Griff
My stomach’s staging a protest. Churning, clenching, trying to digest my conscience instead of breakfast. I take a swig of
Mylanta, but it barely dents the nausea. The real problem isn’t food, it’s my diet of acidic, highly processed lies.
Scotty didn’t show for his shift yesterday. No call. No voice message. Nothing.
Every time a door opens, I brace, waiting for a furious Lisa or a cop or journalist ready to drag me out by the scruff. I
almost didn’t turn up to work myself, but surely, if he reported me, something would’ve happened by now. And I don’t want
the residents missing out on good food.
I pull on my chef whites, face mask and glasses, settle Cliff into bed, and head down to the kitchen, my eyes low, avoiding
conversation in case someone somehow knows.
“Hey, mate, residents are raving about those crepes,” Nishan calls from the pantry. “Might have to make them a regular. You
see the game last night?”
I shake my head, scanning the room.
“Scotty hasn’t turned up again,” he says, following my gaze.
My chest tightens. I throw back a flat white and bury myself in the breakfast prep, but the shift blurs with spiraling thoughts.
Scotty’s speaking to Allison. He’s gone to the police. He’s quit. Funnily enough, it’s the last one that fills me with the most regret.
“Sorry I’m late.”
My head snaps up.
Scotty walks in, dark circles under his eyes, like he’s carrying something far heavier than his half-zipped backpack.
“You came,” I say.
“I need the money,” he says, not making eye contact.
“Get a move on—meals won’t cook themselves,” Nishan barks.
“Scotty, I—”
“Gotta go,” he says, moving away. “You heard Nishan.”
The shift crawls. I keep searching for a moment when I can pull Scotty aside. But Nishan’s everywhere.
When it’s finally died down, and the last pan’s been scrubbed after dinner, I follow them out to the car park as a cleaner
enters the kitchen. The cool air smells faintly of rain on asphalt and the lingering tang of onion from the vents. Nishan’s
tires crunch over loose gravel as he drives off. Scotty keeps walking, his trainers scuffing the bitumen.
“Scotty, wait!”
He stops but doesn’t turn.
“I know I have a lot to explain.”
Still no movement. Two carers pass between us.
I take a step closer. “Would you come back to my room? Just for a minute. Please. There are too many people here.”
He turns at last. Eyes hard. “Fine,” he mutters.
I peel off my chef whites and lead him through the corridors.
He steps inside, springing back as he points to the bed. “Uh, I think we’re in the wrong room.”
“Scotty, meet Cliff. Don’t mind him—he’s my alibi.” I peel back the comforter to reveal the stuffed figure in all his lumpy
glory.
Scotty blinks. “Geez. Talk about skeletons in the closet. Though this one’s clearly been well fed.”
“I went a bit overboard on the stuffing.” I lift the dummy by the armpits. “He’s somewhere between beer belly and second trimester,
I’ve got catching up to do.” I pat my concave stomach.
He cracks a smile, his tummy rumbling as he eyes the dinner that’s already been delivered. “Sorry. It just smells really good.”
“It should do. After all, we made it. Help yourself.” I push the plate toward him.
He crosses his arms and looks away. “No. I don’t want to take your food.”
“Please, it’s the least I can do. They feed us too much here anyway. Quantity’s never been the issue, it’s quality.”
He reluctantly takes the plate, slicing through the layers of flaky, buttery pastry, revealing the rich chicken and leek casserole
underneath.
“What do you think?”
“Mmmm.” He picks a fallen flake of filo from his lap. “Don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like it.” His hazel eyes glow.
“Mum’s awesome, but she’s a bit challenged in the kitchen. Dinners for us kids were usually packet mixes of beef stroganoff
or Chicken Tonight. Always the cheapest cuts of meat. Or sometimes no meat. Or, worse, Spam.”
I stifle a gag. The tinned meat that tests one’s will to live. “Dessert?” I pass him the glossy sticky-date pudding. We didn’t
have the time or equipment to make ice cream so had to settle for store-bought, but I’m learning to tolerate imperfect.
“You serious?” Scotty asks. “You don’t even want a bite?”
“Absolutely. Anyone raised on Spam needs this more than I do. I need a drink. You want one?”
He looks at the clock. “Uh, okay, I guess. Just a small one. They let you have grog in your room?”
“No. But I have my methods.” I grin, pulling the whisky from the teddy bear. I pour two mugs, and we sip silently, the warmth
easing the tension.
“So you were really a Michelin star chef?” he says between mouthfuls of pudding.
“Yep.”
“No wonder the food is so bloody good!” He polishes it off in seconds, then scrapes his metal teaspoon repeatedly against
the side of the bowl as though it will summon more, like Beau used to. Scotty looks around the room, his eyes settling on
our wedding photo. “Lisa mentioned your husband died. That him?”
I nod. “His name was Beau.”
“She told me he got very sick and died young . . . ?” he says, softer now.
“Yes, he—”
A knock hammers through my skull.
“Quick!” I shout, kicking the bottle under the bed.
Lisa’s voice calls from the hall. “Griff? Sorry, I know it’s after visiting hours, just popping in to drop you some new pants.”
Scotty sculls the remainder of his drink and bolts upright as the door creaks open and Lisa enters.
Before I can say a word, the boy grabs my comb and starts brushing my hair like he’s been doing it for years.
“Sorry, I thought he was alone. Oh hey, Scotty, not in the kitchen today? You working as a carer now too?”
