by Susan Duncan
“You’ll get wet,” she murmurs.
“No kidding,” he says.
“Sorry …”
She looks up at him and fingers her bottom lip. “Lot of blood but it’s only a small cut. I’m being pathetic. I’ll be fine. Truly. I owe you.” She steps away.
Sam feels the barrier go up between them. He covers what he realises with surprise is regret with a stab at humour. “Yeah, well. Around here you forget a debt and your name goes on a shame list.” He forces a smile.
“Public or private?”
“Mate, nothing’s private in Cook’s Basin, you should know that by now. I’ll see you home. Leave the boat where it is. Frankie’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“I’m good. Truly. Thanks for …”
“Nothing, mate. Nothing at all. Do the same for anyone.”
He steps out of the tinny and turns to give her a hand. But she shoves the red bundle of his jacket at him and takes off at a run, her head down against the rain. His eyes follow her along the shoreline until she turns to race up the steps to her house. She doesn’t look back.
He heads off to the boatshed to thank Frankie for his help and explain what old Des’s boat is doing in a foreign port. Water runs down his neck. His shorts are soaked. No point in hurrying, he thinks, he can’t get any wetter.
He ducks under the roller-door of the boatshed into a tangled mess of pipes, hoses, vacuums, grinders and clamps.
“You there, Frankie?” he calls, picking up a chisel, closing one eye and looking down the straight side, running a thumb across the blade. A loo flushes. A wire door squeals then slams. He hears the slap of bare feet on cold concrete.
“Yo,” Frankie says, wiping his oil-stained hands on a rag.
“Your neighbour. She’s bought Des’s boat. Had a bit of difficulty getting it home so I helped her out.”
“If it’s no good, tell her to take it back,” Frankie says flatly, returning to the spilled guts of an engine laid out on the chipped cement floor.
“No, mate, the engine’s good. The old bloke forgot to mention the petrol tank was empty.”
“Yar, well, he’s always been a mean bastard, that one.”
“Anyway, just wanted to say thanks for helpin’ out.”
Frankie shrugs.
“So, what do you think? She going to last the distance?” Sam nods towards Kate’s house.
Frankie shoves back the brim of a battered black fisherman’s cap that no one’s ever seen parted from his head. He appears to be giving the question serious consideration. “You know what I think? I think nervy women with skinny bums don’t last very long around here.”
“Nervy, you reckon? Never picked that.”
“She get a good deal on the boat?”
“Dunno. Stayed out of the way.”
“Would’ve bought that house myself for the price she paid. The seller knocked fifty per cent off, I hear, just to get rid of it.”
“Is that right? Nervy but smart, then.”
That night, with the storm long gone, and when the evening star is a lone white light in a dusky sky, Ettie chugs across mirror-flat water to a low-lying house with huge windows on the sunny side of Oyster Bay. She hangs offshore with nine other members of the Blue Swimmer Bay book club, bobbing in their tinnies like ducks on a pond, waiting to tie up.
When the last boat is secured, Jenny, Jane and Judy – the Three Js, Island-born and bred – who are founding members of the book club, lead the way to Fannie’s immaculate home. They gather round a candlelit table on the lawn, fill their wineglasses and spend the first half-hour gossiping. Midway, the talk turns to the man who’s moved into the house near Triangle Wharf.
“He lurks in that boatshed of his like a feral cat waiting to pounce every time a kid walks past,” Jenny says. “He’s either a paedophile or a drug-pusher. Or both. I’ve told my two kids to stay away. But I’m not sure if that didn’t make him sound more exciting than dangerous.”
“He’s bad news,” Ettie agrees. “I’ll keep an eye on what goes on in that boatshed …”
“We all will,” shout the women in unison.
“If that slippery-eyed stranger thinks he can rattle the balance of offshore life, he’s in for an almighty shock,” Jenny says, vehemently. “It’s been a while since we invoked some of those ‘fine old traditions’ Sam is always ranting about.”
Ettie immediately leaps to the bargeman’s defence. “His heart’s in the right place.”
