The Briny Café

by Susan Duncan

  Twenty years of scum is caked into every corner of The Briny Café. A colony of black house spiders resides in the cracks in the ceiling, their webs spun as thickly as fabric. Shelves are covered in half an inch of filth. Nearly everything is outlined with a ribbon of mould.

  “You’ll find a ladder in the storeroom upstairs amongst a pile of broken tables and chairs,” Ettie says. “Bertie couldn’t bear to throw anything out. There’s a cracker view from the top deck, though. It’ll make you weep. You can see all the way to Cat Island.”

  “This is going to sound really dumb, but I didn’t know there was more than an attic up there,” Kate says.

  “Bertie never used it. He didn’t think it was structurally sound.”

  “It’s not going to come down on our heads or anything, is it?” Kate asks, alarmed.

  “No. Nothing like that. Sam says it’s solid. Reckons Bertie couldn’t be bothered with the stairs so he kept it closed off. Told everyone it was unsafe. He probably said it so often he believed it himself in the end.”

  Upstairs, Kate steps into a large room. She finds vintage soft-drink boxes, empty packing cases, cartons of cleaning supplies and enough cheap napkins and dangerously flimsy cardboard coffee cups to last for ten years. One of Bertie’s “bargains”, she thinks. They are now completely unusable. She picks her way through the mess, jiggles a stiff latch on the French doors and steps onto the spongy boards of a broad deck.

  And catches her breath.

  The sea is awash with diamonds, small clouds whisk across the sky, tinnies fly, gulls soar. Shags, with heads rising from the water like periscopes, dive deep. A fish jumps, then another and another. Underwater, a chase is on. Light flattens from yellow to white. Within the unflinching boundaries of the landscape, nothing is still. She is mesmerised. A plan begins to take shape in her head.

  “You okay?” Ettie calls.

  “Yeah, yeah, just getting the ladder.” She finds it and bangs downstairs.

  For the next few hours they toss away sundried tomatoes, capers, anchovies, olives and every other “fancy food” trend that Bertie had tried and failed to embrace. Discard chipped plates, rusted trays, cooking utensils with missing handles and plastic platters, yellow and brittle with age. Ancient cooking pots, still solid and useful, are put aside for scouring. All morning, garbage bags pile up outside the front door until the café is stripped almost bare.

  When the shelves are empty, Kate gets a bucket of hot water and a bottle of sugar soap and starts scrubbing. A greasy, evil-smelling concoction of stale fat and dirt lifts in thick globs. The hulls of dead flies and shrivelled spiders float to the top and quickly the water turns black. But the acrid stink of Bertie’s stale coffee fades slowly away.

  “Sam give you a hard time when he took you home last night?” Ettie asks with a sidelong glance.

  “More or less said I’d be garrotted publicly if I let you down.”

  “He’s not known for his subtlety. It just takes a while to get to know that his one-liners are his own brand of humour and not to be taken literally.”

  “Humour? Is that what you call it? Anywhere else, we’d call it rudeness. Does he dislike all women or just me?”

  “Sam? Sam loves women. He nearly married a gorgeous Frenchwoman about ten years ago. He was absolutely wild about her but she didn’t want to live here for the rest of her life. When it came to the crunch, he chose the Cook’s Basin over love. I’ve never been sure whether it’s the biggest regret or the biggest relief of his life.”

  Kate looks at Ettie with a grin on her face. “Can’t see Sam hoofing around Paris in his greasy hat and old workboots, can you?”

  Ettie laughs. “No, you’re right. It never would have worked and he was smart enough to realise it.”

  “I just can’t work out why he dislikes me so much.”

  Ettie comes over and puts an arm around her shoulders. “Oh he likes you, Kate. You can be sure of that.”

  “Well, he’s got a funny way of showing it.”

  Customers come and go buying coffees and cakes until they hang the Closed sign at noon. An antique till that rings up pounds, shillings and pence, pings regularly. Ettie spins a spiel about the new ownership while she warms the milk. Come back next week, she invites, when the new menu will be up and running and the burgers will be made from fresh lamb mince, seared over high heat and dusted with allspice and cinnamon to give them a kick. She’ll top them with yoghurt, mint and cucumber, a little tamarind chutney, and she’ll lie them elegantly on crisp butter lettuce fanned on toasted Turkish bread because it has more oomph than traditional buns. There’ll be a sign chalked on a blackboard in the Square, she adds, when they’re fully up and running. Keep an eye out, okay?

