The Briny Café (21 page)

“He'll think it's new, Ettie. He's been stuck in the seventies for most of his life.”

 

Kate gets a ladder and writes the wedding details on their menu board to alert the locals. Ettie makes herself a double-shot espresso and takes it over to the table under the stairs where she slumps in a chair with a sigh.

“You okay, Ettie?”

“I swore I'd never do weddings. The bride always has a meltdown. The groom gets smashed. The parents on both sides argue. And the caterer gets the blame for the seating arrangements.”

“But this is Bertie and Julie. Family.”

“Yeah, I know. It's just that it's all so sad. Poor Julie. Poor Bertie. He doesn't look strong enough to get dressed let alone get married. God, sorry, love, I'm tired that's all. We really should do the wedding for free, you know. We owe him.” Ettie doodles on a brown paper bag.

“No!” Kate is firm.

“He gave us a deal on the café, Kate. This is payback time.”

“Definitely not. Let me handle this. If he wants to keep costs down, we'll make sure the food is inexpensive. I'll ask Julie how much he wants to spend and calculate backwards.”

Ettie scrunches the paper into a ball, shoves her pencil into an old mug. “He's dying, Kate. It's our only opportunity to thank him in a way he understands.”

“You have to trust me on this, Ettie. From what I've heard and know about Bertie, charging him the full rate will vindicate his faith in us and in the future of the café. He'd be appalled by a freebie. Asking for a discount was a test. If we'd said yes, I'm quite sure he would have reamed us out.”

Ettie still looks doubtful.

“I'm not being hard, Ettie. I'm trying to let Bertie know that he's left the café in good hands. The Briny is his memorial. He wants to be sure it's going to live on long after him.”

The locals greet the news of Bertie and Big Julie's wedding date with a mixture of joy and sadness. Everyone agrees that on the big day they will dig out their best clothes, their most festive hats and even a decent pair of shoes. They will raid the Island, the bays and any municipal garden for enough flowers to cast on the water in a thick carpet, wishing them health and happiness. But mostly health because if they get the chance they can manage the happiness themselves. They will smile like angels and toast the bride and groom until they go hoarse.

They will never, ever ask Bertie how he's feeling. And if either of the two notorious Island pessimists utters a single word that's even slightly questionable, they will be thrown like javelins over the rail of the deck of the new, very acceptable version of The Briny Café. It's going to be the cracker of all cracker weddings. A blaster to keep Bertie and Julie alight through the dark days ahead. And no one, absolutely no one, has permission to shed a single tear, let alone break out in a full-bore sob – or they too will find themselves kissing sharks in their best duds!

 

Late in the afternoon, when Ettie feels like her feet are on fire and her legs are filled with concrete, the chef wanders into the café with a basket over his arm. Kate takes one look at his lovesick face and disappears into the Square, where the sky is black with the promise of real rain, the kind that falls steadily and heavily.

Ettie goes over to Marcus and kisses him passionately.

“I have prepared a salmon tartare with capers, mint, lemon juice, olive oil and vodka. Cooked a goat's cheese, caramelised
onion and sage tart with a flaky pastry. For dessert, a white chocolate mousse with Frangelico. I also tracked down six perfect, honey-sweet figs. Did you know it is lucky to make a wish on the first bite of new season fruit?”

“Oh Marcus, it sounds wonderful …”

“I had hoped a picnic on a small beach somewhere, with a blanket, some good wine and a full moon. But the weather is not obliging.”

“Bertie and Julie are getting married in the café this weekend. I need to plan the menu tonight. I must work, please understand.”

“Ah yes, but you must also eat to keep up your strength. Perhaps, instead of the beach, we could share our picnic upstairs on your deck, while you tell me your ideas for the wedding feast? We can watch the storm together?”

“What a wonderful idea,” says Ettie, seeing the sense of it. “I'd like to take a shower after we close. So if you returned around seven-thirty …”

“May I wash your back? You have a glorious back.”

“Lovely,” she sighs, feeling her stress drain away.

He drops the basket, takes her in his arms and swings her around the café in a tiny waltz.

She kisses him once more and tells him to take the basket upstairs, she will join him shortly. And if he has any tips on easy fingerfood, she'd love to hear them.

 

Snug in the penthouse, the Cook and the Chef read to each other from recipe books that lie piled at their feet on the jewel-coloured Turkish rug. On the wall, Ettie's painting of seagulls
looks down on them. They graze on picnic food in small, delicious bites, weighing the merits of one dish or another for Bertie's last hurrah.

“All day, you spoil your customers. Now it is my turn to spoil you,” Marcus says, fetching the mousse from the fridge. He places it in front of her with reverence. Hands her a small teaspoon so that she will savour the smooth richness in tiny mouthfuls.

“Where have you been all my life?” she says.

“It is the timing that brings about opportunity. But we must always be ready for it,” he replies, seriously. “Would you like a cup of coffee or green tea – with fresh mint?”

“You decide,” she sighs, retiring to the sofa and dragging a knitted patchwork blanket over her feet before lying back amongst the cushions. She holds up a list and reads out loud:

“What do you think?”

“Perfect. And the cake?”

“Oh God, I forgot about a cake.”

“If you agree, I will make it. Three tiers. Fruit, of course, Bertie is a traditional man, I believe. I will make the marzipan and cover over it with white icing. But I can do no more. Decoration is not my forte.”

“As it happens, decorating
is
my strong point. If you would like to make extra marzipan, I could create a replica of the café with figures of Bertie and Julie.”

“So. We complement each other then,” Marcus beams, handing Ettie her tea. “May I spend the night?”

