The Briny Café (14 page)

After a while, she checks the time and gets to work, hoping everyone's having a good sleep-in after a late night. She reaches for a mixing bowl from a high shelf, weighs and measures ingredients she knows by heart, tosses in two punnets of syrupy raspberries and folds the batter for her trademark muffins. At the last minute – and inspired, she admits, by the great chef – she grates a little lemon rind into the mixture before ladling it into four, six-hole trays. She opens the oven and stops, puzzled. She is certain she turned it on. It is the mandatory first step in her daily routine. How her working day begins. She panics, thinking the oven is broken and will
have to be replaced at great expense. But she flicks the switch, a red light glows, the fan whirrs and heat rises. You're off in la-la land, Ettie, she says to herself. He is probably married. They always are.

There'd been a man who broke through all her defences. Not quite a drifter but near enough to one. He had golden skin, golden hair and lion eyes. He cooked splendid breakfasts on Sunday mornings and brought them to her while she lay in bed. They'd read the weekend papers side by side, swapping sections. She'd let him hang his polo shirts in her wardrobe and store his tennis racquets in the broom cupboard. One humid summer night, he threw back the sheet, pulled on his clothes, grabbed his racquets and without a word walked out the door.

After him, she'd let one or two into her bed when an occasional bout of skin hunger overrode her commonsense. A fool's game. By and large, she didn't much care for the way men shifted the goalposts every time the going got rough or tedious. It meant you never quite knew where you stood from one day to the next – and if there was one thing she valued, it was constancy. Sam, who is like a brother, she thinks, has been the most constant person in her life. If she'd been born twenty years earlier … She scraps the thought. Only fools indulge in
what if
games.

Then she firmly puts the chef out of her mind.

While she waits for the oven to heat she steps out on the deck to clear her head, woolly from too many cocktails and the almost forgotten thrill of flirting. She breathes in the cool morning air, ripe with the smell of oysters, brine and wet sand. In the distance, Kate's boat slices through the water in
a way that looks almost competent. Ettie smiles. She knew she'd be a quick learner.

She goes back inside to make two coffees, one so strong it restores her commonsense. She slides the muffins into the hot oven with unnecessary force and cranks up the morning pace. By the time Kate walks in, looking as fresh as you'd expect from a woman who drank water instead of wine last night, she's washed up and made them both a bowl of fresh peaches and muesli. She dollops on a large spoonful of plain yoghurt spiked with honey perfumed by the masses of glorious white blossoms that cover Tasmanian leatherwoods in late spring.

“Yum,” says Kate. “If I'd known breakfast could be this good, I would've started eating it years ago.”

They dine on the sunny deck in the peace and quiet of the early morning, then Kate retreats to the attic to make it fit for Ettie's new home. She is methodical, logical, and carefully puts aside old pieces she thinks can be restored.

Quite quickly a huge pile of junk builds up outside the café door. Ettie tells Kate not to worry about disposal. It will be enthusiastically scrounged by offshore artists who are able to turn the most miserable rubbish into art. Chipped china, busted chairs, dead toasters and old signage. When Kate holds up a stinking piece of felt carpet she's ripped off the floor, with a question in her eyes, Ettie indicates it should also join the heap. “Fantastic for covering worm farms and compost bins,” she explains.

Soon the attic is an empty, wide-open space. Kate scrubs the yellow bathroom tiles back to their original whiteness, takes the loo seat apart, plunging every screw, nut and bolt in a bucket of bleach. She scours a rust stain from a leaking
cistern until it gleams. And then fixes the leak. She washes windows, wipes walls and skirting boards so forcefully paint flakes off like dandruff. Finally, she sweeps, mops and polishes. There are a few gaps in the walls between the planks, only one big enough to call a hole. Nothing that can't be fixed.

It is taking shape. It will be beautiful.

Ettie's penthouse.

 

Downstairs Ettie, who has been baking fiercely, carefully removes a tray of coin-sized golden biscuits from the oven, slides them onto a wire rack and leaves them to cool. She returns to the table under the stairs, now covered in recipe books, and goes back to her lists. To be absolutely accurate, she uses a calculator to increase portions to suit café requirements. By the end of the day, she will have sorted out the basic menu, the daily specials, the rotation of different cakes and the takeaway choices for anyone getting home too tired or too late to cook.

At the last minute, she decides to add a chicken bolognaise sauce, simmered with the rinds of parmesan to give it richness. Perfect for harried mums to throw over pasta when they're caught short by sick kids or a plain old dose of exhaustion.

