The Briny Café

by Susan Duncan

  Not long before locking up the café, all hell breaks loose in the Square.

  The two women rush outside. “Oh God,” Ettie moans. “It’s Jimmy. He’s off his face.”

  His face tomato-red the teenage boy ricochets off walls, slams into tables, kicks seats. His eyes are scared and violent at the same time.

  A grey-haired tourist watches from the ferry wharf. A couple of young mothers grab the mail from their postboxes and shake their heads, shepherding their babies safely out of range. A group of joggers stop and watch. Like it’s street theatre.

  “He’s out of control. Nothing anyone can do till he sleeps it off,” one of them says matter-of-factly. He throws back his head and slugs water from a flask pulled from his belt. “You going to call the cops?” he asks Ettie.

  “He’s an offshore kid. We’ll sort this out.”

  Jimmy seizes a table and tries to hurl it against the café wall. The bolts hold firm. Tears are streaming down his twisted face, snot runs into his mouth. He looks confused. Lost. Disoriented. He kicks garbage bins, whirls in circles, bangs his head against the café wall. Blood streams from his nose. It is pandemonium.

  Ettie tiptoes towards him and puts out her hand. “Jimmy?” Without a word or a hint of recognition, he lets out a gut-wrenching sob and crumples into a pile of skin and bones on the ground.

  “He needs an ambulance,” Kate says, reaching for her mobile phone.

  Ettie slips her palm beneath Jimmy’s head and cradles it gently while she scuttles into a sitting position. “Call Sam,” she says, “he’ll manage.” She bunches her skirt to make a cushion and settles the bloodied mess of his face into her lap. Stroking his head, she croons, “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.” Skinny white legs stick out like dowelling from his hibiscus-printed board shorts. Ettie hums, waving away offers of help. Jimmy never stirs.

  Minutes later Sam pounds up the jetty and kneels beside the kid, running his hands over his limbs like a doctor. He presses open the lid of one eye then the other. Jimmy groans, focuses for a second. A helpless look of trust in his eyes.

  “Jeez, Jimmy. You’re pushing all the wrong buttons, mate.” His voice is gentle. Inside he’s raging. He worms his arms under the kid’s shoulders, about as solid as a chicken carcass. “Ready?” Ettie nods. They half-drag, half-carry Jimmy’s deadweight towards the Mary Kay. A sneaker leaves a long white streak of rubber like a skid mark at the scene of an accident. One drops off. Kate picks it up and follows.

  Jimmy makes a gurgling sound.

  “You’re okay, mate. No permanent damage. You’re an idiot, know that? I’d be shoving a fist in your nose myself if I’d caught you with any of the shit that’s done this to you.” But he knows the kid’s been tricked. He’d never waste his money on drugs. Every cent he earns, Jimmy tells him like a cracked record, is one cent closer to owning a car. They lower him tenderly to the deck of the Mary Kay.

  Jimmy opens his eyes. The naked vulnerability rips something deep inside Sam. “Tilly comin’ home soon?” the boy manages through a broken smile.

  “How’d you get like this, Jimmy? Where have you been today?”

  “Visitin’, Sam. Near Triangle.”

  “That arsehole with the fancy boatshed,” Sam hisses through clenched jaws. “He’s dead meat.”

  He scrounges a blanket from the hold and tucks it under Jimmy’s chin: “You’ve just signed on as chief mate on the Mary Kay. Which means bed and board for the foreseeable future. I’m not letting you outta my sight till your mum comes home. No buts. No bloody questions, either, for a change. And just so you know, I’m going to work your skinny arse off.”

  Boag crawls forward on his stomach, licks the blood on Jimmy’s legs. Jimmy’s hand reaches out from under the greasy blanket and rubs the dog’s soft ear between two fingers. The mutt curls against the bony body with a satisfied harrumph.

  “I’m running an orphanage. That’s what. A freaking floating orphanage of waifs and strays,” Sam mutters, looking at the two of them. He fetches his favourite red cushion from the banquette in the wheelhouse and tucks it under Jimmy’s head.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Treetops are black lace against the silver sheen of a predawn sky. Sam rises from his tangled sheets and shuffles down the bare boards of the narrow hallway. He opens the door to the spare bedroom – yellow light streaks across the floor. Jimmy, his face black and blue, is cleaned up, sleeping peacefully. The mutt, ears pricked, is tucked tightly into the crook of the kid’s bent legs.

