. ‘I guess I didn’t realise how much I’d come to rely on you,’ Steve had said when he’d recovered. ‘I’m just so busy these days, I don’t know how I’m going to manage it alone.’
‘Well, once you’re on your own you might have to slow down a bit, turn down some of those jobs,’ Rose had said. ‘You might have to pass on remodelling Wilson Fabrication’s boardroom.’
Old Steve had grunted non-committally.
‘Maybe you should knock back doing those cabinets for the Liew kitchen.’
‘Ehhh …’ Old Steve had said.
‘The TAC job?’
‘Hell no,’ Old Steve had said firmly.
‘Well, if you can keep doing all that without me, what did you need me for?’ Rose had said briskly.
Old Steve had chuckled. ‘Maybe my retirement was a few years further away than I led you to believe. But doing things the right way is a two-person job. Besides, I like having a young person around so I can pass on all my wisdom. All the old ways.’
‘Come on, Steve, what wisdom did you actually pass on to me?’
‘Don’t trust your boss?’
Rose had laughed at that.
‘I should have known I couldn’t pull the wool over your eyes forever,’ he’d said.
‘It was sweet of you to try,’ Rose had said. ‘See you round, Steve.’
Now, she was still trying to figure out where she was meant to report to. It wasn’t until she spotted someone emerging from a shed holding a boom microphone that she figured she was on the right track. There wasn’t much in the way of signage; taped to the inside of a window next to the roller door was an A4 printout that read ‘Endeavour Productions – Studio 2’. Gingerly, Rose walked through the open doorway.
At first glance, the inside of the shed looked like any other busy worksite. At the far end were a couple of boats on trailers, from which Rose could hear the familiar sounds of hammering and drilling. Around the hulls, other workers hurried back and forth. They were dressed much the same as Rose, in jeans, shorts or work pants with polo shirts and polar fleece. But as Rose looked more carefully, she noticed the walkie-talkies and headsets the production staff were wearing as they bustled about.
‘Um, I’m looking for Bernie?’ Rose said to a passer-by.
‘Over by craft services.’
‘Craft services?’ How fancy was this show? Was reality TV more artisanal than she’d realised?
‘The food.’
With one shoulder, the man indicated a trestle table set up along the side wall, bearing a hot-water urn, jars of teabags and instant coffee, a plate of dry biscuits and an assortment of mugs.
‘Where’s the real food?’ Rose said to herself. This was a distinct comedown from the lavish catering on the Mansions in the Sky set. As she watched, the urn let out a burping noise and began to drool water. Maybe Nicola was right about this show …
Stirring spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his tea was a burly man with grey hair peeking from under a faded baseball cap. As Rose watched, he took a hip flask from his po
cket and added a slug of its contents to the cup.
‘Bernie?’ Rose said.
He turned. ‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he said, ‘unless you’re from my ex-wife’s lawyers, in which case I died in a fire.’
Rose laughed awkwardly. ‘No legal skills here,’ she said. ‘I’m a cabinetmaker by trade. Cody Somerville hired me yesterday – she said she’d ring you to say I’d be here today.’
Bernie stared at Rose. ‘Come with me,’ he said, jerking his head at a side exit.
Behind the shed was an L-shaped pier, with half-built houseboats moored at regular intervals. Rose followed Bernie along the numbered berths until he stopped at the third boat. Two clearly inexperienced people in beanies and heavy jackets were trying to install new decking at the bow. The old decking had been torn out and was lying in a pile on the pier.
Such a shame, Rose thought. It was still in perfectly good nick. Then she winced as she noticed how unevenly spaced the new planks were: some were pressed flush together, while others had gaps wide enough to drop a phone through. Why weren’t these people using spacers to measure out consistent widths?
And no wonder the planks were all over the shop – as their hapless installers knelt at one end, the other ends were flicking up in the air. What they needed were some bricks to weigh them down, Rose thought. Perhaps wrap the bricks in some plastic or something, though, so they wouldn’t scratch the wood …
On the pier, a camera operator and sound recorder edged around the pile of discarded decking, filming the two incompetents. Bernie watched them, sipping from his tea, his other hand on his hip above his low-slung tool belt.
‘Now, who were you were working for again?’ he said to Rose.
‘Steve D Elder.’
‘You mean Old Steve?’ Bernie laughed. ‘Yeah, I know. Just wanted to hear you say it. I called him to check up on you – and to check it was really him,’ he said. ‘Coulda blown me down with a feather. I’d thought they put him in the ground years ago.’
‘Well,’ said Rose, ‘if they did, he got back out.’
Bernie looked her up and down. ‘You look pretty young to be working with Steve,’ he said.
‘It’s a great way to learn a lot.’
His face crinkled into a smile. ‘Knowing Old Steve, you’re learning a lot about his chisel collection.’ He pointed at the disgrace currently unfolding on board the boat. ‘What do you make of this?’
Rose shook her head. ‘I don’t know if they’re laying that teak over fibreglass or plywood, but I hope they sanded it flat before they started, or the epoxy won’t take properly. This dry lay is a mess – they need to watch their spacing and make sure the planks aren’t shifting at the free ends. They could make some spacers out of scrap wood, or use screws and washers between the planks. And are they numbering the planks as they fit them, so they know the right order to stick them down?’
Bernie laughed. ‘The underdeck’s marine plywood. The contestants sanded about a square foot’s worth on camera and then we did the rest later. To answer your question, yes, the planks are numbered. We cut them to size as well – all the talent need to do is get them sitting straight. Which they’re ballsing up as we speak. Of course, that makes for better TV, so we usually leave them to it. Their reaction’s going to be priceless once the epoxy’s dried and they realise the whole deck’s crooked.’
