by Susan Duncan
Sam finds the moorings easily enough in a pool of timber boats. Putt-putts graceful as swans, homey cabin cruisers, elegant gentlemen’s launches. Every plank gently hand-bent and whittled to fit as snugly on the ribs as feathers on a bird. Each one a work of art that peeling paint and rust stains fail to disguise. His own barge, a concerto of spotted gum, huon, jarrah and cypress pine takes more looking after than a new relationship. She’s a lifetime commitment. But of the kind that never falters.
He gets down to business on the first mooring, chipping away cunjevoi from the rope. The mutt suddenly finds the shovel offensive and crawls forward, growling.
“We’ve had this conversation before, mate. Same as the broom. Off you go.”
The mutt locks jaws on the wood and shakes it like a dead rat.
“If that shovel goes overboard, you dumb mutt, so will you. Take my word for it.” The dog slinks off to a shady spot under the curved eave of the cabin to keep a watchful eye. “Dumb mutt,” Sam says out loud. Then figures it’s time he has a name. Ponzer. Pouncer. Bowler. Bailer. Boag.
“Yeah,” he decides. “Boag. After my favourite frigid ale.” He scruffs the mutt. The dog snuffles his hand. “It doesn’t mean you’re on board for keeps, mate, so don’t go getting any ideas like that. It’s just until I find a proper home for you.”
On the bow, the newly christened Boag sits solidly, starting to look more like a bo’s’n than a deckhand. Maybe there’s a bit of class in him after all, Sam decides.
Kate sits at a small round table tucked away in a dark corner of the café, checking Bertie’s figures. The Briny perches on a financial razor-edge from year to year, decade to decade. Never quite toppling into bankruptcy but close enough to seriously test the faint-hearted. There’s a clear pattern of summer profit and winter loss.
“This the real balance sheet, Ettie? Or the cooked books Bertie sent to the tax department?”
“Bertie didn’t have a high opinion of paying tax. Loathed banks even more. He told me so with a wink and a nudge. I’m sure there’s a fair bit of give, all his way.”
“Phew. Because this wouldn’t keep you and me in loo paper.”
Ettie places a hand on Kate’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this now. You’re tired. Think about it overnight. Or just say no. Walk away.”
Kate puts down her pencil and stacks the ledgers in a neat pile. “Hope I’m not being rude, Ettie, but where’d you get the money to buy The Briny? You’ve always lived so …”
“Hand to mouth?”
“Frugally.”
“My mother died when I was twelve and she left me a small amount that stayed in the bank, quietly growing. It was my emergency money. I never risked a cent. It’s the only security I’ve ever had.”
“This is an all or nothing bet, Ettie. You must know that.”
“Yep. And just so you understand, it’s taken every penny I’ve got. I’m fifty-five years old. Almost too old for risks. But it’s now or never. The best I can hope for is fair recompense for hard work. That’s the goal.”
“I’m curious … Why do you think Bertie let you have the place? The man seems to live for profit. He could have put it on the market and made a killing.”
Ettie smiles, like it’s a no-brainer. “He loves every warped board, cracked window and leaning pylon and he doesn’t want anyone to pull it down while he isn’t looking. He also knows this stack of rotting timber means as much to me as it does to him. That it’s integral to the Cook’s Basin community. He doesn’t need money any more. He needs to feel good about himself.”
Kate taps the end of a pencil against her mouth. “I might as well put every card on the table from the start. I have some money – I sold my city terrace for a good profit and bought cheap in Cook’s Basin – but I don’t have nearly enough to turn The Briny into a swish café.”
Ettie laughs. “Swish? The Briny? The community would never let us strip away the character. There’d be a blockade before one plank was removed. Seriously, though, we’ll go broke if we aim for swish. What I have in mind is a good clean-up, and a slow and gentle resurrection.”
Kate turns back to the dusty account books with curling pages and the faint whiff of mould. She finds a blank piece of paper and draws a line down the middle. At the top of one column she writes Urgent; on the other she pencils Essential.
