The Briny Café (18 page)

Fast Freddy wakes disoriented at a time when it is normal for him to go to sleep. He dashes onto his deck to see if it is the world that has slipped into reverse, or just him. He remains befuddled until he realises fog has wiped out the spot where he usually finds the horizon. Then he remembers. He bows his head, brings his hands together in the shape of a steeple. His prayer asks that when Boag returns to begin a new life, in whatever form he takes, he will find love, peace and tranquillity. And tidbits in abundance.

After an appropriate time of respectful silence, he showers, shaves and dresses to make his way to Ettie's house. He finds Judy, Jane and Jenny already hard at work and the small house almost packed up. The Three Js, who have taken time out from cooking a large pot of spiced pear and saffron chutney destined for The Briny, leave him to finish. He is given three departing cuddles in a row, followed by three smacking kisses on the top of his greying head.

Freddy carefully wraps the remainder of Ettie's belongings
– lamps, a few large serving bowls, a wall clock, some books – and places them in boxes, sealing them tightly with tape. With the weather bureau predicting choppy seas, a simple crisscrossing of flaps will invite disaster if Glenn's flimsy old punt rocks and rolls excessively.

 

The fog lifts by mid-morning. Sam calls Jimmy out of his bedroom where he's been glued to Tilly's side. Between them, they carry the turtle to the waterfront.

Smelling the brine, the sand, her familiar territory, she emerges from her shell, fixing her eyes on Jimmy and then Sam in what they choose to believe is affection. They hoist her onto the deck of the
Mary Kay
and set off for Cat Island, a wildlife sanctuary where Tilly can spend a few days adjusting to freedom if the big swim feels a bit beyond her for a while. When she is fit enough, it is only a short paddle to the open sea where she can turn north or south, depending on her mood.

They reach the corkscrew bay where rivers, oceans and closed waters meet. Sam stands aside while Jimmy squats beside Tilly, his long legs folded like a picnic table, patting her shell.

“Goodbye, Tilly. Come back and see us,” he whispers. The turtle looks at him through obelisk eyes, dips her head and drags her flippers across the deck in a lumbering walk. With a gentle nudge from Sam, she flops over the side and sinks into the water without looking back. They watch until her black shape disappears into the deep.

“D'ya think she'll remember us, Sam?”

Sam takes a while to search his memory for one of his mother's timeless affirmations.

“You love Tilly, Jimmy?” he asks.

“Yeah, Sam.”

“Well, mate, sometimes the hardest part of love is letting go.”

“Oh it's hard alright,” says the kid, sniffing. “Ya got that right.”

 

The community truck – an aging ute with a rusting tray and gears that have never moved higher than second – bounces along the rutted Island tracks towards the water. Ettie's belongings sway and jiggle, but nothing breaks loose, tied down by Fast Freddy who's a stickler for doing things right so there's never any cause for regret later. Pleased the fog has lifted to coincide with the high tide, Glenn and Freddy, two men who have known each other since childhood, pull into the delivery wharf. They shuffle from ute to barge, thankful for once for the lack of rain.

“A good omen,” Freddy says about the weather. He's struggling with his end of Ettie's heavy sofa, which he remembers helping to install at the top of the Island a couple of years ago.

“Nature,” mutters Glenn, who flatly refuses to let Freddy get away with a single hokey-pokey ounce of superstition.

Soon cartons, a bed, a table and four chairs, odds and ends such as mops and brooms are loaded, all without a single rope to hold them steady. Glenn jumps in his leaky old tinny. Freddy takes up duty aboard the punt. Glenn fires up a fifteen-horsepower engine and nudges it away from the wharf.
Freddy, eyeing a necklace of rusty holes the size of cannon balls, says a quick mantra.

“Prettier than a party boat,” Glenn shouts gleefully, referring to festoons of chewed tyres for fenders. They make their snail-pace way towards The Briny on a rising chop. The air crackles and snaps around them. A storm is on the way.

 

“I lived in that house for thirty years and that's all there is to show for it,” Ettie says, watching the punt approach. “Doesn't say a lot, does it?”

“Maybe you had a sixth sense that one day you'd leave,” Kate says.

“Nothing so esoteric. Too many steps to lug too much, that's all.”