“More like all over the place,” Jane remarks, cynically.
“You know, I haven’t seen him take off on the barge with a woman and a picnic rug for quite a while.” Ettie is thoughtful as she sips her wine.
“He will. Leopards don’t change their spots.” Jane had taken a few barge rides before settling down and fails to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
The talk finally turns to the book of the month, a worthy biography of Marcel Proust.
“Right,” Fannie says, topping up the wineglasses and calling the meeting to order. “Ettie, why don’t you start? What did you think of this month’s book choice?”
“Better than sleeping pills,” Ettie replies without missing a beat.
By the next morning the Cook’s Basin community is already buzzing with the news of Kate’s reckless behaviour and Sam’s heroic rescue. The general consensus is that she’s either a complete floozy or an arrogant fool, and that Sam isn’t far behind for risking his magnificent barge to save an ugly boat and its brainless owner. Jack the Bookie decides to offer appealing odds to anyone who reckons Kate will last longer than three months.
When the first ferry commuters see Fast Freddy drop her at the Spit with her laptop and an overnight bag, they rush him like he’s a rock star to find out if he knows more than the sketchy grapevine has thus far provided.
While he waits for The Briny to open Freddy, who is firmly against gossip, nevertheless indulges his interrogators in an effort to set the record straight.
No, he says firmly, she has not been shamed into leaving. She is on her way to America – New York, if he remembers correctly – to interview somebody rich and famous. No, she didn’t mention a name. Yes, she does have a split lip but no other injuries as far as he could see. What did they talk about? Well, he asked if she would mind if he detoured slightly so he could knock on Artie’s hull and he was pleased when she agreed, even though she was rushing to catch an international flight. It showed good instincts. Although he adds, digressing in his usual way, he may have checked on Artie too early in the morning because he was greeted with an angry roar. He thought he’d be thrilled he was going to enjoy more of the day than usual since he’d roused him at the crack ’a, but well, everyone’s built differently, he supposes. As long as there’s kindness, compassion and patience in the world … He did, he admits, indulge in some similar philosophising to Kate about his long night shifts under a full winter moon, which she seemed to find interesting.
He continues. As everyone knows, he says, he mostly keeps his thoughts to himself. But during the taxi ride, without quite understanding the impulse, he’d found himself telling Kate about the magic of being awake while most folks were tucked in their cosy beds. About how the purity of the stars and the moon made him feel big and small at the same time. How when he was overcome by the vast clarity of the night sky, he sometimes forgot to breathe for a moment or two.
He recounts, then, that she asked him what were the most important skills to have on the water: Good eyes, attention to detail – such as the weather and the level of your petrol tank (ha, ha) – patience and the ability to make quick decisions. Same as life, when you think about it. She gave him a blaster of a smile that lit up eyes the colour of the deep blue-green ocean and as far as he’s concerned, she’s made a friend for life. She paid him with a decent tip that was neither too little nor too much, which means she understands the value of money but is not, as a fresh new wave of rumours suggest, a cheapskate. Then she shook his hand and thanked him sin
cerely for his advice.
If he is any judge of character – and anyone who spends as much time dealing with the general public as he does, knows a few things about human behaviour – Kate Jackson is a quick learner. He told her he’d be waiting for her return with open arms and he swears he saw a tear in her eye.
Cook’s Basin News (CBN)
Newsletter for Offshore Residents of Cook’s Basin, Australia
* * *
NOVEMBER
* * *
COME AND CELEBRATE SUMMER AT THE FIRESHED DINNER
When: The last Thursday of the month
Where: Oyster Bay Fireshed
Chef: Marcus Allender, the new resident in Kingfish Bay (he had a restaurant in the city before retiring here!)
Cost: $15.00 (adults) $5.00 (children)
Menu: To be announced
Remember: An extraordinary meeting (that doesn’t mean it’s replacing the AGM) has been called and will take place prior to the fireshed dinner at 6.30 p.m.
