by Susan Duncan
“Thought you might be a hopeful punter begging for an after-hours burger,” she says, waving him inside and locking up after him.
“Get many of those?”
“Never ceases to amaze me.”
The storm rockets through Cook’s Basin not long after midnight. The drumming sound of rain on tin roofs is like music to the Islanders’ ears. They turn over in their beds with sighs of relief, and fall straight back to sleep. But the rain, in what seems to be a recurring pattern, is blown out to sea before it does much more than dampen the ground. The wind keeps up until the first light of dawn, when flocks of birds come down from the trees to flutter about in a few shallow puddles. By noon, the ground is dry and hard once more.
Sam Scully wanders around his property checking for damage. The towering eucalypts look wind-whipped but they’re holding on. They’re like old Artie, he thinks, who fights like hell to stay alive but one day he’ll stub his toe and keel over. Worn out fending off too many assaults for too long.
Back inside, he checks on Jimmy who’s splayed on his bed like a starfish, sleeping soundly. He decides to leave him be. The kid runs at a thousand miles an hour most days and needs his rest. He’ll pick him up on his way back from delivering a load of sandstone to Marcus.
Sam stops off at The Briny Café on his way to Cargo Wharf. As soon as the doors open, he’ll grab a coffee. Ettie’s foamy extravaganzas have become one of life’s essentials.
The Square is a mess. Rubbish, dumped by a wind that racked up to thirty-five knots, is jammed into nooks and crannies, almost waist-high. The casuarinas look flayed and ready to collapse. Sam grabs the broom off the barge and begins sweeping up.
Twenty minutes later, the Square is tidied and the café is open. He goes inside looking for a garbage bag and a dustpan.
“Ask Kate,” Ettie says, removing the first trays of raspberry muffins from the oven. “She knows where they are. I’ll get your coffee on the go.”
“You’re the answer to every man’s —”
“Dreams,” finishes Kate. “Time for a new line, Sam. Ettie’s dumped you for an older, handsomer and infinitely greater cook.”
“You’re laying it on a bit thick for this hour of the morning, aren’t you?”
“Nah. You can take it. No brain, no pain.” Kate swishes past him with the bag. “You’ve done a treat. Thanks. I’ll finish up.”
He chases her outside. “You got a minute, Kate?”
She turns to him, puzzled.
“You’re a journo. Well, you were before you saw the light. How do you reckon I’d go about finding out about the Weasel?”
“What’s it matter? The bloke’s gone, isn’t he?” She opens a bag and passes it for Sam to hold while she scoops up the rubbish.
“Yeah, well, that’s the point. He’s gone. But not quite.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Mr Merrizzi has formally taken up residence on a wrecked yacht in Oyster Bay. Bloody peculiar if you ask me. You’d reckon he’d race back to town and his fancy ways, wouldn’t you? He doesn’t look like a bloke who’s used to slumming.”
Kate straightens up. “So let me get this straight. Instead of calling it quits and leaving, the Weasel chooses to live in squalor …”
“Because he’s planning to keep dealing from the boat, don’t you think?” Sam shakes the bag and Kate goes back to scooping.
“Yeah. Probably. But there’s got to be more to it. He’s a man who likes luxury. Nice linen. Soft shoes. And hot water, definitely hot water. You want to know what I think?”
“Why do you think I’m asking for your opinion, for Chrissake?”
“He’s got nowhere else to go.”
“Nah. He’s rolling in it.”
She shrugs. “It’s the best I can do. Here, your turn to scoop. I’ll hold.”
Sam ignores her. He ties up the garbage bag and slings it over his shoulder.
“Hey, we’re not finished. It’s your turn.”
He kisses her cheek and takes off. He’s got five minutes flat before he’s due at Cargo, and if he’s late, he’ll lose the upper hand.
Big Julie appears as a gang of commuters exits the café, each clutching a coffee and a muffin to sustain them on the slog through heavy traffic to the city.
“Sorry about the short notice, love, but can we hold the wedding this Sunday?” she asks Ettie, trying to say it lightly but her face is serious.
