The Ozone Cafe

The Ozone Café

Helen Hagemann

Oz.one Publishing ©

Copyright © by Helen Hagemann

Published by Oz.one Publishing ©

Cover Photograph by permission

Cover Design by the author / Canva ©

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales are entirely coincidental

For any information, please contact the author at helenhagemann.net

Ozone Café, Ettalong, circa 1945. Sam Hood photograph courtesy

Central Coast Library Service

Oz.one Publishing ©

2nd Edition, 2024

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Afterword

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Bream Street Circa 1946

PART 1

It was perhaps the first time a freezing sensation had overwhelmed him. Age had run into his iron bones and most days he couldn’t get out of bed. Not that anyone would notice, living alone all these years and he’d left retirement too late. It was only the fishing in Satara Bay that had kept him going, his beach cottage central to everything, and his blue-aproned chums. He couldn’t bear that terrible noise again in his head; a bell was ringing pulled by a string. He didn’t want this to happen tonight. Not tonight at the Grand Master’s presentation. How many years had it been?  Seven, he recollected, seven slow years waiting for the position of Vice-Grand Master. All eyes would turn on him. Stan the Man, they jokingly called him. But when it came to his carpentry skills, they almost bowed in adoration.

He dressed in his Masonic regalia, and opened his case checking the contents. The details were there for the Spring Ball, his launch speech, invitations to dignitaries, parents and members. He patted the envelope before clicking the locks. He would be proud to introduce the debutants.

It was only 6 o’clock, so he decided to take a leisurely detour to the Esplanade Hotel, have one or two pints for Dutch courage.

The terrible noise started again, more than one bell. He was still cold. Winter that silent oppressor. He sat in the beer garden looking out to sea. He couldn’t make out the demarcation line of the horizon with a rising mist coming in, the edges of sky and ocean near the Heads melding into one landscape.

He hummed an old Irish tune. When he finished his second pint he started walking towards the shops, past the Diggers’ hall, the housie-housie shed and finally turned into the front yard of the Masonic Lodge.

‘Nice evening, Stan,’ said an old friend, slowly ascending the steps with a wooden cane.

‘How’s the back?’ asked Stan.

‘Oh, you know,’ he replied, knocking out one of his legs to keep moving, ‘can’t complain.’

The ceremony began at 8 o’clock with a three-course meal. After two new Apprentices had been initiated into the Kingdom, it was time for the presentation. This time, Stan could hear an orchestra of bells where there was none. He managed to be bold and so stood behind the microphone, a little wobbly at first. It was his duty to swear allegiance to the brotherhood; to wear the colors of Vice-Grand Master with pride.

A growing tiredness overcame him, and giving his excuses he left the Masonic Hall alone. A thick fog covered the sleeping town, and at almost midnight, intervals of rain began spotting the pavement and the blue of his coat. He hurried home.

When he arrived on the landing of his front porch, he sensed someone in the shadows. There were no street lights and something stirred behind in the dark. Silhouettes and shapes in the gloomy night, then a heavy army of three men dominated his bent frame. He moved his arms out to stop them, but their wild punches struck. He could not fight them off.

Beyond some distant shore, Stan the Man knew that all the bells had stopped.

OWNER NO. 1

Chapter 1

‘To all the pleasures and treasures of a new country,’ said Rennie, a large glass raised in drunken salutation.

‘To Australia, my new life here and to you, my brother,’ said Vincenzo. He drank deeply from his own glass, a middle-aged man trying hard to focus on the joyful occasion after sharing several bottles of Grappa. Vincenzo Polamo was indeed happy. Even though a large fly had resided on his nose for several minutes, and the bright sunshine had made him sweat, he could still raise another glass and toast a cheerful saluti to his new homeland.  ‘I’m very grateful,’ he said, a slur of other words following, like prost and nostrovia.

‘Take it easy, old man,’ said Rennie, patting his brother’s knee.

