Dampness hung over the café. Thunder clouds in the morning had opened their little valleys and waterfalls, releasing torrents of rain. The new cane chairs out in the courtyard were soaked and the palms had leaked their wet fronds into Joe's shirt as he tried to bunch up the chairs and put them in the back laundry. It was a scramble, even into the long afternoon, his wife, and Alf, one of his customers, helping to take down the umbrellas, stack tables under tarpaulin, and straighten and re-dirt potted plants.
Lightning had never struck this little business, but during the shouting and each of them rattling timber to close windows and doors, a stereophonic bolt of lightning came within inches of the café, knocking down the telegraph pole on the corner of Bream Street. There seemed to be a pile of wooden furniture everywhere, curled metal and wires. It had heaved and swayed several times before crashing into their front gate. And there were tree limbs shunting themselves towards the same pile of junk. Joe watched from the café window, as several branches from each of the four Esplanade pines weaved and whorled about, travelling as far as he could see along Memorial Avenue. Joe had a vision that any moment now he'd be surrounded by a jungle of green, but it was a kaleidoscope of colour, lilac blossoms from the front Jacaranda shook and shivered past his eyes meeting yellow and white Frangipani petals. Boats also lost their moorings. One cruiser, he knew belonged to Bill Sanderson, beached itself on the grass bank within inches of the store. The hire boats also received a battering, some turning to planks before sinking.
In the evening, the storm turned to hail, not small mothball sizes, but large ones almost as big as tennis balls. They pounded and smacked into parked cars and when the light show seemed to be over, a thick fog of white had surrounded the Ozone Café.
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