Fast Freddy and Glenn wave and the two women walk along the jetty to meet them.

When everything is delivered upstairs to the attic, Kate pushes a dithering Ettie out of the way. “Let me get to work up here while you keep cooking. I've moved so often I'm borderline genius at it.”

With relief Ettie withdraws and returns downstairs to her baking.

Kate tells the two men where to put the furniture and then says they're free to go, she will do the rest. They take off like a pair of rabbits, terrified she might change her mind and ask them to spin the room one more time. That sofa, they agree, is too damn heavy to pick up more than twice in one day.

Kate unpacks boxes, makes the bed, fluffs the pillows, places frangipani soap in the bathroom along with shampoo
and towels. She wires the sound system and programs “Blue Skies”, Ettie's favourite, to come up first. She resists the impulse to hang a huge canvas of wind-ruffled seagulls on a wall that catches the morning sun. Art is personal.

Last of all, she puts a bottle of vintage French champagne into the fridge. It was given to her by a tycoon who appreciated what she'd written about him. She's been waiting for a suitable moment to open it and right now is as good as any. Only the paint-splattered floor is bothering her. She forbids Ettie to peek upstairs, races to Oyster Bay in her tinny and returns with a jewel-coloured Turkish rug.

“It's on loan,” Kate tells Ettie when she finally allows her upstairs. “But if it grows on you, keep it.”

Ettie stands still. Struck dumb. She wanders around touching familiar objects like she's never seen them before. Throws wide the doors to the deck, as if the view is an unexpected surprise. She opens and closes drawers in the bedroom. Checks under the pillow where she finds a pair of pyjamas neatly folded.

In the bathroom, she holds the bar of soap to her nose and runs the hot water tap until it steams. At the back wall of the apartment, where a rudimentary kitchen is set into a long bench, she picks up the kettle and fills it with water for no reason at all. A subconscious ritual. Settling in. Settling down. Claiming the space. She opens the fridge and sees the champagne.

“For you and the chef to celebrate. You can shift stuff around to suit yourself later. But you can sleep here tonight in comfort.”

She gives Kate a hug of thanks. Unable to trust herself to
speak, she walks back to the deck, stares out across a sea of whitecaps. “It feels like a dream,” she says at last. “And I am so afraid I might wake and find it all gone.”

“This is only the beginning, Ettie.”

 

Downstairs in the café, the blokes hang around having a beer and a coffee, a juicy hamburger, a cheese omelette. Without a twinge of personal guilt Ettie listens as they argue the pros and cons of alcohol. Since taking over the café, she's resisted the night-time vinos. Too busy, anyway, plotting how to turn a rundown eatery into the best food and coffee shop on the coast.

“A grog brings out your groovy wild side,” Glenn insists. He blows across the top of the bottle, making a sound like a foghorn in the rhythm of reggae. Guzzles.

“Only side I ever see on the water taxi is dangerous, reckless and self-destructive.”

“Only when you push drinking too far, Freddy. That's a different issue. Right, Ettie?”

She shrugs, knowing she's not on solid ground, refusing to be drawn into the debate.

Freddy wags his head in despair. “Everyone pushes it too far, 'cause all it takes is two drinks and you forget when to stop.”

“You're bein' a bit tough, Freddy. Man likes a glass or two with his dinner. Lifts the flavour of the food. Helps with digestion.”

“First, the man he takes the wine. Then, without even noticing the switchover, the wine it takes the man.”

“Old Buddha say that?”

“Nah. Tom Russell.”

“Philosopher or somethin', is he?”

“Singer. Country.”

Glenn frowns and looks twitchy. “Not gonna make me listen to it, are ya? Country music, mate. Just can't go there.”

“Your loss, Glenn. Your loss.”

Glenn turns to Ettie, who's leaning on the rail of the deck and staring across the water. “C'mon, Ettie. Help us out. What d'ya reckon?” His tone is whining.

“About alcohol or country music?” She is dreamy, only half-listening, wondering how it will feel to live on the edge of the Square without two hundred steps that, while keeping her fit and strong, she is not sorry to escape forever.

“Both!” they reply, in unison.

She kisses their cheeks, thanks them for their help, their kindness, and avoids the question.

“See you,” she says, laughing.

