The Briny Café (9 page)

But the lack of electricity, sewerage and phones were regarded as small inconveniences when a round orange moon lit up the water like a carnival, or a silver bream bigger than a paddle finally took the bait from a line hung out of the kitchen window.

The odd property developer had turned up from time to time, with lawyers, cheque books and political influence, mistaking the casualness of the locals for ignorance. A few development proposals took years of relentless slog to beat. But the offshorers never tired of the fight to preserve a way of life everyone knew was rare and idyllic.

Thinking back, Sam can only remember one or two blokes with the same alley-cat morals of the Weasel moving in. Without too much discussion, they'd been quietly but firmly ousted by community pressure. When it came to defending their territory, Cook's Basin residents could be as tough and ruthless as the situation demanded.

Sam peels off the covering tea towel on the basket, for once mourning not so much the old days as the passage of time. He lines up a small blue bowl of tomato sauce, wondering why it is that the older you get, the more tempted you are to look back instead of forward. He mentally shrugs. No matter how you looked at it, thugs and bullies had to be stopped before they got the upper hand. He takes his first delicious bite of a sausage roll, deciding to limit himself to two. He'll save the rest for later in the night when he'll be cold, hungry and bored rigid unless the book is as good as Ettie says it is.
It was a Blue Swimmer Bay book club choice, and everyone gave it a top score. He was amazed to hear from Ettie that Kate was joining the book club next month. He'd never have picked her as a joiner. More like the type to run solo, as far as he could tell.

He gets up and puts the basket outside the cabin door where the delicious smell can't tempt him. He makes a mental note to remind her about those beers she owes him. In a small community, when you give your word, you deliver or someone might be left in the lurch. And if you welsh too often, people develop a case of sudden blindness when you need a hand. To be fair, though, it takes a while to take a whole new set of standards on board.

Keeping your word and looking out for your neighbours was bred in his bones. Even that old actor fella who towered over the lot of them babysat for his mum after Sam broke his arm when he fell out of a tree. He was about four years old and can't remember much about that day. Although he has a vague feeling he and the craggy-faced actor had shared an icy, long-nose bottle of beer while the old fella told lurid bedtime stories with even more lurid endings. He probably passed out, he thinks, reaching for a beer from his icebox and twisting off the top. Maybe that's where he first got the taste for the amber brew.

A tinny cruises close by. He kills the reading torch and fumbles for his notebook and pencil. The kid ties up and shuffles along the jetty, glancing over his shoulder with clumsy stealth. A touch of hubris, too, as though flirting with danger gives him kudos. Closer to the boatshed door, the kid pulls a hood over his head, knocks and waits. A light comes on. A
blind drops with a clunk that carries across the water.

The mutt growls. Sam calls him inside the wheelhouse and gives him a sausage roll to keep him quiet.

Half an hour later, two more kids saunter down the Weasel's steps like they're headed for a bag of chips and a lemonade at a video night with their friends. Christ, he thinks, that's little Teddy. He can't be more than fourteen. Who's he with? Jenny's young girl? He feels a red-hot rage work its way up from his toes. He fetches the basket and fumbles for a sausage roll. The basket is empty.

“You're on borrowed time, mate,” he hisses at the dog. The mutt pants happily and thumps his tail on the timber deck, a few flakes of pastry caught in the loose folds around his mouth.

 

At dawn the next morning, the apple-green water taxi swings by the
Mary Kay
. It's the end of Fast Freddy's shift and he's on his way to the Spit. His shout wakes Sam out of a dreamless sleep.

“Just checkin' you're all okay,” he calls, with his head poking through the hole in the bimini. “Ya know yer on the wrong mooring, don't ya?”

Sam waves from the doorway, holding a doona around his waist like a skirt. Freddy grins and fingers his nose like he's in the know.

Probably thinks I'm dodging a woman, Sam says to himself, cranky for a reason he can't quite define. He's happy to know the nosy bugger keeps an eye out, though. Three petrol tanks were liberated from their tinnies last week. Piss-poor
behaviour. No doubt kids selling it on to each other for a quick buck.

The penny drops.

He'll give the Weasel one warning. After that, all bets are off.

