by Susan Duncan
The sound of a boat down below grows louder and Ettie stands up and walks to the edge of the verandah. She’s expecting to see a few fishermen on their way to dredge for nippers in the sandbanks.
“You’ve got a visitor,” she announces, when a water taxi swings into Kate’s pontoon.
An elderly woman wearing stiletto heels, a city suit and a wide straw hat decorated with fake flowers topples headfirst out of the boat.
Kate gets to her feet, looking puzzled.
“Oh God, it’s my mother. I’m so sorry. Can you just wait while I see what she wants?” She thrusts her bowl aside, then turns and sprints down to the foreshore.
“Invite her up. There’s plenty of food!” Ettie calls after her.
The elderly woman picks her way up the steps like she’s walking through a paddock of cow pats, waving a hand noisy with bracelets. She lets out small yelps at regular intervals, yanking her arms away from plants that scratch, nip, and rip at the silk of her immaculate turquoise suit. Ettie, who adores clothes, feels a pang of sympathy.
Kate leads her mother onto the verandah and, without any expression of warmth, introduces her as Emily Jackson. Red-faced from the steps, the woman looks as though she’s dressed for the Melbourne Cup but has ended up lost in the jungle. She ignores Ettie’s outstretched hand.
“Local, are you?” she asks, pinpricks of sweat pooling above lips thin with disapproval.
“Not born and bred but I’ve lived here long enough to qualify,” Ettie says with the customary pride of all long-term offshorers who feel they’ve earned a few points because they’ve been tough enough to go the distance. It takes a moment to realise the woman has no interest in her at all.
Emily Jackson turns to her daughter instead, and in a voice like splintered ice says: “So, you’ve found rock bottom at last. Feel comfortable, do you, hiding in this … this hovel?”
For the next half-hour Ettie listens with growing incredulity – and indignation – as Emily runs her daughter down without mercy in front of a complete stranger. Every comment an arrow with a poisoned tip. Have your pimples cleared up yet or is that one on your double chin? You’re scrawny, dear, unattractive in a woman. What are you doing in this godforsaken hellhole? Are you completely insane? Or just plain stupid? I sometimes wonder if the hospital mixed up the babies when you were born and you’re not related to me at all.
That poor, poor girl, Ettie thinks. And it’s at this moment that she irrationally, thoughtlessly, and without hesitation, decides to embrace Kate and help her find a place in the warm heart of the community that all those years ago had embraced her too. From the day she arrived in Cook’s Basin and a bunch of local women turned up on her doorstep with a pot of boiling minestrone and a loaf of crusty bread, she’d felt wanted. And that was as good a definition of home as any.
Three hours later, Ettie climbs into her tinny feeling slightly tipsy. The sea breeze has died and the air is thick and warm. She motors home using the bottom half of an empty milk container to bail water. Travelling so slowly, the boat sends out ripples like radio beams.
She is horribly aware that she’d prattled on for too long at lunch, like one of those eccentric old women who unload their boring stories on anyone who’s close enough to hear. A glimpse into her old age? She squeezes her eyes tightly shut against the image. If only her mouth had done the same, she thinks.
But she couldn’t help herself. She’d waxed lyrical about the wild flowers in spring when the rain remembered to fall, the way wallabies held off giving birth, sometimes for years, until there was plenty of feed. She offered up advice too. Close your windows when you see whitecaps and batten down for a gale. Keep the gutters clear of leaf litter so the water drains into your tank instead of overflowing and running down the hill into the bay where it won’t do you any good. And don’t swim at sunrise or sunset, that’s when sharks come in to feed. Don’t eat the mushrooms that glow in the dark, either. Or any others unless you are sure they’re the right kind. Check out the way spotted gums peel like sunburn in November until their trunks are smoother than a facelift. Wish it was that easy for us, eh? See leaves drop like torrential rain at the beginning of summer to hold moisture in the soil in the dry season. The clean, dusty smell of them. What a weird brown country we live in. On and on … Filling Kate’s silence until she ran completely out of puff.
“You love this place, don’t you?” Kate had said finally, with a wry grin.