Late in the afternoon, Sam makes a cuppa and sips it on the deck of the barge. Boat traffic whizzes past and he wonders, not for the first time, what drives a woman like Kate. The café is the chance of a lifetime. If he weren’t fully engaged with the lovely Mary Kay, he’d be beating down Ettie’s door and begging to be involved.
Life is all about observation and then creating opportunities, he thinks. See a problem. Fix it. Hardly rocket science. The Misses Skettle, he reckons, have it sorted. Do your best, lend a hand, live and let live, they advised him when he was sixteen years old and faced with fending for himself. Simple as …
He straightens up, tosses the dregs over the side. Boag catches his uneasiness and jumps out of his basket. The Weasel roars past in his spiffy white boat, flat out, sunlight splintering off the chrome. He’s dead meat, Sam thinks. Not literally, of course. There was a law against that, and rightly so. Otherwise there’d be bodies floating all over the bays. But where the hell has the bloke materialised from? It beggars belief that he thinks he can swan into Cook’s Basin and ride roughshod over local life. He sighs. Which he’s aware he’s been doing quite a lot of lately. He heads for the Spit. See a problem. Wear it away. His list of possible partners for Ettie burns a hole in his pocket. He’ll deal with the Weasel problem later.
The fly-specked Closed sign is still firmly in place when Sam rocks up at the café in the early evening. He peers through the newly cleaned glass and can just make out Ettie wiping down a soft-drink fridge in the far corner. A beam of daylight shoots through a small hole in the wall and lands on her head. He knocks lightly.
Kate jumps up and opens the door before she realises who it is. She goes beetroot-red and stands stiffly aside to let him in.
“Still here, are you?” he says.
“Yeah. Sorting the final details before making an appointment with the bank manager. I’m in.” The words are out of her mouth before she knows it. She turns to Ettie: “What time do we start tomorrow?”
Ettie pulls her head out of the fridge, not sure she’s heard correctly. “Eh? What did you say?”
“I’m in.”
With a whoop, Ettie jumps up. She dumps her dishcloth, rips off her polka-dot headscarf and throws it in the air. Breathless, she triumphantly withdraws a bottle of champagne from the fridge. “Ta da!”
“Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?” Kate smiles, but her voice is shaky and her heart beats faster.
Ettie turns serious. “You’re not a fool, Kate.”
“No doubts that we can do it?” Kate asks.
“None. Not about the business. Not about you as a partner. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for both of us. If we let it go, we’ll spend our old age asking ourselves what if. Trust me, a cupboard full of what ifs is no comfort in the dead of night.”
She pops the cork and pours the pale fizz into three chipped water glasses. They stand in a circle, sombre, marking the moment with a clink. Sam sculls. Ettie too. Kate takes a small sip. The two women grin and Sam forces a smile.
Outside, the water shines like a jewel in the rich afternoon light. Red. Yellow. Orange. Blue. Green. Two hoots blast in quick succession. Loiterers make a dash for the back deck of the Seagull. Dust motes play in a pool of sunshine pouring through the door. For a delirious moment, Ettie wonders if an angel is about to land in their midst.
The Briny Café seems to lift her worn and shabby shoulders, raise her head and shrug off decades of slough, while the two women whose hearts are reeling with hope, joy and plain old fear, try not to get teary.
When the champagne is finished and a jet-lagged Kate looks ready to wilt, Sam plonks his glass on t
he counter. He gives Ettie a scratchy kiss and turns to the weary traveller: “C’mon, I’ll take you home in style on the beautiful Mary Kay. Kings used to travel by barge, y’know. It’s God’s own transport. And I’ve gotta go that way anyway.” He looks back at Ettie. “Will you make it to the fireshed for the residents’ meeting tomorrow night?”
“God, is it the last Thursday of the month already? Yeah. I’ll be there. Who’s cooking?”
“That new chef in Kingfish Bay. Used to be someone big in town, so I hear. He’s making slow-baked whole ocean trout with some kind of green sauce. Anchovies and a heap of herbs. The anchovies might be a bit of a worry.”
“Classic salsa verde. Very trendy.”
“Yeah. I was going to suggest him as a possible —” He stops.
