Windsor

Windsor had the split peg out of the oar-rack before anyone in the yard looked up. They wound string round the crack in three tight turns, then a fourth, because the third looked lonely. The glue stove ticked in the corner. The Slipway smelled of wet rope, varnish and hot glue, and under it all the Hum ran low and tight, the way everyone said it had for months.

The head boatwright came past with a glue pot and stopped. They looked at the peg. They looked at the paper shopping bag by Windsor’s feet, full of tacks and offcuts and string. Then they walked on without a word, which Windsor decided to take as praise.

On the far trestles sat this year’s shell, long and pale and not yet varnished. A chalked board leaned against its stern, turned to face the wall.

“Who’s it named for?” Windsor asked.

“Whoever complained loudest about the last one,” said Jessamy, not turning round, and went on stirring.

Windsor wanted that shell more than breakfast. They didn’t want to row it. They wanted to be in it: a footplate, a thwart, something of theirs built in and still there long after they’d gone.

“I could make the footplate,” they said.

“Nobody touches a shell before it’s named. Not strangers.” Jessamy nodded at the stove. “Glue holds its heat till noon. Square up the rest of that rack and the bench leg, and I’ll think about it.”

So they worked. Through the open door the hedge was still dew-dark, and stewards crossed the Back Lane with trays toward the Sunday Lawn. Pegs went in tight. The bench leg stopped rocking. Jessamy came by twice to look and said nothing twice, a little louder the second time. A footplate blank appeared on the end of the bench, measured and waiting.

Then a Cat came in holding two halves of a ruler and rubbing their wrist.

“Someone said there’s a Beast here who mends things,” they said. “My ruling-edge snapped. I’m lettering invitations this afternoon, and without a straight edge every line wanders off the card.”

Windsor looked at the stove. They looked at the blank. They felt the morning tip, the way a boat does when someone stands up in it.

They took the ruler.

It wanted a scarf joint, cut long and glued slow, or it would never run true again. Windsor cut it slow. They clamped it, sighted down it, and unclamped and set it again because it was a hair off. Somewhere behind them the stove’s ticking went quieter, and quieter, and stopped.

“Stove’s going cold,” said Jessamy.

“I know.”

Wilhelmina ran a finger down the mended edge and smiled for the first time. “That’s straighter than it was new.”

Jessamy picked up the footplate blank, turned it over once, and slid it under the bench beside the tin of brass screws labelled Not yours. They didn’t say no. They didn’t say anything at all.

Windsor put their tacks back in the bag. Their hands felt good and their chest felt odd, both at once, and they found they wouldn’t have done it differently.

On the way out, Wilhelmina glanced at the board turned to the wall, and laughed.