The Briny Café (13 page)

“Here,” he says, passing Jimmy the chalk. “I'll point. You cross. Got that?”

“Point where, Sam?”

“Put a cross there, mate, right where my finger is.” He thumps his index finger on a plank. “Ouch! Jeez.” He tears what was left of a fingernail with his teeth and spits it into the water. “Now, a cross here. Press hard so we can see it plain as day.”

“Am I doin' okay, Sam?” Jimmy tap-dances anxiously again.

Sam draws in a long breath and decides to go with the flow. Wear it away. One step at a time. “Yeah, Jimmy, you're doing a treat. Bloody impressive, mate. No question.”

The kid makes a mark, breaks the chalk, but his face burns with pride. For a whole second, he manages to keep his bare feet still.

 

With the
Closed
sign firmly in sight to deter any hopefuls, Ettie and Kate are revved. Kate has a growing list of
improvements, none of them urgent, except for replacing some rotting floorboards near the front counter and under one of the fridges. They agree they can reopen fully by the middle of the following week, then perhaps make the Saturday the official reopening day.

“That top deck,” Kate says, wringing a cloth.

“Yeah?” Ettie rocks back on her heels, a strand of sweat-damp hair in her eyes, and closes the oven door with satisfaction.

“It would make a drop-dead gorgeous apartment. Not huge, mind you, and a bit basic until we can give it a proper renovation. The view would make up for a few rough edges for a while, though. What do you think?”

Ettie pushes herself to her feet, not quite sure where Kate is heading. “Hard to rent out. The only access is through the café.”

“I meant for
you
, Ettie,” Kate says softly, leading her to the table they've set under the stairs for an office. Pulling out a chair for her.

Ettie's heart flutters and a thousand emotions cross her face at once. The unfamiliar sensation of being cared for instead of caring for others makes her feel slightly dizzy. She falls heavily onto the seat, unable to speak.

Misreading the silence, Kate rushes on: “I know it looks like a dump right now, but a coat of paint would work wonders. There's a bathroom. Well, a loo and a shower, but they work. A storeroom where a small bed would fit. The main room would take a table, a sofa, a desk – whatever. There's already a kitchen area. A bit basic and shabby, but with everything you need downstairs, it would probably do. And no more steps,
Ettie. No more steps to climb at the end of a long day.”

Ettie reaches towards Kate, lays a hand lightly on her arm. “I don't know what to say.”

“Yeah, well, you made me the best offer I've ever had in my life. Good fortune goes round, Ettie. I never thought so before, but it's the truth. How about you put your feet up for a few minutes and I'll make a cuppa while you have a serious think?”

Suddenly the sound of hammering comes from the deck. Kate looks at Ettie, raises her eyebrows.

“No idea,” Ettie shrugs and stands up, stretching her back.

They walk outside to see a bear of a man and a long, skinny kid on their knees, their backs bent, measuring, sawing, fitting and nailing while the sweat runs down their faces.

Without glancing up from his hammering, Sam asks for a couple of coffees. “Er, on second thoughts, make it one. Jimmy! What d'ya want to drink?”

“Coffee, Sam. Like you,” he shouts, directly in Sam's ear.

Sam winces. “I'm not deaf, mate. Not yet, anyway.”

“But I don't understand …” Ettie is pink with embarrassment. There's no money for renovations or even repairs until they are established and have a fairly accurate idea of what they can expect in profits or, God forbid, losses.

“Had some timber cluttering up my foreshore for too long. You've done me a favour by using it. I'm grateful to you.” He slams in a nail with a single mighty strike. Jimmy passes him another nail from a leather bag that's in danger of sliding off his pencil-slim hips. “Jarrah, if given the chance,” Sam adds, “will mature like wine and see out two centuries. So it should do you for a while.” He straightens.

With the sun behind him, he's haloed like a saint in a medieval painting. Or maybe she's hallucinating, Ettie thinks. Too much, too fast. She's having trouble keeping up.

He puts his great battered paws on her shoulders and turns her gently towards the café. “Coffee, love. It's bloody thirsty work. And maybe water for Jimmy as well.”

When Ettie is gone, Kate steps out of the shadows, hands in her pockets. “This can't be a one-way deal, Sam.”