  Halfway through the afternoon grind the Three Js – Judy, Jane and Jenny – pitch up with buckets and rubber gloves. “Point and we’ll scrub,” says Judy. “We’ve got a few spare hours.” The chat is nonstop. Ideas get tossed, discussed, discarded or written on Ettie’s list.

  “We could do with some of your special harissa and tamarind chutney,” Ettie says to Jenny. “Be great on the burgers.”

  “Maybe, if stocks were guaranteed, we could set up an area to display and sell local produce,” Kate suggests quietly. “Create our own label?”

  Jenny looks at Kate thoughtfully. “Fannie has been bored rigid since she retired. She makes a silky smooth pâté from organic chicken livers, bacon and brandy that’s wicked. Want me to ask her if she’s interested as well?”

  Ettie nods. The chat fires up again. No one hears the stealthy arrival of the Mary Kay.

  Sam is dressed for hard labour in heavy khaki cotton shorts with a long-sleeve flannel shirt over his blue singlet. A worn leather tool bag is slung at his waist. He scans the deck, the water. There’s no sign of Jimmy. He holds back a sigh and starts stacking tables and chairs in a corner near a couple of dead trees in large terracotta pots. Cigarette butts, some still wearing lipstick, are jammed in the soil. Filthy habit, smoking, he reminds himself, fighting the urge to roll his own.

  He yanks down a piece of sagging trellis and chucks it on the growing pile of rubbish from the café. A couple of days ago, the neglect and decrepitude were so familiar he barely noticed it. Today, it’s an eyesore. His face softens at the sight of his canary-yellow barge, glittering like a golden slipper at the end of the deck. One day, he thinks, The Briny will be restored to her former glory. He hopes Bertie lives to see it.

  On the water, a tinny crashes and bangs, going too fast over a rising chop. He watches the hoon through narrowed eyes. The bow rises, points at a blue sky, then snaps flat on water as hard as glass. Thwack. Thwack.

  “Dead meat within the year,” Sam mutters, his brow knotted, then: “Ah bugger. It’s Jimmy. That kid’s got one speed and it’s flat out.” He shakes his head in despair.

  Jimmy surfs to a standstill alongside Kate’s boat and the huge surge of a following wake splashes alarmingly over the pot-holed pontoon. Sam waits for it to sink but it struggles and rights. The kid rafts up and roars along the ramp in flapping red board shorts covered with yellow lightning strikes that match his top. Arms wave. Legs fly. He’s like a firecracker going off in all directions. His hair remains ramrod stiff.

  “I’m here, Sam. Just like I said. How’s Tilly? She back yet?” He screeches to a halt a handspan short of Sam’s nose.

  “What did I tell you about turtles and speed, mate? Have a good think before you say anything because right now I’m so mad I could push you into the water, fancy clothes and all.”

  Jimmy’s euphoria dissolves. He knuckles his forehead, trying to think where he’s gone wrong. His feet tap-dance with worry.

  “Ah mate,” Sam says, ditching a long lecture because he’s fully aware the kid just plain forgot, “Tilly’s not back yet. She’s got to have surgery and then … physio. Yeah. Physiotherapy, would you believe it? It’ll be a while before she’s fit enough to return.”

  Realising a tricky moment has passed, Jimmy b
rightens. “What’s she gotta have physio for, Sam?”

  “Because she does!” he says, almost losing patience. “Let’s go, mate. We’ve got work to do.”

  “What work, Sam? Where do we start? I’m ready, aren’t I? Didn’t I say so?” Jimmy bounces off the deck rails like they’re elastic bands. “What d’ya want me to do, Sam?”

  Suppressing a sigh, Sam drapes an arm around Jimmy’s gristly neck and scruffs his sticky hair. Then wipes his fingers on his backside, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Right, mate. Follow me. Good to have you aboard. You got any work clothes with you, or you going to prance around like —” Sam breaks off.

  “Like what, Sam?” Jimmy asks anxiously, eyes cast down, dragging his bare toes along the splintered timber of the deck. His cheeks are so red his freckles disappear altogether. He’s been picked on, Sam thinks, for his highly individual, but nevertheless impressively creative choice of clothing.

  “Like a, a … handsome stallion, mate. You look downright sartorial.” He grins widely to show approval. Jimmy beams right back. He has no idea what Sam has just said, but picks up it’s a compliment.