Up for'ard on the portside, the mutt lifts his leg and piddles against a crucifix bollard. It's been a long night.

Fast Freddy, resplendent in a sunflower-yellow jacket with red waterproof pants, sits in his usual spot waiting for the café to open, a green beanie pulled down to his woolly eyebrows.

“Combat gear for the fast runs, eh?” Sam says, taking a seat beside him. In the right light, Freddy could easily be mistaken for a lorikeet.

“As if anyone ever asks for a slow run,” Freddy says, without rancour but with a hint of weariness. The sacks under his night-shift eyes are the colour of charcoal.

“Summer's taking its time.” Sam rubs his hands together. “It's cold as.”

“Soon as it arrives you'll be wishin' for a fresh southerly to take the heat out of the day,” Freddy replies. “Human nature. Always lookin' over the fence when every day's a blessing, especially when you're on the water. Want my advice?”

“Is there a choice?”

“Try sleepin' in a warm bed like most sensible people.”

“I was on a mission, mate, keeping an eye on the community.”

“Ah. Gotcha. That questionable bloke next to Triangle, eh?”

“Got it in one.”

They sit silently, both locked in the beauty of a day frocking up in massive strokes of light. On the water, on the escarpment and fingering its way into hidden green gullies.

“Bloody magic, isn't it?” Freddy says.

“Doesn't do it justice, mate.” Sam looks over at the darkened café and checks the time, hoping Ettie hasn't woken up thinking yesterday's bonanza was a dream and rolled over to go back to sleep. “So have you heard, then?” Sam asks.

“Heard what?”

“About Ettie?”

Freddy looks so alarmed Sam rushes to fill him in. “Keep your shirt on. It's all good, mate. She's the new owner of The Briny.”

Fast Freddy spins on his seat and stares across at the dishevelled café. “Eh?”

“Bertie's crook, and he's handed her the reins.”

“Good news and bad news, then,” Freddy says, after he's given himself time to think through the ramifications. “What's the drum on Bertie?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Ah.” They sit in silence once more.

After a while, Freddy says philosophically: “Well, everything that is born must die. That's the truth of it.”

They both see her then, flying across the water in a tinny so frail the hull looks transparent. For the first time that either of them can remember, Ettie fails to throttle back in the go-slow zone.

“Jeez, she must be stressed,” Sam says.

“It's a bloody big job,” Freddy replies, shocked to hear himself swear.

 

Ettie, in plain black trousers and a white shirt, roars into the wobbly pontoon belonging to The Briny, ties up and hauls ten plastic containers out of the boat. They are filled with raspberry and coconut muffins, orange cakes, lemon cakes and freshly baked loaves of banana bread. She scoops the boxes into her arms and takes off along the jetty barely able to see over the top. She plonks them on a table at the back door to search for the key and a lid comes undone. The smell of fruit and spices drifts across to the Square riding the back of a light westerly. Chippies and early commuters sniff the wind like dogs on a scent and twist their heads in the direction of the café in astonishment. The world, as they know it, has just somersaulted, although they don't truly understand the magnitude of the change until later in the day when the news of Bertie's bad luck and Ettie's good fortune sweeps around the Island and the bays via the
Seagull
.

Fast Freddy and Sam rush to help her. She smiles to thank them and then indicates they should help themselves from the container that's lost its lid. They reach, with reverence, for a golden-topped muffin still warm from the oven and bite into moist, crusty sweetness. Both know in a single bite that they've found their mandatory morning comfort food for the years ahead.

“You must've been baking all night,” Sam says, brushing crumbs off his grubby work clothes and licking sticky fingers.

“Most of it,” Ettie admits. Her eyes shine and her skin has a youthful glow that's been missing for a long time.

“Well, love, these muffins are the answer to every man's dream.”

“Like a coffee to go with them?”

“Oh Ettie, if you could manage one, Fast Freddy and me would fight to the death over your hand in marriage. Right, Freddy?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Freddy says, embarrassed. “Any chance of a second muffin, Ettie? Full café rates this time?”

“Haven't worked out prices yet, my old friend.” Her laughter is as rich and buttery as the muffins. “You're in the clear for today. Go for it.”