Ettie indicates her extremely narrow bed with a rueful look.

The chef is thoughtful.

“Perhaps,” Ettie suggests, blushing, “if I lie on top of you?”

His face clears instantly. “I adore a practical woman.”

 

A little before eleven o'clock, Ettie and Marcus hear a low growl, like a plane high above and a long way off. There's a massive crack. Ettie jumps in fright: “Whoa!” The bay strobes ghostly grey for a split second. The wind hits like a slap, riffling the pages of her cookbooks. The chef drags shut the door to the deck and turns the key.

Outside, sheet lightning pulses like a rock concert and rain hits the tin roof with the sound of an army on the march.

“God, what if it pours on Sunday? It'll be a catastrophe.” Her voice barely carries above the din.

“We adapt,” he says, unflustered.

“Well, if there is a higher authority, I reckon Bertie might be close enough to exert a bit of influence.”

 

In the small hours of the morning, Ettie and Marcus are spooned together in a way that suggests they have slept like this for years. When the phone rings, neither of them stirs. The noise of the wind, the sea and boats creaking on their
moorings screens the sound. But the ring goes on and on until it finally wakes Ettie. She is instantly fearful. No good call comes in the dead of night.

She reaches for the phone. “Hello?” she whispers.

“Ettie, thank God you're there. It's Julie. Can you get over here? Fast.”

“Is it Bertie?” Ettie asks, thinking the worst.

“No. No. He's fine. But I need help.”

“I'll be there in ten minutes. I'll run.”

“Not a word about this.”

“Right.”

Marcus rouses a little as she's pulling on some clothes. “Go back to sleep,” she whispers. “Everything's fine.” She races down the stairs, grabs her wet-weather gear from a hook under the stairs.

The Spit glistens in the dark. Out to sea, the moon breaks through cauliflower clouds for a second and frosts the water. She runs along the flooded road until the moonlight disappears and the night is black again. Stormwater streams down the hill and large lakes pool where drains have blocked. The streetlights, knocked out by vandals, are useless. She stumbles in a deep pothole and curses, the pain shooting along her spine. The rain starts up again, pounding down in a thick wall of water.

Bertie's shabby weatherboard cottage is one street back from the waterfront and two hundred metres south of the café. A winding brick pathway sprouting weeds a foot tall leads to the front door. On either side, roses are copping a hammering.

Ettie pushes open the gate and runs for the shelter of the
verandah. She sluices water off her jacket. Knocks lightly. Within seconds a porch light comes on and Julie yanks her inside, quickly switching off the light.

“What the hell is going on?” Whispering although she's not sure why.

Julie is dressed in gumboots and a short floral nightie, which just manages to contain her voluptuous figure. She puts her finger to her lips and waves at Ettie to follow. They tiptoe down a cluttered hallway and through a kitchen straight out of the 1950s.

Without a word, Julie leans her shoulder hard against a broken back door and pushes. The bottom scrapes over a few loose bricks and finally opens wide. They dash to a corner of the house where Julie lifts a hatch to reveal rough brick steps leading into a basement.

“I'll go first. Take off your shoes and roll up your trousers, it's like a swimming pool down there.”

“You need a plumber, Julie. Not me,” Ettie whispers back.

“That's the last thing I need.”

The basement is dark and smelly. Viscous muddy water comes up to their knees. Ettie has to grab hold of Julie to keep her balance. Something bumps her leg and she kicks sideways, hoping it isn't a dead rat. Julie switches on her torch and flashes it across the basement.

“Holy kazoo!” Ettie gasps.

Thousands of banknotes, in every denomination, float on top of the water. Pink, red, blue, green, even grey. A paper flotilla swirls, bobs, drifts but never sinks.

Ettie scoops up a few notes, shining the torch on them. “This real? Or did Bertie have a printing press somewhere?”

“It's real, alright,” Julie says. “Bertie's private bank. Thank God Australian notes are waterproof.”

“Holy kazoo!” Ettie says again. Lost for words.

“When I realised the basement was flooding, I went to call Emergency Services and Bertie was so distraught he nearly choked. He kept pointing at the back door. I thought he might be spinning out on his drugs but he dragged himself outside and showed me the trapdoor. He didn't calm down till I said I'd take a look. The silly old bugger stashed all his money in drainage pipes stuffed with dirt at each end.”

Ettie – cold, in shock and knee-deep in water – begins to laugh. Silently at first, then in muffled shrieks. “Gives a whole new meaning to the term
money laundering
. Sorry. Not funny. God, what kind of a bloke lives like a miser and keeps his money under the bed? Or, more precisely, in a drainpipe?”

“An anarchist,” Julie says, seriously. “A bloke who'd rather live off the radar than on it.”

“Well, we'd better collect it and hang it up to dry,” Ettie says, because she is, as Marcus pointed out, a practical woman.

The hilarity of the women carries through the floorboards to where Bertie lies in bed, his heart banging against his ribcage in a race to the finish. Slowly, his pulse returns to normal. He closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

It takes two hours to clear the basement. Ettie estimates there is more than half a million dollars hidden there. Bertie, no doubt, has money stashed all over the house and buried in the backyard as well. A tidy little retirement fund.

“Get him to draw a treasure map,” she says, “or whatever he's hidden will be dug up and enjoyed by the next generation when it knocks down the house to renovate.”

Finally, at the first hint of dawn, Ettie walks home. The rain has cleared and it's eerily quiet after the racket of the storm. She wades through even the deepest puddles, so wet already it makes no difference. She turns into the Square and sees the café is blazing with light. Marcus paces like a lion. He breaks into a run the moment he sees her.