The Briny Café (20 page)

“On the house – thanks for being part of the celebration,” Ettie says, handing out the food. “See you again. The Briny Café is back open for business.”

On Monday morning, after the early morning rush of chippies and commuters, Ettie offers to do the banking. “I need to do a bit of extra shopping,” she explains. “The weekend almost cleaned us out.”

Kate says she'll get on with restocking the fridges. She passes Ettie a pillowslip heavy with cash. “Don't get mugged or leave it at the checkout,” she says, not joking.

In town, Ettie heaves the pillowslip onto the bank counter where it lands with a thunk. “Won the lottery or something?” asks the bank teller, a surfie-looking woman with sun-bleached hair, a deep tan and a body hard with muscle. She eyes it nervously, peeks inside. Finally reassured, she tips it upside down. “Had a bloke bring in a red-bellied black snake in a bag once,” she explains. “He had a few banking issues at the time. Frightened the shit out of me.”

“What did you do?”

“Took off, with all the other tellers, locked the bank and
called WIRES. Then we cancelled the bloke's accounts and suggested the bank next door.”

The counter is awash with cash. Ettie feels ridiculously proud. “It's our first weekend in a new business. Not quite organised yet, the money's all in $100 bundles. The coins are sorted though.”

She waits for twenty minutes while the teller weighs and counts so fast there is no hope of keeping up. The final balance is forty cents under. Kate is a natural with money, she thinks, trying not to feel smug that her partner is proving all the doubters wrong.

The teller indicates Ettie should wait a minute and slides off her stool to go through a heavy metal door, her backside as tight as a drum under grey trousers. A couple of minutes later she returns with a leather satchel and cotton bag.

“One for notes. One for coins. Bit classier than a pillowslip,” she explains with a smile. “Good luck.”

 

After the first rounds in the battle to remove the Weasel are fired without any instant results, the Misses Skettle ask Lindy, the real estate agent, to do a property search to find out whether he owns the house or is a tenant. If the latter, could she locate the owners and advise them of the problems he is causing? Perhaps an eviction might be in order?

Lindy tracks down the background of the property that, unusually, she knows very little about. After some digging, she discovers the owners are living overseas. She taps out an email containing what she hopes are tactful but relevant questions.

The owners, it turns out, have never set eyes on their tenant – the deal was done over the web. Lindy discusses the issues and advises they use a respected agent in all future dealings. She is immediately hired to manage the property from now on. She begins by evicting the Weasel, then phones the Misses Skettle and fills them in.

The Weasel – real name Leo Merrizzi according to Lindy – accepts his fate. His tank water is putrid, his pontoon is a wreck and his commuter boat is still being repaired by Frankie who has been quietly advised by one and all to do his best but not his utmost. And if Frankie finds – after a suitable amount of time has passed – that the engine is beyond help, then the general consensus would be that that is a perfect result. It is, of course, his call.

Frankie, a loner who stays out of local feuds, politics and issues, and who lives by his own moral code, gives no verbal undertaking one way or the other. No one is fussed. Not many engines survive a serious dose of sugar that caramelises with heat and seizes most of the engine parts. The Weasel, to put it mildly, is stuffed.

Meanwhile, a troop of Islanders is assigned to drain the polluted water tank the moment the Weasel departs. It must be cleaned out, and anyone queuing for a top up from the mains water supply is advised he will have to wait a little longer for service while the tank is refilled. The new tenants, a family with three young children, plan to live on the Island full-time and are due to move in shortly. For once, no one gets narky about water rights.

Finally, the Weasel packs his clothes and few belongings and calls Fast Freddy to pick him up. In the midst of universal
celebrations for a plan well executed, however, everything goes pear-shaped.

 

“I never asked where the Weasel wanted to go,” Fast Freddy reports to Sam when he catches up with him in the Square. “I was on the way to drop him at the ferry wharf when he tapped my shoulder. Jumped like a startled ant, I did.”

“And?” Sam asks, trying not to sound impatient.

“Well, we're not rid of him yet. I delivered him to a yacht anchored deadset centre of Oyster Bay. An old boat,
Ciao Bella
, almost alongside Artie. It hasn't shifted off the mooring for as long as I've been drivin' water taxis.”

Sam is silent while he thinks through the ramifications. “Wise up Artie, did you?” he asks, hoping that having a vital role to play in the welfare of the community might put a bit of spark into the old fella, who's been showing signs of going downhill lately.

“Second call off the rank,” Freddy says, with a hint of smugness. “He's on full alert. He's offered to set off his emergency siren, which he reckons will have the double benefit of alerting us to the arrival of any customers and scaring them off. He says he paid a fortune for the siren and he's never used it. He'd be pleased to get his money's worth.”

“Civilised hours only, mate, or there'll be an uproar. What's it like below at Artie's?”

“Stinkin' mess.”

“Life-threatening?”

“Just a crippled old man with dirty dishes piled up, lying in a fug of overripe sheets. Nothing too desperate.”

“I'll see if I can round up some volunteers.”

“Startin' next week. I've taken care of it for now.”

“You're —”

Fast Freddy holds his palm outwards like a cop stopping the traffic. “Don't say it, Sam. Or I'll have to hit you, which would go against all me instincts.”

“Star, mate, that's all I was going to articulate.”

A few leaves skitter in front of them. The two men look towards a blow that's building in the west. The single-note yammering of cicadas carries across the water. A gust hits the umbrellas on the deck of The Briny. They crack like whips. The cicadas suddenly go quiet.

“Gotta fly while I still can,” Fast Freddy says. “Shapin' up to be another doozy. Might get some real rain this time.”

Sam dashes for the shelter of the café and bangs on the door. After a minute Ettie peers through the glass before opening up.

“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.”