The Briny Café

by Susan Duncan

  They place three antique biscuit tins in pristine condition on the counter. “We thought these might look pretty in the café.” Then they take off again like two pink flamingos on a mission, slap-banging into a portly Kingfish Bay sailor. His Coke-bottle glasses fly off his sunburned nose. His mate, a tow-haired Island photographer, is flung sideways into the wall.

  “Step aside, young men,” says one Miss Skettle.

  “Where are your manners?” admonishes the other.

  And off they tootle, their rosy skirts afroth. Straight to the supermarket for the best-value red wine sturdy enough to hold up their much-loved, life-affirming spices, and stay fragrant during the application of a moderate amount of heat.

  While his mate fossicks on the ground for his specs, the photographer sticks his head inside the café. “Any chance of strong, hot coffee? Feeling a bit dusty this morning.”

  “Good sail last night?” Ettie asks, reaching for a large container of milk and filling a jug. It is the morning after the Stony Point twilight sail.

  “No wind. Boring as batshit. Missed the start by three and a half minutes. My comrade,” he nods towards his mate outside, “was bent over the stern trying to count the legs on a jellyfish. He insists ten. It’s definitely eight. Although technically a jellyfish can have up to two hundred legs. Which are, technically again, tentacles not legs.”

  “Hard one to check out,” Ettie says.

  “Nah. It’s all on the net. The real issue is how many our jellyfish has.” He waves Ettie forward. “Follow me.”

  Without pausing to help the sailor still fumbling on the ground for his glasses, they pick their way through a few late commuters and early shoppers to a plain white car. The photographer pings open the boot, revealing a large, bulbous orange jellyfish floating in a tub of water.

  “I’m taking it to my studio to photograph so that even he” – with a flick of his head towards his friend who is wiping clean his glasses on the bottom of his shirt – “will be satisfied.”

  “What about an impartial opinion? I’d be happy to have a close look.”

  “Won’t do. I need irrefutable evidence or that stubborn, myopic layabout will never admit he’s wrong.”

  “Ah, cold hard facts,” Ettie says, realising it’s a bet and money is at stake. She peers intently into the tub. “Do jellyfish have eyes? It’s so weird, looking at a creature without being able to find its eyes.”

  The photographer sighs. “How come everyone around here is a budding naturalist?”

  “Have you got a lid for the tub? One sharp turn and your boot’s going to flood.”

  “Nothing important is ever gained without great sacrifice,” he says, with mock pomposity. “Don’t mention it to my wife, though. It’s her car.”

  By late morning, while Ettie is off doing some personal shopping, the muffins are sold out and the number of notes in the till is increasingly heartening.

  Kate mulls over whether it would be appropriate to ask Marcus if he would like a permanent space to sell his luscious pastries. Suitably signed, of course, and in a prominent position. She was a journalist and understands that linking his famous name to the café will bring in business. In the end, she decides it is a call that only Ettie can make.

  A shadow falls across the scratched timber floorboards and she looks up.

  “Freddy!” she says, pushing back her chair. “Didn’t hear you come in. Those plastic strips were good for something, eh? Ettie’s not here right now.”

  Freddy, white-faced, trembling violently, stares silently at her.

  “What’s wrong?” Kate asks, gently taking his arm and leading him to her chair. “Are you sick? Or hurt?”

  He waggles his head and opens his mouth. But whatever he is trying to say stays strangled in his throat.

  “I’ll call Sam, okay? Whatever it is, it will all be fine, Freddy. Give me a minute to call him. Hang in there.”

  His shaggy head falls on his chest and stays there. Tears spill from his eyes and roll down his cheeks, catching on the grey stubble like pearls. He sucks in a breath and drags a hanky out of his pocket. He holds it under his nose, more to hide his face than to mop up.

  Kate dials Sam, bringing Freddy a glass of water with the phone glued to her ear. Outside, the hum of traffic carries on the wind, waves smack against the pylons under the floorboards. A car door slams. There’s laughter. A shout. A baby bawls.

  Freddy lifts his sad, crumpled face and blows his nose with a sound like a foghorn, just as Sam answers the phone.