 

Late in the afternoon, the two women sit, drinking their tea, the last niggling uncertainties vanishing with the completion of each new task. Every fresh idea.

The old café signs, liberated from where they'd been tossed in the attic, are wiped clean of cobwebs and grime and tell
a story of the old days.
General Store
,
Takeaway Food
,
Souvenirs
,
Hireboats
,
Dockside Dining
,
Post Office
.
Est. January 1st. 1899
,
Coffee Lounge
.

The small grocery area, where the local cooks will sell their preserves, is taking shape. A jar will be placed on the counter for contributions to community projects. A blackboard will announce upcoming events.

Ettie believes there is a market for takeaway curries and celebration cakes made to order. Kate is certain weekenders could be encouraged to order pre-prepared party food: light lunches, picnics and three-course dinners. She will do the costing, set the prices and print menus on flyers they will display on the counter. Perhaps Jimmy might like to take on a job doing deliveries, if required. As long as he knows he's not allowed to speed. Or go naked.

“We're just about ready, although the place doesn't exactly sparkle,” Ettie says.

“Old buildings like this are rare and full of character. They don't have to sparkle,” Kate reassures her firmly. “You know what's really weird?” she says, leaning against the staircase, mug cupped in her hands, and not a speck of dirt on her anywhere.

“Mmm?” The throbbing pain in Ettie's feet is reducing to a dull ache. In half an hour she'll get a second wind but right now she could close her eyes and fall straight to sleep.

“My father was born and raised in a country town. His parents owned the corner store. Remove the sea and coast, and this could almost be a copy. He would have loved The Briny.”

“When he died, is that when your mum got so … angry?”

“She's a disaster of her own making, Emily. Never been any different and nothing short of a hurricane could topple her. She's going to faint when she finds out about the café. It's everything she loathes. As a kid, I remember her standing behind the counter, not a hair out of place. With such a temporary, one-foot-out-the-door look about her, she set the locals on edge whenever they came in for a loaf of bread. Eventually, she talked Dad into moving to the city.”

“Good or bad?”

“Neither. But nothing was ever the same. The awful irony is that if they'd kept the place, it would probably have morphed into one of those
character
country cafés you now find everywhere. Emily's not known for her patience, though. Nearly seventy and she still hurtles like she's constantly late for an appointment.”

“Bring her in one day, and we'll see if we can soften a few edges,” Ettie says, getting to her feet, ready to plod on. “Just give me a day's warning, okay? So I can brace myself.”

 

Not long before locking up the café, all hell breaks loose in the Square.

The two women rush outside. “Oh God,” Ettie moans. “It's Jimmy. He's off his face.”

His face tomato-red the teenage boy ricochets off walls, slams into tables, kicks seats. His eyes are scared and violent at the same time.

A grey-haired tourist watches from the ferry wharf. A couple of young mothers grab the mail from their postboxes and shake their heads, shepherding their babies safely out
of range. A group of joggers stop and watch. Like it's street theatre.

“He's out of control. Nothing anyone can do till he sleeps it off,” one of them says matter-of-factly. He throws back his head and slugs water from a flask pulled from his belt. “You going to call the cops?” he asks Ettie.

“He's an offshore kid. We'll sort this out.”

Jimmy seizes a table and tries to hurl it against the café wall. The bolts hold firm. Tears are streaming down his twisted face, snot runs into his mouth. He looks confused. Lost. Disoriented. He kicks garbage bins, whirls in circles, bangs his head against the café wall. Blood streams from his nose. It is pandemonium.

Ettie tiptoes towards him and puts out her hand. “Jimmy?” Without a word or a hint of recognition, he lets out a gut-wrenching sob and crumples into a pile of skin and bones on the ground.

“He needs an ambulance,” Kate says, reaching for her mobile phone.

Ettie slips her palm beneath Jimmy's head and cradles it gently while she scuttles into a sitting position. “Call Sam,” she says, “he'll manage.” She bunches her skirt to make a cushion and settles the bloodied mess of his face into her lap. Stroking his head, she croons, “It's okay. You'll be okay.” Skinny white legs stick out like dowelling from his hibiscus-printed board shorts. Ettie hums, waving away offers of help. Jimmy never stirs.

Minutes later Sam pounds up the jetty and kneels beside the kid, running his hands over his limbs like a doctor. He presses open the lid of one eye then the other. Jimmy groans,
focuses for a second. A helpless look of trust in his eyes.