“Shows, does it?” She’d managed a smile and held back, perhaps in shame, from telling Kate that in the beginning she’d seen Cook’s Basin as an exotic playground. Sand, surf, boats and barbecues. A place where she could forget the pain of her marriage and divorce, live out her dream of becoming an artist. It took a couple of years before she experienced the emotional switch that had clicked for Kate in a second.
“I’m curious. What’s Ettie short for?”
“Henrietta. Named after my granny. She made wonderful scones in a wood-fired oven.”
“When the stove is fixed, if you have time, you might be kind enough to show me how?”
“Be a pleasure. An absolute pleasure.”
By the time she’s halfway home, Ettie has convinced herself that Kate is not so much a cold fish, but quietly tough. Which makes perfect sense having met her horror of a mother. If it had been up to her, Ettie would have grabbed the old woman’s expensive suede handbag, hit her over the head with it and made her swim home. But Kate had dutifully summoned – and paid for – a water taxi to take her away. Good riddance to the old duffer.
God! Speaking of old duffers, when did she last check on Artie? With a sudden lurch of guilt, Ettie veers off course towards a yacht bleeding rust at the mouth of the bay. She eases her tinny alongside and whacks the hull so hard the boat rocks. Just when she’s beginning to fear the worst, a thwack comes back.
“You sick, Artie? Or just taking your time so you can scare me to death?” she yells, cranky because she’d blame herself forever if he’d been lying there dead for days.
A stick makes its way out of the porthole towards her with a short shopping list and a twenty-dollar note pegged to the end. “Need a few supplies, luv. You up to it?” he calls.
“You should be in a nursing home, Artie, getting three meals a day and a regular hot bath.”
“Me legs are buggered, girl, not me brains. I’d be done for in a week in one of them shitholes. Be like steppin’ into a coffin while you’re still breathin’ and waitin’ for the lid to crash down on ya. You gonna take the list or leave it hangin’ there?”
She reaches for the note. “I’ll drop by with the stuff tomorrow afternoon. You’d better answer quick smart when I knock or you’ll be laying in that coffin sooner than you think.”
“Still got a bit of distance in me. No need to panic.”
“Good to know that, Artie, now that my heart’s beating back in its proper place. How’s your water?”
“You mean me storage tanks, right? Heh, heh. Got a tow for a fill-up this morning. All good. You and Sam. What would I do without youse?”
“Stop brownnosing, Artie. You’re not up to it.”
“Okay, luv. Off you go and sleep well tonight.” He thumps the hull with a rat-a-tat-tat that sounds like a drum roll on opening night.
Ettie sighs. One day she’ll find him rocking on the water without an ounce of life left in a body already one-third dead from a stroke. She checks the shopping list and consoles herself with the fact that at least the old bugger doesn’t seem to be going through the rum at his usual terrifying rate.
CHAPTER FOUR
Not long after a pearly pink sunrise that fills him with joy, Fast Freddy heads for The Briny Café looking for his regular morning caffeine hit. The first cup may taste like filth but it fires up his tired old body after a night on the water dealing with babies in a rush to be born and kids puking their guts up after a party. He finds Ettie, who is dressed for hard yakka in a stretchy black top and khaki army fatigues, peering through th
e café’s flimsy glass door.
“A fridge light in the corner but not a soul to be seen,” she says, straightening with a loud sigh. She picks up her bucket of cleaning supplies, and a fake leopard-skin rubber glove with a hot-pink trim drops out. Fast Freddy bends to retrieve it.
“Very glamorous,” he says, tucking it back in amongst a range of environmentally sound products. “Modern life, it’s all about style.”
“All gloss and no grunt, eh?” Ettie says, smiling a thank you.
Neither of them hears Big Julie sneak up behind them. “Bertie’s not coming in today,” she says, wrapping her arms around Freddy’s waist and planting a loud kiss on his rough cheek.
“Easy on,” he says, stepping back in a fluster. “Don’t want to start a rumour.”
“Why not? The grapevine needs livening up.” Big Julie, a tiny woman with panda bear eyes and bleached blonde hair, winks at Ettie and flashes her cleavage at Freddy. All brass but plenty of class, too.
“Hit on some other poor sod, Jules, and leave a worn-out old boat navvy alone.”