Sam sucks his teeth. His chin thrusts forward. “Coffee for life. How's that, then? Satisfy you?”

“Mmm. How many a day do you think that would be?”

He's about to explode when he sees the humour in her eyes. “Jeez. You nearly had me going!”

“How about a daily muffin – one only – as well. And only for a limited time. One month, okay?”

“There you go,” he groans. “Overdoing it. I'll let you get away with it this time, long as you promise not to keep upping the ante when a bloke's only being a friend and neighbour.”

“Deal,” she says, holding out a slim hand to seal it.

 

Two hours later, Sam surveys a deck that suddenly looks firmer, straighter and safer. “Almost five-star,” he crows. “A satisfactory day. Might have a go at those shocker chairs next. Jimmy, you think you could give me a hand tomorrow?”

“What are we gonna do, Sam?”

“Yes or no? Plain and simple.”

“What'd I wanna say no for?”

“Aagh!” But Sam can't hide his smile. “Good on ya, mate. Now go and say goodbye to Ettie, and if you whomp that
tinny home, I'll tan your backside. Don't think I won't know if you speed up round the other side of the Island, either. Eyes in the back of me head, the top of me head and the side of me head, so trust me, I'll know.”

When word of Ettie's new partner spreads amongst the community, the only happy camper is Jack the Bookie, who hasn't had to pay out on a single bet. An historic result. Understandably, he is the only resident who approves of Ettie's choice, although no one's had a chance to ask Fast Freddy for his opinion because he's still sound asleep after his night shift. Freddy's judgement, anyway, is suspect. A growing body of people believe the shy man with a good heart and even better manners has a full-blown crush on the woman. No one can quite understand why he should feel this way. Although now that Ettie has shown such extraordinary faith in her – and Ettie's nobody's fool even though her emotions run away with her occasionally – they all intend to have a much closer look at what makes Kate tick. Maybe they'll drop in to help with the clean-up. Or drop off a spare chair or two to replace the shockers on the deck. Kill two birds with one stone, eh?

When the Kate debate eventually wanes, the conversations on the
Seagull
swing around to another favourite topic: food. With the fireshed dinner set for that night, there is widespread curiosity about how the once-famous, retired chef from Kingfish Bay with his fancy recipes will perform under the pressure of the community's scrutiny. The dinner, after all, is a fundraiser and cooks are judged as much on the quality of the food as the amount left in the kitty after all costs are deducted.

The general consensus is that the sweet, pearly pink flesh of the planned ocean trout is expensive, defeating half the purpose of the get-together. The chef will lose a heap of overall points if profits plummet. Even if the food is right up there with the flamboyant creations of those volatile French chefs who are said to live and die by the number of stars next to their name. Mind you, everyone agrees, the people of Cook's Basin are a forgiving lot and it's guaranteed the new chef will be given another go until he gets it right. Heh, heh.

No one is in the least concerned that the fireshed facilities, which consist of an oven rescued from the tip, a single sink, hot water boiled in a rusty urn, and discarded crockery and cutlery from the past century, might cause him grief. Rain, hail, sleet, snow or a blow that lifts the roof off the kitchen annex and the lids off the pots – in Cook's Basin you take what comes. It's how you separate the ninnies from the nongs.

Jack the Bookie considers running a book on the evening's performance but in the end he can't be bothered. Sometimes it's wiser to quit while you're ahead.

That evening, under a starry sky and on grass browning off with the lack of spring rain, the residents' meeting attracts the biggest crowd since the day a newly arrived fat-cat put forward a plan to open fire tracks through the National Park. A big man with a low-flying stomach, he was confident his offer to throw large amounts of his personal fortune into a legal battle for private vehicle access to offshore homes would be met with universal approval. And a suitable amount of gratitude for raising the value of their properties. His appearance at the fireshed was met with howls of fury as the local population bore down on him like rabid dogs and he took off never to be seen again. His house went on the market not long afterwards. Profit, everyone agreed, was pointless unless you wanted to sell. And who the hell would want to leave Cook's Basin?

Sam and the two Misses Skettle arrive on the
Mary Kay
a few minutes early, surprised by the numbers already gathered in colourful masses and taking up positions on white plastic chairs set out in wriggly lines on the hard ground. He gallantly hands the women off the barge, making sure their ankle-length, hot-pink taffeta skirts don't catch on the bollards.

