Straight On Till Morning (Disney Twisted Tales) - Liz Braswell Page 0,15
So please, I’d rather you didn’t ask.”
“Weren’t going to,” one of the pirates grumbled. And with that, he swept the dice up into his bag and left her alone with the other players, who gave her nasty looks before they, too, retreated.
Wendy wilted. Life aboard the pirate ship was actually surprisingly similar to a fancy party, the type she hated. With dressed-up girls and boys and men and women and tea and tiny sandwiches and aspic and someone showing off on the piano. No one wanted to talk to her at those gatherings, either. It was like Christmas all over again.
She wandered forlornly across the deck and looked out over the railing.
The sky was blank. Fog surrounded the ship and there was no more breeze. It was as if they had reached the middle of the night, the middle of nowhere. Everything stood still except for a few tendrils of Wendy’s hair and the black flag. She shivered, pulling her coat more closely around her. She didn’t want to be alone. But the five-finger fillet players looked…dangerous.
And then Wendy saw salvation.
A lone pirate was sitting cross-legged on the deck, looking squint-eyed and studious, pulling at a string on his pants.
He was sewing!
Wendy brightened like the sun. Now there was a subject she could feel confident about.
She walked up to the fellow and watched for a moment as he ineffectually stabbed a giant needle into a piece of cloth that he held awkwardly in place on his pants, trying to cover a hole.
“Excuse me, if you don’t mind me saying, but I’m afraid you’re doing that entirely wrong,” Wendy said politely.
The pirate looked up at her, one eye still squinted. She wondered if it was a permanent affliction.
“Well, I ain’t got me a seamstress to fix up my fancy pants now, do I?” He cackled. “‘What Mother can’t do, sons must makes do,’ as they say.”
“Ah—I don’t know about that,” Wendy said, trying to work the words out in her head and failing. “But if you’ll hand it to me, I’ll have a go.”
The pirate’s eyes widened. Without a second thought, he shoved the whole mess over to her, including his pants—which, as his brightly striped knickers attested, he had apparently not been wearing.
“Oh!” Wendy blushed and turned around.
The pirate cackled again. “What, you think I’d stick it with a needle while it’s on me own skin? I’m unskilled, not daft, ye silly co’. Now settle down. Ye can’t see me privates or me bum, and there’s them that wear less on washing day round here, so ye’d best get used to it.”
“Well!”
Wendy tried to rearrange her shocked expression while busying herself sorting through the mess of cloth. He was right, of course. She was in alien country now: a ship full of uncivilized men. All she could do was act properly, like a decent civilized person, as there was no guarantee that others would.
She settled herself down on a tipped-over quarter cask and smoothed out the pieces. Actually, the pirate had made a very nice, neat little knot to begin with. But that made sense, she supposed. Sailors had to be very good at knots, hadn’t they? She bet they would be excellent at macramé, or even crochet, if patiently taught.…
Wendy whistled and hummed to herself and felt much better with something familiar in her hands. In a short while the patch was finished and held tightly on by tiny and neat little stitches.
“There, all done. You can see how I—oh!”
There was a crowd around her now. Pirates, speechless and wide-eyed to a man.
“BLIMEY! Do mine next!” one said, whipping off his shirt.
“No, me! I got no seat on me trousers!” another begged.
“No! Me next!” whined a third.
“All right, all right now…”
She put her hands on her hips, feeling crowded and overwhelmed. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that as long as she was on board, she would do any minor repairs and mending that were needed. Might as well make herself useful, right? That’s what she always did: made herself useful, and as a result she was always needed. And liked.
Then again…
She had paid her passage on this vessel. A very dear one. She wasn’t a scullery maid; she was a customer.
“My jacket’s fearful cold when the wind blows—I’ll give ye a halfpenny if ye do it first,” a fourth pirate said slyly, seeing her hesitate.