“Nah. You’re too tempting, Freddy. Those scratchy whiskers, the delicate aroma of petrol …”
“Give it up, love, and fix a bloke a coffee, will you? I’m parched and about to topple off my feet with exhaustion. Ettie needs a kickstart, too.”
“Another in a long line of knock-backs but I’ll live,” Big Julie sighs. She wrenches open the door, slides through a wall of plastic strips – Bertie’s concept of a modern flyscreen. “Give me ten minutes.”
“What’s up with Bertie?” Ettie asks, while Freddy drags the pile of morning papers inside.
“Crook, love. That shyster lung of his is playing up again and the mean old bastard won’t go to see a doctor. Told him the government’s been picking up the tab for decades, but he still won’t make the trip. Ask me he’s scared. Got a head like an old turtle and acts like one.” She lines up two paper mugs, presses a switch and gives the machine a hefty whack. A thin trickle the colour of weak tea dribbles from the spiggot.
“Want me to offer to take him?” Freddy asks.
“Nah. Just turn up at the funeral. Sorry. Bad joke. He’ll be right. Old bugger’s got nine lives and he’s only used two.” She hammers the machine a second and third time with the flat of her palm, then turns to face them with a shrug of frustration. “Busted, love,” she says. “Just like its owner.”
What would happen if Bertie retired, Ettie thinks on her way to work. Probably some cashed-up entrepreneur would swan in, knock the building down and put up a glass and chrome monstrosity. It would serve overpriced food and yes, she might as well admit it, drinkable coffee. But the spirit of past generations would be wiped out by a wrecking ball. The heart of The Briny lost forever. No amount of money could restore that. It was priceless. But, she reassures herself, The Briny, which has always been the central meeting point for the offshore community, is tougher than it appears. If anyone tried to pull it down there’d be an uproar.
She wonders how long Bertie had been hiding behind his sharp one-liners, grimly determined to ignore a new order of residents with their elegant laptops and rising expectations. Pretending the café was the last frontier so no one noticed the place and its proprietor were falling to bits.
For years now, she’s had to suppress a strong desire to vault the dusty counter, grab a mixing bowl and whip up a fluffy sponge or fragrant orange cake. Instead, every morning, she smiles at the feisty old man and tells him his coffee has more character than any other brew in town. Well, at least it isn’t an outright lie. She flexes her fingers like a pianist to stop the itch she feels every time she imagines how she could transform The Briny.
On the dark side of Oyster Bay, a small team of handymen begins work on Kate Jackson’s house, ripping out rot, clearing debris, cracking awful ghost jokes. What’s a ghost boxer called? A phantomweight. Why did the barman refuse the ghost a brandy? He didn’t serve spirits.
She asks them if they know how and when the ghost stories began but they’re not sure. Some kids, they reckon, probably after they’d been accused of camping illegally in the house and leaving a mess. Blame a ghost, right?
When the crashing and banging starts to sound more disturbing than constructive, Kate escapes. At the edge of the water, she flicks a few dead leaves out of the cockpit of her newly acquired secondhand kayak, crouches to check the murkiest recesses of the nose and stern for spiders. Satisfied, she pushes the boat into the water and wades in after it. The cold shock of the sea makes her flinch. Her skin goes bumpy. Sand, the colour of gold, squeezes between her toes. Further out but still in shallow waters, seagrass shivers in bright green pods.
Holding the kayak steady, she climbs into the cockpit and starts stroking away from shore, a red slash on tawny water. She is surprised by the power of the tide, the resistance of such a light breeze. Halfway across the bay, she comes across a sun-bleached plastic tank floating aimlessly. She hauls it into the cockpit, not sure if she’s doing the right thing but then she spots the Mary Kay and paddles towards it. The barge is craning a sunken boat from the water, nose first. The canopy is ripped down the middle and seagrass hangs from the sides like wet hair.
“Hey,” she calls, hanging onto the gunnel so the kayak doesn’t drift off.
“Yo!” Sam makes his way along the edge of the barge and stands over her awkwardly. He recognises her immediately as the woman Bertie was winding up in the café the other day. So not a tourist after all …
“Bit of a mess,” she says, looking at the wreck. “What happened?”
