‘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 their 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