Vincenzo scrunched his eyes into the glare. He liked being with his younger brother, and although older he was taller and hairier. Vincenzo remembered, as a boy, his deep set eyes and his thick eyelashes continually flicked. Two main vital parts of his nature mattered to Vincenzo. His brother’s warmth and emotion, a softening after a drink like the old days, and a trickle of tears when they first hugged dockside. Vincenzo had arrived only three days before in the middle of a sailing regatta in Sydney harbour and couldn’t quite believe he was here. In the relaxed atmosphere of warm weather and alcohol, he reflected on his past journey, meeting new Sicilian friends onboard, his brother’s crazy bear-hug on the wharf and then a sight-seeing tour across Sydney Harbour Bridge.

On the upper deck where the two men sat drinking, Vincenzo witnessed the idyllic life of his brother, a successful model he’d worked hard for in the ten years since migrating. His north shore mansion was especially ornate with statues of cherubs, angels and crouched griffins, each one facing towards the treetops. The frontage featured high walls, twisted brickwork, automatic wrought iron gates, and reclining lions atop of two pillars. The street spanned into a wide cul-de-sac with other houses of similar build, backyards facing the river, some with their own private jetties.

The afternoon sun shone hot on Vincenzo’s face. He didn’t mind after a cold blustery sea voyage. He had his feet firmly on terra ferma, and it was good to reconnect with someone from his family, while his own remained in Italy.

A downstairs telephone rang, interrupting the men’s reverie. ‘That’s just business,’ his brother said. ‘I’ll be back soon, won’t be long.’

Vincenzo loved his brother, but he couldn’t help notice the extra weight he was carrying; a paunch at his belly, wide across the shoulders and chest. H he was no longer the skinny little brother from ten years ago. Renato still had his thick wavy hair, and although Vincenzo’s was thinning on top, they had the same inherited

nose, slightly elongated, robust tip with hairy nostrils.  Both could claim a further family resemblance to their father’s and grandfather’s five o’clock shadow, a dark stubble appearing within hours of shaving.

In his inebriated state, Vincenzo lay back with his arms behind his head. His wife Maria hadn’t wanted to migrate with him. Before the voyage, he should have revealed the terrible stress he was under with the Camino brothers. He owed them extortion money. They had visited his car repairs, taken stock and machine parts; smashed everything in sight, leaving him shocked and humiliated, powerless to stand up to them. He remembered their combat boots kicking over every piece of furniture in his office.  The truth was he needed to get out of the country.

He did not deny now that he’d made a big mistake being frantic and pig-headed in front of his family about living in Sydney. But since arriving in Australia he knew he could make a fresh start with his brother’s help.   

The hot afternoon sun glared into Vincenzo’s face jolting him awake. He’d gone from musing about his time onboard, to his hometown, now he was back lounging in his brother’s magnificent house. He didn’t want to move. He gazed at the great expanse of Renato’s property, a work utility and a Mercedes Benz parked in the driveway. Grape vines and conifers lined the side of the driveway and a terraced backyard reached the verge of the river beginning with a swimming pool.

He still couldn’t get Maria out of his mind. On their last day together, sitting on a bench in the main square of town, and in between the skulking shadows and branches, he had pleaded with her, the nervous, uncontrolled jiggling of his knees, his hands curling to a fist. Saying their goodbyes, he remembered the terrible darkness in her face, that stubborn sign that she would never come to Australia.

‘I make a beautiful home for us,’ he said, getting up and shouting. ‘You wait and see! You will love Australia. I build a large home for you with my brother with lions on the gate and a big backyard.’

How uncomfortable it had been arguing. 

This day with his brother had brought many interesting and new things, and taking one more sip of Grappa, Vincenzo brought his grateful mind back to the blue sky and the warm still breeze. He crouched down on the floor, patting Rennie’s dog, a black and tan terrier. ‘We see,’ he said tousling her fur and lifting her name tag. ‘Maybe they will want to come later, hey… Pomadina!’

The dog slid her paws across the tiled patio, barking at the top of the steps. ‘Hey, it’s me, stupido!’ said Rennie. ‘Pack some things, Vin. I’ve got a few weeks off. I want to show you my cottage in Satara Bay. We’ll leave tomorrow at dawn. It’s a slow trip.’

‘Oh good, Renato,’ he said.

‘Oh, one thing old boy, my name is Rennie now.’

‘You shortened it, hey?’

‘They put ‘e’ on the end of things here, like ‘vegie, barbie, tinnie’. I like it short.’

