Sydney, at Last

Friday. Sydney. The shanty is open on George Street, under the same roof as the galleon, and I have both of the captain’s properties in one building in this city, which is a great saving on boots.

I built this one with the harbour in mind. Same timber walls, same sea at the window, same treasure tucked away where the captain swears nobody would ever look. Same broom, too. A first mate is nothing without his broom.

The captain is writing in his log that Sydney will rob him twice in one visit. He is right. He usually is, about the wrong things. I watched a family come off the ship this afternoon, and the youngest asked whether the pirate had an island. Her father looked at the poster on the wall. Twenty minutes later they were in my shanty.

Sydney prisoners are quick. Quick on the stairs, quick with the maps, quick to tell me I look like a man who has seen things. I have seen things. Mostly the inside of this shanty.

Somebody left me a thank-you note under the rum barrel. Nobody is supposed to know about the rum barrel.