The Briny Café

by Susan Duncan

  “Holy kazoo!” Ettie gasps.

  Thousands of banknotes, in every denomination, float on top of the water. Pink, red, blue, green, even grey. A paper flotilla swirls, bobs, drifts but never sinks.

  Ettie scoops up a few notes, shining the torch on them. “This real? Or did Bertie have a printing press somewhere?”

  “It’s real, alright,” Julie says. “Bertie’s private bank. Thank God Australian notes are waterproof.”

  “Holy kazoo!” Ettie says again. Lost for words.

  “When I realised the basement was flooding, I went to call Emergency Services and Bertie was so distraught he nearly choked. He kept pointing at the back door. I thought he might be spinning out on his drugs but he dragged himself outside and showed me the trapdoor. He didn’t calm down till I said I’d take a look. The silly old bugger stashed all his money in drainage pipes stuffed with dirt at each end.”

  Ettie – cold, in shock and knee-deep in water – begins to laugh. Silently at first, then in muffled shrieks. “Gives a whole new meaning to the term money laundering. Sorry. Not funny. God, what kind of a bloke lives like a miser and keeps his money under the bed? Or, more precisely, in a drainpipe?”

  “An anarchist,” Julie says, seriously. “A bloke who’d rather live off the radar than on it.”

  “Well, we’d better collect it and hang it up to dry,” Ettie says, because she is, as Marcus pointed out, a practical woman.

  The hilarity of the women carries through the floorboards to where Bertie lies in bed, his heart banging against his ribcage in a race to the finish. Slowly, his pulse returns to normal. He closes his eyes and sleeps.

  It takes two hours to clear the basement. Ettie estimates there is more than half a million dollars hidden there. Bertie, no doubt, has money stashed all over the house and buried in the backyard as well. A tidy little retirement fund.

  “Get him to draw a treasure map,” she says, “or whatever he’s hidden will be dug up and enjoyed by the next generation when it knocks down the house to renovate.”

  Finally, at the first hint of dawn, Ettie walks home. The rain has cleared and it’s eerily quiet after the racket of the storm. She wades through even the deepest puddles, so wet already it makes no difference. She turns into the Square and sees the café is blazing with light. Marcus paces like a lion. He breaks into a run the moment he sees her.

  “I was so worried.” He wraps his arms around her. “An accident, I thought. Perhaps in the water.”

  “I’m fine,” she says, smiling.

  “Please, next time, wake me.”

  “Too many years of fending for myself.”

  “Tell me what is happening. If I know, I can prepare.”

  “Julie called to say the storm had upset Bertie. She needed help. He’s fine now, completely settled down.” Well it was the truth, just not quite all of it.

  Cook’s Basin News (CBN)

  Newsletter for Offshore Residents of Cook’s Basin, Australia

  * * *

  DECEMBER

  * * *

  GRAND REOPENING OF THE BRINY CAFÉ

  What a party it was! Ettie and Kate would like to thank Phil and Rex for their wonderful music, Jimmy for his banner, and everyone who turned up throughout the day to make it such a special event. Especially the Three Js and Chef Allender, who made a one-time-only guest appearance and announced Ettie’s lamb burgers would rival the Rainbow Room’s. No kidding!

  They would also like to announce a new takeaway menu (ask for a brochure) and to say that opening hours will be from 6.30 a.m. until 6.30 p.m.

  Comedy Acts Wanted

  Do YOU always see the funny side of life? Are YOU a natural comedian? If you are and would like to spread your humour to a wider audience, why don’t you create a 5-to 10-minute performance to present to our panel of judges (sorry, we’ve got to have judges to ensure the content is not too outrageous!). It’s for our show, which is tentatively listed for February 10 at the Cutter Island Community Hall. Have a go. Make us laugh!

  Enquiries: Lazlo Timberland.

  SHARK ALERT

  An alarming number of large sharks (possibly bull sharks) have been sighted cruising around the shores of Cutter Island. One three-metre monster was sighted off a jetty in Oyster Bay and several have been seen feeding off Triangle Wharf. If anyone has any more up-to-date information, please contact the Editor.

