by Susan Duncan
They are both silent for a while. It’s long past the last ferry run and the Square is almost deserted. One or two people go past without glancing their way. They jump into tinnies tied to the seawall and head off, filling the night air with noise and exhaust.
Ettie says: “I’m not going to be able to run the place on my own. I’ll burn out within the year. I need a partner. Any ideas?”
Sam is silent for a very long time. “Are you asking if I’d like to come on board?” he says, eventually.
Ettie is so surprised by his response she laughs for the first time that day.
“Can’t see you filling bite-size cupcakes with cream, love, if you don’t mind me saying so.” She holds up his huge hands, grazed on the knuckles, grease under the nails.
“There are people,” he responds, haughtily, “no need to name names, who think my sausage rolls and garlic mashed potatoes are world-class.”
“One day shut inside the café and you’d be a basket case, but thanks for offering. I was wondering, though, about Kate …”
“Kate!”
“Yeah.”
“Are you off your rocker, mate? I thought you said she’s stretched to the limit to make toast. And she has a top job in town, doesn’t she?” Sam gets to his feet and begins pacing up and down. The mutt follows in his wake with the same rolling gait. “She’s not your problem, Ettie. She’s a big girl who can take care of herself.” He stops in front of her. The mutt headbutts into his heels. “Tell me you’re joking, Ettie, ’cause taking on a novice when it’s a question of do or die is like having a death wish.”
“Maybe,” she says, unable to meet his eyes. “But she understands the value of money. I watched her brew a cup of tea once, too. She did it beautifully, with respect and reverence, like it was a ceremony. There’s a foodie spark in her. Deep, and lying in wait.”
“Promise me, Ettie, no more bloody lame ducks.”
She stands up, without answering. “One other thing …”
“I’m almost too frightened to ask.”
“Every barge should have a dog and right now this one has nowhere else to call home.” She gathers the mutt in her arms and holds him out. Sam does a quick spin.
“Jeez,” is the best he can manage.
Sam guides Ettie safely along the seawall to the half-sunk pontoon at the back of the café. They step on together and it immediately groans and belches under their weight. One big wake or a cracker of a storm, he thinks, will send it straight to the bottom of the bay. He bends to untie the ropes of her tinny as she finds her place next to the tiller.
“If Frankie’s working late at the boatshed, I’ll ask him about that spare pontoon hanging off his jetty and doing nothing useful,” Sam says. “He might want to store it here until he finds a buyer. I can see a few tables on it, or a couple of deckchairs where customers can hang their toes in the water while they guzzle the crispest fish and chips on the coast.”
She nods because she can’t speak, squeezes and twists the throttle into neutral, pulls the engine cord.
Sam gives the boat a gentle shove with his foot and she guns off. The tinny rears, nose pointed to the sky, then settles on the plane. Very soon it’s no bigger than a wash tub in the dark.
Later that night, Sam decides to do his own detailed research into the Weasel’s highly suspect goings-on at the house near Triangle Wharf. The whole community is aware the bloke is dealing drugs and figures adults make their own choices. But according to the Three Js, an increasing number of kids are arriving home with sloppy grins and glassy eyes, lying about what they’ve been up to. Sam wants to see the evidence.
He sets off in the Mary Kay with a plan to doss down for the night in his wheelhouse. He intends to record the number of visitors, the time of the visits and the physical state in which those visitors depart. Cold hard facts are the first step in any battle plan. A good community weeds out its rotten wood quickly and cleanly. Calling the cops just means waiting for the slow wheels of justice to turn, which could be a costly mistake.
By ten o’clock, he is firmly anchored in place. It is a perfect night for a stake-out. Cool, calm, and bright with moonlight. He yanks off his workboots, leaving on his thick woollen socks, and puts his feet up to wait. He props a pillow behind his head. Comfy as. Removes a book from his neatly packed picnic basket, clips on a small reading torch and opens to page one of what he’s been told is a gut-wrenching memoir about storms and shipwrecks at sea. The mutt lies on his blanket on the deck, quietly snoring.