  “These are me work clothes, Sam. I’m ready, aren’t I? Didn’t I say so?”

  They get down to business. Sam chalks some dodgy planks while Jimmy, his face serious, sticks so close Sam can smell the sickly scent of raspberry jelly frogs on his breath and catches glimpses of a red-stained tongue. He wonders if that’s all the kid’s had for breakfast and makes a mental note to ask the Three Js to keep a closer eye on him.

  “Here,” he says, passing Jimmy the chalk. “I’ll point. You cross. Got that?”

  “Point where, Sam?”

  “Put a cross there, mate, right where my finger is.” He thumps his index finger on a plank. “Ouch! Jeez.” He tears what was left of a fingernail with his teeth and spits it into the water. “Now, a cross here. Press hard so we can see it plain as day.”

  “Am I doin’ okay, Sam?” Jimmy tap-dances anxiously again.

  Sam draws in a long breath and decides to go with the flow. Wear it away. One step at a time. “Yeah, Jimmy, you’re doing a treat. Bloody impressive, mate. No question.”

  The kid makes a mark, breaks the chalk, but his face burns with pride. For a whole second, he manages to keep his bare feet still.

  With the Closed sign firmly in sight to deter any hopefuls, Ettie and Kate are revved. Kate has a growing list of improvements, none of them urgent, except for replacing some rotting floorboards near the front counter and under one of the fridges. They agree they can reopen fully by the middle of the following week, then perhaps make the Saturday the official reopening day.

  “That top deck,” Kate says, wringing a cloth.

  “Yeah?” Ettie rocks back on her heels, a strand of sweat-damp hair in her eyes, and closes the oven door with satisfaction.

  “It would make a drop-dead gorgeous apartment. Not huge, mind you, and a bit basic until we can give it a proper renovation. The view would make up for a few rough edges for a while, though. What do you think?”

  Ettie pushes herself to her feet, not quite sure where Kate is heading. “Hard to rent out. The only access is through the café.”

  “I meant for you, Ettie,” Kate says softly, leading her to the table they’ve set under the stairs for an office. Pulling out a chair for her.

  Ettie’s heart flutters and a thousand emotions cross her face at once. The unfamiliar sensation of being cared for instead of caring for others makes her feel slightly dizzy. She falls heavily onto the seat, unable to speak.

  Misreading the silence, Kate rushes on: “I know it looks like a dump right now, but a coat of paint would work wonders. There’s a bathroom. Well, a loo and a shower, but they work. A storeroom where a small bed would fit. The main room would take a table, a sofa, a desk – whatever. There’s already a kitchen area. A bit basic and shabby, but with everything you need downstairs, it would probably do. And no more steps, Ettie. No more steps to climb at the end of a long day.”

  Ettie reaches towards Kate, lays a hand lightly on her arm. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yeah, well, you made me the best offer I’ve ever had in my life. Good fortune goes round, Ettie. I never thought so before, but it’s the truth. How about you put your feet up for a few minutes and I’ll make a cuppa while you have a serious think?”

  Suddenly the sound of hammering comes from the deck. Kate looks at Ettie, raises her eyebrows.

  “No idea,” Ettie shrugs and stands up, stretching her back.

  They walk outside to see a bear of a man and a long, skinny kid on their knees, their backs bent, measuring, sawing, fitting and nailing while the sweat runs down their faces.

  Without glancing up from his hammering, Sam asks for a couple of coffees. “Er, on second thoughts, make it one. Jimmy! What d’ya want to drink?”

  “Coffee, Sam. Like you,” he shouts, directly in Sam’s ear.

  Sam winces. “I’m not deaf, mate. Not yet, anyway.”

  “But I don’t understand …” Ettie is pink with embarrassment. There’s no money for renovations or even repairs until they are established and have a fairly accurate idea of what they can expect in profits or, God forbid, losses.

  “Had some timber cluttering up my foreshore for too long. You’ve done me a favour by using it. I’m grateful to you.” He slams in a nail with a single mighty strike. Jimmy passes him another nail from a leather bag that’s in danger of sliding off his pencil-slim hips. “Jarrah, if given the chance,” Sam adds, “will mature like wine and see out two centuries. So it should do you for a while.” He straightens.

  With the sun behind him, he’s haloed like a saint in a medieval painting. Or maybe she’s hallucinating, Ettie thinks. Too much, too fast. She’s having trouble keeping up.