Sam also reaches for another one. “You're a star,” he says. Ettie slaps his hand away and he leaps like he's been scalded. “What's Freddy got that I haven't?” he whines.

“I wouldn't know where to begin.” Still laughing, she pulls open the flywire door and marches into her new life as the proprietor of The Briny Café. Famous for dodgy egg and bacon rolls and heart-starter coffee. Taking a deep breath she clicks a switch on the espresso machine and hands Sam the key to the front door.

“Open up for me, would you? And take your scruffy mutt with you. No animals inside or the health department will close me down. I'll call out when your coffee is ready. You can have a slice of toasted banana bread to go with it. Let me know if you think there's too much cinnamon and make sure you give half to the dog.”

Ettie grabs a cloth, smells it and tosses it in the bin. She scrabbles in gritty drawers until she finds a pencil and paper
and begins a list. She plans to stay open all morning, every morning, to cash in on the early commuter trade and to advise customers of the changeover. She'll close every afternoon for one week to give everything – from floor to ceiling – a thorough scour. Plus she needs time to get her menus sorted.

Humming, she makes the coffees while Fast Freddy, in what will become his personal contribution to the running of the café, drags in the newspapers, cuts through the twine and stacks them on the counter with their edges neatly aligned.

“There you go, Ettie, now you're well and truly open for business,” he says with a flourish.

“You're a good man, Freddy.”

It takes her five minutes to set out the muffins and arrange the cakes on two chipped white rectangular platters she finds in a mouldy cupboard. She lines up her fresh, homemade goodies on the counter and steps back to judge the effect. She swoops on the fossilised Florentines in a single action and throws them in the bin. The waste hurts but she's been watching them for months and they've never moved. She dusts her hands. It's a beginning, at least. A taste of where she's headed. How the world spins, she thinks. Yesterday, she couldn't see a way out of endless drudgery. Today, she's overwhelmed by possibilities. Oh yeah, miracles happen. She's living proof. The trick is to recognise them when they come along, and to grab them unafraid.

 

At lunchtime, with his stomach rumbling and his tastebuds on overdrive at the thought of what Ettie might have cooked for lunch, Sam makes his way back to The Briny.

His hand is on the screen door when he hears a high-pitched yip that sounds more like surprise than fright. Two more follow in quick succession. He chucks a look at the ferry wharf where the two Misses Skettle, their iris-blue hair newly tinted and corrugated, stand side by side, the week's groceries piled at their feet. The old girls are resplendent in full skirts printed with pink cabbage roses, like belles from the 1950s. They are watching a tinny racing in circles.

“Jeez. That's Jimmy,” Sam says when he reaches them. He shades his eyes and moves forward to make sure he's right.

“That boy's stark naked,” announces one of the Misses Skettle calmly.

Her sister squints as the tinny completes another circle, its outboard motor dug so deep in the water the boat is almost vertical. “Maybe, I can't tell. There's a towel over his lap.”

“Well, your eyes are better than mine. But I'm quite sure I saw a soft appendage.”

“Better than a stiff appendage. At our age, anyway!”

Sam bites his bottom lip. “Well, we all know Jimmy's always been a bit impulsive. But he's coming good.”

“Of course he is,” the old women nod in agreement, their geranium-pink lips tightly puckered in confirmation. “Anyone can see that.”

 

Inside the café, Ettie is firm. “The hamburger mince has a green frill and I'm frightened to even crack the eggs. It'll be a week at least before I'm running at full speed. Go home and make a sandwich, Sam.”

“You'll have muffins again tomorrow, though, won't you? You can't get a bloke's hopes to such a high level and then let him down!”

“Get out of here. You're wasting my time.” She flicks his backside with a damp cloth.

On the way out, he sees a bin overflowing with discarded food. He snaffles a handful of raw burgers and winks at the dog. “That's you done, at least.”

Back on the barge, Sam checks behind for boat traffic and eases the throttle forward. He feels an instant, slight shudder in the
Mary Kay
's response.

“Ah bugger,” he groans, guessing there's a drag on the rudder. Boats are like people, bloody unpredictable, even when you nurse them like a newborn baby. He's aware there's no point in whingeing though. Whatever is wrong has to be found and fixed immediately. Law of the water. Maintain or sink. No half-measures. He swings back to The Briny, gentle on the helm to keep off the pressure. With the dog locked in the wheelhouse, he strips to his cherry-red jocks and jumps overboard, holding his nose. He's so quick, no one notices till they hear the splash.