After a short time, the smell of warm sausage rolls rising from the basket breaks Sam’s concentration. They are underrated in the modern world, in his opinion. Made with fresh eggs, onions, parsley and a bit of pork mince mixed in with the sausage meat, they turn into a feast. It has to be puff pastry, too. The buttery sort that smells so good his dad used to reckon it enticed the fish when you were picnicking out in your boat with a rod over the side. They were fun days, he thinks, remembering kerosene lanterns, ice deliveries and wood-fired stoves. Back then, the ferry transported fresh bread, milk and newspapers to the strapped-for-cash adventurers living in roughly cobbled together houses or boatsheds perilously sited along the broken shores. For the women left home alone by their working husbands, the ferry’s arrival was as giddily anticipated as a party, their way of touching base with the world beyond their wild bush backyards and the long, skinny arms of their listing jetties. A break from washing nappies in a banged up metal bucket of tea-coloured tank water heated on a single gas jet.
But the lack of electricity, sewerage and phones were regarded as small inconveniences when a round orange moon lit up the water like a carnival, or a silver bream bigger than a paddle finally took the bait from a line hung out of the kitchen window.
The odd property developer had turned up from time to time, with lawyers, cheque books and political influence, mistaking the casualness of the locals for ignorance. A few development proposals took years of relentless slog to beat. But the offshorers never tired of the fight to preserve a way of life everyone knew was rare and idyllic.
Thinking back, Sam can only remember one or two blokes with the same alley-cat morals of the Weasel moving in. Without too much discussion, they’d been quietly but firmly ousted by community pressure. When it came to defending their territory, Cook’s Basin residents could be as tough and ruthless as the situation demanded.
Sam peels off the covering tea towel on the basket, for once mourning not so much the old days as the passage of time. He lines up a small blue bowl of tomato sauce, wondering why it is that the older you get, the more tempted you are to look back instead of forward. He mentally shrugs. No matter how you looked at it, thugs and bullies had to be stopped before they got the upper hand. He takes his first delicious bite of a sausage roll, deciding to limit himself to two. He’ll save the rest for later in the night when he’ll be cold, hungry and bored rigid unless the book is as good as Ettie says it is. It was a Blue Swimmer Bay book club choice, and everyone gave it a top score. He was amazed to hear from Ettie that Kate was joining the book club next month. He’d never have picked her as a joiner. More like the type to run solo, as far as he could tell.
He gets up and puts the basket outside the cabin door where the delicious smell can’t tempt him. He makes a mental note to remind her about those beers she owes him. In a small community, when you give your word, you deliver or someone might be left in the lurch. And if you welsh too often, people develop a case of sudden blindness when you need a hand. To be fair, though, it takes a while to take a whole new set of standards on board.
Keeping your word and looking out for your neighbours was bred in his bones. Even that old actor fella who towered over the lot of them babysat for his mum after Sam broke his arm when he fell out of a tree. He was about four years old and can’t remember much about that day. Although he has a vague feeling he and the craggy-faced actor had shared an icy, long-nose bottle of beer while the old fella told lurid bedtime stories with even mor
e lurid endings. He probably passed out, he thinks, reaching for a beer from his icebox and twisting off the top. Maybe that’s where he first got the taste for the amber brew.
A tinny cruises close by. He kills the reading torch and fumbles for his notebook and pencil. The kid ties up and shuffles along the jetty, glancing over his shoulder with clumsy stealth. A touch of hubris, too, as though flirting with danger gives him kudos. Closer to the boatshed door, the kid pulls a hood over his head, knocks and waits. A light comes on. A blind drops with a clunk that carries across the water.
The mutt growls. Sam calls him inside the wheelhouse and gives him a sausage roll to keep him quiet.
Half an hour later, two more kids saunter down the Weasel’s steps like they’re headed for a bag of chips and a lemonade at a video night with their friends. Christ, he thinks, that’s little Teddy. He can’t be more than fourteen. Who’s he with? Jenny’s young girl? He feels a red-hot rage work its way up from his toes. He fetches the basket and fumbles for a sausage roll. The basket is empty.
