The Briny Café

by Susan Duncan

  How long before The Briny collapses? One day, she’ll step inside for a flat white and put a foot through a rotten floorboard. Then she’ll crash onto all those oyster-encrusted piles underneath, get slashed to thin little ribbons like calamari and end up crumbed, deep-fried and served in a paper bag for some passing tourist. Environmentally sound recycling. Images whizz through her head. She wonders if she can whip it into a cute little kids’ story. Maybe not. It smacks ever so faintly of cannibalism. She sighs. Back to the drawing board.

  Sam comes up to her and hands her a beer. She raises her eyebrows and points at her watch.

  “Coffee machine died again. It was a beer or tea and, as we are all painfully aware, Bertie’s tea is hard to pick from drain water.”

  Ettie sighs and takes the beer. “Tide’s on the turn,” she says.

  “Yep. Comes in and goes out. As dependable as tomorrow’s sunrise.”

  “You remember Kate? From Oyster Bay? She’s after a commuter boat. I told her to call you for a few tips.”

  “Jeez, Ettie, what did you go and do that for? She’s deadset scarier than my old schoolteacher who used to come after us with a rubber strap for no reason. You should have told her to ask at the boatshed. Frankie’s the main man. Bloody hell.”

  Ettie looks at him in surprise. Why is he so worked up over nothing? she wonders. He likes Kate, really likes her. So much that he thinks staying clear of her will solve the problem. Well, well. After twenty years of sweet-talking the never-ending stream of starry-eyed young women who regularly drifted into Cook’s Basin in search of romance and excitement, he might have met his match. She doubts Kate would fall for his usual moonlit picnic on a deserted beach and a casual fling. Well, well.

  Sam glugs his beer and Ettie waits patiently, a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth.

  “Listen,” he says. “There’s a sweet little tinny for sale on the Island. Solid as a rock and reasonably priced.”

  “You’re a star, Sam.”

  Ettie finishes her beer and kisses his cheek like a sister. Still feeling down-hearted, she drags her feet along the stained seawall towards Commuter Dock where she’s tied her tinny, dreading lugging her shopping up the steps to her Island home.

  “Cool seawater on the way with the tide,” she calls to the oysters, not caring if she sounds mad because everyone, even an oyster, needs a little encouragement from time to time.

  As she reaches the dock, black globs are mustering behind the hills, blocking the sun. Spring is gathering for a final tantrum before bowing to summer. The light on the water is clean and smooth and battleship-grey. She searches for her boat in the mess of clanging tinnies tied three-deep off the pontoon. Only two boats to climb over and they’re those lovely stable plastic ones. She sighs with relief.

  On the way home, she veers off to check on Artie to remind herself that in the great scheme of things, she really hasn’t got much to complain about.

  Sam kicks himself for offering to help out the Oyster Bay woman. He hasn’t got anything against her as such. She’s polite, pays her bills on time and gives all the right specs when she books a job. Not like one or two penny-pinching bastards he could name, who consistently understate a load hoping to cut costs and then wonder why they find themselves on the bottom of his schedule. So he’s got no argument with her. She just gives him the shivers. It’s like she sees right through to his backbone and finds it hollow. Face it, mate, she makes you feel like an ignorant redneck and it sets your teeth on edge.

  He considers wheedling out of the deal with any number of excuses that he knows won’t stack up under close scrutiny. But then makes his way to the Mary Kay at the end of the ferry wharf. Once a commitment is given, it has to be honoured. He jumps on board. With a bit of luck, Kate won’t be home.

  She opens the front door on the first knock.

  “Hi,” she says, puzzled. “I’m not expecting a delivery.” She leans against the doorjamb, her arms folded. Not an invitation inside for a cuppa or a chinwag. Not a hint of warmth.

  Sam stands awkwardly. “Ettie says you’re looking for a boat.”

  “Oh yeah.” Kate’s face clears.

  “There’s a bloke on the Island selling up and moving onshore. It’s a strong boat with a reliable outboard. You could do worse but if you’re feeling itchy after looking at it, you don’t have to take my word, you can get a second opinion from Frankie. So there you go. For what it’s worth. Ettie asked me to tell you.” He turns and begins walking towards the waterfront.