“How’s Bertie?” Ettie lays an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Is he up to it?”
“Are you up to it? It’s a hell of an ask. He wants the full catastrophe. Money no object for once in his life, the silly bugger.”
“He’s a romantic under that cranky veneer. Always known it.” Ettie smiles. “Soft as a marshmallow.” She puts a cup of coffee in front of Big Julie who is eyeing the cakes. “Want a rundown on the flavours?”
“No. I was remembering the Florentines. How the counter was always chockers with them. Bertie was a big fan. Not that he ate them. He reckoned the profit margin was a boomer and they kept for months.”
“Jury’s still out on that one,” Ettie says, only half-joking. “Anyway … we’ve got orange, lemon, almond and coconut cakes and a strawberry sponge. Last but not least, a pear and almond flan. A sliver of one or all of them?”
Big Julie points at the flan. “Only a sliver. I’m really not hungry.”
Ettie cuts a thin slice and ladles on the cream. “Honest opinion, okay?”
Julie takes a bite and nods. “Really delicious.” She swallows another mouthful with difficulty and nudges the plate away from her, looking up apologetically. “Sorry, it’s superb but if I eat any more I’m going to choke.” She takes her plate to the sink.
“What do the doctors say?” Ettie asks.
“Not much. There’s nothing to say. And neither of us believes in miracles, not any more.” She looks ready to cry, her characteristic brassiness dulled by grief. “No point in wasting time denying the facts. Not when there’s not much left.”
“How’s Bertie managing?”
“He’s so brave, Ettie,” she says. “I sit beside him and there’s not a damn thing I can do except ask if he’d like another hit of morphine, which I know he hates because it gives him nightmares. Meanwhile, the bloody experts talk about pain relief, comfort and palliative care like it’s a list of extras at a top hotel. No one ever mentions the horrors. The whittling away of a life and spirit until there’s nothing left. Not even dignity.”
She turns her face aside. “You want to know what’s truly terrible? Sometimes I want him to die. I want it to be over. For him. For me. There’s nothing noble about death. And if one more person tells me that life goes on, I’m going to club them. Only death goes on. Then all that’s left is a bloody great hole that can never be filled.” Her voice catches on a sob.
“You’re tired, love. Worn out.”
“No, you don’t understand. Every morning I wake up and want to run away.”
“But every morning you get up and do everything that has to be done just the same. In my view, Julie, that makes you a hero.”
“I want the past back, Ettie, because I’ll know how to make the most of life this time.”
“There’s no going back. There never is.”
Big Julie sighs, pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose noisily.
“Come upstairs. Let’s go over the wedding plans. You found a dress? I’ve got mine from a hundred years ago if you’d like to borrow it? Bit retro but I hear that’s all the go.”
“He’ll think it’s new, Ettie. He’s been stuck in the seventies for most of his life.”
Kate gets a ladder and writes the wedding details on their menu board to alert the locals. Ettie makes herself a double-shot espresso and takes it over to the table under the stairs where she slumps in a chair with a sigh.
“You okay, Ettie?”
“I swore I’d never do weddings. The bride always has a meltdown. The groom gets smashe
d. The parents on both sides argue. And the caterer gets the blame for the seating arrangements.”
“But this is Bertie and Julie. Family.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just that it’s all so sad. Poor Julie. Poor Bertie. He doesn’t look strong enough to get dressed let alone get married. God, sorry, love, I’m tired that’s all. We really should do the wedding for free, you know. We owe him.” Ettie doodles on a brown paper bag.
“No!” Kate is firm.
“He gave us a deal on the café, Kate. This is payback time.”
“Definitely not. Let me handle this. If he wants to keep costs down, we’ll make sure the food is inexpensive. I’ll ask Julie how much he wants to spend and calculate backwards.”
Ettie scrunches the paper into a ball, shoves her pencil into an old mug. “He’s dying, Kate. It’s our only opportunity to thank him in a way he understands.”