“Uh . . . yes,” he squeaks, his voice higher than usual.
“I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll be giving up the dog walking. You’ve really helped us out. Did the new greyhound give you
any trouble the other day?”
“Duke? Nah, all good, he’s a gentle giant,” he mumbles as Lisa steps closer, eyeing his hoodie and jeans.
I swallow hard. How well do Lisa and Scotty know each other?
“So, no uniform today?” she asks.
“Uh, one of the residents threw up on me. This was all I had.”
“Gosh.” She grimaces. “I hope it’s not gastro doing the rounds again.”
“No, it was food poisoning. Don’t worry, though, your brother here didn’t eat the same food.” Scotty sets down the comb and
starts helping me with my shoes like he’s on some kind of strange autopilot.
Lisa takes the pants out of the bag and pops them in my dresser. “Food poisoning is the worst, especially in the elderly.
Was a shocking case of it at Griff’s restaurant. You might have even seen it in the papers?”
Scotty says nothing.
“An old man died. So sad.” She sighs, shutting the drawer. “What did the resident eat?”
Scotty’s brilliant improv hits a wall. I follow his gaze as his eyes dart around the room, resting on the silvery trail gleaming across the concrete outside the window. “A snail,” he blurts.
“What, like escargot?” Lisa eyes him quizzically. “I knew the weekend menu was expanding, but I didn’t think they’d have the
budget for fancy French cuisine.”
“Yes. But, um, ours aren’t . . . the fancy French kind. Not S-cargo.” He glances at me, clearly panicking. “Ours are the cheaper
ones, more like . . . T-cargo, or maybe W-cargo.”
I grit my teeth, struggling not to laugh. The poor boy hasn’t quite learned his French delicacies yet.
“Anyway, the resident ate the shell and all, I’m afraid.”
That’s it, I lose it. The laughter tears out of me, disguised poorly as a coughing fit.
“Let me get you some water, Mart—I mean, Mr. Martlow . . . Barlow.”
Lisa tilts her head but lets it go. “I can’t tell you what a joy it’s been seeing the change in meals on weekends. You know
Griff here even earned a Michelin star and three hats?” She points to the pictures.
“Oh wow. I didn’t know that.” Scotty’s poker face holds.
“He had his own restaurant, Lorraine. That was our mum’s name. She never lived to see it, though.” Lisa’s posture shifts.
She shoots me a look—sharp, fleeting, but there.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Scotty’s moved on to making my bed.
“Anyway, he wouldn’t be able to cook now. Can’t even care for himself.”
Scotty bites his lip, heading to the door. “Well, I’d better get going. Nice to see you again, Lisa.”
“You too, Scotty.” She settles into the chair and fishes a container of Anzacs from her handbag.
As she sets them on her lap, I catch the dark shadows under her eyes.
Shame I can’t ask how she’s really going.
“Scotty’s such a lovely guy.” She gazes out the window.
“Speaking of nice guys, I’ve been seeing someone, Griff.
You’ve met him—you know Frank the guitarist?
” Her face lights up like someone plugged a light into her soul.
“He’s a good one. He has Beau’s kindness.
I just hope I can stick around long enough.
” A familiar look crosses her face: hope, tinged with doubt.
She has always struggled to make it past the three-month mark of a relationship.
She stands and pats my shoulder, and with a quick goodbye, she’s gone.
Five minutes later, Scotty returns. “That was close,” he mutters, rubbing his temples.
“So, how did you meet Lisa?” I ask.
“We met here at the home, then she hooked me up with some extra work walking dogs at the salon, which I’ve done a couple of
times.”
I nod slowly. This is going to be complicated.
“Sorry about the snail—I panicked!” He glances toward the door then back at me. “Was what Lisa said true, about someone dying
from food poisoning at your restaurant?”
“Yeah. An elderly man.”
Scotty stills. Then slowly picks up his phone and opens Google. “Hang on . . .” His thumbs move fast. “What was it called
again . . . Lorraine?”
I shift in my seat, suddenly colder.
“Kitchen scandal . . . food poisoning—one casualty . . . bloody hell,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the screen. “That was
you?”
“Yes.”
He scrolls further. “Griff Barlow diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.” His gaze snaps up. “Oh my god. Is that why you faked dementia,
to avoid charges?”
I stare at him. For a second, I can’t speak. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. “No. I never
faked dementia while I was at Lorraine. The faking started long after I retired.”
He frowns. “Those articles are almost two years apart. So you didn’t leave the restaurant because of the scandal?”
I shake my head. “I stayed. Faced the music. Officially, the source was traced to a bad batch from a supplier—however, I was
the one who approved the meat in the inspection. But I was overtired. I was making silly mistakes. Maybe I missed something.
Maybe I could have prevented it.”
“I guess it must take a lot to run a top restaurant like that.”
“I was burning the candle at both ends at home and at work. And when that happens . . . you start making mistakes. But I didn’t leave, not then.” I turn to the window, where the last light is sinking into shadow.
Scotty’s face softens slightly. “So if you didn’t leave to protect your name, then why did you?”
“To honor the only name that ever really meant anything to me, that ever made me feel I was worth something, one that we fought
hard for—husband. We vowed in sickness and in health. So, when Beau deteriorated, I stepped down to become his full-time carer,
a few months after his diagnosis.” I pause. “Did Lisa tell you what Beau died of?”
“No, I just assumed it was cancer or something.”
I take a deep breath and stare at the floor. “It wasn’t cancer.”