The Cafe by the Bridge Page 8

  ‘And I think October’s a bit late,’ the lady added. ‘We should have been here in September.’

  ‘August even,’ her partner said.

  ‘I was born here, but I never paid much attention to the flowers,’ Abe apologised.

  ‘Better flowers to pay attention to back then, weren’t there, mate?’ the bloke responded with a wink that made his wife dig her knuckles into his arm and admonish, ‘Ned!’

  ‘There’s an information bay in Mount Barker that will help. And the tourist bureau in Albany if you’re going that far down,’ Abe said, ringing up the till for the coffees and cake. He didn’t bother handing them a table number. They were the only folk in the café.

  ‘We’re heading straight across to the Stirling Ranges,’ the woman said. ‘We weren’t going to go down as far as Albany.’

  ‘You should be right then. There’s lots of info on the walk trails in the national parks. You can’t really go wrong.’

  His family had spent a lot of spring weekends in the Porongurups and Stirling Ranges when he was younger, taking the campervan, hiking up Bluff Knoll that was always cold as hell up the top. He had never really been into it. Not like Jake and Brix.

  Bit like the farm, really. His brothers loved feeding out hay, driving tractors, tailing lambs and throwing fleeces in the shearing shed once they could see up and over the sorting table. They had the knack of working the dogs, getting the sheep in the yards without having one or two skip the flock and take off, sometimes into the creek or dam, muddying the wool, making their old man angry that he’d mucked up a simple job.

  He’d been happier baking scones with his mum, taking those hot from the oven across from the house to the shearing shed for morning smoko.

  You be the black sheep hey, young Abel? the Kiwi shearers joked.

  Dad never laughed.

  Abe made the coffees and cut carrot cake, squirted a rosette of cream on the plate, found two forks and two spoons and carried it all across to the hikers, thinking life really hadn’t changed. Here he was fifteen years older, cooking and serving food rather than producing it.

  He wasn’t salt of the earth like his family. He was salt in the larder.

  ‘Something’s smelling good back there,’ the lady said, clearing salt and pepper shakers and glassware from the middle of the table so Abe could place the cake in the middle.

  ‘Fish curry on the menu for lunch. Picked up some lovely fresh snapper in Albany this morning.’

  ‘We’re not staying for lunch, Mary,’ the husband said.

  ‘We’ve only got two days away. Ned wants to make the most of it,’ the woman told Abe.

  ‘So he should when you got a day like this,’ Abe said, backing away. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. Just shout.’

  The woman thanked him, and Abe returned to find his curry sauce simmering too high.

  Hadn’t he turned the gas hob low? Abe dug a spatula into the pot and stirred. The bottom hadn’t caught, but it was a near thing. Lucky. He’d almost ruined lunch.

  He shook his head as he lowered the flame. Losing it.

  Now what was he doing before those customers came in?

  Aha. Cinnamon sticks. He returned to the pantry shelf, closing his fingers around glass jars, bringing three and four jars at a time out to the benchtop so he could see all the jars and all the packets, and he’d know for sure he wasn’t going crazy.

  They had to be there or he’d have written them on his list.

  A new song started on the radio and the first bass notes had him clutching the jars in his fingers so tight he must have damn near cracked them. His gut simmered like the gas flames under the curry: blue, tight and low.

  It’s just a song, Abe. Keep it together, man.

  Nah, it wasn’t just a song. It was that fucking song.

  He’d find those cinnamon sticks if he emptied this damn pantry completely, but first, he had to change the radio station.

  * * *

  Taylor tied Bruno’s leash to the table leg outside the café and told him to stay. Bruno promptly dropped to his belly in a patch of sunlight, head up, tongue out, panting after the walk. He had very happy puppy eyes.

  As she walked into the café, she scanned for Abe. A couple sat near the window, finishing up cake and coffee. There was a group at the counter and, judging by the restless feet and the way the tallest of them kept craning his neck and standing on tiptoe trying to see through the open doorway behind the counter that led to the kitchen, they’d been there a while.

  Classical music buffeted the interior like a strong wind.