  Ettie returns on a wave of floating fabric, wearing a new flowery fuschia dress the Misses Skettle would definitely approve. She pirouettes in front of Kate, showing off, laughing. Feeling gorgeous.

  She stops mid-circle, her skirts catching up a second later.

  “Freddy?” she says, then looks towards Kate for a hint.

  “I’ve called Sam,” she explains.

  Freddy looks towards Ettie pathetically. She swiftly crosses to him. Wrapping her arms around his narrow shoulders, she leans her cheek against his, engulfing him in her softness, hoping the strong and steady beat of her heart will reassure him.

  “What’s happened, love? What’s the matter?”

  He swallows a gulp of air like it is solid. “Boag’s dead,” he whispers, trembling hands clenched in his lap. “Nailed to that lone mangrove in Kingfish Bay. Like a … sacrifice.” The words come out in sharp little jerks and end with a whimper.

  “Are you sure, Freddy? No mistake?” Kate asks.

  He shakes his head.

  “Oh Freddy,” Ettie says softly, rocking him like a child.

  They hear the thrum of the Mary Kay then and feel the building shudder as the barge nudges against the deck. Kate pulls open the screen door and steps out as Sam walks towards her. “Where’s Freddy? Any idea what’s up?”

  “It’s not good, Sam. Where’s Jimmy?”

  “Gone off to find Boag. He disappeared after breakfast.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Inside the café Sam listens, his face expressionless. He leaves without a word, fists at his sides, his jaw bunched hard. Kate offers to go with him but he shakes his head and she backs away.

  Meanwhile Ettie puts a mug of hot chocolate in front of Freddy. “Drink up, love. It’ll do you good.” She takes his hand and wraps it around the handle.

  “What if it’s one of us that’s done it?” he asks.

  “Not a chance. We both know that for sure, my friend. Now drink, Freddy,” she says again and helps him to raise the steaming brew to his lips.

  “Can’t, Ettie. Sorry. It’ll make me sick.”

  “Sure, love.” She passes Kate the mug. “I’ll take you home to tuck you in. You need to rest, and tonight I’ll come back with some of my famous chicken soup that works better than penicillin. We’ll all take care of you. You’re a good man, Freddy.”

  “Wish you’d all stop saying that,” he mumbles. “Once and for all, I wish you’d all stop saying that.”

  “Okay, my friend. Sorry.”

  “Gives me the shivers. Like I’m tempting fate.”

  “Sure, Freddy.”

  On the barge, Sam makes his way across a mirror-flat sea, hoping he’ll find Freddy was suffering from an hallucination brought on by overtiredness at the end of a long nightshift. Maybe he saw a branch snapped halfway and hanging like a dead thing. Or a shirt blown into the branches by the wind. It’s easy to read things wrong if you’re knackered.

  When the single mangrove at the mouth of Kingfish Bay is close on portside, he sees a swarm of flies. A dirty black cloud of them. And another flying in. The frenzied whine is the kind that sends people mad. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, pretending the dampness is sweat. He slips into neutral and walks to the bow to drop the anchor. Then searches the deck for the shovel. Finds it buried in the dog’s old blankets, like a kid’s favourite toy. He yanks off his boots and socks and slides over the gunnel to wade ashore.

  He’d expected retr
ibution. He’d looked forward to it, if he was honest. But his big mistake – his freakin’ gargantuan mistake – was to give the creepy little shit more credit than he deserved. He should have known the slimeball wouldn’t have the decency or courage to go after someone his own size. But what kind of spineless low-life picks on a harmless mutt without a mean bone in his body?

  He keeps his eyes focused on the clean, clear shallows all the way to the outer spread of the branches. The excited hum of feeding flies grows louder. He bends over and dry-retches. When he feels he can, he raises his eyes.

  Before him, the dog is impaled with a plain old garden stake. Blunt-tipped and clumsy. It must have been an excruciating death. He charges forward with a roar, grabs the stake and hurls it aside to catch the stiff little body before it falls to the ground. He gently wraps Boag in his blankets and sits on the beach cradling the bundle in his lap. My fault, he thinks. My fault.

  Eventually he buries the mutt on the point of a woody finger of land that juts out to sea like the bow of a boat. He places the spade alongside. A grave marker. Then he phones Jimmy and tells him he’s confined to barracks for a few hours. He disconnects before the kid has time for a single question.

