Читать книгу The Country of Our Dreams - Mary O'Connell - Страница 10

Sydney was displaying her early autumn splendour. Flower litter everywhere. Crepe myrtles blushing pink, frangipanis scattering their creamy petals onto the pavements. The sea mild and blue and green and kind - glittering gently at the shore.

Siena Ryan loved Coogee Beach in all its aspects, from riotous, ridiculously overcrowded summer through to the pearly quiet winter. But it was these occasions; her sporadic dawn visits, which always took her breath away. The sense of freshness, of possibility, of a powerful yet infinitely gentle Universe lying right here in front of her, oblivious to the great struggle and grind and road and light rail rage behind. Siena loved the sea, and she longed for it, as maybe everyone must, she thought, who had endured a landlocked childhood.

Leaning over the stone wall above the beach, she could see the morning swimmers lapping determinedly across the bay. They would be doing the same determined laps up at Wylie's Baths. To her left and right, all along the northern and southern headlands, people were walking briskly up and down, or jogging or running. Sydneysiders, she thought, you have to give it to them. Always on the up and up, working for some invisible drill sergeant. Training for their own personal Olympics.

Why can’t they just stop and look?

She walked past the statue of the Digger and the surf lifesaver holding hands, and checked out the usual crowds at Barzura. How come they were always so packed. She knew the answer. The view, the view, the view. The view of the great wonderful ocean that Hilary's poor Planet does not have.

Yet by the time she came up reluctantly from the beach, The Planet was also full – of swimmers, joggers, walkers, silver haired retirees and svelte suited workers. This new Sydney of social breakfasts and brunches, of endless community. No-one eats at home anymore. All to the good of course for Hilary’s business.

Siena stepped up and into The Planet, met by the aroma of Sacred Ground coffee. Renata was this morning’s barista, a sullen but glorious tattooed girl with a great cleavage and determined wrist. She bangs the coffee grinds into submission. She looked at Siena with mild disdain. Hilary says it’s not personal, Renata is contemptuous of everyone, but Siena still feels unsure.

Out from the tiny kitchen where the heroic Pirate and his crew work, come plates of crispy bacon, corn fritters with spicy tomato salsa; ricotta, cranberry and apple pancakes; organic muesli with vanilla seeded yoghurt and cinnamon poached pears. Out the front in pride of place by the coffee machine lies a still-warm tray of Hilary’s famously huge buttermilk and berry muffins – all made to cherish and nourish the world.

Hilary works like a dog, Siena thinks, but her generosity attracts, and the financial returns do show positive. Not great, but good enough. As long as they can keep the greedy landlords of Coogee at bay. Every rent increase an attack on the social contract. Bookshops gone, bakeries gone. The local hardware shop just a memory. Still, we can always eat our cake. And muffins.

Yet even in sociable Coogee, not every café succeeds. There are occasional mystery patches, the half empty cafes in between the crowded houses. As if the populace has all agreed, made a pact, let’s not go in there. But why? Siena and Hilary are intensely interested in the failures. If not the rent, what makes a café go under? What makes the great intuitive, or is it unconscious, public turn away from one door and enter another? The person who cracks the mathematical code, the algorithm of retail, will surely become a millionaire. Maybe already has.

The Pirate brushed past her with a deep bowl of quinoa and black rice porridge. He likes to serve customers himself every now and then, to relate just a little. Hilary lets her cook do what he likes. She is so grateful to him for his loyalty. He held the fort when Vianney suddenly left the cafe business. Five years ago now, and they all survived. Thank god. No thanks to Vianney of course.

The Pirate’s real name is Nigel but they are not to speak it. Early in his life he faced down the challenge of a huge front tooth gap by sporting a large silver earring in one ear and a bandanna on his head or around his neck. It makes him handsome, dashing in a Daniel Day-Lewis kind of way. A plain man who can act handsome.

At this early stage of the day, customers are sitting in what Siena considers to be her own table at the back of the Planet, where she often marks undergraduate history papers. If she isn’t working on her own unending doctoral thesis. But that is usually in the afternoon. In return for the table, Siena will help Hilary out with drying the cutlery or wiping tables down. She enjoys the work. She always likes hanging out with Hils. Hilary is the sister Siena never had, the one she longed for in that bleak childhood of troubled boys and men. Hilary didn’t have a sister either, so the feeling is mutual. Or should be, but isn’t quite. Siena knows Hilary wasn’t looking for a sister. She was looking for Vianney.

Except Hilary isn’t here this morning. And the Pirate is looking stressed. Like he’s not doing this front of house service for fun after all.

‘What’s up?’ Siena asks the Pirate as he reappears with more food.

‘Nothing’s up,’ he says, pretending. ‘Hilary just asked me to mind the front of shop while she went home to check up on Vianney.’

‘What’s wrong with Vianney?’

The Pirate gives her a sharp appraising look. Before she can say I am his sister, he gives in. ‘Not so well,’ he mumbles as he moves on with the pancakes. ‘The black dog.’

‘Oh shit.’ Siena sighs. Not again.