  COMMUNITY VEHICLE

  The Community Vehicle will be moved off the Island for repairs and maintenance for one week. We apologise for the inconvenience.

  Wharf Repairs

  Apologies for the short notice but we have just been informed that repairs will be carried out to the ferry wharf on the south side of the Island today. There will be no services until after lunch. Anyone wishing to use public transport will have to hoof it to one of the other wharves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It rains all the next day. The water in the bays is cloudy brown with run-off from the land. Spume, like dishwater, is lacy along the shore. Commuters rush past in gumboots, their laptops and briefcases wrapped in garbage bags to keep them dry. Everyone scratches leech bites on feet, legs, ankles. Slimy, fat and full, they drop off on the jetty or inside the café, oozing blood in slippery red puddles. But the trees lift their heads and their withered leaves begin to fluff. The big fish – kingfish, flathead, bonito – return and jump high out of the water, the sheen on their silver bodies like mirrors. King parrots appear, deep red and green, along with shy black cockatoos and whole families of tawny frogmouths that line up on branches looking inscrutable. Skinks come out to rustle amongst the wet leaves. Frogs sing torturously loud night-time arias. The humidity is thick enough to slice with a knife. Summer at last!

  There are reports of long dark shadows that could be sharks cruising the bays. Mothers forbid their children to swim at dawn or sunset when they traditionally feed. Fast Freddy promises to keep an eye out, even though – as he patiently explains – the chances of spotting much at night are pretty slim. Still, anyone tempted by a risky midnight skinny-dip might want to think twice before stripping off and plunging blindly into the deep.

  The two Misses Skettle tell anyone who cares to listen that it wasn’t so long ago that the bays were so thick with sharks you could walk across their backs from one side to the other, without getting your feet wet. The kids go goggle-eyed. A few sceptics grimace. The old girls shake their heads, as they often do, at how quickly history is forgotten. They ramp up to full alert, and work out a system of shifts for the next few days so one of them will always have her eyes glued to the binoculars. Searching not for sailors in distress, this time, but for the sight of a deadly fin cutting through the water like a silver sail.

  In the café, where it’s been a slow morning and looks like being a slower afternoon, Kate sits at the office table drawing up plans for the wedding. It will be a tight squeeze on the deck. They need a table for the beer keg, another for the wine and glasses, another for food. Leaving no space for the bride and groom to take their wedding vows.

  “Maybe the top deck?” Kate suggests. “We can dress it up like a stage.”

  Ettie nixes the idea. “Too many steps for Bertie.”

  “Good point.” Kate chews the end of her pencil. Fundamentally the café must be at the heart of all that takes place.

  Ettie goes back to making sausage rolls to freeze for the big day as Kate calls a supplier to check on the price of prawns and oysters. Both women look up when the screen door slams.

  “Ladies,” Sam says like a toff, touching a finger to his brow in a salute.

  Jimmy beams at them. “No sharks. Not one.”

  They both make wet puddles on the floor.

  Ettie looks from Sam to Kate. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she says, raising her eyebrows. Kate nods and turns to Sam with a radiant smile.

  “Eh?” Sam asks, nervously.

  “Boys, let me fix you a couple of my already famous burgers. Kate’s got something very i
mportant to discuss with you.”

  “It’s about Bertie’s wedding,” Kate says, her tone wheedling. “You may have a bigger role than you thought.”

  “You’re not saying I’ll have to stand in as proxy or anything, are you? I know Bertie’s crook but he’ll turn up on the day, won’t he?” Sam’s a man who likes to help if he can but a bloke has his limits.

  Kate laughs. “Relax. Nothing like that.”

  Sam frowns, still suspicious. Women on a mission, he thinks. Nothing more bloody terrifying, especially when there’s a wedding involved. There’s no sense to be had until it’s all over and the last drunks cleared away. He chews a hangnail, thinking hard and fast. He decides he’ll agree to move the furniture, he’ll happily do keg duty, he’ll even wash up. But he’ll say a firm no to all other requests.

  “We’d like to include your magnificent barge in the celebration. She’s such an integral part of Cook’s Basin. As iconic as The Briny. Would it be okay to tie it at the end of the deck for a little while on the big day?” Kate smiles at him in a way that fuddles his head for a moment. He registers barge, when he’d expected furniture … keg … bar. Easy as …

  “No worries,” he says, happy to be helpful, falling for the spin.

