Page 10 of That Island Feeling

The captain chuckles.

‘Isn’t that what people call you? Charlie just did,’ I say, suddenly unsure. How has it not occurred to me before now that Cap has an actual name?

He gestures to his cup that’s resting on the counter in front of me. ‘He was calling out my coffee order.’

I lean over to peer into the cup. Sure enough, remnants of the foamy liquid dotted with chocolate powder lurk at the bottom.

Ah, a cappuccino. A cap.

I want to strip one of the lifebuoy rings from the wall and throw it in the river so I can float away from my mortification.

Instead, I pretend I’m unfazed. ‘So, what is your name then?’

‘Jack.’

He sees my eyes light up.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ he warns.

‘So, you’re Captain Jack?’

‘Nope. He’s cancelled.’

‘Johnny Depp is. Captain Jack Sparrow isn’t.’

He ignores me. ‘So, I can’t tempt you with a bap, Andie?’ Cap – no, Jack – asks.

They do smell delicious . . .

‘Quick, everyone, duck!’ Charlie yells and rushes to the front door, flipping the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’. ‘It’s Arthur on the warpath again,’ he hisses.

Jack smirks. ‘You better do as you’re told,’ he tells me as he drops to the floor.

The billowy cut of my dress comes in handy as I sink down onto the fabric, rather than onto the sticky lino floor.

‘He’s the island pest,’ Charlie whispers from his crouched position behind the closed entrance door. ‘He’s been coming in here every day, demanding to see my recycling to check it’s been sorted properly.’

‘More like the island kook,’ Jack explains. ‘Apparently he’s fashioning shoes out of fence posts so he can walk across the river.’ He snorts. ‘Even so, you can’t afford to get him offside, Charlie.’

‘I know, I know.’

A few moments later, Charlie clears his throat. ‘Okay, I think the coast is clear.’ He springs to his feet. For a large guy, he’s incredibly agile.

I’m no closer to uncovering any gluten-free breakfast options, and starting to worry I’ve been gone too long, so I order a takeaway cappuccino and pray that the perfect breakfast will manifest itself on my return trip.

I thank Charlie and promise I’ll be back at some stage to try his bap.

Jack follows me out the door, watching as a bird swoops so low it nearly knocks the coffee out of my hands.

‘That’s a king parrot, right? They’re so beautiful,’ I gush as I reach for my phone again. I’m one-handed so it’s a struggle.

‘Here, I’ll help you.’ I expect Jack to take my coffee, but instead he pulls his own phone from his pocket. ‘Yeah, they’re parrots. And don’t let Charlie hear you say that. The other week, a gang – yes, a gang, not a flock in Charlie’s world – of parrots ripped a section of tin clean off his roof – he’s only just replaced it.’

I stifle a giggle, but when I see his face is stretched into a wide grin, I laugh freely.

‘Got it. Arthur and parrots equal pests.’

‘So photo or video?’ he asks, sweeping his hair back with his free hand, as if shifting from off-duty cool to on the clock.

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