by Susan Duncan
“Jeez. That’s Jimmy,” Sam says when he reaches them. He shades his eyes and moves forward to make sure he’s right.
“That boy’s stark naked,” announces one of the Misses Skettle calmly.
Her sister squints as the tinny completes another circle, its outboard motor dug so deep in the water the boat is almost vertical. “Maybe, I can’t tell. There’s a towel over his lap.”
“Well, your eyes are better than mine. But I’m quite sure I saw a soft appendage.”
“Better than a stiff appendage. At our age, anyway!”
Sam bites his bottom lip. “Well, we all know Jimmy’s always been a bit impulsive. But he’s coming good.”
“Of course he is,” the old women nod in agreement, their geranium-pink lips tightly puckered in confirmation. “Anyone can see that.”
Inside the café, Ettie is firm. “The hamburger mince has a green frill and I’m frightened to even crack the eggs. It’ll be a week at least before I’m running at full speed. Go home and make a sandwich, Sam.”
“You’ll have muffins again tomorrow, though, won’t you? You can’t get a bloke’s hopes to such a high level and then let him down!”
“Get out of here. You’re wasting my time.” She flicks his backside with a damp cloth.
On the way out, he sees a bin overflowing with discarded food. He snaffles a handful of raw burgers and winks at the dog. “That’s you done, at least.”
Back on the barge, Sam checks behind for boat traffic and eases the throttle forward. He feels an instant, slight shudder in the Mary Kay’s response.
“Ah bugger,” he groans, guessing there’s a drag on the rudder. Boats are like people, bloody unpredictable, even when you nurse them like a newborn baby. He’s aware there’s no point in whingeing though. Whatever is wrong has to be found and fixed immediately. Law of the water. Maintain or sink. No half-measures. He swings back to The Briny, gentle on the helm to keep off the pressure. With the dog locked in the wheelhouse, he strips to his cherry-red jocks and jumps overboard, holding his nose. He’s so quick, no one notices till they hear the splash.
“What ya got, Sam?” yells Jimmy when Sam comes up for air. The boy, who must have found a stash of clothes from somewhere, is hanging over the jetty rail, his orange hair gelled into a crocodile spine.
“Turtle with a fishing line down its gut and the line wrapped around the prop,” Sam tells him, his voice full of disgust. Some lazy fisherman cutting the line instead of untangling it, he guesses. The hook lies hidden in the seagrass bed until some poor unsuspecting turtle nibbling its morning tea swallows it whole and the line wraps around its flipper and neck, strangling the poor thing.
Same bloke probably kept his rods in tip-top order, his house as neat as an operating theatre. Negligence isn’t due to ignorance any more, Sam thinks. It’s contempt for anything beyond your own needs.
Jimmy wobbles his head. “That’s no good, Sam, no good. That poor turtle. We’ve got to save it.”
Ah jeez, thinks Sam, squeezing water out of his nose. He’ll jump in with me in a sec.
“Ask Ettie to come out,” he calls, hoping to stall the kid. He looks up to see a spidery white body, in bright green boxer shorts patterned with yellow bananas, flying over the rail and heading for a sternum-splitting belly-whacker. The kid misses him by less than a foot.
And sinks like a bag of potatoes.
Sam dives, terrified he’ll smash into the prop or go under the stern and lose his way. He grabs an arm, pulls the kid towards him and they surface together.
“’Preciate your concern, mate,” Sam says, shaking his head to clear his ears, checking Jimmy for signs of blood. “Does you credit. But in future, hang on till we decide what to do.”
“It’s the turtle, Sam. It’ll be drowning if we don’t hurry,” Jimmy splutters. Before Sam can calm him, the kid duck-dives. Sam curses. He checks out the growing crowd at the jetty rail for a local face but comes up empty. “Instead of watching the free entertainment, could one of you go into the café and ask Ettie to bring a sharp knife to the stern of the barge?” he yells. He sees a bloke break from the front row.
Christ! The kid is still under. Good lungs or half dead, he thinks, hoping like hell it isn’t the latter. He looks down to the sun-striped seabed and sees red hair waving like a flag. Heaves a deep breath and dives again. Thank God he’s given up those shocking cigarettes.
