The Briny Café

by Susan Duncan

  Freddy gives him a hard look to see if he’s sending a fella up for his beliefs. Then he thinks back … Old Bertie did have a sort of turtle look about him. He is consoled by the thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On Monday morning, Sam opens his eyes and finds they won’t stretch wider than a couple of slits. Due, he is sure, to the bastard drilling from one side of his skull to the other.

  “Ya look half dead, Sam,” Jimmy says, standing anxiously at the end of the bed. He is dressed in his favourite outfit – blinding red trousers with mint-green stripes and a mint-green shirt with strobing red lines.

  Sam feels the room tilt and a queasy tide of bile rise from his stomach. “That for me?” he croaks, reaching for the tea.

  Jimmy passes him a star-spangled mug. Sam shuts his eyes against the glare.

  “Ya look awful, Sam.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, mate. No need to go on. I get the picture.” He sips the tea. Scalding hot, smoky and sweet with sugar. “Do us a favour, Jimmy, will ya? Those khakis I bought you. Reckon you could wear those today?”

  “Ya sick, Sam? Want me to call Ettie?”

  “No, mate. It’s all good. Give me half an hour and we’ll head to The Briny for a slap-up brekky.”

  “On Monday, Sam? Are we gonna have a Sunday brekky on Monday?”

  “Does you good not to get set in your ways, mate. First sign of old age.”

  The kid bounces out of the room. His bony ankles poke below his trousers and his feet slap the floorboards. He sticks his head back inside. Serious. “Bertie won’t be back, will he, Sam? He’s gone for good.”

  “Yeah, mate, for good. Life is terminal. Helps to remember that when you’re feeling a bit bogged down. Now go and change your gladrags, Jimmy. I’ll stick my head under a cold shower and we’ll be on our way.”

  By the time Sam is ready to leave, rain is falling with a steady intensity that puts the kibosh on work for the day. He wonders whether Bertie is doing him a favour in the afterlife. He hasn’t felt this banged up since he hit the turps with a vengeance at his twenty-first birthday party. It’s another sign, he mutters out loud. He’s starting the uphill climb. Or is it the downhill slide? He plugs a shaving nick with a torn tissue and yells for Jimmy.

  “How much money you got saved?”

  “Not enough for a car yet, Sam.”

  “Guess I’m paying for brekky then. It’d be nice to think I can look forward to you taking care of me in my old age, mate. What do you reckon?”

  “You and the dog, Sam. No worries.”

  Ah jeez, Sam thinks, the sugar wearing off and his headache squeezing like a vice. “We’ll discuss the mutt issue later, mate. I’ll be watching to see you eat your spinach. Don’t think I won’t. No spinach. No muscles. Remember that and you’ll have no regrets.” Right now, he is full of freaking regrets. Next party with a keg, he’s giving himself a curfew.

  The rain, delivered by a low-pressure system that plods in from the west, dumps forty millimetres in less than two hours. Chippies, fairweather workers by the nature of their tasks, have a Monday sleep-in. Instead of the usual morning bedlam, Kate and Ettie have time to restore order at a manageable pace.

  Mid-morning and the café is still empty, the humidity rank. Outside, low cloud covers the hills and raindrops bounce off the water like sprites. The gloom is all-pervasive. Kate shudders for no reason and orders Ettie, who looks exhausted, to put her feet up. There is nothing to do except the cleaning.

  “You’ll get in my way,” Kate insists, pushing her upstairs. “I’ll call you if a busload of pensioners drops in looking for scones, jam and cream.” She picks up a dishcloth and attacks the creeping mould in the rubber seals of the fridges. Next she’ll obliterate all those arachnid tenants who have returned to camp in the far corners of the café.

  Half an hour later, Ettie appears. “Can’t switch off the monkey in my head. Poor Julie, nothing will ever be the same for her. And here we are cleaning, cooking. Getting on with the daily routine and everything is all so … normal …”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  A voice calls from the front counter.

  “Anyone home? Kate? Ettie?”

  “Gidday, Rita.” Ettie goes behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “Didn’t think you’d be out on a day like today. What can I do for you?”

