But I knew what I was doing. As Dennis always says, everyone and everything has its price.
Liza’s boat was the only one on the jetty. She walked a couple of steps ahead of me, not indulging in small-talk, except with the little dog so I had a chance to look around as we approached it. There was little in Silver Bay, even around the jetty: a café, a souvenir shop, whose turnover was obviously slow – the window display was dusty – and a seafood market, situated towards the main town and housed in the most modern building in the bay. It had its own car park, and was a short walk away, which meant that the customers who stopped for fresh fish were unlikely to walk back to use any other facilities – a poorly thought-out decision. I would have insisted they place it right opposite the jetty.
Although it was a Saturday, few people were about. The tourists, if there were any, must be out on the water in the other whale-watching boats. The few motels I saw dotted along the main road out of town forlornly advertised their available rooms, breakfast included, but the bay had the air of a place that did not expect much out of season. That said, neither did it look particularly troubled. It lacked the peculiarly sullen, abandoned aspect of an English seaside town in winter; the bright sunshine lent it a jovial air, while its inhabitants seemed uncommonly cheerful.
Except Liza.
She had ordered me aboard, made me stand and watch while she ran through a safety checklist in a flat monotone, then rather grudgingly, I thought, asked me if I wanted her to put on the coffee. ‘Point me towards it, and I’ll do it,’ I said.
‘Bend your knees when you walk round, and when you come up,’ she said, turning her back to me. ‘Don’t feed the gulls. It encourages them to dive-bomb the passengers, and they mess everywhere.’ Then, bounding up the steps, she was gone.
The lower deck had two tables and chairs, some plastic-covered benches and a glass case, with chocolate, whale videos and tapes and seasickness tablets for sale. A handwritten sign warned customers that it was wise not to make their drinks too hot as spillages often occurred. I found the tea and coffee area and made two coffees, noting the raised edges of the sideboard, the secured tea and coffee holders, presumably to stop the pots tipping off in high seas. I did not want to think too hard about the kind of seas that might send boiling coffee-pots flying, the kind that apparently kept Hannah ashore, but then the engines started, and I had to hold on to the side to keep steady. We were headed out to sea at some pace.
I made my way unsteadily up the flight of stairs to the back of the boat. Liza was standing at the wheel, her little dog draped across the helm behind it; obviously a favoured post. I handed her a mug and felt the wind on my face, tasted the faint tang of salt on my lips.
This is just part of the job, I thought, trying to justify what I had done. But it would be an interesting one to put through on expenses.
Liza’s gaze was fixed on the sea, and I wondered why she had been so determined not to take me out. I wasn’t aware that I had offended her in any way. Then again, she seemed like the kind of woman who instinctively rebelled against being corralled. And I had been pretty determined.
‘How long have you been doing this?’ I had to shout to be heard over the engine.
‘Five years. Getting on for six.’
‘Is it a good business?’
‘It does for us.’
‘Is this your own boat?
‘It used to be Kathleen’s, but she gave it to me.’
‘Generous of her.’ I can count the times I have been on a boat on one hand so I was interested in everything. I asked her the names of a few parts of the boat, which was port and which starboard (I’ve always mixed them up), what you called the various instruments. ‘So what’s a boat this size worth?’
‘Depends on the boat.’
‘What’s this boat worth?’
‘Does everything for you revolve around money?’
It wasn’t said in an unfriendly manner, but it gave me pause. I took a sip of my coffee and tried again. ‘You come from England.’
‘Is that what Hannah told you?’
‘No – it’s what the, ah, whale crews said. That afternoon at the table. And I can – you know – hear it.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Yes. We used to live in England.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘No.’
‘Did you come out here specially?’
‘Specially?’
‘To do whale-watching?’
‘Not really.’
Was she like this with all her customers? Bad divorce, I speculated. Perhaps she just didn’t like men.
‘Do you see lots of whales?’
‘If I go to the right places.’
‘Is it a good way of life?’
She took her hand off the wheel and faced me, suspicious. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
I was determined not to bite back. I had the feeling she was not a naturally antagonistic person. ‘You’re a rarity. I don’t imagine there are many female English skippers around here.’
‘How would you know? There could be thousands of us.’ She allowed a small smile. ‘Actually, Port Stephens is famous for them.’ This, I guessed, was the closest she would come to humour.
‘Okay, a question for you. Why did you spend so much money just to go on a boat trip?’
Because it was the only way I could get you to take me. But I didn’t say it aloud. ‘Would you have done it for less?’ I asked, changing tack.
She grinned. ‘Of course.’
After that something changed. Liza McCullen relaxed, or perhaps decided that I wasn’t as objectionable, or as threatening, as she had initially decided, and the froideur that had hung over our trip out of the bay dissipated.
We didn’t say much. I sat on the wooden bench behind her and gazed out to sea, quietly enjoying someone else’s competence at a skill I know nothing about. She spun the wheel, checked the dials, radioed one of the other boats, fed Milly, the dog, the odd biscuit. Sometimes she would point at a stretch of land or a creature that held some interest, and elaborate a little. But I couldn’t tell you now what she said. Because although she was not the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and she appeared to pay no more attention to how she looked than she did to how she spoke, and although half the time she was turned away or scowling at me, I found Liza McCullen oddly compelling. If I hadn’t already worked out that she would have been sensitive to it, I would have stared at her. That’s not like me at all.