The Briny Café (10 page)

“Where's the head gone, Sam? Did we leave it behind?”

“No, mate. The turtle's tired and gone inside to have a rest after all the excitement.”

“What are these?” Jimmy fingers deep grooves in the turtle's shell.

“Prop scars,” Sam says, thin-lipped. “Caused by boats that hoon through the waterways so fast little blokes like this don't have time to duck out of the way. Remember that, mate, the next time you're chuckin' wheelies in the middle of the bay.”

“Did I do it, Sam? Did I hurt the turtle?” The teenager's eyes fill with tears.

“Not this time, Jimmy. But think before you take off next time, eh?”

In the cabin, Sam finds a stained old towel that stinks of diesel. He uses it to brush off most of the water before pulling on his shorts and T-shirt. He hands it to Jimmy.

“Dry off and make sure you get dressed, mate. None of this naked frolickin'. Okay?”

“Why not, Sam?” asks Jimmy, using the towel to dry the turtle's shell instead.

“Well, for a start, mate, the two Misses Skettle nearly fainted and they're too old for shocks.”

“How old are they, Sam?”

“Just get dressed, mate, so we can get this turtle in the ute and I can take it to the vet.”

“Can I come, too?”

“Need you here, mate.” His face softens. “Your job while I'm gone is to look after the mutt. Let him out of the wheelhouse and take him back to the Island. No speedin', but. Remember the turtle. I'll track you down when I get back to give you a full report and that's a promise. Jeez. My head hurts. The water's still bloody cold, tell you that for nothing. Now get the dog and off you go.”

“Why for nothin', Sam?”

“Never you mind.”

“Is he a good dog, Sam?”

“The best, mate.”

 

Inside the café, Ettie's dealing with a rush of tourists who've worked up an appetite after watching the turtle's rescue. They ignore the
Closed
sign and fall on what's left of her cakes like locusts. She cranks the coffee machine to full-bore and decides the cleaning can wait. The till is flush with notes. It gives her a thrill and, more importantly, courage and confidence in the future.

“Keep an eye on Jimmy, will you, till I get back?” Sam shouts over a few heads.

She's too busy to do anything but nod.

The local vet, a stringy woman with a horsy face, takes one look at the turtle and calls the zoo. She writes a name, address and phone number on a slip of paper and hands it to Sam. “Sorry. Wish I could do more. I'm okay with cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea pigs. Even birds, goats, horses and cows. But this is out of my league.”

Sam tucks the turtle under one arm, resting the shell on his hipbone, and lumbers through a waiting room chockers with nervous dogs and yowling cats. The turtle remains hidden and silent in its shell. He wonders if it has the faintest idea what's going on, or if once it's pulled its head in, the outside world ceases to exist. Nice trick if you can manage it.

Sam returns to the café by mid-afternoon to find Ettie bent over a sheaf of papers.

“Is he going to be okay?” she asks, without looking up.

“It's a she,” he says wearily. “About twenty-five years old and in her laying prime. Probably spends her time cruising the coast from northern Queensland to Cook's Basin. Maybe a little further south as well. The hook is stuck in her guts so she'll need surgery but they're certain she'll survive.”

“You were gone for hours. I thought she might've died or something. Jimmy's been frantic. Looking for you everywhere. He won't settle until he knows whether the turtle's going to live. Is it my imagination or is he getting even odder with his mother away?”

“Well, we're all a bit odd, but not everyone's good-hearted, so he's ahead. Just got a low attention span and a few behavioural quirks. A job'll set him straight.”

“I'd take him on if I could, love, but it's a bit of a risk if he's going to turn up to work naked.”

“Clothes or no clothes, he's got all the right instincts. Reckon you could manage a coffee? I'm beat.”

“I can find a hamburger and chips, as well. That appeal?”

“No green frills?”

“Found a stash of patties and chips in the freezer. If you're game, so am I.”

“Hamburger, love, with the blood running out of it. Go easy on the barbecue but load up on the onions. You're a star, Ettie.”

As she goes to turn on the grill Sam wonders how long meat lasts before it goes off, frozen or not. He decides it's smarter not to count the days since Bertie took sick. “On second thoughts, burn it to a cinder, love.”