  Jimmy manages to hold firm for two lonely hours, then cracks under the pressure. He roars up to the café in his tinny and flies inside. His face bleak with worry, hippity-hopping from one foot to the other at full speed, looking for his captain and the faithful mutt.

  “Where is he, Ettie? He said he’d be home by now. Boag needs his dinner, doesn’t he? Where’s Boag? Why’d he confine me to barracks? What’s barracks, Ettie? I’m followin’ orders, just like I said I would. Now he’s gone. What’d I do?”

  It’s as if the safety rug provided by Sam’s stability has been pulled from under him, and Jimmy is falling back into old ways.

  “He’ll be back soon, love. It wasn’t anything you did. Truly. You eaten?”

  The kid’s face clears. “He’s gettin’ Tilly the turtle, isn’t he? It’s a surprise, isn’t it? Tilly and me and Boag and Sam. All together.”

  “How about some cake? A lovely rich cake with plenty of fruit in it. Would you like that?”

  “Does it have custard, Ettie?”

  “Not today, love. Next time.” She cuts a thick slice and gives it to him on a plate.

  “Where’s Sam, Ettie? Where’d he go?”

  “We’ll all wait here together for him, love. He’ll be back soon. Don’t you like the cake?”

  “I’m savin’ some for Sam. And Boag.”

  “No need for that, love, there’s plenty for everyone.”

  Sam enters the café with an overbright face and red-rimmed eyes. He spots Jimmy immediately. “What are you doing here, mate? You were confined to barracks.” But his voice is kind. It is a question, not an accusation.

  “He’s been looking for you. Worried sick,” Ettie says. “And you might want to tell him what a barracks is next time … You okay, Sam? You managing?” she adds softly, coming up to him. She lays her hands on his chest, slides them down and circles his waist with her arms. She feels a shudder, like a sudden chill. The tension drains out of his body and he touches her head lightly.

  “Been trying to find ways to plug the holes, Ettie. Took me a while.”

  “What holes, Sam?” Jimmy asks.

  “Nothing big, mate. And it’s good you’re here. I need a hand.”

  “We’re a team, Sam, aren’t we?” Jimmy says, feeling the equilibrium coming back into his life.

  “Always, Jimmy.”

  Sam and Jimmy carry Tilly the turtle from the car park to the edge of the seawall, holding her between them like two ends of a sack. They load her into Sam’s tinny and lay her on a bed of scrappy old towels to cushion the ride to the Island. Tilly, with a slow blink and a nod, withdraws into her shell.

  “Is she home, Sam? Or gone out?” Jimmy asks, searching both ends.

  “Home, mate. Guaranteed. And that’s where we’re going. Tomorrow we’re gonna take the Mary Kay all the way to Cat Island and we’re gonna lower Tilly over the side so she can go off to find a quiet spot on a deserted beach to lay her eggs.”

  Jimmy holds a paddle and pushes them out into the deep. Sam drops the outboard down and pulls the starter cord, twists the throttle into gear. They set off slowly homewards across still water and under a fleecy white sky, rocked every now and then by the wake of a passing tinny.

  “Where’s Boag, Sam?” Jimmy’s eyes dart around the boat as if the dog is hiding like the turtle.

  “His owner came for him, mate.”

  “That’s you, isn’t it, Sam?”

  “No, Jimmy. I was just looking after him for a while.”

  “That’s sad, Sam. You loved Boag. Boag was a good dog.”

  “Yeah, mate. The best.”

  “You cryin’, Sam?”

  “Don’t be bloody stupid.”

  After locking up the café, Ettie and Kate visit Fast Freddy with a basket of life-affirming treats. They find him in bed, unshaved, wearing yellow-striped pyjamas, looking a pale wreck in the glow from a bedside lamp. A moth pounds against the light bulb. Freddy flinches with every collision. Ettie is reminded of a song about a moth that couldn’t resist the flame but died happy thinking it had reached the moon.

  “What makes a moth crave the light when it must know it will kill it?” Freddy says, solemnly. “What is the point of life if the pursuit of it ends in death?”