“Possible what?”
“Ah, consultant. Just till you both find your feet. No need, probably. You girls’ll cream it. Right, let’s go.” He reaches for Kate’s bags, grabs her elbow and pushes her out the door in a rush.
“So what made you change your mind?” he asks bluntly when they’re underway.
Kate gets up from the banquette where she was about to doze off. “Do you care?”
“I care about Ettie, so I want to know you’re in for the long haul, not just fluffing around until something better comes along.”
“Whoa! Don’t hold back. Christ, I can’t win with you, can I? One minute you’re berating me for not taking Ettie up on her offer, and now that I’ve said yes you’re still having a go.”
He turns to face her. “I’m just saying that if you let Ettie down, the locals will all come after you with hatchets. When you walk through the Spit we’ll turn our backs. When you get stuck in a storm, not even the Misses Skettle, who have hearts of gold, will raise the alarm. Put one foot wrong, and I kid you not you’ll be right back at the starting line that the confidence Ettie’s placed in you has just pushed you over. Around here, you earn your place in the community. It isn’t handed to you willy-nilly.”
“Finished?”
“Just so you know. Wouldn’t want you to be under any misapprehensions.”
“It’s clear as daylight. My turn now? You’re like something out of the dark ages,” she says, coldly. “A tragic figure clinging to an era that’s been dead for nearly half a century. You want to get out a bit more and see what the real world’s all about. Some of us from the other side actually have our own set of morals and ethics and try to live decent lives. We’re not all numbskulls, either.”
“If it’s that good over there, mate, what are you doing here?”
“Cut the mate crap, okay? It’s starting to wear thin.”
They motor along the broken shoreline in a silent, angry fug. Before the barge has slowed to a standstill, Kate jumps off at her pontoon.
“You want these bags or aren’t they any good to you any more?” Sam calls after her.
She stomps back and snatches them out of his hands.
The mutt leans against his leg and dribbles on his boot. The good thing about dogs, he thinks, heading for home, is they never turn on you and bite your backside like people.
Cook’s Basin News (CBN)
Newsletter for Offshore Residents of Cook’s Basin, Australia
* * *
NOVEMBER
* * *
Good News and Bad News
We’re all sorry to hear that Bertie is too crook to continue in his role as the legendary proprietor of The Briny Café. We wish him well with what we know will be hard days ahead. He has sold the leasehold of the café to our own Island personality, Ettie Brookbank, who takes over the reins immediately. She has asked us to let everyone know it will be business as usual in the mornings but that the café will be closed every afternoon for a few minor repairs and restorations, including the dodgy eastern end of the deck where the Editor of this newsletter lost a shoe a couple of weeks ago when her foot went through the timber. We’re all thrilled for Ettie, who, as we know, is a magnificent cook. Good luck with the new business, Ettie, and we’re all here to give a hand when you need it.
FUEL TANK MISSING
I’m guessing someone ran out of petrol and needed to get home. Right? So when you’ve refilled the petrol tank you borrowed from my son’s tinny, please put it back. If you can’t remember the boat, leave it at Commuter Dock and we will look out for it. Carol
Please Return
Our collection of Doc Martin DVDs. We loaned them out but can’t remember to whom. If you – whoever you are – have watched them by now, we’d love them returned so we can settle in and run through them once again ourselves. Even if you haven’t, can you let us know you’ve got them? Our senior moments are compressing, if you get our foggy drift.
Cheers, Myrna
and Max
THE FLAMING HENHOUSE PRESENTS
The Fowl Side of the Sun
Another fabulous gig in the community hall!
By popular demand!
Friday and Saturday BYO (there will NOT be a bar in operation)
Tickets: $15 each
Car Park Vandals
This is getting to be a serious issue. Last night, five cars were broken into. Windows were smashed, tyres stolen and several caps on petrol tanks were busted and the tanks drained. Please, if anyone has any information or saw anything even a little bit suspicious, call the police. It’s got to be stopped. Someone, somewhere, must have seen something!
