The Briny Café (7 page)

The two Misses Skettle, who live in a lopsided, rabbity antiquarian boathouse tucked cosily inside the lip of Kingfish Bay, set a pot of red wine laced with brandy, sugar, orange and lemon slices, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg, on top of the stove to mull gently. As they do at the first scent of every big storm. They wait patiently for the sugar to dissolve before reducing the heat to barely a frisson. Then they make their way along the hallway to the front parlour where they sink into their favourite armchairs. The ones with faded rosy-pink slip covers. With a small glass each – to test the balance of the spices – they begin their watch. Expertly trained as enemy spotters in 1942, after three Japanese midget submarines made a series of attacks on Sydney Harbour, they take turns with the binoculars to scan the water for boats in difficulty. In more than sixty years they have rescued too many vessels to count and, once or twice, the lives of their skippers. It is a mission they will never abandon.

Given their age they are no longer able to fly to the aid of anyone in distress as they did in the days of rowboats, putt-putts and skiffs. Instead, they call Sam Scully. Which is precisely what they do when they see a tinny die on the water
just as the wind is starting to gust up to twenty-five knots and the waterway is beginning to seethe.

They recognise the boat instantly but not the driver, which leads them to believe, they tell Sam in a serious tone, that the boat could well be stolen.

Resigned to his fate, Sam closes his mobile and gives up the shelter of the Island to plough back to the open passageway. No good turn, he mumbles, goes unpunished. Never truer words spoken.

Five minutes later, the barge takes a knock from a gust and corkscrews on the rising swell. Thirty knots, he guesses, watching spume rise off the water. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A flash of lightning flares beyond the rugged escarpments. Through a blanket of rain, he makes out Kate's boat being buffeted towards Rocky Point. He drags out his wet-weather gear from under the banquette, pulls it on and heads towards her, swearing under his breath. If it had been anyone but Ettie asking for help, he'd have kept his big trap well and truly shut and, as a result, he'd be curled up nice and dry, watching the footy with a mug of Milo and a continental hot dog slathered with mustard and tomato sauce.

He gets a glimpse of a sodden Kate standing in the cockpit, gripping the roof against the bucking sea. Her skinny legs, like toothpicks, braced wide. She's looking straight at the rocks. He can't make out the expression on her face but she should be bloody-well terrified.

He eases the barge as close as he can without risking a collision. “What's up?” he yells through the roar of the storm.

She turns her head and ducks too late. A wave of deep
green water slams into her face. She slips and almost loses her balance. “Out of petrol,” she calls.

“I'm going to throw you a rope. Tie it onto the bow, okay? Can you do that?”

She nods.

“Crawl through the front hatch to catch it. It's safer than trying to edge forward around the gunnel.”

She nods again and ducks through the opening.

Sam dashes back to the wheelhouse, riding the movement of the barge like a showjumper. He pushes the throttle up a notch and eases ahead of the tinny then slides into neutral and rushes to the stern, trusting the
Mary Kay
to fend for herself like the noble warrior he knows her to be. He grabs a line, waits till a swell lifts the tinny, then tosses. Kate misses the first throw.

He reels in the rope, coiling it quickly. “If you miss this one you'll have to go it alone. In three minutes we're going to hit rock.”

“Go for it,” she yells.

The rope soars across the water, unravelling in the air like a snake. Kate reaches up with both hands. Grabs it and falls flat on her face. That must hurt like stink, Sam thinks. But she holds up the end in victory, kneels to wrap it around a cleat. Six loops, he notes with approval, but she hasn't tied off. It's full-on amateur hour.

“Get back in the cabin. Keep the end in your hand and do not, I repeat,
do not
let go,” he calls out. Not hanging around to see if she understands, he races for the wheelhouse, slams the barge into reverse and hopes like hell there's enough length in the rope to stop the tinny rounding up and smashing
into his hull. What a freaking disaster. He sees the tinny swing into the clear. Tension eases out of his shoulders at about the same rate as his anger fires up. He came so close to smashing his precious barge – his livelihood, for God's sake – on a pissy little outcrop of rocks. And all for what? A dead ugly boat worth a couple of grand and a woman that right now he could rip the head off. She launches herself in a storm without a clue how to even tie a knot! A bloody two-year-old can learn how to do a half-hitch in three seconds flat.

He lets go of the helm and rubs a hole in the mist on the back window. At least she hasn't dropped the rope. Her hands must be burning, he thinks, with something close to satisfaction.

He sees a light in the Oyster Bay boatshed. He presses his horn until Frankie emerges in his overalls and black cap. Sam waves and points at the tinny attached to the tow rope. Ignoring the driving rain, the boat mechanic strolls down the jetty like it's a sunny day. Sam swings wide, dashes to untie the stern line and throws it at Frankie. He catches it as casually as a set of keys tossed across a kitchen counter, ties it on and walks off without a word.

Instead of heading home like he intended, at the last minute Sam decides to dock the
Mary Kay
and have a firm word with Kate. He'll resist the urge to grab the dopey woman by the scruff of the neck and tell her ignorant fools on the water put other people and their precious vessels at risk. All he plans to do is suggest, nice and polite – as is his customary habit – that she take a few lessons from someone like Frankie, who is a lovely bloke once you understand him, and someone who knows more about boats than anyone else in Cook's Basin. A
few easy pointers before she ventures further than her pontoon might be worth considering, he'll say. Sweet and accommodating. He runs through the spiel in his head once more to make sure he's got the tone just right. To him, it sounds quick and to the point. He marches off, blinded by the rain, hearing the squelch of water in his leather boots.

At the end of the jetty, he leans over the side of the tinny. Time to set her straight. He peers into the cabin.

“You can let go now,” he says softly.

She drops the rope. She doesn't move.

“You did a good job. Honest. Most novices would have freaked.”

She turns a face covered in blood towards him. She's crying. He steps on board and lifts her to her feet, pulling her against his chest. He feels her shaking – from the cold or from relief, he's not sure which. He wriggles out of his jacket and presses her head into the hollow of his shoulder while he drags the waterproof around her to keep the rain off. “It's okay. It's all good. You're fine.”

“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.