“Jeez, Jimmy. You're pushing all the wrong buttons, mate.” His voice is gentle. Inside he's raging. He worms his arms under the kid's shoulders, about as solid as a chicken carcass. “Ready?” Ettie nods. They half-drag, half-carry Jimmy's deadweight towards the
Mary Kay
. A sneaker leaves a long white streak of rubber like a skid mark at the scene of an accident. One drops off. Kate picks it up and follows.

Jimmy makes a gurgling sound.

“You're okay, mate. No permanent damage. You're an idiot, know that? I'd be shoving a fist in your nose myself if I'd caught you with any of the shit that's done this to you.” But he knows the kid's been tricked. He'd never waste his money on drugs. Every cent he earns, Jimmy tells him like a cracked record, is one cent closer to owning a car. They lower him tenderly to the deck of the
Mary Kay
.

Jimmy opens his eyes. The naked vulnerability rips something deep inside Sam. “Tilly comin' home soon?” the boy manages through a broken smile.

“How'd you get like this, Jimmy? Where have you been today?”

“Visitin', Sam. Near Triangle.”

“That arsehole with the fancy boatshed,” Sam hisses through clenched jaws. “He's dead meat.”

He scrounges a blanket from the hold and tucks it under Jimmy's chin: “You've just signed on as chief mate on the
Mary Kay
. Which means bed and board for the foreseeable future. I'm not letting you outta my sight till your mum comes home. No buts. No bloody questions, either, for a change. And just so you know, I'm going to work your skinny arse off.”

Boag crawls forward on his stomach, licks the blood on Jimmy's legs. Jimmy's hand reaches out from under the greasy blanket and rubs the dog's soft ear between two fingers. The mutt curls against the bony body with a satisfied harrumph.

“I'm running an orphanage. That's what. A freaking floating orphanage of waifs and strays,” Sam mutters, looking at the two of them. He fetches his favourite red cushion from the banquette in the wheelhouse and tucks it under Jimmy's head.

Treetops are black lace against the silver sheen of a predawn sky. Sam rises from his tangled sheets and shuffles down the bare boards of the narrow hallway. He opens the door to the spare bedroom – yellow light streaks across the floor. Jimmy, his face black and blue, is cleaned up, sleeping peacefully. The mutt, ears pricked, is tucked tightly into the crook of the kid's bent legs.

Sam goes back to his bedroom to dress. By the time he steps outside into a morning smelling of dry eucalyptus and dust, the kookaburras are firing up and the white cockatoos are preparing for their ear-splitting turn. The noise, he thinks, should wake the dead but the Island sleeps on. He walks along the high track, avoiding the worst potholes.

A small, tangled rear garden of lantana backs onto the public track from the Weasel's house. The gate is securely bolted and padlocked. Sam vaults it easily. He walks without stealth to the closed door at the top of four pavilions connected by covered stairways and knocks loudly enough to
be heard. When no one appears, he tries the door. Locked. He slips a credit card from his pocket and slides it between the lock and the doorjamb. The handle turns and he enters a kitchen. Clean. Tidy. No scent of cooking. Unused, probably. Sam moves on, quietly opening and closing doors.

He locates the Weasel in the third pavilion, sleeping in a tight ball on a bed the size of a football field. Fists clenched and naked except for a pair of black silk boxers. There's a rug on the floor striped black and white like the coat of a zebra, a chest of drawers, one half-opened with T-shirts spilling out. A pair of black flip-flops has been kicked off untidily by the side table. Floor-to-ceiling windows catch the view, straight up Blue Swimmer Bay, to a waterfall dry from the lack of serious rain. While Sam stands watching, the Weasel mumbles and turns over, suddenly restless. Without opening his eyes, he fumbles for the sheet, feeling a cool shift in the air, perhaps, from the open door.

“Hate to wake you with bad news,” Sam says, like they've just run into each other at the mailboxes in the Square.

The Weasel shoots up, holding the sheet against his throat, one side of his hair flat against his skull. His chest and back are covered in a thick coat of curling black hair. He looks like a trapped animal.

“What the fuck —”

“Am I doing here?” Sam finishes.

“Get out, you mongrel. Or I'll call the cops.”

Sam undoes the top pocket of his shirt and offers his mobile.

“Be my guest,” he says, “although this won't take long.”

The Weasel is fully awake now. He reaches for a T-shirt
under his pillow and slips it quickly over his head. Ruffles his hair into rough order. “Mate, mate. What's this about? I don't even know you. What's the problem?” His tone is conciliatory. Like they're old friends and it's all a misunderstanding.