  He puts his great battered paws on her shoulders and turns her gently towards the café. “Coffee, love. It’s bloody thirsty work. And maybe water for Jimmy as well.”

  When Ettie is gone, Kate steps out of the shadows, hands in her pockets. “This can’t be a one-way deal, Sam.”

  Sam sucks his teeth. His chin thrusts forward. “Coffee for life. How’s that, then? Satisfy you?”

  “Mmm. How many a day do you think that would be?”

  He’s about to explode when he sees the humour in her eyes. “Jeez. You nearly had me going!”

  “How about a daily muffin – one only – as well. And only for a limited time. One month, okay?”

  “There you go,” he groans. “Overdoing it. I’ll let you get away with it this time, long as you promise not to keep upping the ante when a bloke’s only being a friend and neighbour.”

  “Deal,” she says, holding out a slim hand to seal it.

  Two hours later, Sam surveys a deck that suddenly looks firmer, straighter and safer. “Almost five-star,” he crows. “A satisfactory day. Might have a go at those shocker chairs next. Jimmy, you think you could give me a hand tomorrow?”

  “What are we gonna do, Sam?”

  “Yes or no? Plain and simple.”

  “What’d I wanna say no for?”

  “Aagh!” But Sam can’t hide his smile. “Good on ya, mate. Now go and say goodbye to Ettie, and if you whomp that tinny home, I’ll tan your backside. Don’t think I won’t know if you speed up round the other side of the Island, either. Eyes in the back of me head, the top of me head and the side of me head, so trust me, I’ll know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When word of Ettie’s new partner spreads amongst the community, the only happy camper is Jack the Bookie, who hasn’t had to pay out on a single bet. An historic result. Understandably, he is the only resident who approves of Ettie’s choice, although no one’s had a chance to ask Fast Freddy for his opinion because he’s still sound asleep after his night shift. Freddy’s judgement, anyway, is suspect. A growing body of people believe the shy man with a good heart and even better manners has a full-blown crush on the woman. No one can quite understand why he should fe
el this way. Although now that Ettie has shown such extraordinary faith in her – and Ettie’s nobody’s fool even though her emotions run away with her occasionally – they all intend to have a much closer look at what makes Kate tick. Maybe they’ll drop in to help with the clean-up. Or drop off a spare chair or two to replace the shockers on the deck. Kill two birds with one stone, eh?

  When the Kate debate eventually wanes, the conversations on the Seagull swing around to another favourite topic: food. With the fireshed dinner set for that night, there is widespread curiosity about how the once-famous, retired chef from Kingfish Bay with his fancy recipes will perform under the pressure of the community’s scrutiny. The dinner, after all, is a fundraiser and cooks are judged as much on the quality of the food as the amount left in the kitty after all costs are deducted.

  The general consensus is that the sweet, pearly pink flesh of the planned ocean trout is expensive, defeating half the purpose of the get-together. The chef will lose a heap of overall points if profits plummet. Even if the food is right up there with the flamboyant creations of those volatile French chefs who are said to live and die by the number of stars next to their name. Mind you, everyone agrees, the people of Cook’s Basin are a forgiving lot and it’s guaranteed the new chef will be given another go until he gets it right. Heh, heh.

  No one is in the least concerned that the fireshed facilities, which consist of an oven rescued from the tip, a single sink, hot water boiled in a rusty urn, and discarded crockery and cutlery from the past century, might cause him grief. Rain, hail, sleet, snow or a blow that lifts the roof off the kitchen annex and the lids off the pots – in Cook’s Basin you take what comes. It’s how you separate the ninnies from the nongs.

  Jack the Bookie considers running a book on the evening’s performance but in the end he can’t be bothered. Sometimes it’s wiser to quit while you’re ahead.

  That evening, under a starry sky and on grass browning off with the lack of spring rain, the residents’ meeting attracts the biggest crowd since the day a newly arrived fat-cat put forward a plan to open fire tracks through the National Park. A big man with a low-flying stomach, he was confident his offer to throw large amounts of his personal fortune into a legal battle for private vehicle access to offshore homes would be met with universal approval. And a suitable amount of gratitude for raising the value of their properties. His appearance at the fireshed was met with howls of fury as the local population bore down on him like rabid dogs and he took off never to be seen again. His house went on the market not long afterwards. Profit, everyone agreed, was pointless unless you wanted to sell. And who the hell would want to leave Cook’s Basin?