Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Nate
N ate had an hour before he needed to take the boxes to the far end of the quay. It was a side hustle he had, as the only forklift truck on the island belonged to Hill’s Workshop. As Nathaniel Hill, he was the only one to drive it. Not that there was anyone else on the island who was qualified to handle a forklift vehicle.
He was on his back tightening up a nut on the motorcycle wheel one-handed. The ache in his wrist resting on his stomach reminded him he needed to see the doctor the following morning.
His phone rang. It was on the floor next to him, just in case a potential customer needed his expertise. Nate instructed his phone to answer when he saw who it was.
“Hi, Dad. How’s it going?”
The view from the video screen is of a kitchen, slightly out of focus. His dad was standing in front of a silver fridge with the phone propped up against the coffee jar. Nate knows this because the conversation is always the same.
His mum’s voice could be heard in the background.
“Yes, I’m talking to Nate... no, I haven’t used the easel for the phone. The coffee jar is perfectly fine...” Then his father let out a sigh. The phone jostled and then was placed a little higher than before.
“Our son looks fine. Proof of life confirmed,” his father shouted.
Then there was quiet and a loving, exasperated glance over his dad’s shoulder, and then he returned his focus to Nate.
His father’s eyes crinkled at the sides, and his hair was dark with grey streaked through, cropped short, parted just off centre and combed neatly to the side.
“Hello, Son. As you can hear, nothing has changed at this end. We’re busy as ever. I thought I’d give you a call to see how you are.”
“I’d like to say I’m busy too, but it’s slow going.”
“You’d make quicker work of that, but if you used both hands,” his dad quipped, nodding to Nate’s bike.
Nate sighed, wishing he hadn’t accepted the video call. It wouldn’t be long before his mum was on the call asking why he wasn’t using both hands. He decided to be straight.
“I got hit yesterday. My wrist is a little swollen.”
“Rowing, I bet. I swear you get more injuries doing that sport than getting past the winning post.”
His father was laughing. It was Hill lore that Nate wasn’t great at rowing, but he stayed on the team to keep fit when they trained. He was never in the boat when they competed.
“I’ll get it looked at. Let Mum know I’m not at death’s door.”
“Will do, Son. Do you have any bookings? ”
“None. I’m doing more business shifting boxes around the island on the truck than I am fixing boats. I called the financial tax helpline, and they said I could request not to pay next year’s advance payments. The woman said to be sure business wouldn’t pick up and make me look like I was trying to pull a fast one with the tax man.”
His father’s face dropped its joviality and turned serious. “What do you think the chances are over there?”
“There is definitely potential. Archer Turner seems to be making some changes. Their business always has events booked in, meaning knock on business for the town, but not many come by boat.”
“If the events increase, then the ferry boats will increase, and you know how often they break down and need fixing before they head back out again. My advice is to give it another year. Then if things don’t pick up, you’ll have more than the tax bill to consider. If you decide to come to the mainland, you will always have a job with me. You know that, right?”
His dad had his arms folded across his chest, dropping his chin to illustrate he meant every word. Nate felt the love and support through the phone. His parents had always given him their unwavering support and encouragement. Nate’s dad meant everything he was saying and had demonstrated it his entire life.
He tried not to sound defeatist, but it was hard.
“Yeah, Dad, but I love living on Copper Island, even if it isn’t the same as it used to be.”
“I get that, and I’m proud you’re giving it your all. What are you doing to pass the time?” his dad asked.
“I bet he spends his nights reading,” Nate’s mum chipped in.
“Hi, Mum. Yeah, have been doing some reading. ”
“I knew it. Don’t forget to invite us over soon. I miss your face,” she said.
Nate rolled to his side and switched to give her his full face on the video.
“It’s not very pretty at the moment,” Nate said, grinning, knowing he had oil smears across his cheek.
“My handsome son. Why hasn’t someone snapped you up yet?” she asked, giving him a cheesy smile.
“I’m choosy,” he replied.
“Don’t be a stranger. The ferry goes both ways,” his mum chastened and then blew him a kiss. “Gotta check on dinner.”
Nate watched his mum flick the towel at his dad’s legs and then run off. His parents were as in love as he had ever seen them.
He wanted that.
“Tell me what you’re doing with the bike?” his dad asked.
“It’s nearly done. There aren’t any long stretches of open road to test it out, but I’ll have a ride around the island.”
“Don’t forget the runway. The flights stop early. You could always ask them if you can use the strip for a test run.”
Nate brightened. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Not just a hat rack,” his dad said, pointing to his temple.
Nate laughed at his dad’s old joke. He missed his parents and their easygoing nature. They were forgiving in that they moved on from whatever troubled them. When Old Man Turner died, and they decided to move off the island, there was no malice or resentment like some of the islanders, just practicality.
Nate was one of them that harboured resentment at Cynthia Turner and her lack of attention to what was happening on her island .
“I need to get ready to take the load to the boat. I earn more money driving the forklift than fixing boats these days.
“Gotta diversify where you can, Son,” his dad said wisely.
Those words he’d already heard from the accountant on the phone came back to him. Her voice had played around in his head for days, and he wanted to hear it again. Nate needed to let his dad go. Otherwise, he was likely to talk himself into selling the business. Yet, deep down, Nate knew he had to stay for another year. He didn’t know why, but somewhere, his mind was telling him to hang on a little longer.
“True. You taught me that. I’ll need to get to my boxes. I’ll call you soon,” Nate said, lifting his good hand to say goodbye.
“Take care, Son,” his dad said, and the screen went blank.
The sound of a boat engine rumbled in the distance, and blades of harsh white light sliced through the open garage door, no doubt from a tug boat in the harbour.
He slumped onto the concrete, the chill of the floor seeping into his body. Nate stared at the metal beams that kept the garage upright in the roughest storms, reminding him of the silent strength that held his world together.
He thought of the long wheelbarrow waiting to be loaded with boxes of scraps, the forklift to be driven out into the night as he took the salvaged metal pieces to the cargo boat. In the back of his mind, a faint voice told him he could take a break and go for a quick shower and off to the pub for a pint. But then the voice faded away, replaced, knowing that he couldn’t forgo the money. Evenings like these always seemed to have too little to do and too much time to do it.
Rising to his feet, he dusted off his clothes and reached for the hose nearby. He took a few moments to clean his face and hands before clearing away his tools. He’d get a pint later, he thought to himself, but for now, he had to get to work.