  As the door chimed, the group turned as one to look at Taylor.

  ‘Hope you’re not in a hurry,’ the tallest man said to her when she was close enough. ‘Reckon he’s run out of milk and gone to catch the cow.’

  ‘Those people said there was a man here,’ a woman indicated the couple seated. ‘We rang the bell, but no one’s come to serve us.’

  ‘I’ll check out back. I know the owner,’ Taylor, said, skirting the queue as the smallest buzz of alarm stroked her spine. Ella said Abe wasn’t great at customer service but she’d had three days’ experience of Chalk ’n’ Cheese Café and she’d never known him to completely ignore his customers before.

  Was Abe okay?

  The music volume increased as Taylor entered the kitchen. A big pot, like a soup pot, sat above a low flame on the stovetop, bubbled condensation trapped under the lid. Spice warmed the air and Taylor’s nose twitched. More ‘Cs’: coconut, curry.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, moving further into the commercial kitchen space.

  This didn’t feel like Abe had taken a break, but it was hard to think with all that orchestral clash and crash music blaring.

  Goosebumps broke over her skin and she stilled.

  Spice packets lay strewn across the stainless steel cooking bench. Several had missed the bench and dived over the side, open packets painting the floorboards a dust of orange, brown and rust. Glass jars sat on the counter, some on their side. Only the rim of a chopping board had stopped those falling to the floor.

  ‘Abe?’ Taylor called, stepping forward carefully so she didn’t crush spice into cracks between planks.

  She had to clear the line of the cooking benchtop before she saw him. He was on the floor, back bowed against the upright cupboards, knees bent, head in his hands.

  Taylor scooted around the corner of the countertop and dropped to Abe’s side.

  No blood.

  ‘Abe?’ She put her arm around his shoulders. Squeezed. ‘Are you hurt?’

  No knife. No weapon.

  He moved. Lifted his head and blinked at her.

  He’s okay. He’s breathing.

  Taylor couldn’t remember a time in her life when a ripple of movement as small as a blink had caused her such a tidal wave of relief.

  He put a hand on the floor beside him for balance and pushed up, suddenly impressively agile, and he was on his feet while she was still squatting on the floor trying to work it all out.

  ‘Hey, Taylor. What’s up?’ He held his hand out to help her up.

  She didn’t say anything for a beat, concentrating all her attention on his face. The music … how could he not notice how loud the music was? ‘Nothing’s up with me. How about you?’ She accepted his helping hand, aware of the ache at the back of her knees as she straightened.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. I slipped,’ he said, staring at the packets of herb and spice on the floor.

  ‘Slipped?’

  His eyes twitched away. ‘Yeah. Tripped over my stupid feet. Knocked this stuff flying.’

  They both knew he was lying through his teeth. The psychologist inside her also knew this wasn’t the time to call him out on it, so she let it go with a silent promise. Later.

  ‘You’ve got customers, Abe,’ she said, and it was ridiculous that they were standing a metre apart and yelling over saxophone and clarinet and trumpets. ‘The music is heaps loud.’


  ‘Is it? Sorry.’ He moved easily to his right and grabbed a remote to operate the stereo system. ‘This song came on the radio … hate that song, can’t listen to it. I switched it to the classical channel. Must have knocked the volume higher by mistake.’ He pressed the button and, blissfully, the intensity faded. Then he turned back to Taylor. ‘Don’t you like classical music?’

  ‘I like just about any music as long as it’s got some skill to it. Phew. That’s better. That was hurting my ears.’ She took a deep breath and pulled on a smile. ‘Now. Do you need some help in the café today?’

  ‘Are you offering?’

  He was joking with her, but she was serious. ‘If you need help, I’ve got some time to spare. I’m on holiday.’

  ‘You wanna make coffee and be nice to people on your holiday?’

  ‘It’s no big deal. It’s just for a few hours.’ If she treated it like no big deal, his pride wouldn’t cop a dent. Guys weren’t great at asking for, or accepting, help at the best of times and she had to start somewhere because Abe definitely needed help.

  ‘Can you make coffee? You’ll have to do a bit more than a few soy lattes.’

