The sun shines in through the portholes. Wooly hat girl will be out drawing, she’s always early. I almost gathered my courage to talk to her last time.
Out on the pontoon, I check for her. Someone else’s there. I approach him because it’s her stool, her sketchpad.
‘Where’s funny hat girl?’
He pinches his nose.
‘She wore ‘em hats ‘cos she didn’t want nobody to see her bald.’
‘She got so upset ‘bout not finishing the bloody drawing. Loved ‘em boats, she did.’
I spent hours watching her when I could have taken her out on the boat.