  Sam goes back to his bedroom to dress. By the time he steps outside into a morning smelling of dry eucalyptus and dust, the kookaburras are firing up and the white cockatoos are preparing for their ear-splitting turn. The noise, he thinks, should wake the dead but the Island sleeps on. He walks along the high track, avoiding the worst potholes.

  A small, tangled rear garden of lantana backs onto the public track from the Weasel’s house. The gate is securely bolted and padlocked. Sam vaults it easily. He walks without stealth to the closed door at the top of four pavilions connected by covered stairways and knocks loudly enough to be heard. When no one appears, he tries the door. Locked. He slips a credit card from his pocket and slides it between the lock and the doorjamb. The handle turns and he enters a kitchen. Clean. Tidy. No scent of cooking. Unused, probably. Sam moves on, quietly opening and closing doors.

  He locates the Weasel in the third pavilion, sleeping in a tight ball on a bed the size of a football field. Fists clenched and naked except for a pair of black silk boxers. There’s a rug on the floor striped black and white like the coat of a zebra, a chest of drawers, one half-opened with T-shirts spilling out. A pair of black flip-flops has been kicked off untidily by the side table. Floor-to-ceiling windows catch the view, straight up Blue Swimmer Bay, to a waterfall dry from the lack of serious rain. While Sam stands watching, the Weasel mumbles and turns over, suddenly restless. Without opening his eyes, he fumbles for the sheet, feeling a cool shift in the air, perhaps, from the open door.

  “Hate to wake you with bad news,” Sam says, like they’ve just run into each other at the mailboxes in the Square.

  The Weasel shoots up, holding the sheet against his throat, one side of his hair flat against his skull. His chest and back are covered in a thick coat of curling black hair. He looks like a trapped animal.

  “What the fuck —”

  “Am I doing here?” Sam finishes.

  “Get out, you mongrel. Or I’ll call the cops.”

  Sam undoes the top pocket of his shirt and offers his mobile.

  “Be my guest,” he says, “although this won’t take long.”

  The Weasel is fully awake now. He reaches for a T-shirt under his pillow and slips it quickly over his head. Ruffles his hair into rough order. “Mate, mate. What’s this about? I don’t even know you. What’s the problem?” His tone is conciliatory. Like they’re old friends and it’s all a misunderstanding.

  He reminds Sam of a crocodile he once saw in the far north. A fat-bellied beast that lay submerged, except for empty eyes that followed every move. Sizing him up, patiently waiting for an opportunity. Lethal and sleazy at the same time.

  The Weasel swings his legs onto the floor. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” he says, still placatory.

  “Well, it’s good that you asked,” Sam says, his voice over-friendly. “Around here we see ourselves as a village. And in a close-knit village, we all look after each other. So we notice when the balance starts to look shaky. Mate, ever since you arrived, the balance has been very, very shaky. So pack your bags. Leave Cook’s Basin. Crawl back into whatever sewer you came out of. End of story.”

  “You’re nuts. A loony. Go home and sleep it off.” The smarm has gone from his voice. He’s dismissive. Unafraid now.

  Sam shakes his head. “Blokes like you should never have been born. If you’ve got kids of your own stashed somewhere, I feel sorry for them.” He walks across the polished floor, his heavy tread muted for a moment by the ru
g. “And stay away from Jimmy. Or I’ll break your head.”

  The first thing Sam notices when he gets home is the dog sitting at the kitchen bench. On his own stool. Jimmy is next to him. On a different stool. The kid has a mountain of Vegemite toast in front of him. So does the mutt. Jimmy has a mug of tea. The mutt has a saucer of tea. The Vegemite jar is scraped clean.

  “That okay, Sam? No sugar for Boag?”

  “Spot on, mate. How are you feeling?”

  The kid’s face is the colour of a gathering storm, but his clear eyes shine sweetly. He’s showered and dressed in plain brown board shorts and an orange satin shirt that would radiate for miles across an open sea. He smiles at Sam to show he’s good. Every so often, when the dog’s furry backside slips on the stool, he shoots out a steadying hand and they resume chewing their breakfast.

  “How’s Tilly the turtle, Sam? When’s she comin’ home?”