The lip-smacking smell of frying onions and toasting buns follows him through the plastic curtains and out into the Square. “Where you hiding, Jimmy?” he yells. “And you'd better bloody be wearing your trousers.”

Jimmy – clothed in baggy knee-length brown shorts covered in red hibiscus flowers and a grey windcheater that hangs off his shoulderblades like wings – pokes his face out of a crowd of after-school kids waiting for the ferry.

“How's the turtle, Sam?” He bounds over. “Is she okay? You sure? I could help look after her. She's a lovely turtle, Tilly. Where's she staying?”

Tilly?

“How'd ya know it was a girl?”

“No bollocks, Sam. Not anywhere.”

“Er, good on you. Well
Tilly
is in the best possible hands. And when she's fit, she'll come back and you and I will take the
Mary Kay
out to sea and lower her overboard so she can
find her way north to lay some eggs. Deal?” He holds up his hand, waits for a high five.

Jimmy ignores it. “Tilly needs a friend. She's been hurt bad.”

“And you're a great friend, mate, the best. But she's too crook right now for company.” Sam scrabbles for a way to lever Jimmy's mind off the turtle and into new territory. “Are you around on Thursday, mate? I'm gonna need some help on the barge. The pay's not great but it's fair. Hard work, though. Gotta tell you that upfront.”

Jimmy hops from one foot to the other. “Yeah. I'll help. Count me in, Sam. Count me in. What's on?”

“Got a few planks left over from a building site. They're cluttering up my foreshore. We'll bring 'em over to the café to fix the deck where it's rotting.”

“Cool, Sam. That's really cool. How much you gonna pay me? Is it gonna be enough to buy a car?”

“Well, not right away, mate. But all in good time.” He wraps a beefy arm around the kid's pointy shoulders. “Not a word to anyone. Okay?”

“Not even to Ettie?”

“
Especially
not Ettie.”

Back inside the café, Sam finds three hamburgers waiting on the counter.

“One for you, one for Jimmy and one for the mutt,” Ettie explains.

 

On the other side of the world, in a city where sea turtles are found in zoos and cafés standing lopsided on a water's edge
are a rare thing, Kate Jackson disembarks into dirty rain and gritty wind. She grabs a cab and directs the driver to take the Queensboro Bridge. When he wants to argue, she cuts him short. She lived in this city once, she tells him, and not so long ago so she'll know if he peels off to add another ten bucks to the fare. When he asks why she'd leave a paradise – ha, ha – like the Big Apple, she feigns sleep.

The speeding cab swerves, ducks and weaves along grimy streets of paint-peeled clapboard houses where youths lurk under hoodies and old women push shopping trolleys containing everything they own. When they reach the Queensboro Bridge, the night-time hookers, who tout deep in the shadows of massive stone pylons, are still at work.

She reaches the hotel a little before nine o'clock and joins the queue to check in, edgy from too little sleep and her customary pre-interview nerves. When she finally reaches the counter, the receptionist takes her name, punches a few keys and says, “You have a message.” He prints it out and hands it to her.

Story's been canned. Make your way back to the office asap.

She takes her key, finds her room and strips off to stand under a scalding shower. By the time she turns off the taps, the fug that's been cluttering her mind for months is gone. She doesn't want to do this job any more. The fire in her belly is dead. It's as simple as that.

She switches off her mobile phone, hauls back the covers on the bed and lies down. She closes her eyes. In her sleep, she jumps icefloes that thaw under her feet, getting smaller and smaller until the last block dissolves into nothing and she begins to sink.

When she wakes, she types an email. Short, sharp and to the point.

I resign. Effective immediately.

Then she dials Ettie's number, appalled when she realises there is no one else she can think of who might genuinely care that she's just made one of the biggest decisions of her life. The call goes to message bank. “I did it, Ettie. I quit my job. I'm on my way home.” Saying the words out loud, even to a machine, suddenly makes them a fact.

From the very first day that Ettie takes control of The Briny Café, the locals are full of speculation. They are aware that in a very short time, a woman of Ettie's charm and talent will triple turnover and she'll be run off her feet quick smart. But if she tries to go it alone she'll burn out within the year. Or fail to maintain the new high standard they are already delighted to see emerging in the berry muffins and the lemon, orange and walnut cupcakes.

