The Briny Café

by Susan Duncan

  With an impressive show of restraint, Sam resists the temptation to cream the pot with his inside knowledge. To him, it is the same as cheating and cheating, his father always told him, meant you never worked out if you had any real talent of your own. The end result, he said, was a person who had no idea who they were or what they stood for, which was a recipe for an unhappy life. He never doubted his dad then and he isn’t about to start now. Anyway, if he throws Kate’s name in the pot, Jack will smell a rat in three seconds flat.

  Soon after sunrise on Wednesday morning, Sam ties up the barge at the Spit. The ferry wharf is jammed with chippies in ragged jeans, T-shirts and boots; painters wear speckled overalls and matching sandshoes; labourers stomp about in steel-capped boots, wearing ripped windcheaters, khaki shorts and navy singlets. A couple of tree loppers stand apart, chainsaws neatly clipped inside fluorescent orange canisters. Ropes are coiled thickly in a grey tub containing clips and hard hats. Tinnies cruise in from the bays and the Island under a new sky – each of them carrying potential customers for The Briny Café.

  He sets off towards the open door, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a freshly baked muffin. Counting sixteen heads as he goes along and it’s only a little past six o’clock, he makes a bet that within three months, barring some awful natural catastrophe like a tsunami or a cyclone, the place will be a great little earner. As long as Ettie comes to her senses and finds a suitable partner. Sometimes, Ettie’s good instincts get the better of her commonsense. If she’s not too busy, he plans to have a quiet word in her ear. He has a list of three names in his pocket that coincides with Jack’s even money bets. Each one is a hard worker and a skilled cook with a firm understanding of the central role The Briny plays in community life. Kate, he suspects, doesn’t have it in her.

  Sam marches inside. There’s already a disorderly queue at the counter and the muffins are almost sold out. He nods good morning to Ettie, orders a coffee and toasted banana bread and joins Fast Freddy at their customary table in the spindle shade of a casuarina. Engrossed in the newspaper which he reads over Fast Freddy’s shoulder, he barely glances up when a cab arrives, figuring it’s a weekender getting a head start.

  A second or two later, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise, followed by a strange sense of anxiety. He searches for the mutt, who’s already sussed the softest touches and is happily bumming tidbits. He glances at the café. It hasn’t caught fire. He hasn’t heard the gut-churning crunch of boats colliding at full speed. There’s nothing awry, as far as he can tell. But he’s a man who always trusts his instincts, so he’s alert now.

  “Somethin’ botherin’ ya?” Fast Freddy asks, feeling the tension.

  “Nothing I can pinpoint. Just a feeling of imminent disaster.”

  Kate walks towards him, like a hazy apparition, out of the misty morning light.

  “Gidday,” he says.

  She nods and puts her bags on the ground.

  “Been anywhere interesting?”

  “Not really. Bit of a fizzer, in fact.”

  “Yeah. Know what you mean. Everywhere else always turns out a bit shabby.”

  “Something like that.”

  He marks his spot in the story he is reading with a finger. Fast Freddy bats it away like an annoyance.

  “Easy on, Freddy! I’ll lose my place,” he exclaims.

  “Buy your own paper, then,” Freddy says calmly. “Welcome home, Kate. You look like you need a good feed, a cuppa and a long lie-down.” He folds his paper and gives the mutt the last of his muffin, dusting the crumbs from his hands. “Right. I’m off for the day. Gotta catch up on my beauty sleep. See ya …”

  “Thanks, Freddy. It’s great to be back.”

  He walks off with a rolling gait, as if he’s still riding the chop.

  “Who owns the mongrel?” Kate asks, pointing under Sam’s feet.

  “No bloody idea. He’s surviving on free bed and board on the Mary Kay till a better offer comes along. Hey! You wouldn’t like to take him, would you? Go well over there on the dark side of the bay. Give you a bit of company.”

  Kate laughs. “Nice try.” On a sudden impulse, she puts an arm around Sam’s massive shoulders and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. Flabbergasted, he looks at her like she’s gone mad.

  She flushes. “So … Anything happen while I was gone?” she stammers.