“You have to trust me on this, Ettie. From what I’ve heard and know about Bertie, charging him the full rate will vindicate his faith in us and in the future of the café. He’d be appalled by a freebie. Asking for a discount was a test. If we’d said yes, I’m quite sure he would have reamed us out.”
Ettie still looks doubtful.
“I’m not being hard, Ettie. I’m trying to let Bertie know that he’s left the café in good hands. The Briny is his memorial. He wants to be sure it’s going to live on long after him.”
The locals greet the news of Bertie and Big Julie’s wedding date with a mixture of joy and sadness. Everyone agrees that on the big day they will dig out their best clothes, their most festive hats and even a decent pair of shoes. They will raid the Island, the bays and any municipal garden for enough flowers to cast on the water in a thick carpet, wishing them health and happiness. But mostly health because if they get the chance they can manage the happiness themselves. They will smile like angels and toast the bride and groom until they go hoarse.
They will never, ever ask Bertie how he’s feeling. And if either of the two notorious Island pessimists utters a single word that’s even slightly questionable, they will be thrown like javelins over the rail of the deck of the new, very acceptable version of The Briny Café. It’s going to be the cracker of all cracker weddings. A blaster to keep Bertie and Julie alight through the dark days ahead. And no one, absolutely no one, has permission to shed a single tear, let alone break out in a full-bore sob – or they too will find themselves kissing sharks in their best duds!
Late in the afternoon, when Ettie feels like her feet are on fire and her legs are filled with concrete, the chef wanders into the café with a basket over his arm. Kate takes one look at his lovesick face and disappears into the Square, where the sky is black with the promise of real rain, the kind that falls steadily and heavily.
Ettie goes over to Marcus and kisses him passionately.
“I have prepared a salmon tartare with capers, mint, lemon juice, olive oil and vodka. Cooked a goat’s cheese, caramelised onion and sage tart with a flaky pastry. For dessert, a white chocolate mousse with Frangelico. I also tracked down six perfect, honey-sweet figs. Did you know it is lucky to make a wish on the first bite of new season fruit?”
“Oh Marcus, it sounds wonderful …”
“I had hoped a picnic on a small beach somewhere, with a blanket, some good wine and a full moon. But the weather is not obliging.”
“Bertie and Julie are getting married in the café this weekend. I need to plan the menu tonight. I must work, please understand.”
“Ah yes, but you must also eat to keep up your strength. Perhaps, instead of the beach, we could share our picnic upstairs on your deck, while you tell me your ideas for the wedding feast? We can watch the storm together?”
“What a wonderful idea,” says Ettie, seeing the sense of it. “I’d like to take a shower after we close. So if you returned around seven-thirty …”
“May I wash your back? You have a glorious back.”
“Lovely,” she sighs, feeling her stress drain away.
He drops the basket, takes her in his arms and swings her around the café in a tiny waltz.
She kisses him once more and tells him to take the basket upstairs, she will join him shortly. And if he has any tips on easy fingerfood, she’d love to hear them.
Snug in the penthouse, the Cook and the Chef read to each other from recipe books that lie piled at their feet on the jewel-coloured Turkish rug. On the wall, Ettie’s painting of seagulls looks down on them. They graze on picnic food in small, delicious bites, weighing the merits of one dish or another for Bertie’s last hurrah.
“All day, you spoil your customers. Now it is my turn to spoil you,” Marcus says, fetching the mousse from the fridge. He places it in front of her with reverence. Hands her a small teaspoon so that she will savour the smooth richness in tiny mouthfuls.
“Where have you been all my life?” she says.
“It is the timing that brings about opportunity. But we must always be ready for it,” he replies, seriously. “Would you like a cup of coffee or green tea – with fresh mint?”
“You decide,” she sighs, retiring to the sofa and dragging a knitted patchwork blanket over her feet before lying back amongst the cushions. She holds up a list and reads out loud:
Fresh oysters.
Fresh prawns.
Pork and fennel sausage rolls (for Sam).
Lamb cutlets (especially for Bertie).
Salt and pepper squid (by popular demand).