‘Oh, okay. I get used to it.’ Vincenzo scratched the back of his neck, so many changes and a mystery surrounding Cattania. He was surprised how silent his brother was about his wife, nowhere to be seen, although a large room upstairs remained locked.

Another unusual thing tweaked his attention. Rennie had bought birthday roses for a neighbor up the street. He didn’t like to ask questions, it was none of his business, yet he hoped that his brother would tell him about his new lady when he was good and ready.

On his arrival and telephoning Maria and the girls, Vincenzo explained that Cattania wasn’t in the house and stranger still that no one had heard anything from her, a girl who talked non-stop.

Back in Paola, it had been a double celebration, his brother marrying Cattania and leaving for Australia in the coming weeks. Vincenzo and Maria joined the family singing around a large table, enjoying their last meal together. Although a little misty-eyed, Vincenzo was happy for his brother, the wine helping to toast a farewell to the happy couple. Later, in his brother’s letters, he mentioned owner-building different houses, the first one in Seaforth, then moving to Manly. He built his current one not far from the Gladesville Bridge, informing the family now and again about fishing from his boat or catching large silver bream off the rocks. But they hadn’t received any news about Cattania or whether a little bambino had arrived.

Vincenzo and his brother had parted ways as young men living in different Calabrian towns. Rennie was once in a long relationship with a girl called Anna, but Cattania had been a strange choice over the girl they expected he would marry.

If anything, Vincenzo preferred to talk about the good times as teenagers fishing for hours, trolling their skiff along the crusty valleys of the Savuto River. In the planned holiday tomorrow, he would learn about his brother’s his new life and he hoped those happy times would return, this time in a different bay, near a different ocean, casting rods into the sunrise.

Chapter 2

They travelled along the coast by train, Vincenzo listening to his brother’s descriptions of the countryside and the best way for future trips. Vincenzo agreed that if he took the journey several times, he’d soon learn the bus and train timetables to Satara Bay, and where to alight for the downhill trek to his cottage.

He packed a summer suit for the occasion along with a beach towel and bathing costume. It was a grand moment for Vincenzo, but there was a slight pang of jealousy about his brother’s wealth, owning a holiday house, motor boat, several cars and a city mansion. His home held expansive views to the Lane Cove River, a squadron of boats bouncing in the breeze, and inside the house, a tiled kitchen, two refrigerators and an inbuilt wall-oven in feature brick. The shag pile carpet in the lounge and family rooms and terrazzo tiles in the entry, games room and patio showed the opulence of his brother’s expensive taste and good living.

He had accommodated Vincenzo with the plushness of a king, giving him the whole top story where he slept, relaxed, and played pool on a large, classic billiard table. The little terrier that continually licked him when he arrived became his, and followed him from room to room, constantly nipping at his heels.

On the train, Vincenzo viewed a panorama of hills, houses and water courses, each station bringing an assortment of young and old commuters alighting or waiting on the platform. The northern suburbs soon made way into a mountain range and scrubland, a highway curving through the hillsides, little towns with wooden cottages, a river junction with jetties, and a road and train bridge spanning the river’s wide girth.

‘See that fellow,’ said Rennie, pointing towards the window, ‘he’s selling oysters. We’ll get some and have them for lunch.’

Vincenzo poked his head from the carriage window, the seller further up extending his wares towards the train from a slung basket. At the same time, passengers reached out for his slim oyster-filled bottles. He waved to the fellow who lifted an oyster bottle in his direction.

It was not in his character to be homesick, but the briny air and tang of fishing made Vincenzo compare his hometown Paola where he grew up. He could always smell the sea from his mountain chalet and when things got tough he would climb to his rooftop retreat, smoke a cigar and drink a whiskey away from trouble. When he worked all day in his car repair shop, all he could smell was grease and exhaust fumes.

He paid the fisherman for three bottles of oysters, laying them down beside Pomadina who sniffed at the glass. ‘Not for you,’ said Vincenzo, shaking his finger.

‘She’ll eat anything, Vin. You’ll have to watch where you leave your plate.’

‘Oh, I train her already.’

