by Susan Duncan
“Bertie! You look great,” Kate lies, blinking to hide her dismay.
“I look like I’m at death’s door, Kate. You journos never could tell the truth.” He coughs, dry and hard. Every breath sounds as rough as sandpaper. He is wasting away in front of their eyes. Big Julie holds him firmly under his elbow, a sack of bones in the palm of her hand, to stop him toppling.
“Bertie!” Ettie flies around the counter to grab his other arm and steer him to the table under the stairs. “You look like you need a decent burger and a bag of hot chips. Sit down. I’ll bring you a selection from The Briny’s new menu. We’re still testing before opening day, and it might be a bit flashy for your taste, but we’ll do our best.” She kisses his shiny head and pats a scrawny shoulder. “Coffee, love? Or a glass of red wine?”
“Coffee’d be great, Ettie. Ta. I’ll give you a hand,” Big Julie replies, stepping behind the counter like old times. “He’s not allowed to drink alcohol,” she whispers. “Drugs have buggered his liver.”
“God, Julie. You managing? Can we help?”
“Nah. Nothing to do. He’s got a few months, tops. He knows it although no one’s said a word. Life’s a cack, isn’t it?” Her mouth is turned down at the corners and she speaks softly. “I’ve loved the silly bugger for more than twenty years. Hell, we could’ve had some fun together. Why’d we wait? I keep wondering why we busted our butts at the café when the heart for it had died in both of us.”
“One day at a time, love,” Ettie says. “Take what comes, as it comes.”
Big Julie grabs saucers and slides them under the cups. “How you finding it, Ettie? It’s bloody hard, bloody nonstop, bloody backbreaking, bloody work. You’ve got to be mad to run a café.”
“I love it, Julie. I like the process so it doesn’t feel like work. Not yet, anyway. And we’re only doing half-days until the reopening.”
Big Julie looks around. Bertie’s chaotic displays of batteries, lures, key rings, torches, matches, every blokey thing, hung strategically to hide cracks in the walls, have been ripped down. Counter tops are uncluttered. Polished glass jars spruik homemade biscuits. Lemon thins. Madeleines. Jam drops. Sold by the kilo or the piece. The blackboard menu is freshly drawn and lettered in brightly coloured chalk. Beautiful, like all Ettie’s work.
“Seen the local produce corner?” Kate says, pointing. Big Julie wanders over, picks up a jar.
“Ettie’s drawing of The Briny on the label?”
Kate nods. “Perfect, don’t you think?”
Big Julie does a full turn in the soft glow that comes as much from scrubbing as from the patina of age. “You’ve tarted it up a treat, I’ll say that,” she says. “Still feels like the old Briny but it’s … cleaner and tidier!” She glances guiltily over her shoulder to make sure Bertie hasn’t heard. Then giggles.
“You girls up to no good?” he wheezes.
“Here’s your coffee, love. Not as good as your old brew but it’ll still put a bit of backbone into you for the rest of the day.”
Bertie reaches for Julie, grabs her hand tightly in his yellowed paw.
“Reckon you could manage a wedding reception one day?” he asks Ettie in a scratchy voice. But he’s looking straight at Julie.
“No need for that, love,” Julie says, recovering quickly. “You’d hate to tie yourself down. And I’ve never been an honest woman anyway.”
“No time for jokes. I owe you. Twenty years of cheer. Debts don’t get much bigger than that.”
Big Julie leans over Bertie’s hunched back and lays her cheek alongside his. “A wedding certificate isn’t going to change anything. Why don’t we think about it when you’re feeling better?”
“You and I both know there isn’t going to be any better. Like to make it legal, luv. Leave you set. Peace of mind for an old fella.”
“Christ, Bertie, now I’m really worried. You’ve never done anything legal in your life. You trying to curry a few gold points before you pitch up at the Pearly Gates?”
“Might have left me run too late for the Pearly Gates.”
“Never, Bertie.”
“So what do you say? Are we on?”
“Suits me, love,” she says, with a small hiccup.
Content, Bertie sips his coffee. Then looks down at his cup and grimaces. “Girly stuff.”