CHAPTER TWELVE
On Thursday morning, when the air is so still the kayakers are out on the water in colourful packs, Ettie hears a boat whack into the fragile café pontoon with a heart-stopping crunch. She rushes out, hair and apron flying, terrified someone’s been hurt. At the top of the crooked timber ramp with too many missing planks to satisfy even the vaguest safety standards, she looks down at a tinny locked in a frantic struggle to dock. She lets out a belly laugh and wanders down to help, positioning herself on the end of the pontoon that hasn’t yet sunk.
“Start again from out wide and take it really slowly,” she calls out to her new partner.
Kate wrenches the steering wheel, throttles too far forward and the tinny roars straight at the shore. She jerks the lever backwards and the boat stalls to a sudden stop. She falls sideways, banging her head.
“Slowly,” Ettie calls again, still laughing. “Gentle on the throttle.”
Kate restarts the engine and does a snail-pace 360-degree circle that gives her a long, straight approach. But she misjudges the width of the boat and is still too far out to reach the cleat to tie on.
“Throw me a rope,” Ettie calls, “I’ll drag you in.”
“God, how hard is all that?” Kate moans when she’s finally ashore.
“Wait until it blows like stink. Then you’ll find out how good you are.”
“We need to put up an off-limits sign on the pontoon,” Kate says, thinking of lawsuits.
“No point. Boaties are notorious rule-flouters. Sam’s working on a plan, though.”
They walk through the decrepit tables and chairs. Ettie, pink-faced and smiley, solid in her large white apron, rubber-soled shoes. Kate, slight and serious, neat in blue jeans, a navy T-shirt. A small, dark wraith.
“How about a coffee? On the house.” Ettie slips an arm around Kate’s waist and guides her inside the café. Her dawn baking is already on display. “Hope you had a good think last night. It’s still not too late to back out.”
“What about you? No second thoughts about taking on an ex-journo with a history of itchy feet and burnt toast?”
“No doubts here.”
“Then I’m in. Full partner. If you’re sure.”
Ettie is serious. “Never been surer of anything.”
There is a knock. Light. As if someone doesn’t want to intrude on a private moment. The two women turn towards the doorway. Fast Freddy peers through the plastic ribbons, his blue eyes like glass balls in his face.
“You finished havin’ a sob in there? Or whatever? Can a poor tired old
fella get a heart-starter at the end of a long night?”
“Yeah, Freddy,” Ettie says, laughing. “I’d give you a bacon and egg roll too, love, except we’re not officially open yet, and Bertie’s leftovers are definitely suss.”
“Just the coffee, Ettie. That’d be good as gold. Prefer to leave pigs in the paddock where they’re happiest anyway.”
“Busy out on the water last night?” Ettie jams ground coffee beans into a dripper, fills a steel jug with milk and hooks a thermometer on the side. She turns a black knob fast and hard. The milk froths with a gentle roar.
“No more than usual. Got stiffed for the fare to the Island. Second time it’s happened. Same dead-eyed kids with skin like strawberry jam.” Freddy puts down the pile of newspapers he’s carrying and twists to read the headlines upside down.
“Know who the kids belong to?” Ettie places his coffee on the counter with a smile. She’s drawn a boat in the froth.
“Nope. Couldn’t help wondering what they were doing arriving at that boatshed next to Triangle when it was long after visiting hours, though.”
“Leave ’em behind next time, huh?”
“Not in me nature to leave a bloke stranded, Ettie. You know that. I’ll take ’em, but they’ll pay upfront.”
“You’re a good man, Freddy. I’d be spitting.”
“Well, the way I see it, life’s a pond. If you let a passing bow wave knock you over every time it comes along, you’ll drown. Better to tread water, till the ripples fade away, or swim under them. You’ll live longer. Betcha.”
“You’re starting to sound like a Buddhist, Freddy.”
“Those Buddhists got a lot goin’ for ’em,” he says, looking at his feet, his neck stained red. He slams his coins on the counter, grabs his coffee and flees.
“Didn’t get a chance to tell him it was on the house,” Ettie murmurs. “Right. Ready for work? We start at the top and work down. Every pro cleaner knows it’s the only way.”