He reminds Sam of a crocodile he once saw in the far north. A fat-bellied beast that lay submerged, except for empty eyes that followed every move. Sizing him up, patiently waiting for an opportunity. Lethal and sleazy at the same time.

The Weasel swings his legs onto the floor. “You wanna tell me what's going on?” he says, still placatory.

“Well, it's good that you asked,” Sam says, his voice over-friendly. “Around here we see ourselves as a village. And in a close-knit village, we all look after each other. So we notice when the balance starts to look shaky. Mate, ever since you arrived, the balance has been very, very shaky. So pack your bags. Leave Cook's Basin. Crawl back into whatever sewer you came out of. End of story.”

“You're nuts. A loony. Go home and sleep it off.” The smarm has gone from his voice. He's dismissive. Unafraid now.

Sam shakes his head. “Blokes like you should never have been born. If you've got kids of your own stashed somewhere, I feel sorry for them.” He walks across the polished floor, his heavy tread muted for a moment by the rug. “And stay away from Jimmy. Or I'll break your head.”

 

The first thing Sam notices when he gets home is the dog sitting at the kitchen bench. On his own stool. Jimmy is next to him. On a different stool. The kid has a mountain of
Vegemite toast in front of him. So does the mutt. Jimmy has a mug of tea. The mutt has a saucer of tea. The Vegemite jar is scraped clean.

“That okay, Sam? No sugar for Boag?”

“Spot on, mate. How are you feeling?”

The kid's face is the colour of a gathering storm, but his clear eyes shine sweetly. He's showered and dressed in plain brown board shorts and an orange satin shirt that would radiate for miles across an open sea. He smiles at Sam to show he's good. Every so often, when the dog's furry backside slips on the stool, he shoots out a steadying hand and they resume chewing their breakfast.

“How's Tilly the turtle, Sam? When's she comin' home?”

“Soon, mate, soon.” Sam grabs a mug out of a cupboard. The tea is still hot. The kid's remembered to use the tea-cosy. Sam places the last two slices of bread in the toaster and wonders if there's any jam in the fridge. He fixes his gaze on Jimmy. “When you're sorted, we've got a heap of work to do to help Ettie get ready for the opening of the café. You reckon you're up to it?”

Jimmy bends an arm at the elbow and flexes his biceps. A tiny lemon pops up under his blue-veined skin. With utter sincerity, he says: “I can do anything, Sam.” The dog wags his tail and topples straight to the floor.

“Knew I could count on you, mate. On the deck in five minutes. Time to earn your keep. You know how to paint, don't you?”

“Yeah, Sam. I told ya, didn't I?”

“Nevertheless, it remains to be seen. Just remember. The paint goes on the walls. Nowhere else. Not the floor, the
windows, the benches. Only the walls. And Jimmy, if it gets in your hair, you won't need to touch that poncy smelling gel for a month. Get my drift?”

“Be careful, is that it?”

“You got it. I'll get you started and then you're on your own.”

“Ettie's gonna love it, isn't she, Sam?”

“No doubt about it. And jeez, clean your teeth, mate, before we go.”

Outside in the fresh air, the sun glosses over night shadows and dusts the treetops with gold. A lyrebird runs through an impressive repertoire of imitation bird calls. Magpies. Parrots. Butcherbirds, and then a siren. It startles a few late sleepers out of their somnolence. The ferry master unhooks the
Seagull
from her mooring for the first morning run. A light goes on in the café. Sam breathes in the joyful, larrikin pulse of his chosen territory. You've got to look after your patch, he thinks. Or you lose it.

 

With very little direction or encouragement, Jimmy tackles the job of painting Ettie's new penthouse, as it is already known, with fierce concentration. To prepare, the serious-faced young man quickly whizzes sandpaper over surfaces in not quite logical order. But nevertheless meticulously. When everything is ready, he paints steadily and soundlessly except for the hiss and swish of the roller coating the walls in a soft off-white that Ettie chose from an old colour card she found in one of Bertie's drawers.

Jimmy is on the first adult mission of his life, trusted by
Sam – who regularly churns away from the café to pick up and deliver cargo – to do a thoroughly professional job without cutting any corners. The kid blossoms with a sense of purpose and the challenge of completing a task to the best of his ability.

“Where did you learn to paint?” Ettie asks when she calls the boy to morning tea.

“Me mum. She reckons changin' the colour of your house feels like a holiday but lasts longer and costs less.”

“How's she doing, Jimmy? Home soon?”

“Christmas. How long is that, do ya know, Ettie?”

“Not long, love.”