More Car Park Activity
Frankie from the Oyster Bay boatshed reports his car was broken into and vandalised two days ago. Thieves took his spare tyre, the tools to change a tyre and then busted the radio and CD player just for fun. If anyone has any information regarding these increasing attacks on private property please call the police. Illegal activities of any kind cannot and will not be tolerated. Some residents have suggested using CCTV cameras to catch the culprit. This must surely be a last resort. Keep your eyes and ears open and make our offshore community safe.
BREAKING NEWS!
Word sheets and music sheets for the Christmas Choir are now available on the Cutter Island Residents’ Association website. They can be downloaded and printed so there is no excuse for anyone turning up without them. (Are you listening, Phil?)
The performance will be on Sam’s beautiful barge, the Mary Kay, on December 21, barring bad weather. So dust off the Santa hats, oil the vocal cords according to personal taste, and get into musical training.
CHAPTER NINE
“Ettie!” Big Julie pokes her head out of the tangled plastic strips and waves a tea towel above her head like a lariat. “Bertie’s been waiting for you. How about a coffee? On the house.”
It must be something big, Ettie thinks. Bertie’s never given away so much as a paper napkin without an argument.
“What’s up?” she asks, a smile firmly in place.
Big Julie waves her inside the café. “Bertie wants to have a chat. He’s on the deck. Says if you’d prefer a beer, he’ll spring for that instead.”
“Everything alright, Julie?”
“Up to a point. Yeah, that about says it. Just get out there, will you? It’s almost closing time and he’s a bit buggered after a long afternoon of appointments – of the kind none of us wishes to have.”
Ettie pushes open the squealing wire door.
Bertie, haloed in the last gauzy light of day, is sitting at a table in the corner, looking out to sea. He wears a sports jacket with brass buttons over a checked shirt and his khaki trousers are sharply creased, his shoes well-polished leather lace-ups. If he’d had a hat covering his glistening head, she would never have recognised him. She’s about to make a glib remark but he turns towards her and gives her a look that knocks the wind out of her.
He’s dying, she realises in an instant. Nothing else would shift the cynical smirk that was as much a part of Bertie as his grubby apron, his Beatles T-shirts and his stained white sneakers.
She pulls out a chair and joins him at the wobbly table.
“How much money have you got in the bank, luv?” he asks.
The question is so out of the blue Ettie hesitates, trying to figure out where he’s coming from. “I’m good for a loan, Bertie, if that’s what you’re after,” she says eventually. Because when a man is dying he shouldn’t have to worry about money. “Name the figure and if I’ve got it it’s yours for as long as you need it.”
To her horror, a tear trickles down the old man’s yellow-stained cheek. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and mops his face with feigned casualness, like he’s dealing with a sudden sweat.
“You’d do that for a mean old bastard like me, would ya? No guarantees or nothin’?”
She nods, not entirely sure she hasn’t lost her mind – and her nest egg – in one dangerously rash moment.
Bertie sighs. “No need for a loan, luv, but I’ll take your money – in return for The Briny. It’s yours, lock, stock and barrel if you want it. Just so you know, it’s not a freehold. You’d been buying twelve years left on a twenty-five-year lease. What happens after that is up to you.” He makes a job of folding his hanky and shoving it back in his pocket, struggling to get his breath. “You’re sittin’ there stiller than a stunned mullet. And I’m short of time in more ways than one. What’s your answer, girl?”
He grins to soften the words and Ettie bursts into tears.
Big Julie races outside with a glass of wine. “Here, love, get this into you. I’m already three ahead and I don’t drink.” She bends to kiss Bertie’s cheek in the first public show of affection Ettie has ever seen between them, pats his smooth head. Flies off again.
“I have some money, Bertie, but not nearly enough,” Ettie manages at last. “So thank you, my friend, but you’ll do better by selling the business on the open market.” She swallows hard, pressing a wild surge of hopes and dreams back into a tight little box and slamming the lid.
“It’s yours, luv. For whatever you can afford. And that’s the end of it. Julie, darlin’,” he calls on the back of a dry cough, “bring the paperwork. Then let’s go home. Ettie, you start work tomorrow.”
