Nick carefully puts the ship down. It is as long as his little finger and as wide as his thumb, but it has masts and sails, portholes and even a tiny little mermaid as a figurehead. The bottle he is about to slide it into is ready and waiting on the table. Then it can go with the others, which are gleaming away on shelves on the wall. Rows and rows of bottles, all with little ships inside, ships that should never have fitted in through the necks of the bottles, and yet there they are. He has a whole system of little strings to pull, hinged masts, folding sails, and his fingers are learning to work on a smaller and smaller scale, and every ship is an improvement on the last one.
He used to make real ships, big ones, but this is much more fun. A lot less tiring too. He could do it all day, in his hut that lies hidden in the garden, so overgrown and entangled with thorns and nettles that no one knows it is there. Squirrels on the roof, robins at the window, a bit of porridge, a cup of coffee now and then – that is all he needs.
Until suddenly there is something that he has to do. Even though his hut is so deep in the garden, he still hears it when the girl calls. He hears it every time.
Help. How am I ever going to get over the fence? Help, I’m falling. Help, how am I ever going to get that boy to come outside? How am I ever going to see my father again? Help! Will someone help me?
Well, then, that someone would be him.
Perhaps because she is her mother’s daughter, perhaps that is why. He had not thought about her for years. But he saw it as soon as she walked through the gate. She looks so much like her.
Nick pushes back his stool and stretches. Then he looks for a few suitable pieces of wood, a saw, a sanding block. He should still have some wheels somewhere too. After brushing down his workbench, he sets to work.
The little boat will have to wait.
Behind his hut, up on two blocks of wood, there is another boat, a real rowing boat, made of green wood. That is for later, but it is already waiting there. Upside down, but you can still read its name: Emilia.
Lampie has almost finished the dishes when she hears a shrill whistle from outside. From the kitchen window, she sees Nick on the path, beckoning at her to come out. He is pulling something behind him: it is a cart, newly made, softly sanded, with a handle on the front and a leather cushion inside, which you could rest your tail on, for example, if you happened to have one.
Lampie instantly knows what it is. She runs to the kitchen door, with the tea towel still in her hand.
“Yes!” she says. “That’s perfect! However did you know?”