The question they are all asking is who she will approach to work alongside her. Jack the Bookie, never slow to see a business opportunity, has drawn up a list and is taking bets on what many people consider to be odds so short it's hardly worth having a flutter. The top three contenders, at even money, are the Three Js, with Jenny just a little in front of Judy and Jane but only because her kids are at the age when they can look after themselves after school. They're all first-rate cooks with a long history of dishing up spectacular fundraiser dinners, including two pigs cooked to golden perfection on a
spit, a chicken cacciatore with a rich tomato sauce redolent of salty anchovies and olives, and a quite amazing jambalaya with perfectly balanced spices that people still talked about years after it was served. Their desserts, too, are spellbinding, but the standouts are the honey macadamia tart, tiramisu, baklava (which segued perfectly with the slow-roasted lamb shoulders fragrant with oregano, rosemary and garlic) and a mess of meringues, strawberries and cream swizzled with a raspberry coulis with exactly the right hint of tartness. The women are all good enough to knock the stuffing out of a three-star Paris restaurant according to the only local who'd ever been fortunate – or financially flush – enough to dine in such an establishment. And while it was generally acknowledged he was a bloke occasionally prone to exaggeration, no one doubted his noble intent to pay homage to Cook's Basin's cooks.

There was also talk of a newly arrived, professionally trained chef who might turn out to be a star attribute to the community. It was still early days but he was showing a bit of dash by preserving the quirky style of his 1950s waterside shack instead of ripping it down to put up a concrete bunker. With his renovations completed, he might be looking around for a new project. Jack put his name on the list in an effort to liven up the odds.

No one, in even a brief moment of madness, considered the runty little Oyster Bay woman with less heft on her than a plucked bantam as a contender. There was a tad too much
otherness
about her as well as a lack of the essential warmth and understanding required by a neighbourhood café that every local regarded as a second home.

With an impressive show of restraint, Sam resists the temptation to cream the pot with his inside knowledge. To him, it is the same as cheating and cheating, his father always told him, meant you never worked out if you had any real talent of your own. The end result, he said, was a person who had no idea who they were or what they stood for, which was a recipe for an unhappy life. He never doubted his dad then and he isn't about to start now. Anyway, if he throws Kate's name in the pot, Jack will smell a rat in three seconds flat.

 

Soon after sunrise on Wednesday morning, Sam ties up the barge at the Spit. The ferry wharf is jammed with chippies in ragged jeans, T-shirts and boots; painters wear speckled overalls and matching sandshoes; labourers stomp about in steel-capped boots, wearing ripped windcheaters, khaki shorts and navy singlets. A couple of tree loppers stand apart, chainsaws neatly clipped inside fluorescent orange canisters. Ropes are coiled thickly in a grey tub containing clips and hard hats. Tinnies cruise in from the bays and the Island under a new sky – each of them carrying potential customers for The Briny Café.

He sets off towards the open door, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a freshly baked muffin. Counting sixteen heads as he goes along and it's only a little past six o'clock, he makes a bet that within three months, barring some awful natural catastrophe like a tsunami or a cyclone, the place will be a great little earner. As long as Ettie comes to her senses and finds a suitable partner. Sometimes, Ettie's good instincts get the better of her commonsense. If she's not too busy, he
plans to have a quiet word in her ear. He has a list of three names in his pocket that coincides with Jack's even money bets. Each one is a hard worker and a skilled cook with a firm understanding of the central role The Briny plays in community life. Kate, he suspects, doesn't have it in her.

Sam marches inside. There's already a disorderly queue at the counter and the muffins are almost sold out. He nods good morning to Ettie, orders a coffee and toasted banana bread and joins Fast Freddy at their customary table in the spindle shade of a casuarina. Engrossed in the newspaper which he reads over Fast Freddy's shoulder, he barely glances up when a cab arrives, figuring it's a weekender getting a head start.