For a long time, Ettie sits in the growing dark, afraid that if she moves she’ll wake up and find it was all a mad fantasy. Then she thinks of Bertie. How must it feel to look death in the face? To know that in a single, half-hour appointment with a specialist you’ve never met before, the door to the future has been slammed in your face? Forty years of The Briny relegated to history by a few horror-filled words.
She picks up the key sitting on top of the documents Bertie has left lying on the table and goes inside to turn off the lights. Her lights. She slides home the bolt on the door and snaps the padlock. Her padlock. Her café. Thank you, Bertie, she thinks, for trusting me with The Briny. I will make you proud. She listens to lazy waves splash against the seawall, the distant cries of gulls. For her, it’s the equivalent of rocks singing.
Her mood suddenly swings from euphoria to terror. She looks back at her track record in business which, even with a positive spin, is pretty lousy. Realistically, The Briny Café is a rat-infested, leaning hole, with gaps in the floorboards so wide you can see diesel scum making rainbows on the water underneath. Get rid of the grease and dirt holding it together and the first big blow could send it off in a cloud stinking of deep-fried onions and burnt coffee. What was she thinking of, taking this on? She wants to cry. She wants the whole great burden of thirty years of fending for herself lifted off her shoulders. She wants …
She sniffs, using her sleeve as a hanky. This is her last shot at financial independence in her old age. She straightens her shoulders and throws caution to the wind. All or nothing, she thinks, but aware that no matter how hard she works, she won’t be able to do it alone. She needs a partner who understands money and how to make a profit. Two key skills that for her, she is painfully aware, are as hard as learning Russian.
Out of the gloom, the long-lost mutt crawls towards her with a whimper and a beaten look in his sad brown eyes. “Still here? Where do you live, little doggie?” she asks, scratching the white blaze on his chest. His ratty tail wags, his face lights up. He leans his barrel body against her leg and plants his backside firmly on her foot so she can’t get away. She sighs. He’s been hanging out in the Square for too long to be a dog on the loose from a nearby backyard. This is a dog that doesn’t have a home. A café can’t really keep a mutt but what’s a barge without one? She dial
s Sam’s mobile.
Ettie and Sam sit side by side on a bench in the darkness of the Square while Ettie explains that Bertie is dying and she is the new proprietor of The Briny Café.
“Poor bastard, but letting you take over is the right decision,” he says.
She lays a hand on his knee and gently tells him that she’s thrilled but she’d hand it back in a flash if it meant Bertie could see out the lease in robust health. The community, she adds, must be ready to help him whenever it can.
“It’s a good buy, love, you’ve made a killing. It’ll be a gold-mine one day. Set you up for life.”
“You really think so?” she asks.
“Yeah. No doubt. Might look like a dump, but it’s our offshore dump. That shambolic little seaside shanty holds nearly two hundred years of the spirit of the Spit. You can’t buy that in a hardware shop. You’re starting from the bottom. There’s only one way from there and it’s up.”
“You’re a good friend, Sam.” She pats his shoulder, rests her head against the warmth of his chest for a moment. “Yeah, it’s all good, isn’t it?”
He puts an arm around her, draws her closer, buries his face in her hair.
He’s never been handsome, she thinks, not even when he had young skin and an athlete’s body. His face is too flat and square. His jaw overbearing. The years have softened the jaw but he’s broader now. Blocky. His skin roughened by salt, sun and the razor-sharp winter southerlies. Not everyone’s idea of attractive, but being older and more worn-in actually suits him. He has an aura. Rock-solid. Ettie has always preferred that to conventional good looks.
In her experience, good-looking men were trouble, although she’s always had a soft spot for the drifters who float in on the tide to scrape a living from cleaning the salt-crust off windows or cunjies from the bottoms of boats. Generous blokes, mostly, who’d pass you their last cold beer if you were hot and thirsty. Not like the penny-pinching tycoons you read about in the business pages that breezed in for a week or two and then skived off without paying their mooring fees or the price of their anti-fouls. She’d take a drifter over a tycoon any day.