Underwater, he taps the kid’s shoulder and points at the surface. Jimmy shakes his head. No! His hands are full of fishing line, he is unravelling it from a flipper. Sam points at the surface again, his lungs busting. Then he yanks the kid and drags him up to open air.
“I nearly got him saved, Sam,” the kid splutters, swallowing air in huge gulps. “I’m unwrapping the line. It’s like a parcel, wound round and round. I’m nearly there, Sam. Can’t you see?”
This time, Sam doesn’t let him go. “Mate, we’re getting a knife. We’ll cut through the line, then you and I will lift the turtle onto the deck of the Mary Kay and we’ll check it out. Okay?” He feels the kid pull away, trying to dive again and holds on tighter. “We’re a team. We need to do this like a … navy exercise,” he says, keeping eye contact and getting through to Jimmy at last. “We’re a team, mate. You and me.”
Jimmy nods. “Yeah, Sam. We’re a team. Aren’t we?”
Ettie rushes out of the café, leaps on the barge and runs to the stern. She kneels and sticks her head over the side, handing Sam a carving knife.
“Need an ambulance?” she asks, more calmly than she feels.
“No. A vet.” Sam and Jimmy take deep breaths and dive together.
They rescue a sixty-pound, narrow-faced, long-necked turtle that bears a striking resemblance to Bertie, though no one dares mention it. Not with the old bloke in hospital and knocking at death’s door. Still, Sam thinks, miracles do happen. You just have to be open to them. Look at Ettie.
He hoists himself onto the barge and drags the heavy reptile out of the water to the deck. Jimmy, his legs bent and straining forward, uses the fender to lift himself onto the boat in a single motion. He lands on all fours like a giant grasshopper. Clears his nose with a loud honk, then sticks his bony backside into the air to peer inside the shell. He looks up, puzzled.
“Where’s the head gone, Sam? Did we leave it behind?”
“No, mate. The turtle’s tired and gone inside to have a rest after all the excitement.”
“What are these?” Jimmy fingers deep grooves in the turtle’s shell.
“Prop scars,” Sam says, thin-lipped. “Caused by boats that hoon through the waterways so fast little blokes like this don’t have time to duck out of the way. Remember that, mate, the next time you’re chuckin’ wheelies in the middle of the bay.”
“Did I do it, Sam? Did I hurt the turtle?” The teenager’s eyes fill with tears.
“Not this time, Jimmy. But think before you take off next time, eh?”
In the cabin, Sam finds a stained old towel that stinks of diesel. He uses it to brush off most of the water before pulling on his shorts and T-shirt. He hands it to Jimmy.
“Dry off and make sure you get dressed, mate. None of this naked frolickin’. Okay?”
“Why not, Sam?” asks Jimmy, using the towel to dry the turtle’s shell instead.
“Well, for a start, mate, the two Misses Skettle nearly fainted and they’re too old for shocks.”
“How old are they, Sam?”
“Just get dressed, mate, so we can get this turtle in the ute and I can take it to the vet.”
“Can I come, too?”
“Need you here, mate.” His face softens. “Your job while I’m gone is to look after the mutt. Let him out of the wheelhouse and take him back to the Island. No speedin’, but. Remember the turtle. I’ll track you down when I get back to give you a full report and that’s a promise. Jeez. My head hurts. The water’s still bloody cold, tell you that for nothing. Now get the dog and off you go.”
“Why for n
othin’, Sam?”
“Never you mind.”
“Is he a good dog, Sam?”
“The best, mate.”
Inside the café, Ettie’s dealing with a rush of tourists who’ve worked up an appetite after watching the turtle’s rescue. They ignore the Closed sign and fall on what’s left of her cakes like locusts. She cranks the coffee machine to full-bore and decides the cleaning can wait. The till is flush with notes. It gives her a thrill and, more importantly, courage and confidence in the future.
“Keep an eye on Jimmy, will you, till I get back?” Sam shouts over a few heads.
She’s too busy to do anything but nod.