  “Soon, mate, soon.” Sam grabs a mug out of a cupboard. The tea is still hot. The kid’s remembered to use the tea-cosy. Sam places the last two slices of bread in the toaster and wonders if there’s any jam in the fridge. He fixes his gaze on Jimmy. “When you’re sorted, we’ve got a heap of work to do to help Ettie get ready for the opening of the café. You reckon you’re up to it?”

  Jimmy bends an arm at the elbow and flexes his biceps. A tiny lemon pops up under his blue-veined skin. With utter sincerity, he says: “I can do anything, Sam.” The dog wags his tail and topples straight to the floor.

  “Knew I could count on you, mate. On the deck in five minutes. Time to earn your keep. You know how to paint, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, Sam. I told ya, didn’t I?”

  “Nevertheless, it remains to be seen. Just remember. The paint goes on the walls. Nowhere else. Not the floor, the windows, the benches. Only the walls. And Jimmy, if it gets in your hair, you won’t need to touch that poncy smelling gel for a month. Get my drift?”

  “Be careful, is that it?”

  “You got it. I’ll get you started and then you’re on your own.”

  “Ettie’s gonna love it, isn’t she, Sam?”

  “No doubt about it. And jeez, clean your teeth, mate, before we go.”

  Outside in the fresh air, the sun glosses over night shadows and dusts the treetops with gold. A lyrebird runs through an impressive repertoire of imitation bird calls. Magpies. Parrots. Butcherbirds, and then a siren. It startles a few late sleepers out of their somnolence. The ferry master unhooks the Seagull from her mooring for the first morning run. A light goes on in the café. Sam breathes in the joyful, larrikin pulse of his chosen territory. You’ve got to look after your patch, he thinks. Or you lose it.

  With very little direction or encouragement, Jimmy tackles the job of painting Ettie’s new penthouse, as it is already known, with fierce concentration. To prepare, the serious-faced young man quickly whizzes sandpaper over surfaces in not quite logical order. But nevertheless meticulously. When everything is ready, he paints steadily and soundlessly except for the hiss and swish of the roller coating the walls in a soft off-white that Ettie chose from an old colour card she found in one of Bertie’s drawers.

  Jimmy is on the first adult mission of his life, trusted by Sam – who regularly churns away from the café to pick up and deliver cargo – to do a thoroughly professional job without cutting any corners. The kid blossoms with a sense of purpose and the challenge of completing a task to the best of his ability.

  “Where did you learn to paint?” Ettie asks when she calls the boy to morning tea.

  “Me mum. She reckons changin’ the colour of your house feels like a holiday but lasts longer and costs less.”

  “How’s she doing, Jimmy? Home soon?”

  “Christmas. How long is that, do ya know, Ettie?”

  “Not long, love.”

  Ettie passes Jimmy a plate. He wolfs into a double-size slice of pale strawberry sponge, using the back of his paint-speckled hand to wipe the cream off his cheeks. The moment she turns away, he plucks a strawberry from the filling and wraps it in his hanky.

  Kate, seated at the round table under the stairs where her laptop is now installed next to a printer, glances up. She catches what he’s doing, shrugs, returns to trawling Bertie’s list of suppliers, trying to figure out why quotes for virtually the same produce vary so widely. She decides it must come down to quality and begins ordering from the middle price range, figuring she can ramp up or scale down when they know more.

  After lunch, Ettie announces she’s off to a catering supply warehouse two suburbs away. She hopes to be back within three or four hours, with new cake stands, sandwich platters and oversize biscuit jars for the counter. She strips off her apron, powders her nose and waves goodbye, flicking over the Closed sign after her.

  The moment she is out the door, Jimmy starts rootling through the large compost bin under the sink.

  Kate goes over and touches his shoulder. “What are you doing, Jimmy?”

  “Savin’ it for Tilly the turtle,” he explains. “For when she comes home.”

  “Ah. The strawberry, too, huh? What a kind thought. But how about we buy her fresh greens when we know she’s on her way back here?” Kate suggests, easing the slimy hoard of food from his grip. “Only the best for Tilly, right?”

  “Are ya sure, Kate?”

  “Yes, Jimmy. It’s a promise.”

  And off he scampers, spidery arms and legs flying, ascending the stairs three at a time, reaching the landing in four strides with barely a sound.

