Unfulfilled Curiosity – The Boat

“Come on, Stanley… you haven’t drunk your tea! Too busy chatting to Millie.”

Stanley holds his gaze a moment longer out over the reed beds to the mercurial waters of the tidal inlet, before turning body then eyes to the entreating auxiliary. He looks for his cup.

“I can see you’re captivated. What’s out there today?”

Stanley turns back to the picture-box window, no taste for tea. “Well, he’s been back and forth nigh on twice if not thrice today. Same little fishin’ boat. Canopy’s up and it’s not even spittin’. Look! Barely a cloud in the sky. Barely a cloud…”

The vast canvas-expanse of sky draws down to the distant hills beyond the far shores of the maritime estuary. Arcadian vapour trails evaporate into a filigree of white brocade against the cobalt sky. It darkens to deep Prussian blue as it recedes to kiss the distant skyline as night draws in.

“You see, I’ve been watchin’ him, trackin’ him. I know his movements now. You can almost set your clock by it… which is peculiar because if you want to evade the law, then you’ve got to – you know – take evasive action.” Stanley chuckles to himself with gentle modesty.

“I have three theories and, if I still had a house, I’d be willin’ to wager that one of those theories is spot on… spot on.”

He fixes his stare with greater intensity looking up the inland waterway. A South-Westerly blows up channel. White horses gather pace on the bow wave carved out by a square-bow tug.

“One: he’s runnin’ drugs, part of an organised crime cartel, inconspicuous to some… he may think. Offloadin’ in Burley Creek.

Two: he’s a people trafficker, bringin’ ‘em in two at a time and passin’ ‘em off to his handler. His handler’ll lock em up – modern slavery, no less. Workin’ ‘em as fruit pickers. God, they might even be workin’ in here.” Stanley breaks off simpering to himself and shaking his head. When his laughter has subsided, he continues to shake his head.

“No, I wouldn’t bet my house on those two theories. Too far flung. Anyway, far too many couch detectives these days, he’d never get away with it and he’s been in the game long, long time.”

He looks over to Millie, who remains impassive staring through his frailty. He adjusts his heavy-rimmed, oversize spectacles and composes a slowly evolving smile. “I think you know, Millie, what my third theory might be? I’ve shared it with you oftentimes enough.” Millie responds to her name with a faint nod of the head.

Stanley looks back out over the estuary. Calm contentment washes over him. A petrel with sleek, chevron wings swoops close to the water’s surface then skirts the shores until Stanley can see him no more. He smiles and nods.

“Stanley. Here, drink your tea.” Attentive, she crouches down and offers him the cup, all smiles. “So, what’s number three?”

The cup of tea trembles in his hand. Surface tension reveals mild distress. “Lena, that’s kind, but I’m sorry…” He looks back in search of the fishing boat. “That’s just for me and Millie. Just me and Millie.”