  “What do you think, Freddy?” Ettie asks without a hint of sympathy in her tone, trying to force him to reengage in the everyday. He looks startled by the question.

  “Well …” he begins, drawn in despite himself. “There are many schools of thought. Some think procreation. Others seek enlightenment …”

  “You, Freddy. What do you think?”

  “Being useful is a good place to start,” he ventures after a moment or two.

  She reaches out and turns off the light. The battered moth rests on the shade, deprived of death. “Every day is a gift. You told me that, Freddy. A long time ago when I was so broken-hearted after that tennis player dumped me and I thought I might never get out of bed again.”

  A small smile reaches the corners of Freddy’s mouth and struggles all the way to his round blue eyes. “Saved ya, did I?” he whispers.

  “Yes, Freddy. Now it’s my turn to save you. With chicken soup, lasagna, salad and a slice of buttery lemon cake. You’re going to have to get out of bed by tomorrow, too. I’m moving from the Island to my beautiful new penthouse on the top floor of The Briny Café. I need your help, my friend. Once again, I need your help. Are you up to it? Can you see to the packing and give Glenn a hand?”

  “I’m up to it, Ettie. No worries.”

  “Bless you, Freddy.”

  “Thank goodness you didn’t call me a good man,” he says, coming out of his shell a little more.

  “But you are, Freddy. Or we wouldn’t say it,” Kate says.

  “How’s Kate doing with the coffee making?” he asks, as if she isn’t in the room.

  “She’s ace, Freddy. A natural.”

  “Knew she had it in her.”

  “Me too.”

  Kate steps over and plants a kiss on his hoary cheek. He blushes furiously, bright enough to stir the moth from its somnolence. It swoops and dives and follows the two women out the door, determined to die somewhere under the full glare of a spotlight it believes to be the moon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After leaving Freddy, Ettie and Kate stand on the dirt track that circles the Island separating foreshore properties from the higher blocks of land. Kate says she plans to visit Sam on her way home. Ettie offers to come, but Kate shakes her head. “You’re only thirty steps from your front door. Go home, have an early night.”

  “Give Sam my love. Tell him I’ll be there in a flash if he needs me,” she says.

  “You and Sam. You ever have a fling? Or, you know, something?” Kate asks, in a voice that’s disinterested enoug
h to put Ettie on full alert.

  She looks for somewhere to sit. Tramps over to the nearest set of steps, bunches her skirt around her thighs and sinks down with a sigh. The burn in her feet starts to cool. “Maybe he had a crush, years ago, when he was barely old enough to drive a car and I was almost, but not quite, old enough to be his mother. He was a lost, sad young man, Kate. Like everyone else I helped to look after him. There was never anything more.”

  “Where were his parents?”

  “Car accident. It was early summer. A gorgeous day. Two policemen came looking for him. That’s how we found out they’d been killed. After that, we gathered in the Square. People from the bays, the Island. Full-timers, weekenders. None of us knowing who should be the one to tell him. There were so many people. And the Square never so quiet. We couldn’t find him. Not for ages. Turned out, he was off fishing. He’d decided at the last minute to skip the trip into town because the kingfish were running hot.”

  “Who told him?”

  “Well, I did. My mother died, you see, when I was even younger than he was. We all thought that might help Sam to understand. Tragedy just lands on you sometimes, for no reason at all. In the end, I hardly said a word. He looked at our faces and he knew. He got back in his rowboat and just kept rowing and rowing and rowing. The Misses Skettle and I, we followed at a distance. They had a small cabin cruiser in those days, a river boat, but they took it out to sea without flinching. Never lost sight of him. Even out beyond the heads where the swells swallowed and spat him up over and over. There was a full moon that night, otherwise he’d have been dead alongside his parents. He was never alone after that. Not until we knew he was through the worst.”

  Kate walks a little away, facing the sea, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched. Lights dot the hillsides, the only clue to the separation of land and sea.

  “God, no wonder he’s so stuck in the past. Must have been awful.”

  “They’d saved and saved for a new car. Bought a lovely little red bubble. They were so proud of it. It was brand-new, you see, not secondhand. They were nearly home when a truck roared around a bend, crossed into their lane and wiped them out. And not a thing any of us could do to set things back the way they were.”