  Not long after, the chef, Marcus Allender, stands to attention outside the café. He is casually but beautifully dressed in tan leather boat shoes, pressed fawn shorts that reach his knees and a navy polo shirt with a tiny green insignia embroidered over his left breast. In both hands, like a sacred offering, he holds a small box tied expertly with a red-and-brown ribbon. As though whatever it contains is so delicate, the smallest movement could break it. Kate opens the door.

  He bows with a minuscule movement of his head but it is enough to send his lustrous silver hair flopping into his eyes. “I am looking for Ettie. Yes? I was told I would find her here.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve just missed her. She’s gone shopping,” Kate says, unsure whether to invite him inside.

  “Ah,” says the chef, his face falling with disappointment.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asks. “My name is Kate, I’m Ettie’s partner.”

  “Ah. Thank you.” He looks at the box in his hands as if suddenly at a loss. “Does she understand chocolate?” he asks at last.

  Kate smiles kindly and reaches for the gift. “Like a second language. I’ll make sure she gets this. Do you have a phone number? I know she’ll want to thank you. Come inside. I’ll write it down.”

  The chef steps into the café, lifting his legs like a brolga, stepping over the threshold as though it is a gunnel. His nose twitches. “That terrible smell, the one of burnt coffee and grease, it is gone. Before, I could not come inside. Not even for a newspaper. My stomach, it pinched in despair.”

  “We’ve got a long way to go …” She breaks off.

  He’s wandering around, assessing the erratically shaped nooks and crannies, the old signage waiting to be hung, the timber floor worn smooth in places, the walls, the ill-fitting windows, even the ancient flywire door to the deck. A genuine plywood slammer from the kind of country town that boasted two pubs, one milkbar and a corner store.

  “A gem,” the chef announces, just when Kate is beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Do not change a thing. Not one thing.” And without another word he turns on his heels, strides into the Square and disappears.

  Late in the afternoon, Sam tidies and locks the cabin of the Mary Kay, and heads towards the Island. He’s hoping that vagabond mutt, left at home for the day to stop him roaming the café, has kept his snout out of the Island chook pens and all the dog bowls left at back doors. Stomach like a bottomless pit. Eats every meal like it might be his last. Well, he
had been dumped and forced to fend for himself …

  Sam plans to call in on Lindy, the local real estate agent, to let her know that the Weasel will be leaving before too long. No need to go into details. Just a quiet word that the slimeball has found offshore life a little claustrophobic and he thinks he’ll find more fulfilment somewhere else. She might want to knock on his door to suss out if there’s a deal there for her.

  He ties the barge at the end of his jetty and wanders a short distance along the honeycomb shoreline to Lindy’s steps, pulling a few straggly bits of crofton weed before it spreads any further. He sees a thicket of Mother-of-Millions, ready to sprout on a brittle bank he’d cleared a year earlier. He curses and tells himself he’s done his bit and can stride on with an easy conscience. Let some other lazy-arsed Islander have a turn.

  Ah jeez, he thinks, it’ll only take a second.

  He spreads his feet, bends from the waist and begins easing the succulents out of the sandy soil.

  “You giving up the barge to go into landscaping?” Lindy asks, coming down the steps. She is wearing gardening gloves and carrying a bag half-full of weeds. “Whack it in here,” she says.

  Sam stuffs the fleshy purple plants inside and takes it from her. “Just the person I want to see,” he says, wiping his face with a bare arm. “Wanna tell me where to get rid of this?”

  “Up the back. I’ll put on the kettle.”

  “Prefer an icy cold beer. Only if you’re askin’…”

  “Might be able to find one,” she says.

  Lindy goes ahead and Sam takes a moment to enjoy the spectacle of the muscles in her smoothly tanned calves bunching as she climbs each step. She’s a top sort. Unflappable. Cluey. Funny. Generous. Not a snotty bone in her body when anyone can see she and her husband are riding high on the sudden boom in offshore properties.

  At the rear of the house, he lifts the lid off a compost bin, empties the bag. He feels a slight sting. Another. His legs begin to burn and itch. He strips off his shorts. Red lumps. Black dots. Bloody ticks. He dumps the bag and races into Lindy’s kitchen in his jocks. “Covered in ticks, love. Hold the beer. Gotta go home.”