“What ya got, Sam?” yells Jimmy when Sam comes up for air. The boy, who must have found a stash of clothes from somewhere, is hanging over the jetty rail, his orange hair gelled into a crocodile spine.

“Turtle with a fishing line down its gut and the line wrapped around the prop,” Sam tells him, his voice full of disgust. Some lazy fisherman cutting the line instead of untangling it, he guesses. The hook lies hidden in the seagrass bed until some poor unsuspecting turtle nibbling its morning
tea swallows it whole and the line wraps around its flipper and neck, strangling the poor thing.

Same bloke probably kept his rods in tip-top order, his house as neat as an operating theatre. Negligence isn't due to ignorance any more, Sam thinks. It's contempt for anything beyond your own needs.

Jimmy wobbles his head. “That's no good, Sam, no good. That poor turtle. We've got to save it.”

Ah jeez, thinks Sam, squeezing water out of his nose. He'll jump in with me in a sec.

“Ask Ettie to come out,” he calls, hoping to stall the kid. He looks up to see a spidery white body, in bright green boxer shorts patterned with yellow bananas, flying over the rail and heading for a sternum-splitting belly-whacker. The kid misses him by less than a foot.

And sinks like a bag of potatoes.

Sam dives, terrified he'll smash into the prop or go under the stern and lose his way. He grabs an arm, pulls the kid towards him and they surface together.

“'Preciate your concern, mate,” Sam says, shaking his head to clear his ears, checking Jimmy for signs of blood. “Does you credit. But in future, hang on till we decide what to do.”

“It's the turtle, Sam. It'll be drowning if we don't hurry,” Jimmy splutters. Before Sam can calm him, the kid duck-dives. Sam curses. He checks out the growing crowd at the jetty rail for a local face but comes up empty. “Instead of watching the free entertainment, could one of you go into the café and ask Ettie to bring a sharp knife to the stern of the barge?” he yells. He sees a bloke break from the front row.

Christ! The kid is still under. Good lungs or half dead, he
thinks, hoping like hell it isn't the latter. He looks down to the sun-striped seabed and sees red hair waving like a flag. Heaves a deep breath and dives again. Thank God he's given up those shocking cigarettes.

Underwater, he taps the kid's shoulder and points at the surface. Jimmy shakes his head. No! His hands are full of fishing line, he is unravelling it from a flipper. Sam points at the surface again, his lungs busting. Then he yanks the kid and drags him up to open air.

“I nearly got him saved, Sam,” the kid splutters, swallowing air in huge gulps. “I'm unwrapping the line. It's like a parcel, wound round and round. I'm nearly there, Sam. Can't you see?”

This time, Sam doesn't let him go. “Mate, we're getting a knife. We'll cut through the line, then you and I will lift the turtle onto the deck of the
Mary Kay
and we'll check it out. Okay?” He feels the kid pull away, trying to dive again and holds on tighter. “We're a team. We need to do this like a … navy exercise,” he says, keeping eye contact and getting through to Jimmy at last. “We're a team, mate. You and me.”

Jimmy nods. “Yeah, Sam. We're a team. Aren't we?”

Ettie rushes out of the café, leaps on the barge and runs to the stern. She kneels and sticks her head over the side, handing Sam a carving knife.

“Need an ambulance?” she asks, more calmly than she feels.

“No. A vet.” Sam and Jimmy take deep breaths and dive together.

They rescue a sixty-pound, narrow-faced, long-necked turtle that bears a striking resemblance to Bertie, though
no one dares mention it. Not with the old bloke in hospital and knocking at death's door. Still, Sam thinks, miracles do happen. You just have to be open to them. Look at Ettie.

He hoists himself onto the barge and drags the heavy reptile out of the water to the deck. Jimmy, his legs bent and straining forward, uses the fender to lift himself onto the boat in a single motion. He lands on all fours like a giant grasshopper. Clears his nose with a loud honk, then sticks his bony backside into the air to peer inside the shell. He looks up, puzzled.