Ettie pulls up a chair next to the old man and lays her hand on a thigh as thin as a wooden spoon. “Better pass on the secret recipe, then,” she teases.
“I mean it, Ettie. About the wedding. Can I leave it to you? A dying man’s wishes.”
Ettie nods.
“I’d expect a good discount. Seein’ as how I gave you the place for a song.” The old glint is back in his eye. He sits up a little straighter.
Kate jumps in. “For you, Bertie? Double the normal rate, okay?” she says with a smile.
“Hard to get good help, isn’t it, Ettie? Always has been.” He sounds breathless. He takes a moment to steady himself, his hand on his chest like he’s holding his heart in place. “Business all done for the day?” His eyes seek out Big Julie, who appears from behind the counter, her cheeks wet.
“Sure, Bertie. All done. Let’s go home, shall we?”
“Yeah. Got a few weddin’ invitations to send out.”
“Leave it to us, Bertie,” Ettie says, her arm through his to stop him tipping off his chair. “We’ll get Julie in for a meeting. Sort the lot.”
The old man shuffles outside, a woman holding each arm. In the sunlight he looks transparent. Light enough to be carried off in a single puff of wind.
When Ettie comes back, she gives Kate a strange look. “Why’d you make a joke of the price? I would have done the wedding for nothing.”
“He was testing you, Ettie. Making sure you kept your heart out of the business.”
“Not sure about that, Kate.”
“Trust me on this. Okay?”
Half an hour later, the storm hits. The bay is churning, yachts strain on their moorings, and halyards clang like church bells. The roar of the wind in the trees is like a stampede. Sporadic rain clatters on the tin roof of the café like stilettos on a tile floor. The first flash of lightning is a long, serrated wire that explodes like a cracker. The sky goes black. A couple of tinnies, outboards whining, their drivers hunkered low, are lifted high on the waves and crash down hard on a volatile sea. The women rush to secure the café.
Out of the gloom the Mary Kay appears. Sam nurses the barge alongside. Jimmy, in faithful attendance, expertly ties up.
The four of them dash to stack tables, chairs and umbrellas out of the way of a wind that Sam says is tipped to gust up to forty knots. He tells Kate he’s going to swing her tinny around, nose to the wind.
“Why?”
“So the waves crash over the bow and not the engine. Try trusting me for a moment, why don’t you? You might learn a trick or two.”
“I’ll do it. You stay here.”
He strides across the deck and yanks her arm, pulling her back from the ramp. “I am not going to risk the Mary Kay to rescue you this time. Either let me do it, or kiss goodbye to your boat. Your freaking call.”
“Fine. You do it then. I’d hate to get in your way.”
Jeez. He unlashes the ropes, reverses at speed, keeping away from the rocks. One day, he’ll learn to keep his trap shut and let her see how she manages with less know-how on the water than Jimmy’s got in his little finger. He swings the boat in a wide circle, surfs a wave to the dock, ties up and kills the engine. He marches up the ramp as a gust knocks him sideways.
Kate waits for him at the top. “Thanks,” she says, ungraciously.
“You’re welcome,” he responds, not meaning it.
When the furniture is tied down, they take shelter inside the café. Lightning strobes. Thunder rumbles, full of promise. They wait for a deluge that will soak the ground and raise the drooping heads of trees that have struggled through an almost bone-dry spring. The drops are big but they fall from the sky
like a handful of marbles, not enough to wet the ground. They check the horizon for the orange glow of bushfires. One lightning strike and the tinder-dry National Park will explode.
“This’ll get everyone off their backsides to check their water pumps and fire hoses instead of waiting till the flames are close enough to barbecue their sausages,” Sam says.
“That’s a bit unkind,” Kate snaps, still angry.
“I’ve lived through four big blazes, mate, and there’s nothing uglier if you’re unprepared.”
“Oh of course. I forgot. You’re a man of vast experience. Always the expert.”
He bites his tongue as they troop upstairs single-file to watch the progress of the storm from Ettie’s apartment. Sam, who hasn’t seen it since the furniture arrived, glances around and whistles. “Nice work. You’ve made it look great, Ettie. And Jimmy, you did a good paint job. Proud of you.”