A second or two later, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise, followed by a strange sense of anxiety. He searches for the mutt, who's already sussed the softest touches and is happily bumming tidbits. He glances at the café. It hasn't caught fire. He hasn't heard the gut-churning crunch of boats colliding at full speed. There's nothing awry, as far as he can tell. But he's a man who always trusts his instincts, so he's alert now.

“Somethin' botherin' ya?” Fast Freddy asks, feeling the tension.

“Nothing I can pinpoint. Just a feeling of imminent disaster.”

Kate walks towards him, like a hazy apparition, out of the misty morning light.

“Gidday,” he says.

She nods and puts her bags on the ground.

“Been anywhere interesting?”

“Not really. Bit of a fizzer, in fact.”

“Yeah. Know what you mean. Everywhere else always turns out a bit shabby.”

“Something like that.”

He marks his spot in the story he is reading with a finger. Fast Freddy bats it away like an annoyance.

“Easy on, Freddy! I'll lose my place,” he exclaims.

“Buy your own paper, then,” Freddy says calmly. “Welcome home, Kate. You look like you need a good feed, a cuppa and a long lie-down.” He folds his paper and gives the mutt the last of his muffin, dusting the crumbs from his hands. “Right. I'm off for the day. Gotta catch up on my beauty sleep. See ya …”

“Thanks, Freddy. It's great to be back.”

He walks off with a rolling gait, as if he's still riding the chop.

“Who owns the mongrel?” Kate asks, pointing under Sam's feet.

“No bloody idea. He's surviving on free bed and board on the
Mary Kay
till a better offer comes along. Hey! You wouldn't like to take him, would you? Go well over there on the dark side of the bay. Give you a bit of company.”

Kate laughs. “Nice try.” On a sudden impulse, she puts an arm around Sam's massive shoulders and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. Flabbergasted, he looks at her like she's gone mad.

She flushes. “So … Anything happen while I was gone?” she stammers.

Sam's face clears. “Mate, so much has happened it's impossible to know where to begin.” He stands in his faded red shorts and sky-blue T-shirt, dragged down in the corners
from clothes pegs. “Ettie's been waitin' for you to get home. She's in the café and got a heap to tell you.” He gives her a little push in the direction of The Briny. “Off you go. And by the way, you still owe me a coupla beers.”

“How about a slab? It's the least I can do after almost wrecking your barge.”

His hackles rise. Jeez, he thinks, will she ever learn? It's not about the value. It's all in the gesture. “No need to go overboard, mate. Saving your backside wasn't worth that much.”

“Your call,” she shrugs, offended, and heads for the café.

 

The Briny is eerily different. And yet nothing has changed. Kate peers through the plastic ribbons. Same counter tops, shelving, fridges, ovens and gas tops. Same signs announcing Bertie's heart-starter coffee. But there is a sense of order instead of chaos, gleaming surfaces instead of grubby ones. The flotsam and jetsam of Bertie's latest food fads, for so long left mouldering on the counter in pyramids, have disappeared. The pervasive odour of bacon, stale fat, burnt toast and the tang of Bertie's toxic brew are still faintly there. But they've somehow been pushed aside by the mouth-watering scent of baking, fresh coffee, bananas, lemons and oranges, cinnamon and vanilla. Ettie is behind the counter, hands flying, working the coffee machine like a professional barista. There's a queue of uncombed chippies lined up in their scruffy work togs, their tongues hanging out.

Kate looks inside the display fridge to find that the gaudy chocolate Florentines, as traditional in The Briny as hot
chips, are missing. She realises something truly momentous has occurred in her absence.

Ettie wraps an order and turns to the counter. “Kate, love, you're back! Here, whack this out to Sam, will you? He's waiting for it.” She hands her a coffee and a warm white paper bag. “Give me ten minutes to clear the rush.”

Outside Kate shoves Sam's breakfast rudely under his nose. “You want to tell me what's going on?” she says, her hands on her hips.

He opens the bag, sniffs and smiles, takes a slurp out of his cup. “Ettie is a fairdinkum genius,” he sighs. He digs into his banana toast, chewing loudly. “Too good to share, mate. I recommend you order your own when you go back in there.” He calls the dog, who runs up to him, eager to please, and leaves Kate standing on her own without another word.