  ‘If you show me how the machine works, I think I can manage. How about you serve the people out there—I think they’ve been waiting a while—and then show me when it’s quiet. I’ll clean up in here.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Is that okay, Abe?’

  ‘If you want to spend your day off here, then fine, I guess. Who am I to turn away free labour?’

  ‘Cool.’ She indicated the simmering pot. Even with the lid on, the smell coming from the pot was divine. ‘What’s on the stove?’

  ‘It’s curry sauce.’

  ‘It smells amazing.’

  ‘I’m missing cinnamon sticks,’ he said. The words flopped from his lips, brittle as bark. ‘I thought I had some sticks in the pantry. I always stock them, but buggered if I could find ’em. Must have fallen behind something else.’

  ‘Is that what you were doing when you … slipped?’

  His face closed. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Ella has cinnamon sticks in her pantry. I saw them last night. She buys cinnamon sticks like I buy chocolate. Would you like me to go grab a packet for you?’

  ‘It’s no drama?’

  ‘No drama, if you don’t mind keeping half an eye on Bruno. I’ll leave him out the front.’ Then she hit her hand on her forehead. ‘Dammit. Sorry. I walked here. I don’t have my car.’

  ‘Take mine.’ He strode a couple of paces to a series of hooks on the wall and grabbed a set of keys.

  ‘Drive your car?’ Taylor queried.

  ‘It’s just a car, Doc.’ A smile crinkled the skin near his eyes.

  Doc.

  The nickname was every bit as warm and familiar as Brix’s earlier JT in the street. It even had the same sense of history behind it. Three days of soy lattes, tug-of-war with Bruno and flying a bird with a swimmer’s name.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Taylor moved about the café, stacking chrome chairs under the tables and straightening the magazines. Abe got the till to balance. He had a week’s worth of newspapers to chuck in the recycling bin out the back, and then he could call it a day.

  What a day. The weight of it hurt his shoulders.

  There was a gap in his timeline from when that song came on the radio, and then Taylor was shaking his shoulder and Abe realised his butt and back were stiff and cold from sitting on the floor.

  He owed Taylor big-time for today. He owed her more for not making him feel like a dick and for keeping him company, without making him feel like she was checking up on him. He owed her for not pressing.

  If anyone pressed him about today his head would cave in, starting in that spot high behind his eyes where the pressure lurked heavy and thick, and everything felt like wet cement.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift back to Ella’s,’ he offered.

  Taylor paused with her hands gripping the back of a chair. She flicked her fringe aside to meet his eyes. ‘You don’t want my dog in your car. We’ll walk home. It’s a nice afternoon. Bruno’s been so good today. He deserves a good walk.’

  He cast his eyes out the glass. Afternoon sun coloured the willows on Cutters Creek, bouncing off the white reflective railings of the bridge.

  Nanna Irma used to sit on her rocker on the verandah on afternoons like this. He’d sit on the step with one of her sultana cakes warm in his hands, and she’d do crosswords and ask him to help with the clues. Percy—or maybe the bird she’d had before him—would whistle at them from his cage, and Nanna would say the bridge looked like such a postcard today.

  ‘What’s a postcard, Nan?’

  ‘It’s a pretty picture you write on. Only there’s never enough space for the writing and I’ve always got too much to say.’

  He picked up a week’s worth of Farmers Weekly, The West Australian and the local Courier.

  ‘Do you want to come with us some of the way, Abe? It’s so nice out,’ Taylor said.

  He thought about it—a walk with Taylor—and some of that wet cement feeling behind his eyes lifted.

  ‘A walk would be great. Let me dump these in the recycling and close up. I’ll meet you out the front. Two secs.’

  When Abe got back, Taylor was outside waiting with Bruno. Her attention was on the street where a magpie swooped at a kid riding home from school on his bike.

  ‘Look at that!’ she said, pointing towards the boy, now pedalling madly away from the angry bird.

  ‘It’s that time of year. They protect their nests.’

  ‘I reckon. They’re hard core. Look!’ she said it again as the bird made another dive-bombing run. ‘Poor kid.’