“Kate unpacked and arranged the furniture,” Ettie says. “It’s all her doing.”
“So, you finally found something she’s good at, eh?” Sam marches past Kate to the deck and checks the horizon.
Kate glares after him. He doesn’t flinch.
“I’ll make a cuppa while the storm wears itself out,” Ettie says, hurrying off. Ego and pride, she thinks. Thrilled that she and Marcus are beyond caring about either.
Friday – the day before the official reopening of The Briny Café – is bedlam. The rush is on to finesse every last detail. Sam makes good an early promise and turns up not long after dawn with a new pontoon on permanent loan from Frankie. For a rental fee of one (large) chocolate cake a week.
Kate arrives with a tub of beeswax to polish shelves that are filling with preserves, jams and fiery curry pastes made by the best local cooks. Ettie has five pots on the go, as well as three mixing bowls, and the oven is chockers with the sweet little pick-me-ups she is so fond of. The café fridges fill with deliveries of fresh ingredients for Ettie to conjure her culinary magic.
Out of the blue, Ettie announces she’s terrified that if a customer’s first experience is ordinary, it will hurtle them towards bankruptcy. There are no second chances in the hospitality industry where word-of-mouth makes or breaks, she says. They must get it right first time or they will go under. Kate has never seen her so flustered.
Around nine o’clock, Jimmy arrives at the café at a pace so sedate Sam is prompted to slap him on the back in praise. The kid blushes and his skin clashes violently with his carrot hair.
Ettie wanders onto the deck to tell them that while her cakes are baking, she’ll cook a good healthy breakfast that will keep them going all day.
“A few mushies on toast’ll do, love. That’d be tops,” Sam insists.
Ten minutes later two plates, piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms topped with spinach and drizzled with a homemade tomato sauce spiked with the flavour of grilled capsicum, are ready. Kate grabs them and pushes open the flywire door with her foot. “Come and get it,” she calls.
Sam’s eyes light up. “A couple of slices of toast would have done. Ettie can’t help herself,” he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Eggs just how he likes them, firm at the edges, runny yolks. The tomato is cooked through and looks sweet as a watermelon. The bacon is crisp but not burnt. And the mushrooms? Pan-fried so hot they didn’t get a chance to turn soft and wet.
“You complaining?” Kate asks.
“She’s the only woman in the world who could get me to eat spinach.” He pats Kate’s backside absently and pulls a list of jobs for the day from his pocket.
Kate pauses at the door, which no longer squeaks. “Sam,” she says sweetly. “If you ever pat my backside again without a personal invitation, I’ll knock your head off. Do I make myself clear?”
“Eh?”
The door slams behind her.
Mid-morning, the chef arrives with a massive bouquet of pink Oriental lilies, trimmed of their lower leaves and messy gold stamens, and arranged in exactly the right size vase to fit at the far end of the cake display fridge. He puts them in place without consulting Ettie and she feels a niggle of uncertainty. Perhaps she’s not the main attraction after all. Maybe he harbours desires to muscle in on her territory.
“I was unable to personally deliver them to your home, Ettie, because I have no idea where you live,” Marcus explains. “Please forgive.”
“Ah,” she says with relief. “I’m about to have a coffee. Like one? I’ve made a little biscuity ginger cake. Almonds on top. We can take it upstairs. That’s where I live. Just moved in.”
His face lights up. Ettie goes ahead, her hips swaying in a way she hopes lifts his spirits. In the privacy of her apartment, he reaches for her with a hunger that a small piece of ginger cake could never appease. She falls into his arms with a sigh.
Later, she asks if he would like her to set aside a space in the café where he could sell his chocolates, or pastries, or whatever. She would have to discuss it with Kate, of course.
The chef takes a long time to answer. “Why are you inviting me?” he says, his velvety voice unusually tight.
“Well, we are asking the best local cooks and it would be rude not to include you.”
“Ah. So you are being diplomatic, only. You do not want my name?”
Ettie is appalled. “Good God, no! This is our café, our triumph or disaster, whatever it turns out to be.”