Antipasto platters and a selection of wonderful
Australian cheeses.
“What do you think?”
“Perfect. And the cake?”
“Oh God, I forgot about a cake.”
“If you agree, I will make it. Three tiers. Fruit, of course, Bertie is a traditional man, I believe. I will make the marzipan and cover over it with white icing. But I can do no more. Decoration is not my forte.”
“As it happens, decorating is my strong point. If you would like to make extra marzipan, I could create a replica of the café with figures of Bertie and Julie.”
“So. We complement each other then,” Marcus beams, handing Ettie her tea. “May I spend the night?”
Ettie indicates her extremely narrow bed with a rueful look.
The chef is thoughtful.
“Perhaps,” Ettie suggests, blushing, “if I lie on top of you?”
His face clears instantly. “I adore a practical woman.”
A little before eleven o’clock, Ettie and Marcus hear a low growl, like a plane high above and a long way off. There’s a massive crack. Ettie jumps in fright: “Whoa!” The bay strobes ghostly grey for a split second. The wind hits like a slap, riffling the pages of her cookbooks. The chef drags shut the door to the deck and turns the key.
Outside, sheet lightning pulses like a rock concert and rain hits the tin roof with the sound of an army on the march.
“God, what if it pours on Sunday? It’ll be a catastrophe.” Her voice barely carries above the din.
“We adapt,” he says, unflustered.
“Well, if there is a higher authority, I reckon Bertie might be close enough to exert a bit of influence.”
In the small hours of the morning, Ettie and Marcus are spooned together in a way that suggests they have slept like this for years. When the phone rings, neither of them stirs. The noise of the wind, the sea and boats creaking on their moorings screens the sound. But the ring goes on and on until it finally wakes Ettie. She is instantly fearful. No good call comes in the dead of night.
She reaches for the phone. “Hello?” she whispers.
“Ettie, thank God you’re there. It’s Julie. Can you get over here? Fast.”
“Is it Bertie?” Ettie asks, thinking the worst.
“No. No. He’s fine. But I need help.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll run.”
“Not a word about this.”
“Right.”
Marcus rouses a little as she’s pulling on
some clothes. “Go back to sleep,” she whispers. “Everything’s fine.” She races down the stairs, grabs her wet-weather gear from a hook under the stairs.
The Spit glistens in the dark. Out to sea, the moon breaks through cauliflower clouds for a second and frosts the water. She runs along the flooded road until the moonlight disappears and the night is black again. Stormwater streams down the hill and large lakes pool where drains have blocked. The streetlights, knocked out by vandals, are useless. She stumbles in a deep pothole and curses, the pain shooting along her spine. The rain starts up again, pounding down in a thick wall of water.
Bertie’s shabby weatherboard cottage is one street back from the waterfront and two hundred metres south of the café. A winding brick pathway sprouting weeds a foot tall leads to the front door. On either side, roses are copping a hammering.
Ettie pushes open the gate and runs for the shelter of the verandah. She sluices water off her jacket. Knocks lightly. Within seconds a porch light comes on and Julie yanks her inside, quickly switching off the light.
“What the hell is going on?” Whispering although she’s not sure why.
Julie is dressed in gumboots and a short floral nightie, which just manages to contain her voluptuous figure. She puts her finger to her lips and waves at Ettie to follow. They tiptoe down a cluttered hallway and through a kitchen straight out of the 1950s.
Without a word, Julie leans her shoulder hard against a broken back door and pushes. The bottom scrapes over a few loose bricks and finally opens wide. They dash to a corner of the house where Julie lifts a hatch to reveal rough brick steps leading into a basement.
“I’ll go first. Take off your shoes and roll up your trousers, it’s like a swimming pool down there.”
“You need a plumber, Julie. Not me,” Ettie whispers back.
“That’s the last thing I need.”
The basement is dark and smelly. Viscous muddy water comes up to their knees. Ettie has to grab hold of Julie to keep her balance. Something bumps her leg and she kicks sideways, hoping it isn’t a dead rat. Julie switches on her torch and flashes it across the basement.