“You’re on borrowed time, mate,” he hisses at the dog. The mutt pants happily and thumps his tail on the timber deck, a few flakes of pastry caught in the loose folds around his mouth.
At dawn the next morning, the apple-green water taxi swings by the Mary Kay. It’s the end of Fast Freddy’s shift and he’s on his way to the Spit. His shout wakes Sam out of a dreamless sleep.
“Just checkin’ you’re all okay,” he calls, with his head poking through the hole in the bimini. “Ya know yer on the wrong mooring, don’t ya?”
Sam waves from the doorway, holding a doona around his waist like a skirt. Freddy grins and fingers his nose like he’s in the know.
Probably thinks I’m dodging a woman, Sam says to himself, cranky for a reason he can’t quite define. He’s happy to know the nosy bugger keeps an eye out, though. Three petrol tanks were liberated from their tinnies last week. Piss-poor behaviour. No doubt kids selling it on to each other for a quick buck.
The penny drops.
He’ll give the Weasel one warning. After that, all bets are off.
Up for’ard on the portside, the mutt lifts his leg and piddles against a crucifix bollard. It’s been a long night.
CHAPTER TEN
Fast Freddy, resplendent in a sunflower-yellow jacket with red waterproof pants, sits in his usual spot waiting for the café to open, a green beanie pulled down to his woolly eyebrows.
“Combat gear for the fast runs, eh?” Sam says, taking a seat beside him. In the right light, Freddy could easily be mistaken for a lorikeet.
“As if anyone ever asks for a slow run,” Freddy says, without rancour but with a hint of weariness. The sacks under his night-shift eyes are the colour of charcoal.
“Summer’s taking its time.” Sam rubs his hands together. “It’s cold as.”
“Soon as it arrives you’ll be wishin’ for a fresh southerly to take the heat out of the day,” Freddy replies. “Human nature. Always lookin’ over the fence when every day’s a blessing, especially when you’re on the water. Want my advice?”
“Is there a choice?”
“Try sleepin’ in a warm bed like most sensible people.”
“I was on a mission, mate, keeping an eye on the community.”
“Ah. Gotcha. That questionable bloke next to Triangle, eh?”
“Got it in one.”
They sit silently, both locked in the beauty of a day frocking up in massive strokes of light. On the water, on the escarpment and fingering its way into hidden green gullies.
“Bloody magic, isn’t it?” Freddy says.
“Doesn’t do it justice, mate.” Sam looks over at the darkened café and checks the time, hoping Ettie hasn’t woken up thinking yesterday’s bonanza was a dream and rolled over to go back to sleep. “So have you heard, then?” Sam asks.
“Heard what?”
“About Ettie?”
Freddy looks so alarmed Sam rushes to fill him in. “Keep your shirt on. It’s all good, mate. She’s the new owner of The Briny.”
Fast Freddy spins on his seat and stares across at the dishevelled café. “Eh?”
“Bertie’s crook, and he’s handed her the reins.”
“Good news and bad news, then,” Freddy says, after he’s given himself time to think through the ramifications. “What’s the drum on Bertie?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Ah.” They sit in silence once more.
After a while, Freddy says philosophically: “Well, everything that is born must die. That’s the truth of it.”
They both see her then, flying across the water in a tinny so frail the hull looks transparent. For the first time that either of them can remember, Ettie fails to throttle back in the go-slow zone.
“Jeez, she must be stressed,” Sam says.
“It’s a bloody big job,” Freddy replies, shocked to hear himself swear.