  Ettie brings over his hamburger, arranged like a work of art. She calls Jimmy to the counter and gives him a large bowl of hot chips with plenty of tomato sauce as well. Keeping him out of the way of what she suspects might be delicate negotiations.

  Sam tucks into his burger as Kate hands him a paper napkin with a smile, and from the look on her face he knows in a flash he’s about to be hung out to dry.

  “The rest is really easy,” she says, leaning forward. She lays out the plan using a fork to make invisible lines on the tabletop. Sam swivels and twists, leans backwards and forwards, narrows and widens his eyes, trying to make sense of it. He picks up on a few keywords that make his heart sink. Flowers. Bowers. Froth and bubble. Jeez, he thinks. No good turn goes unpunished. He feels a twinge of remorse for his noble barge and in his head apologises to the old girl. He silently promises to make it up to her with a grease and oil change. And a thorough anti-foul.

  He bolts the rest of his burger, grabs hold of Jimmy and skedaddles before Kate has time to think of anything else.

  That night, when the shore is swathed in the clammy mist of high humidity and not even a zephyr stirs the deep black water or the leaves on the trees, the Weasel’s yacht mysteriously comes adrift from its mooring. He wakes at sunrise to find himself beached amongst a thicket of gnarly mangroves.

  “You’re dicing with death,” he hisses when Sam answers his call. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  Sam holds the phone in front of him and looks at the screen, puzzled. “Not sure who you’re calling, mate, but you’ve got the wrong number and, if I may say so, a dodgy sense of humour.” He clicks off. Sighs when it rings again.

  “Listen, you moron, I want my boat back on its mooring in an hour.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” Sam replies, recognising the Weasel’s voice now. He struggles into a sitting position in bed just as the line beeps and cuts out. Far as he knows, the Weasel has gone off the local radar. Everyone figures Mr Suave will give up the wreck, which is a prison when you think about it, and return to civilisation within two weeks. No further action required. Boats sound romantic but the reality is cramped bunks, the stench of mounting garbage, bunged-up dunnies and airless cabins where the mossies are slow torture from dusk till dawn. Jack the Bookie is giving odds-on at the ten-day mark.

  Scratching his chin, Sam throws back the sheet, in need of a piss. He shuffles quietly past Jimmy’s room, struggling to make sense of the call.

  “Hiya, Sam.”

  Sam jumps. “Jeez, Jimmy! You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day. No creeping around. Thought we’d settled that.”

  “Everything okay, Sam? You got an early load? Am I on deck?”

  “No mate. Back to bed. Nothing till later. Off you go.”

  But the kid sets off for the kitchen instead. Sam sighs and follows. “Right, mate. On your toes. Breakfast first. Then we’re gonna find a missing yacht. You want bacon and eggs after your Weet-Bix?”

  The Mary Kay cruises the bays on a summer morning that gets hotter and hotter. The waterways are busy with early holiday-makers, one or two wakeboarders, plenty of noisy stink boats with twin engines heading off to lunch somewhere where they’ll catch any breeze that’s going. Blokes out fishing stand holding rods lightly, alert for a twitch, tug or a full-on grab. Maybe he’ll buy the kid a fishing line for Christmas, Sam thinks, then scraps the idea. Jimmy couldn’t kill a fly.

  He watches the kid coiling ropes in tight circles and feels a pang. He imagines fathers must feel like this when they see their sons growing into decent young men. Jimmy might not be the full quid in some people’s eyes but if Sam could choose a boy of his own, he’d pick Jimmy without hesitation. All courage and heart. And not a lazy or nasty bone in his long, skinny body. Lot more going for him than some of those hard-eyed kids in tight school uniforms that hang around the mall with their foul mouths and fast-food jelly-bellies.

  “Over there, Sam. Do ya see it?” Jimmy stands and points.

  The Weasel’s yacht is skewered in the mangroves, heeling in the mud.