  Rita, an Islander with hair the colour of strawberries, silver earrings the size of pomegranates, is spitting mad.

  “Bloody car won’t go,” she says. “New car with less than ten thousand kilometres on the clock. I jump in, turn the key, slip into gear. Nothing! Abso-bloody-lutely nothing!” Her eyes dart all over the café, like she’s looking for the culprit. Kate offers her a coffee, which she declines. “I’m waiting for Brian. Got him out of bed, the lazy bugger. Knew he’d sneak back the second I walked out the door.” She points to an orange and almond cupcake. “I’ll have one of those. To calm me down.”

  “Cream?”

  “God, no. I’m on a diet.”

  Ettie covers her snort with a cough and Rita rips into the cake.

  Twenty minutes later, soaked and furious, her husband pokes his head inside the café. “No wheels, Rita. Didn’t you notice some bastard has snitched your wheels?”

  Without missing a beat, Rita strides up to him. “Wheels are wheels, Brian. They’re one of the few certainties about a car. Why would I think to even look at the bloody wheels?”

  They leave, still arguing. The soaked and muddy legs of Brian’s blue-and-white-striped pyjamas hang below his wet-weather gear like dirty dishrags.

  If Sam had been feeling a bit grubby when he surfaced that morning, he is absolutely ragged by the end of the afternoon. The rain has moved on and steam is rising off the hills in thin spirals from a late burst of sunshine. He is contemplating an early night, maybe a quick game of Scrabble with Jimmy, a couple of fat sausages each for dinner, with a hefty serving of his special garlic mashed potatoes. He’ll add some peas. According to the irrefutable wisdom of his mother, a kid needs greens at least twice a day to grow strong bones. He’d never questioned her then and he doesn’t intend to start now.

  He is fishing out the sausages from the freezer while Jimmy is on spud duty, when the phone rings. He is tempted to let it go but weakens.

  “Yo!” he says, gruffly. It better not be some bloody nincompoop calling about his bilge pump not working. Live on the water, learn the basics. Or suffer the consequences. Amazing the number of people who don’t get it.

  “You coming to fix my mooring or not?”

  Christ. He’d forgotten all about it under the weight of a chronic hangover. And frankly, if the Weasel was blown out to sea and never heard of again, it would be doing the world a favour. “Had to wait for the rain to stop.”

  “So you coming?”

  Sam hesitates. He remembers Artie. How the poor bugger will keep wondering whether tonight’s the night he’ll cop a ram through the hull. One that’ll sink him before he has time to sound his siren.

  “Yeah. Cash up —” The call suddenly cuts out.

  Sam closes his phone. “Jimmy! You’re in charge of catering, mate. Whack on the spuds in an hour. Low heat. Shove on the sausos soon as you see the lovely Mary Kay making her way to bed down in home port. I’ll deal with the peas out of the freezer myself.”

  He finds Ciao Bella looking forlorn on her mooring, her nose pointing into a soft breeze from the west.

  “Oy! Merrizzi. You there?” He waits a whole minute, nursing the barge alongside. Nothing. He bangs the hull with his fist. “Merrizzi! Where you hiding?”

  There’s no sign of life. He throws out some fenders and ties up to the yacht. He swings his legs over the lifelines and drops onto a deck smeared with mould, decay and birdshit. A few tough weeds sprout like topknots along the gunnel. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks, taking less pleasure from the knowledge than he expected. He heads for the open hatch, his unease growing.

  Downstairs in the
seedy cabin, foetid with the stink of sweat, seawater and damp, Sam finds a dirty sheet, a stained pillow and two dozen warm stubbies. Catches the faintest whiff of the Weasel’s expensive aftershave. He searches further. A bag of toiletries. Looks inside: toothbrush and toothpaste, a box of aspirin, the foil sleeves punched empty. The cupboards are empty too. No food. No mugs. No plates. Not even a water glass. Sam tries the tap – a syrupy brown trickle of evil-smelling fluid. He stands there. Sweat drips down his face and spine. He sees a couple of dead flies on a counter near the stubbies and begins to think the Weasel is playing games. Curses himself for a fool.