“You're looking magnificent, ladies, if you'll permit me to say so,” Sam says with a slight bow.

“Well, little Sammy, when we're on a date we try to look our best.”

“You're not staying for the fireshed nosh-up, then?” He sounds shocked.

“Of course we are.
You're
our date.” They giggle like teenagers and tiptoe along the uneven jetty in their matching pink slippers with kitten heels.

“Just checking you haven't dumped me for a younger bloke,” he calls after them.

He adjusts the collar of his clean red polo shirt, brushes dust off his dark blue shorts and makes his way to the fireshed in a pair of light tan boat shoes. As sartorial as Jimmy, he tells himself. But perhaps lacking a little of the boy's instinctive pizzazz.

“Ah gidday, Kate,” he says, spotting her hovering slightly apart from Ettie's group of women friends. She has a glass of, jeez,
water
, in her hand. “You owe me a coupla beers.”

 

Under normal circumstances – when the meeting's agenda would include septic tanks, drainage problems, lack of tie-up facilities at public wharves, boat vandalism, the relocation of uninvited death adders or an announcement of auditions for the next Island musical – it would take at least half an hour for everyone to pour a drink, catch up and settle down. Tonight, however, the instant snap to attention is a sign of the significance of the problem facing the community.

The president, an endlessly patient and pragmatic man, who collects local art and spends most weekends polishing his treasured timber putt-putt, stands behind the wonky trestle table. He puts forward a motion to have the Weasel castrated, drizzled with honey and laid out on an ants' nest with a stake through his chest. It is meant as a joke. So he calls for restraint a little hysterically when the motion is seconded by a show of fifty hands all volunteering to do the deed. He thumps the table so hard it almost topples.

The meeting begins in earnest.

The Misses Skettle, in firm voices, read from a carefully prepared report that gives every last detail of activity at the Weasel's boatshed, including winds and tides – but refrains from naming names. It is so comprehensive, Sam decides there's no need to present the findings of his own night-long stake-out.

A retired cop is asked for his advice, but is quickly cut off when he suggests employing the services of a hit man who owes him a couple of favours. All the Island mothers offer to boil the Weasel alive in an old tank at the top of the Island. Everyone offers to help collect wood for the fire.

The audience is told that if it has anything to add that is based on fact, not fantasy nor a wishlist, each person has two minutes to speak. Even the usual troublemakers toe the line instead of ranting about noisy teenage parties, bad behaviour on the school ferry, dogs in feral packs or the rising problem of queue jumpers hitting the water main since the current dry spell kicked in.

The end result however is unanimous. The Weasel will be given one warning by the president. If it is ignored, the police will be informed that they believe he is selling and supplying prohibited substances to underage children and seriously undermining the delicate social structure of Cook's Basin family life. The aye-ayes ring out forcefully and everyone adjourns to the bar with relief just as the moon begins to rise, casting golden rungs across the bay, like a ladder to the black night sky.

At 7.45 p.m. when there's still no sign of Marcus Allender, the Kingfish Bay chef who is solely in charge of the evening's fare, there are a few nervous faces. He is still an enigma in
the community – a man who is sometimes seen passing mysteriously through the Square in a fancy suit and smart shoes (crocodile, or a good imitation of it). But he certainly loves his fishing. Hot, cold, wet or windy, he's out there with his line, which counts for a lot in Cook's Basin.

Fifteen minutes after eight, his boat drifts alongside the seawall on a conveniently high tide. A brigade of men put down their beers to help carry to the kitchen twelve white Styrofoam boxes emitting a deliciously tantalising aroma.

Bob, the wiry, unflappable chief of the volunteer fire brigade, encourages the chef with a friendly pat on the back, then slopes off to run the bar, where the queue for a frigidly cold is already ten-deep.

No one is prepared for what happens next.

The chef, a tall man with shaggy silver hair, a lightly tanned face and soft brown eyes, emerges from the fireshed loo in blizzard-white trousers, a white double-breasted jacket with a black kerchief tied at his throat, and a soaring toque.