  “You’ve got the eyes of an eagle, Jimmy my boy. Good on ya.” Sam spins the helm 360 degrees and points the Mary Kay back the way they’ve come. Three weeks to Christmas. He needs to think of something to put under the tree for Jimmy. Maybe a surfboard. Dumb idea. There’s no surf in enclosed waters such as Cook’s Basin.

  “Jimmy,” he yells out the cabin door.

  The kid pounds along the deck. “Yeah, Sam, everything’s alright, isn’t it?”

  “Good as gold, mate. Just wondering what to get you for Christmas.”

  “A dog, Sam.”

  Ah jeez. “Fenders over on the portside, mate. Quick as a flash.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.” He gives a salute that somehow tangles in his gelled hair. He licks his fingers clean and gallops to carry out his orders.

  Sam eases the Mary Kay alongside Artie’s yacht and knocks on the hull, waking the poor sod out of a dreamless sleep.

  “Gimme five, till I pull on me strides,” Artie wheezes.

  “Take your time, mate. There’s no hurry.”

  Artie coughs, triggering a fit of ragged spasms. Sam holds Jimmy back from flying to his aid.

  “Leave a man his dignity, mate. He’ll call if he’s desperate.”

  Ten minutes later, Sam sits opposite Artie in the close air of the cabin while a kettle whistles on the stove. “I’m outta milk if you’re passin’ by soon,” Artie says, nudging a mug of pitch-black brew towards him with a set of arthritic knuckles.

  “No worries. You on your regular watch last night?” Sam asks, trying to sound casual.

  Artie nods his sparrow head up and down. Fluffs of grey hair rise like horns from behind his ears.

  “Many visitors?”

  Artie makes a throat-cutting motion with his index finger.

  “None?”

  Artie nods again and slurps his tea with noisy pleasure. “If no one heard me siren go off then that’s ’cause there was no one around.”

  “Well, somehow the Weasel’s boat slipped its mooring and ran aground in the mangroves north of Kingfish Bay. Any ideas?”

  “Busted rope. Been waitin’ for it to happen. Wore out years ago. Miracle it’s lasted this long.”

  “Ah,” Sam says, agreeing. He swills his tea and stands, bending his head under the low roof of the saloon. “Ask Artie what needs doing, Jimmy. Be back for you in a few hours.” He whacks his mug in the sink along with a dozen others.

  “Don’t forget me, Sam?” Jimmy says.

  “Not in this lifetime, mate.”

  Out on the water, boats whizz past and people turn to look at the stranded yacht, not sure if some mug has run aground after too many gin and tonics or if it
is a botched insurance scuttle. No one stops to help. The boat is cast until the tide floods back. There’s nothing to do but wait.

  On the other side of the bay, Sam fixes the mooring rope and returns on the barge to hang off the mangroves, waiting for the stranded yacht to right.

  The day gets hotter and hotter. It must be hell below, Sam thinks, hearing Ciao Bella creak and groan with every shift in the level of the water. As soon as she’s floating, he nudges the barge up close enough to attach a towline. He sets off back to the mooring, slowing when he’s close enough to let Ciao Bella drift alongside. He reaches for a boat hook and drags up a buoy attached to a new, bright white rope. He tosses it to the Weasel who’s only just appeared on deck, looking so strung out Sam almost feels sorry for him.

  “Fixed it for you,” he says. “Big storms predicted next week. If you’re planning to hang around, you might want to get your mooring serviced. Not that I’m worried about you, mate, but I wouldn’t want to see Artie’s boat rammed and sunk when the poor bloke’s legs are buggered.”

  Sam waits for a response. None comes. Sam lifts his hat, scratches his head. “You seem to be having trouble catching up.”

  “You wanna do the mooring?” The Weasel’s words slide out in a slur. He is in dire need of a shower, shave, a haircut and a set of clean clothes. “Cash upfront.”

  “Cash.”

  “When?”

  “How about Monday?”

  The Weasel nods and disappears back into the dark hole of his current existence.

  If it weren’t for Artie, would he have left the Weasel to drown? Sam hopes not. But he isn’t sure.

  Two days before the wedding is due to take place, Big Julie pokes her face through the café door. She is on the verge of tears. “The wedding’s off. Sorry to mess you around but Bertie’s cancelled.” She points at the blackboard. “You better rub that out soon as you can.”