  Sam’s face clears. “Mate, so much has happened it’s impossible to know where to begin.” He stands in his faded red shorts and sky-blue T-shirt, dragged down in the corners from clothes pegs. “Ettie’s been waitin’ for you to get home. She’s in the café and got a heap to tell you.” He gives her a little push in the direction of The Briny. “Off you go. And by the way, you still owe me a coupla beers.”

  “How about a slab? It’s the least I can do after almost wrecking your barge.”

  His hackles rise. Jeez, he thinks, will she ever learn? It’s not about the value. It’s all in the gesture. “No need to go overboard, mate. Saving your backside wasn’t worth that much.”

  “Your call,” she shrugs, offended, and heads for the café.

  The Briny is eerily different. And yet nothing has changed. Kate peers through the plastic ribbons. Same counter tops, shelving, fridges, ovens and gas tops. Same signs announcing Bertie’s heart-starter coffee. But there is a sense of order instead of chaos, gleaming surfaces instead of grubby ones. The flotsam and jetsam of Bertie’s latest food fads, for so long left mouldering on the counter in pyramids, have disappeared. The pervasive odour of bacon, stale fat, burnt toast and the tang of Bertie’s toxic brew are still faintly there. But they’ve somehow been pushed aside by the mouth-watering scent of baking, fresh coffee, bananas, lemons and oranges, cinnamon and vanilla. Ettie is behind the counter, hands flying, working the coffee machine like a professional barista. There’s a queue of uncombed chippies lined up in their scruffy work togs, their tongues hanging out.

  Kate looks inside the display fridge to find that the gaudy chocolate Florentines, as traditional in The Briny as hot chips, are missing. She realises something truly momentous has occurred in her absence.

  Ettie wraps an order and turns to the counter. “Kate, love, you’re back! Here, whack this out to Sam, will you? He’s waiting for it.” She hands her a coffee and a warm white paper bag. “Give me ten minutes to clear the rush.”

  Outside Kate shoves Sam’s breakfast rudely under his nose. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” she says, her hands on her hips.

  He opens the bag, sniffs and smiles, takes a slurp out of his cup. “Ettie is a fairdinkum genius,” he sighs. He digs into his banana toast, chewing loudly. “Too good to share, mate. I recommend you order your own when you go back in there.” He calls the dog, who runs up to him, eager to please, and leaves Kate standing on her own without another word.

  “So much for the legendary Cook’s Basin generosity you’re always banging on about,” she yells after him.

  Ettie flicks the sign to Closed, pulls aside Bertie’s red, white and blue plastic ribbons, and calls from the crooked doorway of the café. Kate scissors her way out of a seat at the picnic table, gathers her bags and walks slowly across the uneven paving stones of the Square. The Seagull eases into the wharf. Kids in school uniforms – shirts hanging out, shoelaces undone – spill out and roar up the ramp, still scoffing their breakfast out of cereal bowls.

  “Coffee, love, you must be knackered? How did it go? All done and dusted? Wasn’t expecting you home till tomorrow.” She warms milk, wipes the nozzle on the machine, dusts benches, straightens platters and rearranges the few last cakes, whizzing tornado fashion, until a coffee, a muffin and a napkin are neatly lined up. “Right, let’s go out and sit on the deck for some peace and quiet and I’ll fill you in.” She stands aside, insisting Kate goes ahead.

  “Where’s Big Julie? Bertie?” Kate asks, pulling out a chair that’s essentially beyond repair.

  Ettie sits down and reaches across the table to enfo
ld Kate’s hand in both of her own. She searches for the right words. “Bertie’s crook. Seriously crook. Left it too late to see a doctor and now there’s not much anyone can do. Lung cancer. Secondaries everywhere.”

  “Oh that’s terrible. Poor man. And Julie? Those two have a thing going?”

  Ettie looks surprised and releases Kate’s hand. “As it turns out, they did. You’re more perceptive than the rest of us. We never guessed. I suppose we couldn’t believe anyone would want the grumpy old bugger. The thing is,” she says, leaning back in her seat, “Bertie gave me first option on the café and I didn’t hesitate. The Briny is now mine. Well, a twelve-year lease on it.”

  Kate smiles. “That’s wonderful news, Ettie. You’ll be brilliant. Everyone knows you’re the best cook in Cook’s Basin, and way beyond. So no more cleaning houses, hey?”