  He calls out once more, then climbs the ladder to the fresh air on deck. The boat’s a health hazard. For the life of him, he cannot understand why the Weasel is staying here. Unless he’s hiding from someone. Or, as Kate suggested, has nowhere else to go. The light is fading fast. Standing in the cockpit, he looks up forward, searching. Something suss flickers at the edge of his mind. He can’t pin it down.

  He decides to swing past Artie on the way home to find out if the old fella knows anything, then he’ll call it quits. A man like the Weasel is owed nothing and the weather is due to stay calm for a day or two before a new round of summer storms. He closes the hatch and takes another large bite out of the fresh air, feeling his sweat dry in the cool of the evening.

  That’s when he sees her, on the far side of the barge, holding onto the gunnel to stop her tinny from banging against the hull of the Mary Kay.

  “Out of petrol again, are you?” he says, jumping off Ciao Bella and back onto his own vessel.

  “I try not to make the same mistakes twice,” she says, with a wry smile. “Saw the barge. Wondered what you were up to.”

  “The Weasel’s hellhole,” he says, pointing at the yacht. “He called about the mooring.”

  “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day you’d do him a favour.”

  “I’m not, but if there’s a blow he might come adrift and crash through Artie’s floating palace.”

  “Ah.”

  Neither of them moves. Neither says a word. The sun drops out of sight behind the hills and the bay turns silver in the light of dusk.

  “You want to come over for a beer?” Kate asks.

  He plays it cool. “Never said no to a beer in my life. Give me five. I’ll call Jimmy and tell him to start dinner without me.”

  “I could find some spaghetti, if you like.”

  “My favourite.”

  “I’m short on salad.”

  “Rabbit food.”

  “Right then. See you in a few minutes.”

  “Look forward to it.”

  He forgets about Artie. His hangover vanishes.

  In the kitchen, Kate hands Sam a beer and goes back to stirring a pot of sauce. The rich scent of garlic, tomatoes and onions rises up in a hot cloud. She swirls the pasta to stop it sticking, the way Ettie’s shown her.

  “You ever been married, Kate?” Sam asks.

  “No. You?”

  “Nope.”

  Silence. Maybe he should change the subject. “Smells delicious. Didn’t know you could cook.”

  “I can’t. I keep a supply of Ettie’s sauces in the freezer.”

  He picks up a spoon and tastes it. “You’ve added something,” he says.

  Kate looks at him, eyes wide with surprise. “As a matter of fact you’re right. I chopped up a bunch of basil and threw it in.”

  “Ettie better watch out. You’re showing signs of genuine talent.” He takes another taste, puts the dirty spoon in the sink. “Ettie and the chef, what do you reckon? Think it will last?”

  “None of our business, but for what it’s worth, yes. They know what they want and recognise that they’ve found it.”

  “What about you? Do you know what you want?” He props his backside against the bench, crosses his ankles. His arms are folded.

  Kate hauls the pasta pot off the stove and drains the boiling water. Steam clouds her face so Sam can’t read her expression. She bangs the colander against the side of the sink and tips the spaghetti back into the saucepan. “I’ve never been good at long-term relationships, if that’s what you’re asking. I have a habit of moving on when things get serious.”

  “Maybe you haven’t met the right bloke.” He waits a while. She says nothing.

  “Ever thought about kids?”

  Kate laughs unpleasantly. “I was a late-life baby and a big mistake. My mother tells me often that I ruined her life by being born. It’s not much of an incentive to have my own family.”

  “Wouldn’t set much store by your mother. She’s …” He stops. “We’re all responsible for our own decisions.”

  Kate serves the food in large white bowls, pouring them both a glass of red wine without asking Sam whether he wants it. They sit at an old timber table in the middle of the kitchen floor. She passes him a grater and a piece of parmesan, but he fumbles with it and she goes round the table to grate it for him.

  “Like this,” she says, standing next to his chair.

  He slips an arm around her waist and rests his head lightly against her body. “You want to go on a real date sometime?” he murmurs, heartened when she doesn’t immediately step back.

  “What’s this then?” she says, like it’s a joke. When she goes back to her seat, he feels like he’s let a golden opportunity slip away.