  “Hey, Sam,” Kate says, hurrying after him. “I need a name and directions. Or a phone number. Something. I’ll contact him now.”

  Sam pulls up, sighs. He looks at the water, the barge, the sky and the bush and comes up with ten good reasons not to offer to give her a ride to the Island to see the boat. The first and foremost of which is that if the engine ever blows up, she’ll throw the blame straight at him.

  “Hop on,” he says, ungraciously, “I’ll take you over.”

  The barge cuts a smooth passage through water as sleek as foil. Back in his comfort zone, Sam relaxes and steers one-handed. He figures they’ve got an hour before the storm hits. Plenty of time to check out the boat and deliver Kate back to Oyster Bay safe and sound. Mission accomplished.

  Like all first-timers on the barge, he can see she is unnerved by the lack of lifelines but makes a bet it will only take her five minutes to feel confident enough to let go of the doorframe. If she’s got any brains at all, she’ll stay within arm’s reach of solid support. Only the genuine idiots go off on a wander around the deck.

  “You know anything about boats?” he calls over the noise of the engine.

  “Well, I can drive a car,” she shouts snippily. Like so what’s the big deal?

  “Lady, the only thing a car and a boat have in common is fuel.”

  She is inside the cabin now, standing next to him so she doesn’t have to scream. “Oh come on. I’ve seen four-year-old kids driving tinnies. It can’t be that hard.”

  There it is, he thinks, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck. That ice-cold snap in her voice. He considers spelling out the facts of boats. No brakes. No headlights. No stability. Then there’s the power of wind, currents … ah jeez, why go on? She doesn’t strike him as the type who listens anyway.

  “Up to you, mate,” is all he says.

  She leaves him then, and wanders forward to stand at the tip of the bow where there’s nothing to grab if the barge takes a hit from a wake. She hasn’t got a bloody clue.

  The commuter boat for sale is a rock-solid, former fishing boat with a strong fibreglass roof instead of a flimsy canopy, a key start, and an engine still under guarantee. Thoroughly reliable. Not pretty. Kate whispers to Sam that it is exactly what she’s looking for.

  She turns to old Des who’s still got a gleam in his eye even though he’s on the wrong side of eighty. “Tell me why this is better than any other tinny,” she says, polite but no-nonsense.

  “Low tide you can jump on the roof,” he replies, pride in his voice. “Keeps you dry in the rain, too, or when a rogue wave comes crashing over the bow. Big enough to transport a wardrobe, sofa or a dozen cases of wine and it won’t rock more than a baby’s cradle in a swell straight from the ocean.”

  Under the stubble clinging to his deeply lined face, he chews his bottom lip and stares at water through slats in the jetty. He suddenly looks like a man at his best friend’s funeral who knows he’s seeing the end of an era.

  “Where you headed next?” she asks, kindly.

  “Off to put me head on a flowery pillow in the retirement village. Happy wife, happy life. Although I keep tellin’ her it’s livin’ here that keeps us young. She won’t have a bar of it, though, so we’re on our way. No point in whingeing. What is, is.”

  “How much then, for the boat?”

  The old-timer hoists his baggy pants, held up by a piece of string, and gets a squirrel look. He chucks a quick glance at Sam, who shrugs to show
he’s not going to get involved. Then he takes a seat on the starboard gunnel, fidgeting until he’s comfortable. Points Kate towards the portside. She sits, leaning forward on her knees, her face intent.

  Sam watches as they haggle like camel traders until it starts to rain so hard the old bloke sighs with disappointment and gives in. “Haven’t had that much fun since a trip through the souk in Marrakech fifty years ago.”

  Kate shakes his hand, grinning. “Haven’t enjoyed myself more since buying a rug in the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. I’ll look after her, you know. I’m careful about possessions. Does she have a name?”

  The old bloke shakes his head. “A boat’s a boat. You don’t need frills just a lot of grunt.”

  “I’ll call her Ghost then, if that’s okay?”

  Sam snorts. Kate and the old-timer beam at each other, water dripping down their faces, both flushed with the thrill of the deal.