A whistle blew and the train began to ease slowly away from the river town.  Lulled by the sounds of ratcheting carriages and a rhythmic thud on the rails, Vincenzo relaxed. into the motion. The pumpkin colored rock-face and rows of oyster beds and mangroves beside the rail-line reminded him of similar scenes in Calabria. He watched a hawk circle high in the sky, a man casting a line from a houseboat and inside the carriage the rustle of city newspapers as each page turned.

His reflection shone back at him in the carriage window, his chin already showing signs of a beard. He had a small yet determined jaw and for a fifty-two year old man his teeth were in good condition along with his taut, solid body. Vincenzo was glad that he had taken good care of himself, cooking his Italian food for the family, drinking espresso coffee, his exercise in a boxing ring keeping him in shape. He never wanted to be soft and fat and was determined to walk the city streets every day in Australia. Now he had a companion in Pomadina.

Rennie jolted him from his reverie. ‘Another half-hour and we’re there. The bus will take us along Sandy Bay Road, and then one street down near the water is my bungalow. I’ve had it three years now. I would love to stay permanently, but I’ve still got the business. One day maybe, when I retire.’

‘Sell some fish, hey? What does this Satara mean?’ asked Vincenzo, pondering his destination.

‘Named after a ship that sank off the coast somewhere.’

‘I like it. It sounds Italian.’

‘Our shire’s named after a Lord or Baron, can’t remember which.’

‘I read up on all the Kings and Queens of England,’ said Vincenzo. ‘And that fat one with all the wives.’

Suddenly a thrust on the rails sent the train rattling through a very long, brick tunnel. Vincenzo made a mental note that the black smoke that drifted into the carriage just might give him enough reason to buy a car. Next time they might drive along the Pacific Highway, with the fresh mountain air not blocking his sinuses.

They alighted from their bus journey at the corner of Sandy Bay Road and Bangalow Street. Vincenzo admired the friendliness of the place. Several of the neighbors waved from their gardens, calling out, ‘Hey Rennie! Who’s ya friend?’ holding up their latest crop of strawberries, lettuce and spring onions.

They arrived at the house, their arms filled with garden produce:  lettuce, tomatoes, parsley, capsicum and cucumbers. The men emptied the bags of vegetables, amused that they’d amassed a smorgasbord. ‘Hey we have a salad lunch, here. These people are very kind. I want to live in Satara Bay. What do you think, Ren…er Rennie? I buy a place along the beach, get some work. Maybe become a fisherman.’

‘That’s fine with me, brother. I’m thinking you might buy a block of land, and I,’ he said, patting his chest, ‘one of the Polamo clan will build a dream home for you, then maybe Maria comes, hey?’

‘I would like that, yes,’ said Vincenzo, raising his eyebrows as if in doubt. He bent down releasing the dog from her leash. ‘Good to have this little Bella, here,’ he said, patting the dog and ruffling her ears.

At the start of their holiday, the brothers spent time cruising Satara Bay in Rennie’s motor boat, visiting little inlets that interspersed the landscape. Rennie navigated the signs through the channel, the boat wending its way at a distance from the sandbars. They headed across to a smaller settlement at Empire Bay, a favorite fishing spot. At Knots Landing the men unloaded their gear and tried their luck at the end of a long wooden jetty, but after an hour of only catching pufferfish, they threw their tackle into the boat and headed for lunch at the jetty tea rooms.

By the end of the week, the two brothers had climbed over rocks at Oyster Bay, fossicked for crabs and oysters, and found small crustacean that had crawled into crags and crevices. They walked to the point along the Esplanade watching anglers whipping in bream, whiting and yellowtail from their rods, the men in anchored boats branding the deep water with gills, and proffering them to pelicans and seagulls.

Everything appeared similar but slightly different to their bay at home. ‘I’ve enjoyed this, Vin,’ said Rennie, ‘like when we were boys.’

‘I remember all of the hot nights, staying late, drawing nets and us boys sleeping under blankets, hey?’

‘Good times, brother.’

‘I like this place, plenty of fish, crabs and prawns.’

‘I’ve caught good whiting on worms, further out. Maybe next time I come down we can fish near Lion Island.’

‘What? There’s lions there?’

‘No, Vin,’ laughed Rennie, ‘the island‘s shaped like a reclining lion, ha!’

After spending