  He likes her. It bothers him but it’s a fact. He’d tried to write her off as a city mug but she’d proved that in her own quiet way she was smart, tough and loyal. He twirls a strand of spaghetti onto his fork and hopes like hell he can eat it without flicking sauce in her face.

  “Should have cooked penne, it’s not so messy,” she says, reading his mind.

  “I know everyone reckons a leopard’s spots never change. Never believed the saying myself. Look at you. Less than three months in Cook’s Basin and you’re almost unrecognisable from the nervy —”

  “Nervy!”

  “You took a risk, Kate, and I’m not talking about the café. A house with a dodgy reputation, boats, chucking in your job because you knew it would kill you in the end. Takes guts, all that.”

  “Maybe I was desperate,” she says, so quietly he almost misses it.

  “Maybe. Only you would know. But what I’m getting at is that risks are at the heart of life. You and me, we’re like chalk and cheese, but sometimes you find that opposites soften the hard edges in each other …”

  “Are you making a pass?”

  “I’m taking a risk ’cause I’m hoping that every time you bit my head off it was because you were worried you were getting to like me. And yeah, I’m making a pass.”

  Kate looks directly at him. “I’m a bad bet, Sam.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  “I’ve got to ask … why?”

  He reaches across the table and grabs her hand. “I can’t explain it. Not in a way that’s all flowery and romantic. Christ, I’m not even sure why, if you want the truth. Maybe I just feel better when you’re around.”

  “Definitely not romantic …”

  “Yeah, well …” Sam drops his eyes and pushes away his food. The effort of eating now beyond him. “I’m not much good with words.” He feels defeated, worn out by trying to explain himself.

  She sits still and silent for so long, he begins to plan a withdrawal that will leave his pride intact.

  “Have you always been a risk-taker?” she says at last, smiling.

  Sam wakes in his own bed in the middle of the night. He lies there for a while, listening to an owl hoot mournfully on a single note, the slurp of an incoming tide. He lets his mind drift. He is shocked by how much he wants Kate to like and understand him. He trawls back over their evening together. He might have rabbited on a bit too long but you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?

  Out of the blue, he remembers what was bothering him about Ciao Bella. He sits bolt upright. It was the phone call, he thinks, struggling to recall the details. There w
as the roar of an engine, a shout, then the phone went dead. The Weasel must have had a visitor. Happier now, he settles down. He’ll check with Artie in the morning. With a bit of luck, he’ll find out that the Weasel has slunk off once and for all. Except why’d he want his mooring serviced if he was planning on disembarking for good?

  He closes his eyes, trying to go back to sleep. He thinks of Kate again. He doesn’t delude himself that their relationship will blossom in the same way as Ettie and the chef, who are old enough to desire contentment instead of hunting for thrills. He knows instinctively that with Kate, for every step forward, he’ll have to take two back. He worries she is too young to settle for what to him is the nirvana of Cook’s Basin. That the fire in her belly for more, much more, still smoulders. But there’s only one way to find out and even if it ends up hurting him like hell, he’s willing to take the risk that at some point she might vanish with a laptop and a backpack. Off without a twinge of regret and only a casual goodbye, on some new quest on the other side of the world. He sighs. Of all the coffee joints in all the world …

  Unable to go back to sleep, Sam gets up at dawn. A light breeze off the land stirs the bush into life and ruffles the water. A single kookaburra makes a staccato start, before bursting into a full-throated declaration of his territorial rights. One by one, his family joins him until the air is filled with raucous joy. If only everyone, he thinks, set boundaries with laughter. He does a quick check of the barge and starts the engine. Cruises across pink water towards a pinker sky. He hopes the Misses Skettle are awake to see their favourite colour splashed about so extravagantly.

  At the stern of Artie’s yacht, he thumps the hull to announce his arrival. The old bloke’s already up and about. Sam can smell burnt toast and coffee.

  “You decent, Artie?” Sam asks, hoisting himself into the cockpit.

  “Indecent, mate. And it’s too late to change the habits of a lifetime,” he replies.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Sam goes down the ladder into the cabin.