He stuck out a hand. ‘If Old Steve took you on, that’s good enough for me.’
Rose shook his hand. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I know you won’t. If you’d let Old Steve down, you wouldn’t be standing here.’
‘Why not?’ she said.
‘He’s a legend,’ said Bernie. ‘Didn’t you know he built the railway bridge across Levitts Gorge, completely on his own?’
‘That was Old Steve?’ said Rose.
‘Yep,’ he said, ‘and you’ve probably catalogued the very mallet he used to drive in each spike. Those sleepers woulda been three inches thick at least, but Steve pounded ’em in like they were made of butter.’
‘Wow. When was this?’
‘Yep,’ Bernie went on, ‘and the joists were all set in perfect! He didn’t even need a spirit level! He used the level in his mind.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, if you’ve worked with Old Steve, you’ll be perfect for this job I need doing.’
‘Ready to go, boss,’ Rose said.
‘I need you to make five kilos of nails.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Just joking,’ Bernie said. ‘But we’ve already assigned all the big jobs for the moment, so here –’ he handed her a scraper – ‘you can scrape barnacles for the rest of today.’
Rose sighed, but took the scraper. It was a start.
The next day, Bernie put Rose on a team cutting lengths of wood for the contestants to look good sanding down. It was the sort of repetitive work she’d done plenty of as an apprentice. But it already felt like a step up from Old Steve, because Rose could look at the steadily growing pile of planks beside her and feel a sense her work was leading somewhere.
What exactly was she helping get done, though? Every so often, one of the other tradies would collect the planks and take them out through a side door. Maybe they took them to the dock. Maybe they put them in the back of a ute and took them to another site. Rose had no idea.
When she’d arrived, she was surprised to see that the boats she’d noticed yesterday had gone. The shed was now mostly empty. The far end, where the boats had been, was now a storage space for building materials. In the corner was a row of lockers, where Rose had been told to put her stuff.
Against the opposite wall was an admin space for the production company staff, with a whiteboard and a couple of desks, where Rose had filled out her onboarding paperwork. A lone female staffer was sitting there now, staring at a laptop.
‘Hey, what happened to the boats?’ Rose said to a passing tradie, an older man with a friendly face.
‘Weren’t you here last week?’ he said.
‘Just started yesterday. I’m Rose.’
‘I’m Dan.’ They shook hands. ‘Sorry,’ he said as Rose wiped her hand off on her thigh. ‘I’m covered in linseed oil. We’ve been oiling the decks.’
‘Are all the boats outside?’
‘Yep,’ Dan said. ‘We put the last of them in the water yesterday. It was for the big boat-launch episode – they smashed champagne on the hulls and everything.’
‘Oh,’ said Rose. ‘Sounds like I missed out on all the fun.’
Dan laughed. ‘Well, you can catch it when they put it to air in six months. But don’t get too attached to those boats. The way this show works, most of them are going to the bottom of the bay.’
‘What?’
‘Wow, you really don’t know the show, do you?’ Dan launched into a speech he’d clearly given before. ‘Okay, so for the last six weeks, eight pairs of contestants have been working on their boats. First they were in here, and now they’re out there.’ He jerked his head towards the door. ‘But the eliminations start from this weekend, and the lowest ranked boat gets scuttled on camera. Every Sunday they film a sinking episode – they bring in a crowd, fire up the barbie, and then everybody cheers as the boat goes the full Titanic.’
‘What – every week? Don’t the wrecks pile up down there?’
‘Nah,’ Dan said, ‘once the cameras are off, they send divers down to inflate some airbags and bring the boats back up. We clean ’em up, then they sell ’em off. Sometimes they even bring back a sunken boat later in the season as a shock twist.’
‘Seems like a lot of work,’ Rose said.
‘That’s television for you,’ said Dan. ‘They spend thousands on materials, then we spend hours back here, all so these people can look good on screen for a few seconds.’
‘Aren’t the contestants upset when thei
r boat sinks?’
‘Oh, shit yeah. They cry and wail and carry on something ridiculous,’ said Dan. ‘It’s all part of the show.’
‘Do we … have to react too?’ Rose asked.
Dan laughed. ‘They like to have us there, if that’s what you mean. They pan across to show the workmen and we’re supposed to look sad. But we’re usually pissed by then. They spring for a few slabs on sinking days. Helps to “bring out our emotions”.’
This time Rose laughed with him. ‘Better go wash this off,’ Dan said, holding up his hands. ‘See you round.’
After he’d left, Rose spent another hour trimming planks, then checked her watch. Lunchtime. She’d been told not to wander onto the dock, where she might get in the way of filming, so she headed back to the car park, zipping up her polar fleece against the brisk sea breeze.
She sat on the tailgate of her ute and opened her thermos. Each weekend, Rose made a big pot of soup, and then heated some up every morning before work. This week’s soup was a curry laksa; she’d found the recipe online. She took a sip – not bad.
‘Not bad’ pretty much summed up today, too. Sure, the work was boring so far, but Rose was almost finished cutting the wood, and she was optimistic there’d be something different for her to do next. She hadn’t realised how cramped she’d felt under Old Steve’s thumb.
Plus she was on television! Well, not on television, but she was part of that world now. Who knew where this could lead! Set design, international trips … maybe even her own show, one day. Sipping her soup, Rose let herself fantasise: it would be called Hammertime. She’d travel the world, solving problems and meeting hot guys. After all, to a woman with a hammer, everything looked like a nail …
The sound of multiple animated voices from inside the shed dragged Rose back from her daydream. Gulping the last of her soup, she stashed the thermos in the back seat, locked the car and headed inside to see what was going on.