The chef’s brow clears. “I was so afraid. The fame. If that was all that attracted you.”
“And I wondered, I must admit, if it was the café that really tempted you.”
“So we are both uncertain, then, in our different ways.”
“It’s just … I am hardly a trophy,” Ettie says, softly.
“No,” he replies.
Ettie’s heart almost stops.
“You are a gift,” he says, finding the right word at last. Unaware she has just died a small death at his hands.
“Oh! Your coffee, the ginger cake,” she says, making a slight move to go and get them.
“I am finished with being a professional chef, Ettie,” Marcus says. “Cooking for a fundraiser, yes. Creating small delicacies for us to share in bed, yes. Running a café, no. My ambitions now are selfish. I must tell you all this because it is the truth.” He speaks the words gently but passionately. “I wish to read books that take me on journeys of the mind and spirit. To go fishing in the light of dawn. To wake in the morning and make buttery pastries for a beautiful woman. To seize not just each day but each moment, because I have reached the age when there is far more time behind than ahead. But I must tell you this, too, because it is true and I am a man of my word. If you ever need my help, you have only to ask and I will don my toque and stand beside you. For you, I will go into battle once more. But Ettie, most of all, I wish to love and to be loved in return.” There are two deep furrows between his brows. A query in his soft brown eyes. “Is this acceptable to you?” he asks, deeply serious.
“Oh my dear,” she whispers.
“I was prepared to find my way alone. But you were a strike from lightning. With you, I am more alive.”
“Chemistry,” she murmurs, her mouth close to his. “It’s all about chemistry.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The grand reopening to celebrate the fact that The Briny is back in full business takes place on a balmy, cloudless day with a lightly perfumed breeze wafting south from the tropics.
Ettie is calm and splendid in full chef regalia: checked trousers, white double-breasted jacket, black apron to her knees, a cloth over one shoulder. Her hair is tied back and tucked under a flaming orange bandana with tiny round mirrors sewn on. She pipes passionfruit cream into the scooped out hollows of lemon cupcakes. When she replaces their lids they look like wedding-day millinery.
Kate, with a navy-and-white butcher’s apron over her blue jeans, goes outside with a cloth to wipe the night dew from deck rails, seats and tables. She straightens furniture, fills salt and pepper shake
rs, sweeps the deck and checks the opening balance on the till for the third time.
“Ready, set, go,” says Ettie, without looking up from her cakes.
Kate flicks the sign from Closed to Open at 6.30 a.m. on the dot. The repaired door folds against the weathered timber wall, although flecks of paint still flake and puddle at the base. She hooks it in place with a shiny new latch and drags a blackboard outside that announces the café is open for business. Free coffee, today only, she adds in red chalk, to lure customers and give the day a sense of festivity.
They have agreed that Kate makes a fine pot of tea and Ettie is the queen of coffee. Kate will serve pre-prepared food. Ettie will do the cooking. Kate is the toast chef – Turkish, raisin, sourdough or ciabatta. Banana bread also falls into the toast category but involves a different process. It must be seared on a flat hotplate until it forms a crisp skin and is warm, but not red-hot, all the way through. Banana bread, Kate learns, is harder to get right than it appears.
Ettie has repeatedly told Kate that there is no time for mistakes, which, in any case, are expensive and wasteful. If she is unsure, she must ask questions. There can be no winging it with fingers crossed. Consumers are quick to judge and slow to forgive.
“Tourists, I mean. Offshorers will let us know if we’ve stuffed up and order us to have another go.” Ettie wipes down her workplace and checks the clock on the wall. “Time to make the sandwiches, Kate.”
At 6.45, their first (official) customer, a middle-aged bloke on his morning walk, strolls through the door. Kate steps up to the counter and takes his order for poached eggs, bacon (soft not crisp), sourdough toast, butter on the side. Coffee with a double shot. She clips the list to a rack above the grill. Ettie is already cracking two eggs into ramekins with a small amount of water in the bottom, ready for the microwave. She watches the seconds ticking down, no longer equating them – as she once did – with her future drizzling away in tiny electronic increments. He selects a newspaper.