Ch12

They pulled up outside her apartment and Sully judged it with a critical look. He was never keen on apartment houses; they had no heart and cramped small rooms where you could *not swing a cat.

After collecting the canvas bag with his tools, he followed her up the stairs.

She opened the door and stood aside to allow his entry into a long narrow hall. The lounge room was crammed with seats and the television. A small bookcase held photos and a collection of worn books. Her bedroom door was open and he glanced in. The large bed nearly took up the entire room. A soft pastel doona covered the bed and pillows that matched lay on it. The bed side table had a lamp with beads hanging from it like he had seen in old photos, and an electric alarm clock flashed the time. He found everything simple but elegant and attractive, just as he thought she would have her things. He liked that, in contrast to Abigail, it was all modern and plastic. He had often wondered how her style would suit in the wooden house he built. He stepped aside for Michaela to squeeze through so she could show him to the kitchen laundry combination, serviceable but not roomy once more.

She had soggy towels all over the floor and a laundry basket full of wet clothes. Apologising for the mess, she watched as he walked the machine out of its snug place under a bench. Kneeling down he turned it around so he could unscrew the back. He took out a number of pieces and looking at her he announced the belt was broken and needed replacing.

As he began to stand, he hit his head on the bench. Holding it he groaned as he slumped to the floor, blood trickling from his hairline into his eye through his fingers.

Michaela was immediately in action, telling him to sit still and taking off towards the bathroom, returning with her home first aid kit. She moved his hand from his head and used an alcoholic swab to clean the gash, to which he jumped. Then she pulled out a number of sterile strips to use as stitches, saying if he did not stay still she would stitch it with a needle and thread. His immediate comment was, "I hate needles."

Smiling she advised him, "You had better be good then."

Moaning, Sully said she was *going overboard. She ignored the comment until she was satisfied that the cut was treated. Finally she looked at his pupils with her small pencil torch. Shaking her head, she assisted him to stand, gliding him past the children's bedrooms to her own. He was dripping wet from lying on the floor and she removed his shirt. His physic was amazing, considering he had done nothing for the past six months at least. As she dropped her hands lower to his trousers, he abruptly grabbed them; he had not expected she would remove his pants as well.

Blushing a bright red and dropping her eyes, she told him to call her when he was under the covers as she wanted to put his clothes in the dryer. Then she turned and hurriedly left the room.

When he called, she peeked in and saw he was under the covers, his wet clothes in a pile on the floor. She was surprised to see he was actually laying on her side of the bed. She had never shared a bed, not even with David and it had never occurred to her about what side people would sleep on.

She entered and as she bent to collect his wet clothes he took her arm, "Ya coming back? I want ya too."

"Yes, we have to keep you awake for some time," she replied.

Minutes later she was back and lowered herself on the other side of her bed. Insecurity was all of a sudden gripping her; she was sitting on a bed with a naked man with only a blanket covering him. This was not at all ethical her inner voice repeated in her head.

He could see she was having an internal battle, he had raged his own many times these past weeks.

"Ya don' have to stay if ya feel uncomfortable," he reassured her.

The moment he gave her the okay to leave she felt much better. "No, I want to stay," she reassured him.

Sliding down she lay on her side, looking at him. He followed her lead and slid down till they were facing each other, acutely aware that there was only a quilt between them.

"Sully, tell me what happened before you signed up?" She was aware that he always seemed to go into a deep malaise when he travelled into the past, but she also knew that each time he seemed better later on.

This question was followed by a long silence.

Then quietly he began telling her about meeting Abigail in school. How they fell in love and married. Her father was not at all pleased, and they lived in a small cabin her mother owned.

He built the building she now knew as his home and that Abigail never lived there. He recalled how he felt about being told he was to be a father, about his dream of being a family the one thing he'd missed so much growing up, and the sense of belonging.

There was another long silence that followed, and Michaela rubbed her hand up and down his arm, letting him know he was not alone.

He wanted to skip the next part, but he had witnessed what telling his story was doing for him. He was feeling better and he liked that; it was really helpful. Michaela was amazing; he could never thank her enough for what she was doing for him. He now wanted to tackle what life had to offer; somehow some-where she had kindled hope.

Opening his eyes Sully looked into Michaela's, and he was surprised to see they were different colours. Michaela liked blue and Sully's eyes were an amazing colour blue. She knew they changed with his moods.

Taking a long breath he told her about the phone call, being so afraid as he tore through to the hospital where he had taken his wife. About being barred from being allowed in the operating room and his tiny little daughter, holding her to him and hoping she would survive. He turned and the cover fell away, exposing his bare behind. Michaela froze until he resumed his position holding his wallet and taking out the precious paper with Hannah's prints on it.

He handed it to her and the tears began to fall unchecked. Michaela knew of the practice and was pleased someone had actually done this for the grieving husband and father.

Michaela murmured, "She was so small". He could only nod as he ran his thumb over the prints that were the only reminder he had of what he had lost.

*No room to swing a cat.*

Meaning: An awkwardly small, confined space.

Origin:

Whether the 'cat' was a real moggy or the flail-like whip used to punish sailors in the British Navy isn't clear. Many reports claim that the cat in question is the 'cat o'nine tails'. As so often though, they don't supply evidence, just certainty. As a candidate for folk etymology goes the 'cat o' nine tails' story has it all - plausibility, a strong storyline and a nautical origin. That's enough to convince many people - the actual evidence shows the theory to be highly dubious. The phrase itself dates from at least the 17th century. Richard Kephale's Medela Pestilentiae, 1665:

"They had not space enough (according to the vulgar saying) to swing a Cat in."

The nature of that citation makes it clear that the phrase was already in use prior to it being committed to paper. The 'cat o' nine tails' isn't recorded until 1695 though, in William Congreve's Love for Love:

"If you should give such language at sea, you'd have a cat-o'-nine-tails laid cross your shoulders."

If those dates are in fact the earliest uses then the 'cat o' nine tails' theory is wrong.

* Go overboard*

Fig. to fall out of a boat or off of a ship; to fall overboard. Be careful or you will go overboard. Someone went overboard in the fog.

2. Fig. to do too much; to be extravagant. Look, Sally, let's have a nice party, but don't go overboard. It doesn't need to be fancy. Okay, you can buy a big comfortable car, but don't go overboard on price.