  Ettie’s face turns serious and she takes a deep breath before continuing. “The thing is, I’m looking for a partner. And I thought of you.”

  “Me!” Kate’s coffee mug stops halfway to her mouth. “Why me? You can pick from any one of a dozen people better equipped than I am. God, Ettie, you know I find boiling an egg a challenge.” She pushes back her chair, grabs her mug and flees to the edge of the deck.

  Ettie leaves her be, giving her a while to absorb the idea. The sea is so blue, she thinks, and the sky is even bluer. Customers will see beyond the scruff and rot if they are the kind of people who appreciate food prepared with love and care.

  When she judges enough time has passed, she joins Kate at the rail. “How’s your coffee?” she teases, trying for lightness.

  Kate looks at the empty mug in her hand like she’s never seen it before. “The coffee? Excellent, really. You’ll have to take down the sign describing it as a heart-starter.” She faces her friend. “Ettie …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing, truly, but I know zilch about food.”

  Ettie takes her time framing a reply, wanting to get the pitch exactly right. “I don’t need another cook, Kate. That’s my job. What I really need is a partner who’s good with the big picture. You’re a perfectionist. You never shortcut details. You know how to get things done quickly, efficiently and so instinctively you’re not even aware you’re doing it. But mostly, someone’s got to watch the money, make sure there’s more at the end of the week than we started with. Honest accounting all the way. No tax dodging, no raiding the till. I want to be able to sleep at night. Adding up figures isn’t a strong point. I am also painfully aware that I’m lousy on bureaucratic detail and smart enough to know I’m never going to change. It’s a glitch in the way I think. The artist part of my brain. That’s my excuse, anyway. In essence, I’d need you to take care of the nuts and bolts.”

  Kate is silent for so long, Ettie plunges on. “The café is a gift you couldn’t hope for in a million Sundays. I know the building is rough and there’s plenty to do. But the bones are not just good, they’re phenomenal.” She closes her eyes and clenches her fists, feeling both passion and frustration. “Sometimes, I really believe the universe steps in to take care of you when you need it most. And sometimes, Kate, we’ve got to have the courage to take a risk. Or else how do we ever find out what we’re capable of? I got your message. You need a job. I’m offering you one. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

  Ettie stares at the water glittering through the gaps in the decking. Presses her lips together. No more babbling, not this time. The sun beats down on the back of her neck. The hot sweat of disappointment trickles down her spine. Without realising what she’s doing, she holds her work-red hands out in front of her to count the oven burns down her arms, knowing they will soon turn into thin white scars. Like rites of passage.

  Well, she thinks realistically, resigned to the fact that Kate is going to turn her down, the café probably isn’t everyone’s idea of the Holy Grail. She surveys the rotting deck, junky tables and chairs. Inside there’s the mouldy, defeated kitchen. Singed. Chipped. Buckled. Shadowy with the erosion of time, wear and neglect. When she stacks it up against a top job and international travel, it probably looks like a third-world rat-hole. But it’s her rat-hole, and therefore her Taj Mahal.

  She is so lost in her dreams that she gives a start when she hears Kate’s voice.

  “It’s a big project. Massive. Do you have any idea how much money it’s going to take to bring the café up to scratch? Right now, it would only take one wrong move with the health department and you’d be shut down overnight.”

  “I will not, I absolutely will not, let an opportunity like this pass by because I don’t have the guts to have a go,” Ettie says vehemently. “Go home and think about it. If you feel the same way tomorrow, I’ll look around for someone else. I thought of you first because I felt this was the answer to your prayers.” Her voice softens. “Your heart’s here, Kate. I heard it in your voice the first time I met you. The volume’s been turned down, you said. I’ve never forgotten it. It takes most people years to get what Cook’s Basin is all about, and it hit you like an epiphany in ten seconds flat.”

  Kate’s face reddens. “It’s a wonderful offer. I mean it.”

  “The café’s a way out, Kate. What’s holding you back?”

  “I understand words, facts. When people like me leap from mainstream journalism we go into public relations or some other media-related career. God, sometimes even politics.”

  “Public relations? Politics? I’m not an expert, but if the spin was wearing you out before, you’d be headed for an even bigger wipe-out.”