The crowd falls silent. Struck dumb. People watch, mesmerised, while he dusts off his hands and opens the fridge door with a theatrical flourish. Ready to go about his business. Then an agonised yowl carries clear across the bay. Every neighbourhood dog, locked at home so they don't snaffle the kids' sausage rolls out of their hands, joins in a chorus of frustration.

“There is no room for my berry jellies!” the chef yells in distress, a few silver hairs escaping from the clutch of his quivering hat. “The fridge is full of
beer
!”

Ettie, Judy, Jane and Jenny, who are sharing a Thermos of icy margaritas, roll their eyes and emerge from the crowd like
sisters-in-arms. They politely offer assistance in a way that's meant to make the chef feel like he's back in his state-of-the-art, three-star kitchen with a bevy of anxious acolytes to boss around.

He responds immediately. “Remove the beer,” he orders. “Bring me platters. Set the tables. Unwrap the ocean trout from the foil, with care, with care! Don't rip the flesh. We must hurry before the fish is cold and the jellies warm!”

When he shows no sign of calming down, they insist he takes a large gulp of Ettie's cocktail, purely as a restorative tonic. Ettie is then quietly assigned the task of whisking him out of the kitchen – no mean feat – and taking him on a leisurely walk. The women plan to have the dinner served well before his return for they instinctively know that the first person to ask the chef for a double helping, or sauce
on
instead of
beside
, will get his head bitten off.

Ettie obligingly takes the chef's surprisingly soft hand in hers and leads him to the water's edge. She instructs him to take off his rubber-soled shoes so they can go for a quiet paddle in the cool water of the bay. She removes his toque herself, with great tenderness and care. The jellies will be kept cool in an icebox, she assures him with such calm sincerity that he falls under her spell and trusts her completely. She stands his toque carefully on the seawall, like a marker to show the way back.

By the time they reach the far side of the bay, eighty people are seated at ten trestle tables covered in red gingham cloths. Candlelight dances over their faces. They murmur appreciatively about the moist fish, the heavenly balance of the herbs in the salsa verde and the aioli, so superbly light everyone
knows the chef must have whipped it by hand.

When they return – the chef so tall he's forced to duck under the coloured carnival lights strung between casuarinas – the diners rise to their feet in thunderous applause.

“My name,” bellows the chef, “is Marcus Allender. Once I had a restaurant called Stretton's. Now I am retired but I love to cook. Thank you for allowing me tonight.” He beams at the diners, his eyes glistening. Then, to everyone's delight, he bends his long, solid but not overweight body in a formal bow. He straightens and applauds the diners with a slow clap that echoes in the still night. That's how it's done at the end of a gala dinner in Paris, someone whispers.

When the moment is over and conversations fire up once more, Marcus whips off his jacket, whisks out a chair for Ettie, and tells her to sit while he personally serves her dinner. She is a saint, he tells her passionately. She saved his life, his reputation, tonight. He had forgotten the pressure, the stress of cooking large quantities. And he wanted so much to show his appreciation for the people of Cook's Basin. How they preserve a way of life that is unique, hold strong to values and principles under the pressures of modern life. He firewalks across the stony ground towards the kitchen until someone is quickly dispatched to fetch his shoes from the seawall. And his toque.

Ettie's dinner – fleshy pink trout, new baby potatoes swizzled in a lemon, butter and parsley sauce, three spears of luminous asparagus, four thumb-sized, deep red, halved tomatoes, green sauce and creamy aioli – is a still life.

“The colours,” she whispers in awe, “the arrangement, the balance. I would rather paint this than eat it.”

The chef nods warmly and takes her hand. He smells, she thinks, of limes. Underneath that heady scent, she catches a whiff of strawberries that she supposes he's poached in sugar syrup and then drained through muslin to make the jelly. He watches as she chews and swallows every mouthful with appreciation. Then he wipes the dregs off her plate with his finger and licks it clean, his eyes locked on hers. She visibly swoons.

 

On the morning following the fireshed dinner, Ettie arrives at the café a little later than 6 a.m. for the first time since the day she became the proprietor. Nursing a slight headache, a rosy flush and a faraway look in her eyes, she potters around her workspace, enjoying the peace and pleasure of ownership. Once or twice she finds herself staring dreamily up at the cross-beamed timber ceiling as though she still can't believe how this shabby but amazing jewel has been delivered into her hands.