The local vet, a stringy woman with a horsy face, takes one look at the turtle and calls the zoo. She writes a name, address and phone number on a slip of paper and hands it to Sam. “Sorry. Wish I could do more. I’m okay with cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea pigs. Even birds, goats, horses and cows. But this is out of my league.”
Sam tucks the turtle under one arm, resting the shell on his hipbone, and lumbers through a waiting room chockers with nervous dogs and yowling cats. The turtle remains hidden and silent in its shell. He wonders if it has the faintest idea what’s going on, or if once it’s pulled its head in, the outside world ceases to exist. Nice trick if you can manage it.
Sam returns to the café by mid-afternoon to find Ettie bent over a sheaf of papers.
“Is he going to be okay?” she asks, without looking up.
“It’s a she,” he says wearily. “About twenty-five years old and in her laying prime. Probably spends her time cruising the coast from northern Queensland to Cook’s Basin. Maybe a little further south as well. The hook is stuck in her guts so she’ll need surgery but they’re certain she’ll survive.”
“You were gone for hours. I thought she might’ve died or something. Jimmy’s been frantic. Looking for you everywhere. He won’t settle until he knows whether the turtle’s going to live. Is it my imagination or is he getting even odder with his mother away?”
“Well, we’re all a bit odd, but not everyone’s good-hearted, so he’s ahead. Just got a low attention span and a few behavioural quirks. A job’ll set him straight.”
“I’d take him on if I could, love, but it’s a bit of a risk if he’s going to turn up to work naked.”
“Clothes or no clothes, he’s got all the right instincts. Reckon you could manage a coffee? I’m beat.”
“I can find a hamburger and chips, as well. That appeal?”
“No green frills?”
“Found a stash of patties and chips in the freezer. If you’re game, so am I.”
“Hamburger, love, with the blood running out of it. Go easy on the barbecue but load up on the onions. You’re a star, Ettie.”
As she goes to turn on the grill Sam wonders how long meat lasts before it goes off, frozen or not. He decides it’s smarter not to count the days since Bertie took sick. “On second thoughts, burn it to a cinder, love.”
The lip-smacking smell of frying onions and toasting buns follows him through the plastic curtains and out into the Square. “Where you hiding, Jimmy?” he yells. “And you’d better bloody be wearing your trousers.”
Jimmy – clothed in baggy knee-length brown shorts covered in red hibiscus flowers and a grey windcheater that hangs off his shoulderblades like wings – pokes his face out of a crowd of after-school kids waiting for the ferry.
“How’s the turtle, Sam?” He bounds over. “Is she okay? You sure? I could help look after her. She’s a lovely turtle, Tilly. Where’s she staying?”
Tilly?
“How’d ya know it was a girl?”
“No bollocks, Sam. Not anywhere.”
“Er, good on you. Well Tilly is in the best possible hands. And when she’s fit, she’ll come back and you and I will take the Mary Kay out to sea and lower her overboard so she can find her way north to lay some eggs. Deal?” He holds up his hand, waits for a high five.
Jimmy ignores it. “Tilly needs a friend. She’s been hurt bad.”
“And you’re a great friend, mate, the best. But she’s too crook right now for company.” Sam scrabbles for a way to lever Jimmy’s mind off the turtle and into new territory. “Are you around on Thursday, mate? I’m gonna need some help on the barge. The pay’s not great but it’s fair. Hard work, though. Gotta tell you that upfront.”
Jimmy hops from one foot to the other. “Yeah. I’ll help. Count me in, Sam. Count me in. What’s on?”
“Got a few planks left over from a building site. They’re cluttering up my foreshore. We’ll bring ’em over to the café to fix the deck where it’s rotting.”
“Cool, Sam. That’s really cool. How much you gonna pay me? Is it gonna be enough to buy a car?”
“Well, not right away, mate. But all in good time.” He wraps a beefy arm around the kid’s pointy shoulders. “Not a word to anyone. Okay?”
“Not even to Ettie?”
“Especially not Ettie.”
Back inside the café, Sam finds three hamburgers waiting on the counter.
“One for you, one for Jimmy and one for the mutt,” Ettie explains.