Ettie, in plain black trousers and a white shirt, roars into the wobbly pontoon belonging to The Briny, ties up and hauls ten plastic containers out of the boat. They are filled with raspberry and coconut muffins, orange cakes, lemon cakes and freshly baked loaves of banana bread. She scoops the boxes into her arms and takes off along the jetty barely able to see over the top. She plonks them on a table at the back door to search for the key and a lid comes undone. The smell of fruit and spices drifts across to the Square riding the back of a light westerly. Chippies and early commuters sniff the wind like dogs on a scent and twist their heads in the direction of the café in astonishment. The world, as they know it, has just somersaulted, although they don’t truly understand the magnitude of the change until later in the day when the news of Bertie’s bad luck and Ettie’s good fortune sweeps around the Island and the bays via the Seagull.
Fast Freddy and Sam rush to help her. She smiles to thank them and then indicates they should help themselves from the container that’s lost its lid. They reach, with reverence, for a golden-topped muffin still warm from the oven and bite into moist, crusty sweetness. Both know in a single bite that they’ve found their mandatory morning comfort food for the years ahead.
“You must’ve been baking all night,” Sam says, brushing crumbs off his grubby work clothes and licking sticky fingers.
“Most of it,” Ettie admits. Her eyes shine and her skin has a youthful glow that’s been missing for a long time.
“Well, love, these muffins are the answer to every man’s dream.”
“Like a coffee to go with them?”
“Oh Ettie, if you could manage one, Fast Freddy and me would fight to the death over your hand in marriage. Right, Freddy?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Freddy says, embarrassed. “Any chance of a second muffin, Ettie? Full café rates this time?”
“Haven’t worked out prices yet, my old friend.” Her laughter is as rich and buttery as the muffins. “You’re in the clear for today. Go for it.”
Sam also reaches for another one. “You’re a star,” he says. Ettie slaps his hand away and he leaps like he’s been scalded. “What’s Freddy got that I haven’t?” he whines.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Still laughing, she pulls open the flywire door and marches into her new life as the proprietor of The Briny Café. Famous for dodgy egg and bacon rolls and heart-starter coffee. Taking a deep breath she clicks a switch on the espresso machine and hands Sam the key to the front door.
“Open up for me, would you? And take your scruffy mutt with you. No animals inside or the health department will close me down. I’ll call out when your coffee is ready. You can have a slice of toasted banana bread to go with it. Let me know if you think there’s too much cinnamon and make sure you give half to the dog.”
Ettie grabs a cloth, smells it and tosses it in the bin. She scrabbles in gritty drawers until she finds a pencil and paper and begins a list. She plans to stay open all morning, every morning, to cash in on the early commuter trade and to advise customers of the changeover. She’ll clos
e every afternoon for one week to give everything – from floor to ceiling – a thorough scour. Plus she needs time to get her menus sorted.
Humming, she makes the coffees while Fast Freddy, in what will become his personal contribution to the running of the café, drags in the newspapers, cuts through the twine and stacks them on the counter with their edges neatly aligned.
“There you go, Ettie, now you’re well and truly open for business,” he says with a flourish.
“You’re a good man, Freddy.”
It takes her five minutes to set out the muffins and arrange the cakes on two chipped white rectangular platters she finds in a mouldy cupboard. She lines up her fresh, homemade goodies on the counter and steps back to judge the effect. She swoops on the fossilised Florentines in a single action and throws them in the bin. The waste hurts but she’s been watching them for months and they’ve never moved. She dusts her hands. It’s a beginning, at least. A taste of where she’s headed. How the world spins, she thinks. Yesterday, she couldn’t see a way out of endless drudgery. Today, she’s overwhelmed by possibilities. Oh yeah, miracles happen. She’s living proof. The trick is to recognise them when they come along, and to grab them unafraid.
At lunchtime, with his stomach rumbling and his tastebuds on overdrive at the thought of what Ettie might have cooked for lunch, Sam makes his way back to The Briny.
His hand is on the screen door when he hears a high-pitched yip that sounds more like surprise than fright. Two more follow in quick succession. He chucks a look at the ferry wharf where the two Misses Skettle, their iris-blue hair newly tinted and corrugated, stand side by side, the week’s groceries piled at their feet. The old girls are resplendent in full skirts printed with pink cabbage roses, like belles from the 1950s. They are watching a tinny racing in circles.