  “I suppose I think you’d do better with a gung-ho, cashed-up entrepreneur who understands the pitfalls of the restaurant business. I don’t want to let you down, Ettie. I’m afraid that I will.”

  Ettie puts her strong arms around Kate’s shoulders. “If I thought there was a chance of that, I wouldn’t have asked you. I’m not a fool. Or a martyr. You’re good at planning, Kate. You did a treat with your own house. Handled the council, worked out the tides, kept the blokes on site when they usually bugger off to other jobs. You came in under-budget when most offshore projects blow their budgets to smithereens. Don’t look at me like that. You think we didn’t talk about you when you first arrived? We didn’t gossip about much else. Only eased up when Jack the Bookie creamed the pot. A month was the longest shot anyone gave you. We all thought you’d turn tail after the first bad storm.”

  “Who gave me a month?” Kate asks, curious.

  “Freddy. He’s always had more faith in you than the rest of us.”

  “God, I’m so sorry, Ettie. I’m really jet-lagged. Having trouble getting my head around so many changes so fast. It’s all a bit much. Can you wait until tomorrow for an answer?”

  “Sure,” Ettie says, flatly. Wondering how an offer that was meant to be magnificent, magnanimous and utterly perfect suddenly has the stench of defeat about it.

  Out in the Square, Sam sees the two women walk away from the deck and he dashes inside the café. He stops short when he sees Ettie’s expressionless face. He shakes his head, sadly. “Decided to hang around for the celebration,” he says. “Got that arse-up. See you, Ettie. I’ll call you tonight. We can discuss a new plan of action.” He stomps out the door giving it an almighty slam.

  Kate flies after him. “You want to explain that look?” she asks, grabbing his shoulder.

  He removes her hand. “Didn’t figure you for a woman with the heart of a soft-boiled egg. What’s your problem? Café not fancy enough for you?”

  “Failure,” she hisses. “That’s the bloody problem. What if I fail Ettie and we lose our shirts and we’re back to square one? We’d have nothing but the gutter to look forward to.”

  “Gutter! What d’ya mean gutter? No one’s asking you to do it hard, mate. Bertie made a good living. With Ettie in control, it’s a licence to print money. I thought you had a bit of guts the other day in the storm. Turns out you’re custard through to the bone!”

  Kate snatches ho
ld of a corner of his shirt, then drops it, feeling foolish.

  He stops and, unaware he’s doing it, scratches under his shirt. “You know how I came to be on the barge? Took a risk, Kate. Took a risk because I was tired of some other bastard calling the shots when it was always my neck on the line.”

  He leaves her and stomps along the unevenly planked jetty, slapping a greasy hat on his head. The barrel-chested mongrel follows at a full trot, on a mission, and marches to the bow where he sits with his nose pointed into the wind.

  “What if it doesn’t work?” she calls out.

  Sam bends to untie the ropes. A man born with salt in his lungs, the sea under his feet. In tune with his barge. He steps into the cabin, as though he hasn’t heard her. Then he leans his close-cropped head out the door, a hand on the helm. “It’ll work, Kate. One step at a time. It’s like any problem. You wear it away.”

  She watches the beamy Mary Kay disappear into the distance, the crane cracked in the middle like an elbow.

  “You got the account books here, Ettie?” she says furiously when she returns to the café. “I need to know exactly what this leaning pile of driftwood can do.”

  Sam and the mutt set a sedate course on the Mary Kay to service two moorings on the eastern side of Kingfish Bay. They cross water where the sun plays tunes and high on the hills the new growth on the eucalypts is the colour of limes. Sam rips off his windcheater. It’s gearing up to be a spectacular day. He hopes it’s a good omen for Ettie. If ever a woman has earned a bit of luck, she has, he thinks. Although Freddy would call it karma. Do good and good comes back to you.

  He looks down at the dog, no definable breed, sitting to attention at his feet: “You’re on trial, you miserable mutt. Behave yourself or I’ll tip you overboard and not even Ettie will be able to save you.” The dog’s ratty tail thumps loudly on the timber deck. “And stop dribbling, it’s indecent,” he adds, scratching under the dog’s chin where the fur feels softer than silk.