“Prop got caught on a rock and tipped the boat. Filled with water as the tide came in. Nobody noticed till this morning.”
“Boats. There’s a lot to learn.”
“Yeah, well, you never know what’ll nip a piece out of your backside if you’re not concentrating. One good thing. That old turtle who lies around the bay with his belly up getting the sun will be happy. Won’t be much racing back and forth to the Spit in this for a while.” Sam crouches, almost eye level. “The seat’s survived. Although the swivel might be a bit stiff for a while!” He smiles to show it’s a joke, but he gets no response.
“Picked up a tank floating on the water. Thought you might know what to do with it.”
“You’re the sheila who bought that creepy house, aren’t you?”
“Well, I bought the house over there, if that’s what you mean,” she says, pointing. “But the name’s Kate, not Sheila. Do you reckon the tank belongs to this boat?”
Sam rests his elbow on his thigh, his chin on the knuckles of his hand. “Let me think …”
“Yeah, well. How about I leave it with you to sort out?” she snaps.
Jeez. No sense of humour. Uptight. Snippy. He lets his grin slip away and pushes himself upright. “I’ll tell the owner,” is all he says.
Over the next three weeks, Ettie and the Cook’s Basin community watch the little slip of a woman in Oyster Bay charm or con (no one is sure which) the chippies into turning up five days a week. And on time, too – when everyone knows they juggle at least four jobs at once. The word is she can’t cook, never offers them a cold beer when they knock off, and doesn’t speak unless she has something worthwhile to contribute. They scratch their heads and mumble amongst themselves. None the wiser.
In a desperate effort to seduce the chippies away from the Oyster Bay renovation, one Islander promises slap-up hot breakfasts every day. To be followed, she adds seductively, by fresh banana muffins for morning tea and a warm, moist peach cake topped with caramel sauce with lunch. The offer fails dismally. The tiles for her new bathroom remain in boxes. She goes back to bathing out of a bucket.
A bloke with a leaking roof gets so fed up with tripping over saucepans every time it rains, he finally climbs a ladder and, to his absolute amazement, manages to fix the holes himself.
The pushy young couple waiting for new steps to access their house are told they’re young and fit and they can manage with their goat tr
ack for a while longer. They’re outraged, and also blissfully unaware that if an oldie rings in with a serious problem, they’ll keep dropping to the bottom of the waiting list anyway.
When Kate travels on the old Seagull, loaded to the max with babies, kids, prams, empty outboard petrol tanks, shopping bags and floppy sunhats, women squeeze up to make room for her and their toddlers eyeball her with open curiosity. But no one has the courage to nod more than a quick hello. Even the boat-mad mutts, who regularly hitch a ride knowing the ferry driver doesn’t have the heart to toss them off, decide she’s not the kind of person to leap enthusiastically upon with dirty paws.
Kate Jackson has everyone seriously flummoxed. Ettie is the only person who isn’t surprised.
Cook’s Basin News (CBN)
Newsletter for Offshore Residents of Cook’s Basin, Australia
* * *
OCTOBER
* * *
The Fire Season is almost upon us once more – what can you do?
Maintain a fuel-free zone around your house. This means doing a clean-up! Get rid of cardboard boxes or other recyclable paper material from under the house, as well as any old timber you’ve been saving because it might come in useful one day. Stack your winter wood well away from buildings (and your neighbour’s house!). Clear dead leaves and branches from gutters. Check that taps, hoses, pumps, etc., are ready for use and that your water tank is always full. Keep flammable liquids away from your house. Plug downpipes and fill gutters with water if fire threatens. Place buckets of water and wet towels around and outside the house to put out spot fires.
P.S. There will be a community pump check next Monday. Fire up your pump to make sure it’s still working and celebrate afterwards by bringing a plate and a bottle of whatever you fancy to the beach near Triangle Wharf.
CANE TOAD ALERT
Residents have been asked by the Municipal Council to be on watch for cane toads in their gardens after a couple of recent sightings. According to a spokesperson, cane toads should be caught and restrained in a bucket (with a lid) and disposed of humanely. Cane toads compete with native animals for food and are toxic to larger reptiles such as goannas and snakes. Cane toads are easily recognisable by their large size and warty skin. Use rubber gloves when handling them.