“Aw, c'mon, Ettie, give us an opinion,” Glenn implores.

So she takes a moment of serious thought. “Each unto his own,” she declares, eventually. Because everyone has to learn the truth for himself.

“I win!” they shout, once more in unison.

 

By late afternoon, the sky is the colour of charcoal. The smell of rain is in the air. Gusts flirt with the water, then race off, leaving long grey shadows in their wake. Bertie and Big Julie appear at the café door, arm in arm. The old man, bent almost double, shuffles his feet forward a few inches at a time
until he's inside. Looking ninety instead of seventy.

“Bertie! You look great,” Kate lies, blinking to hide her dismay.

“I look like I'm at death's door, Kate. You journos never could tell the truth.” He coughs, dry and hard. Every breath sounds as rough as sandpaper. He is wasting away in front of their eyes. Big Julie holds him firmly under his elbow, a sack of bones in the palm of her hand, to stop him toppling.

“Bertie!” Ettie flies around the counter to grab his other arm and steer him to the table under the stairs. “You look like you need a decent burger and a bag of hot chips. Sit down. I'll bring you a selection from The Briny's new menu. We're still testing before opening day, and it might be a bit flashy for your taste, but we'll do our best.” She kisses his shiny head and pats a scrawny shoulder. “Coffee, love? Or a glass of red wine?”

“Coffee'd be great, Ettie. Ta. I'll give you a hand,” Big Julie replies, stepping behind the counter like old times. “He's not allowed to drink alcohol,” she whispers. “Drugs have buggered his liver.”

“God, Julie. You managing? Can we help?”

“Nah. Nothing to do. He's got a few months, tops. He knows it although no one's said a word. Life's a cack, isn't it?” Her mouth is turned down at the corners and she speaks softly. “I've loved the silly bugger for more than twenty years. Hell, we could've had some fun together. Why'd we wait? I keep wondering why we busted our butts at the café when the heart for it had died in both of us.”

“One day at a time, love,” Ettie says. “Take what comes, as it comes.”

Big Julie grabs saucers and slides them under the cups. “How you finding it, Ettie? It's bloody hard, bloody nonstop, bloody backbreaking, bloody work. You've got to be mad to run a café.”

“I love it, Julie. I like the process so it doesn't feel like work. Not yet, anyway. And we're only doing half-days until the reopening.”

Big Julie looks around. Bertie's chaotic displays of batteries, lures, key rings, torches, matches, every blokey thing, hung strategically to hide cracks in the walls, have been ripped down. Counter tops are uncluttered. Polished glass jars spruik homemade biscuits. Lemon thins. Madeleines. Jam drops. Sold by the kilo or the piece. The blackboard menu is freshly drawn and lettered in brightly coloured chalk. Beautiful, like all Ettie's work.

“Seen the local produce corner?” Kate says, pointing. Big Julie wanders over, picks up a jar.

“Ettie's drawing of The Briny on the label?”

Kate nods. “Perfect, don't you think?”

Big Julie does a full turn in the soft glow that comes as much from scrubbing as from the patina of age. “You've tarted it up a treat, I'll say that,” she says. “Still feels like the old Briny but it's … cleaner and tidier!” She glances guiltily over her shoulder to make sure Bertie hasn't heard. Then giggles.

“You girls up to no good?” he wheezes.

“Here's your coffee, love. Not as good as your old brew but it'll still put a bit of backbone into you for the rest of the day.”

Bertie reaches for Julie, grabs her hand tightly in his yellowed paw.

“Reckon you could manage a wedding reception one day?”
he asks Ettie in a scratchy voice. But he's looking straight at Julie.

“No need for that, love,” Julie says, recovering quickly. “You'd hate to tie yourself down. And I've never been an honest woman anyway.”

“No time for jokes. I owe you. Twenty years of cheer. Debts don't get much bigger than that.”

Big Julie leans over Bertie's hunched back and lays her cheek alongside his. “A wedding certificate isn't going to change anything. Why don't we think about it when you're feeling better?”

“You and I both know there isn't going to be any better. Like to make it legal, luv. Leave you set. Peace of mind for an old fella.”

“Christ, Bertie, now I'm
really
worried. You've never done anything legal in your life. You trying to curry a few gold points before you pitch up at the Pearly Gates?”