  ‘Gotta breed kids tough in the country.’

  ‘Why haven’t they swooped me? I’ve walked this road with Bruno heaps of times the last few days.’

  Abe shrugged. ‘Maybe they don’t like the kid’s shiny helmet. Maybe it’s because the bike is faster and they think it’s a threat. Maybe their eggs just hatched and they got new chicks in the nest. Who knows? You gonna try to work out what goes on in a bird’s brain now, Doc?’

  ‘I’m seriously reconsidering your offer about the lift,’ she said.

  ‘Come on. I’ll protect you. Let’s take the river track. I don’t think there are maggies down there.’

  Her nose crinkled, but she said, ‘Okay,’ and Abe led the way.

  It was cool in the shade of the willows, refreshing after the warmth of ovens and stovetops, steam and hot water. Taylor let Bruno off his leash to run.

  The best thing was they didn’t talk and it was a comfortable silence.

  ‘I like how I don’t feel like I have to talk to you,’ Abe said because he couldn’t help himself. ‘Is that too blunt?’

  She laughed. A proper laugh with her lips wide and her eyes screwed up, and not a care about whether it was too loud or anyone overheard. Her laugh made him feel lighter.

  ‘I don’t mind blunt. Blunt is good. Too much bullshit in the world when you think about it,’ she said.

  ‘If more people in the world were blunt with each other and there was less bullshit, it’d put people like you out of a job.’

  She considered that, and gave him an easy reply. ‘Maybe. Not the kids though and they’re who I work with most of the time. Kids are about as blunt as you can get and it doesn’t really help them. We condition bluntness out of them a lot of the time, tell them it’s not polite. It’s like the times in the supermarket when kids are little and they’ll say to their mum, “look at that fat lady” and the poor mum dies of embarrassment and pushes her shopping trolley up the next aisle fast as she can and hopes the fat lady never heard. The mum spends the next five minutes talking about manners and how we can’t say things like that, even if it’s the truth.’

  They walked on damp leaves on a path where pea-gravel had long ago sunk into the clay, pressed by paws and shoes and bike tyres. It smelled of yesterday’s rai
n and earth and of the creek. Abe breathed deep.

  ‘You don’t have kids, Doc?’

  ‘No.’

  He dug his hands in his jeans pockets. ‘You don’t want them?’

  She flashed him a sideways glance. ‘Are you practising your blunt?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s none of my business, really. Just curious. You work with kids all day, last thing you’d want is a bunch of screaming rug rats waiting for you at home.’

  Another walker with a dog on a leash rounded a bend in the path, heading towards them, and Taylor called Bruno back and clipped his leash, groaning a little as she straightened.

  ‘Does your back hurt?’ Abe asked.

  ‘A bit. And my feet.’

  ‘You’re not used to standing on them all day.’

  They greeted the walker—a florid-faced woman with her cardigan tied around her waist—and kept going.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever have kids of my own,’ Taylor said quietly, as if she was admitting to not watching a popular TV show, something everyone else liked and talked about around the coffee pot at work on a Monday morning like Game Of Thrones. She unclipped Bruno’s lead again and the dog charged off. ‘I’m not saying I won’t change my mind. There’s a bit of life in these old ovaries yet.’

  How much older was she than him? She didn’t look thirty. She did look older than—his brain flinched but he couldn’t stop the thought—Amanda.

  ‘How old are you, Taylor?’ When she chuckled and shook her head, he added, ‘I’m not supposed to ask that, am I?’

  ‘You are so not supposed to ask a girl how old she is.’

  A stride or two. A leaf-deadened footfall. Waiting for her answer and hoping it wouldn’t be: how old do you think I am?

  ‘I’ll be thirty-three in February,’ she said.

  So she was thirty-two. Six years older than him. ‘You don’t look thirty.’

  ‘Thank you. Gold-star answer right there. I’ll let you hang around a bit longer.’ She glanced at him and her fringe hit her eyebrow. She used her finger to push it away. ‘What about you? How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘You’re a baby! What does that birthday make you? Scorpio? Virgo?’