“So much for the legendary Cook's Basin generosity you're always banging on about,” she yells after him.

 

Ettie flicks the sign to
Closed
, pulls aside Bertie's red, white and blue plastic ribbons, and calls from the crooked doorway of the café. Kate scissors her way out of a seat at the picnic table, gathers her bags and walks slowly across the uneven paving stones of the Square. The
Seagull
eases into the wharf. Kids in school uniforms – shirts hanging out, shoelaces undone – spill out and roar up the ramp, still scoffing their breakfast out of cereal bowls.

“Coffee, love, you must be knackered? How did it go? All done and dusted? Wasn't expecting you home till tomorrow.” She warms milk, wipes the nozzle on the machine, dusts
benches, straightens platters and rearranges the few last cakes, whizzing tornado fashion, until a coffee, a muffin and a napkin are neatly lined up. “Right, let's go out and sit on the deck for some peace and quiet and I'll fill you in.” She stands aside, insisting Kate goes ahead.

“Where's Big Julie? Bertie?” Kate asks, pulling out a chair that's essentially beyond repair.

Ettie sits down and reaches across the table to enfold Kate's hand in both of her own. She searches for the right words. “Bertie's crook. Seriously crook. Left it too late to see a doctor and now there's not much anyone can do. Lung cancer. Secondaries everywhere.”

“Oh that's terrible. Poor man. And Julie? Those two have a thing going?”

Ettie looks surprised and releases Kate's hand. “As it turns out, they did. You're more perceptive than the rest of us. We never guessed. I suppose we couldn't believe anyone would want the grumpy old bugger. The thing is,” she says, leaning back in her seat, “Bertie gave me first option on the café and I didn't hesitate. The Briny is now mine. Well, a twelve-year lease on it.”

Kate smiles. “That's wonderful news, Ettie. You'll be brilliant. Everyone knows you're the best cook in Cook's Basin, and way beyond. So no more cleaning houses, hey?”

Ettie's face turns serious and she takes a deep breath before continuing. “The thing is, I'm looking for a partner. And I thought of you.”

“Me!” Kate's coffee mug stops halfway to her mouth. “Why me? You can pick from any one of a dozen people better equipped than I am. God, Ettie, you know I find boiling an
egg a challenge.” She pushes back her chair, grabs her mug and flees to the edge of the deck.

Ettie leaves her be, giving her a while to absorb the idea. The sea is so blue, she thinks, and the sky is even bluer. Customers will see beyond the scruff and rot if they are the kind of people who appreciate food prepared with love and care.

When she judges enough time has passed, she joins Kate at the rail. “How's your coffee?” she teases, trying for lightness.

Kate looks at the empty mug in her hand like she's never seen it before. “The coffee? Excellent, really. You'll have to take down the sign describing it as a heart-starter.” She faces her friend. “Ettie …”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate what you're doing, truly, but I know zilch about food.”

Ettie takes her time framing a reply, wanting to get the pitch exactly right. “I don't need another cook, Kate. That's my job. What I really need is a partner who's good with the big picture. You're a perfectionist. You never shortcut details. You know how to get things done quickly, efficiently and so instinctively you're not even aware you're doing it. But mostly, someone's got to watch the money, make sure there's more at the end of the week than we started with. Honest accounting all the way. No tax dodging, no raiding the till. I want to be able to sleep at night. Adding up figures isn't a strong point. I am also painfully aware that I'm lousy on bureaucratic detail and smart enough to know I'm never going to change. It's a glitch in the way I think. The artist part of my brain. That's my excuse, anyway. In essence, I'd need you to take care of the nuts and bolts.”

Kate is silent for so long, Ettie plunges on. “The café is a gift you couldn't hope for in a million Sundays. I know the building is rough and there's plenty to do. But the bones are not just good, they're phenomenal.” She closes her eyes and clenches her fists, feeling both passion and frustration. “Sometimes, I really believe the universe steps in to take care of you when you need it most. And sometimes, Kate, we've got to have the courage to take a risk. Or else how do we ever find out what we're capable of? I got your message. You need a job. I'm offering you one. The timing couldn't be more perfect.”