On the other side of the world, in a city where sea turtles are found in zoos and cafés standing lopsided on a water’s edge are a rare thing, Kate Jackson disembarks into dirty rain and gritty wind. She grabs a cab and directs the driver to take the Queensboro Bridge. When he wants to argue, she cuts him short. She lived in this city once, she tells him, and not so long ago so she’ll know if he peels off to add another ten bucks to the fare. When he asks why she’d leave a paradise – ha, ha – like the Big Apple, she feigns sleep.
The speeding cab swerves, ducks and weaves along grimy streets of paint-peeled clapboard houses where youths lurk under hoodies and old women push shopping trolleys containing everything they own. When they reach the Queensboro Bridge, the night-time hookers, who tout deep in the shadows of massive stone pylons, are still at work.
She reaches the hotel a little before nine o’clock and joins the queue to check in, edgy from too little sleep and her customary pre-interview nerves. When she finally reaches the counter, the receptionist takes her name, punches a few keys and says, “You have a message.” He prints it out and hands it to her.
Story’s been canned. Make your way back to the office asap.
She takes her key, finds her room and strips off to stand under a scalding shower. By the time she turns off the taps, the fug that’s been cluttering her mind for months is gone. She doesn’t want to do this job any more. The fire in her belly is dead. It’s as simple as that.
She switches off her mobile phone, hauls back the covers on the bed and lies down. She closes her eyes. In her sleep, she jumps icefloes that thaw under her feet, getting smaller and smaller until the last block dissolves into nothing and she begins to sink.
When she wakes, she types an email. Short, sharp and to the point.
I resign. Effective immediately.
Then she dials Ettie’s number, appalled when she realises there is no one else she can think of who might genuinely care that she’s just made one of the biggest decisions of her life. The call goes to message bank. “I did it, Ettie. I quit my job. I’m on my way home.” Saying the words out loud, even to a machine, suddenly makes them a fact.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
From the very first day that Ettie takes control of The Briny Café, the locals are full of speculation. They are aware that in a very short time, a woman of Ettie’s charm and talent will triple turnover and she’ll be run off her feet quick smart. But if she tries to go it alone she’ll burn out within the year. Or fail to maintain the new high standard they are already delighted to see emerging in the berry muffins and the lemon, orange and walnut cupcakes.
The question they are all asking is who she will approach to work alongside her. Jack the Bookie, never slow to see a business opportunity, has drawn up a list and is taking bets on what many people consider to be odds so short it’s hardly worth
having a flutter. The top three contenders, at even money, are the Three Js, with Jenny just a little in front of Judy and Jane but only because her kids are at the age when they can look after themselves after school. They’re all first-rate cooks with a long history of dishing up spectacular fundraiser dinners, including two pigs cooked to golden perfection on a spit, a chicken cacciatore with a rich tomato sauce redolent of salty anchovies and olives, and a quite amazing jambalaya with perfectly balanced spices that people still talked about years after it was served. Their desserts, too, are spellbinding, but the standouts are the honey macadamia tart, tiramisu, baklava (which segued perfectly with the slow-roasted lamb shoulders fragrant with oregano, rosemary and garlic) and a mess of meringues, strawberries and cream swizzled with a raspberry coulis with exactly the right hint of tartness. The women are all good enough to knock the stuffing out of a three-star Paris restaurant according to the only local who’d ever been fortunate – or financially flush – enough to dine in such an establishment. And while it was generally acknowledged he was a bloke occasionally prone to exaggeration, no one doubted his noble intent to pay homage to Cook’s Basin’s cooks.
There was also talk of a newly arrived, professionally trained chef who might turn out to be a star attribute to the community. It was still early days but he was showing a bit of dash by preserving the quirky style of his 1950s waterside shack instead of ripping it down to put up a concrete bunker. With his renovations completed, he might be looking around for a new project. Jack put his name on the list in an effort to liven up the odds.
No one, in even a brief moment of madness, considered the runty little Oyster Bay woman with less heft on her than a plucked bantam as a contender. There was a tad too much otherness about her as well as a lack of the essential warmth and understanding required by a neighbourhood café that every local regarded as a second home.