  Sam retires to the shelter of the Mary Kay as Kate signs a cheque and hands it over.

  “Isn’t gonna bounce, is it?” Des asks after a minute, forgetting the rain and holding the cheque up to daylight as though it might be counterfeit. He curses and shakes it dry.

  “If it does, let me know.”

  “If it bounces I’ll charge ya double next time.”

  “Deal!” They shake hands.

  “Hey, Sam,” he calls out. “This one’s got a bit of spirit in her. Ya better watch out. She’ll run rings around ya and she’s too good for ya anyway.”

  Sam cups his ear to signal he can’t hear.

  With the rain coming down hard, Kate thanks Des then asks if there are any golden rules for boats.

  “Check your petrol tank before every trip and assume every other bugger on the water is a mug.”

  “Oh sounds fair. And if I want to reverse, I move the throttle backwards, is that right?”

  The old guy looks at her quizzically. “Yeah, well, that’s how it mostly works.”

  She thanks him again and waves towards Sam to signal the deal is done. He gives her the thumbs-up.

  “I owe you a beer, Sam,” she says, sticking her head inside the wheelhouse. “Go home and get out of the wet. I’ll find my own way back.”

  “You might consider a lesson or two before hitting the water solo with a storm on the rise,” he says, trying not to sound like he’s telling her what to do. Because he already senses that won’t go down too well.

  “I’ll be right. Thanks again.”

  And just like that, he’s dismissed. He feels his jaw go rigid, his teeth clamp down. He knows he should insist on seeing her safely to the pontoon but … He sniffs the air, checks the water for whitecaps to get a sense of how long till the storm hits hard. She’s got time. Just. With the wind coming from the east, the worst that can happen is she’ll get blown onto the rocks and, if she’s really unlucky, end up with a hole in her hull. She won’t drown, though. Unless she can’t swim. Ah jeez.

  “You know how to swim, don’t you?” he yells from the doorway of the Mary Kay to save himself a soaking.

  Kate nods, waves and steps into her boat. He hears the engine kick over with the first twist of the key. With a bit of luck, she’ll make it. If not, well, she’ll learn the hard way.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The two Misses Skettle, who live in a lopsided, rabbity antiquarian boathouse tucked cosily inside the lip of Kingfish Bay, set a pot of red wine laced with brandy, sugar, orange and lemon slices, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg, on top of the stove to mull gently. As they do at the first scent of every big storm. They wait patiently for the sugar to dissolve before reducing the heat to barely a frisson. Then they make their way along the hallway to the front parlour where they sink into their favourite armchairs. The ones with faded rosy-pink slip covers. With a small glass each – to test the balance of the spices – they begin their watch. Expertly trained as enemy spotters in 1942, after three Japanese midget submarines made a series of attacks on Sydney Harbour, they take turns with the binoculars to scan the water for boats in difficulty. In more than sixty years they have rescued too many vessels to count and, once or twice, the lives of their skippers. It is a mission they will never abandon.

  Given their age they are no longer able to fly to the aid of anyone in distress as they did in the days of rowboats, putt-putts and skiffs. Instead, they call Sam Scully. Which is precisely what they do when they see a tinny die on the water just as the wind is starting to gust up to twenty-five knots and the waterway is beginning to seethe.

  They recognise the boat instantly but not the driver, which leads them to believe, they tell Sam in a serious tone, that the boat could well be stolen.

  Resigned to his fate, Sam closes his mobile and gives up the shelter of the Island to plough back to the open passageway. No good turn, he mumbles, goes unpunished. Never truer words spoken.

  Five minutes later, the barge takes a knock from a gust and corkscrews on the rising swell. Thirty knots, he guesses, watching spume rise off the water. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A flash of lightning flares beyond the rugged escarpments. Through a blanket of rain, he makes out Kate’s boat being buffeted towards Rocky Point. He drags out his wet-weather gear from under the banquette, pulls it on and heads towards her, swearing under his breath. If it had been anyone but Ettie asking for help, he’d have kept his big trap well and truly shut and, as a result, he’d be curled up nice and dry, watching the footy with a mug of Milo and a continental hot dog slathered with mustard and tomato sauce.