Ettie passes Jimmy a plate. He wolfs into a double-size slice of pale strawberry sponge, using the back of his paint-speckled hand to wipe the cream off his cheeks. The moment she turns away, he plucks a strawberry from the filling and wraps it in his hanky.

Kate, seated at the round table under the stairs where her laptop is now installed next to a printer, glances up. She catches what he's doing, shrugs, returns to trawling Bertie's list of suppliers, trying to figure out why quotes for virtually the same produce vary so widely. She decides it must come down to quality and begins ordering from the middle price range, figuring she can ramp up or scale down when they know more.

 

After lunch, Ettie announces she's off to a catering supply warehouse two suburbs away. She hopes to be back within three or four hours, with new cake stands, sandwich platters
and oversize biscuit jars for the counter. She strips off her apron, powders her nose and waves goodbye, flicking over the
Closed
sign after her.

The moment she is out the door, Jimmy starts rootling through the large compost bin under the sink.

Kate goes over and touches his shoulder. “What are you doing, Jimmy?”

“Savin' it for Tilly the turtle,” he explains. “For when she comes home.”

“Ah. The strawberry, too, huh? What a kind thought. But how about we buy her fresh greens when we know she's on her way back here?” Kate suggests, easing the slimy hoard of food from his grip. “Only the best for Tilly, right?”

“Are ya sure, Kate?”

“Yes, Jimmy. It's a promise.”

And off he scampers, spidery arms and legs flying, ascending the stairs three at a time, reaching the landing in four strides with barely a sound.

 

Not long after, the chef, Marcus Allender, stands to attention outside the café. He is casually but beautifully dressed in tan leather boat shoes, pressed fawn shorts that reach his knees and a navy polo shirt with a tiny green insignia embroidered over his left breast. In both hands, like a sacred offering, he holds a small box tied expertly with a red-and-brown ribbon. As though whatever it contains is so delicate, the smallest movement could break it. Kate opens the door.

He bows with a minuscule movement of his head but it is enough to send his lustrous silver hair flopping into his eyes.
“I am looking for Ettie. Yes? I was told I would find her here.”

“I'm afraid you've just missed her. She's gone shopping,” Kate says, unsure whether to invite him inside.

“Ah,” says the chef, his face falling with disappointment.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asks. “My name is Kate, I'm Ettie's partner.”

“Ah. Thank you.” He looks at the box in his hands as if suddenly at a loss. “Does she understand chocolate?” he asks at last.

Kate smiles kindly and reaches for the gift. “Like a second language. I'll make sure she gets this. Do you have a phone number? I know she'll want to thank you. Come inside. I'll write it down.”

The chef steps into the café, lifting his legs like a brolga, stepping over the threshold as though it is a gunnel. His nose twitches. “That terrible smell, the one of burnt coffee and grease, it is gone. Before, I could not come inside. Not even for a newspaper. My stomach, it pinched in despair.”

“We've got a long way to go …” She breaks off.

He's wandering around, assessing the erratically shaped nooks and crannies, the old signage waiting to be hung, the timber floor worn smooth in places, the walls, the ill-fitting windows, even the ancient flywire door to the deck. A genuine plywood slammer from the kind of country town that boasted two pubs, one milkbar and a corner store.

“A gem,” the chef announces, just when Kate is beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Do not change a thing. Not one thing.” And without another word he turns on his heels, strides into the Square and disappears.

Late in the afternoon, Sam tidies and locks the cabin of the
Mary Kay
, and heads towards the Island. He's hoping that vagabond mutt, left at home for the day to stop him roaming the café, has kept his snout out of the Island chook pens and all the dog bowls left at back doors. Stomach like a bottomless pit. Eats every meal like it might be his last. Well, he
had
been dumped and forced to fend for himself …

Sam plans to call in on Lindy, the local real estate agent, to let her know that the Weasel will be leaving before too long. No need to go into details. Just a quiet word that the slimeball has found offshore life a little claustrophobic and he thinks he'll find more fulfilment somewhere else. She might want to knock on his door to suss out if there's a deal there for her.

He ties the barge at the end of his jetty and wanders a short distance along the honeycomb shoreline to Lindy's steps, pulling a few straggly bits of crofton weed before it spreads any further. He sees a thicket of Mother-of-Millions, ready to sprout on a brittle bank he'd cleared a year earlier. He curses and tells himself he's done his bit and can stride on with an easy conscience. Let some other lazy-arsed Islander have a turn.

Ah jeez, he thinks, it'll only take a second.