  He gets a glimpse of a sodden Kate standing in the cockpit, gripping the roof against the bucking sea. Her skinny legs, like toothpicks, braced wide. She’s looking straight at the rocks. He can’t make out the expression on her face but she should be bloody-well terrified.

  He eases the barge as close as he can without risking a collision. “What’s up?” he yells through the roar of the storm.

  She turns her head and ducks too late. A wave of deep green water slams into her face. She slips and almost loses her balance. “Out of petrol,” she calls.

  “I’m going to throw you a rope. Tie it onto the bow, okay? Can you do that?”

  She nods.

  “Crawl through the front hatch to catch it. It’s safer than trying to edge forward around the gunnel.”

  She nods again and ducks through the opening.

  Sam dashes back to the wheelhouse, riding the movement of the barge like a showjumper. He pushes the throttle up a notch and eases ahead of the tinny then slides into neutral and rushes to the stern, trusting the Mary Kay to fend for herself like the noble warrior he knows her to be. He grabs a line, waits till a swell lifts the tinny, then tosses. Kate misses the first throw.

  He reels in the rope, coiling it quickly. “If you miss this one you’ll have to go it alone. In three minutes we’re going to hit rock.”

  “Go for it,” she yells.

  The rope soars across the water, unravelling in the air like a snake. Kate reaches up with both hands. Grabs it and falls flat on her face. That must hurt like stink, Sam thinks. But she holds up the end in victory, kneels to wrap it around a cleat. Six loops, he notes with approval, but she hasn’t tied off. It’s full-on amateur hour.

  “Get back in the cabin. Keep the end in your hand and do not, I repeat, do not let go,” he calls out. Not hanging around to see if she understands, he races for the wheelhouse, slams the barge into reverse and hopes like hell there’s enough length in the rope to stop the tinny rounding up and smashing into his hull. What a freaking disaster. He sees the tinny swing into the clear. Tension eases out of his shoulders at about the same rate as his anger fires up. He came so close to smashing his precious barge – his livelihood, for God’s sake – on a pissy little outcrop of rocks. And all for what? A dead ugly boat worth a couple of grand and a woman that right now he could rip the head off. She launches herself in a storm without a clue how to even tie a knot! A bloody two-year-old can learn how to do a half-hitch in three seconds flat.

  He lets go of
the helm and rubs a hole in the mist on the back window. At least she hasn’t dropped the rope. Her hands must be burning, he thinks, with something close to satisfaction.

  He sees a light in the Oyster Bay boatshed. He presses his horn until Frankie emerges in his overalls and black cap. Sam waves and points at the tinny attached to the tow rope. Ignoring the driving rain, the boat mechanic strolls down the jetty like it’s a sunny day. Sam swings wide, dashes to untie the stern line and throws it at Frankie. He catches it as casually as a set of keys tossed across a kitchen counter, ties it on and walks off without a word.

  Instead of heading home like he intended, at the last minute Sam decides to dock the Mary Kay and have a firm word with Kate. He’ll resist the urge to grab the dopey woman by the scruff of the neck and tell her ignorant fools on the water put other people and their precious vessels at risk. All he plans to do is suggest, nice and polite – as is his customary habit – that she take a few lessons from someone like Frankie, who is a lovely bloke once you understand him, and someone who knows more about boats than anyone else in Cook’s Basin. A few easy pointers before she ventures further than her pontoon might be worth considering, he’ll say. Sweet and accommodating. He runs through the spiel in his head once more to make sure he’s got the tone just right. To him, it sounds quick and to the point. He marches off, blinded by the rain, hearing the squelch of water in his leather boots.

  At the end of the jetty, he leans over the side of the tinny. Time to set her straight. He peers into the cabin.

  “You can let go now,” he says softly.

  She drops the rope. She doesn’t move.

  “You did a good job. Honest. Most novices would have freaked.”

  She turns a face covered in blood towards him. She’s crying. He steps on board and lifts her to her feet, pulling her against his chest. He feels her shaking – from the cold or from relief, he’s not sure which. He wriggles out of his jacket and presses her head into the hollow of his shoulder while he drags the waterproof around her to keep the rain off. “It’s okay. It’s all good. You’re fine.”