24
Griff
“He’s in here! Shit! He’s bleeding!” a young male voice yells as a hand clasps my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he shouts, “it’s
not actually blood! I’ve got him! Hello? Are you alright?”
I peel my eyelids open, a blurred outline of a young man’s face coming into view. I scan his pale, gaunt cheeks and blotchy
skin. He averts his gaze as my eyes meet his, tucking a stray lock of mousy hair back into his hairnet. I don’t know him from
a bar of soap, but his uniform tells me he is one of the kitchen staff, not a carer, so no wonder. Residents aren’t allowed
in the kitchen.
“We’ve all been looking for you, mate; I mean, sir, sorry.” Two lines appear between his darting hazel eyes.
Busted. It was about time to wrap things up anyway, I guess, though I would’ve loved to have another cooking session with
Gladys and give her the . . .
My heart skips a beat. The pork crackling! The thought of not being reunited with my salty mistress makes me sadder than death
itself.
“I’ll help you up—if you like, that is? I’m not saying you can’t do it yourself or anything.” The boy’s more nervous than
a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
I grab his skinny outstretched arm, and he hoists me to my feet. Smacking my lips together, I try to clear the cottonwool
from my mouth. “I got locked in.”
He spots the half-empty brandy bottle I’m still holding and the smashed brown glass. Bugger.
“Don’t worry, mate—I mean, sir,” he says, still not looking at me. “I’m not going to report you.” He glances at my chef whites,
spattered with a red stain reminiscent of those Rorschach cards psychiatrists use, asking patients what they see.
I see a dead man.
“I’ve had a few incidents myself at the last job. I’m not one to judge.” His voice is deep yet fragile, like it might break
a second time.
He quickly sweeps up the glass, and we walk out into the kitchen, its bright fluorescent lights a dagger in my eyes. The room
spins, but I can make out the blurry outline of another person darting about. I glance at my watch: 6:15 a.m.! Well and truly
busted.
The second staff member approaches, failing to hide his judgment.
“Here he is,” the boy says softly. “He got locked in the grog cabinet is all. Accidentally broke a bottle. He’s not late.”
Late? Late for what? I hope they won’t drag me to whatever wretched activity is on. They can’t force me to make a paper snowflake
twice, can they? The last time I almost ended it then and there with the safety scissors (I called that a Number 12.5 on the
Menu).
“You took long enough, Scotty. We’ve only just finished cleaning up the dishes you broke.” The sharp voice of the stocky bald
cook slices my eardrums.
Scotty’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Go and get him something clean,” he says, eyeing my stained outfit.
“Yep,” says Scotty, turning to me. “Wait here, sir. I’ll get you sorted. Back in a sec.”
The bald man removes his face mask. “I’m Nishan,” he says, pulling his lips into a thin line. “I’m a weekend cook. Scotty
there is a kitchenhand, but don’t expect much.” He shakes his head. “He works for a landscaper during the week. I keep telling
him he should just stick to pulling weeds!” The last part’s called loud enough for Scotty to hear. “There used to be more
of us, but we had two quit this month, and they can’t seem to find replacements.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Here we are, sir.” Scotty bounds back in and hands me a clean white shirt.
Only it’s not a shirt: it’s chef whites. I must still be drunk.
“So, I gather you’re Martin?” Nishan asks as he wipes down the countertop. “We heard the new weekend chef was starting today.”
His words sound like they are coming from a telly. Is he talking to me?
“We see you’ve made a start on breakfast. You must’ve come in early. Is that apple puree for the soft diet residents?”
My eyes rest on the abandoned pot of apple sauce on the stove.
“You okay there, Martin?” Scotty asks. “Need a coffee?”
I nod as my sluggish brain struggles to keep up.
He heads over to the far corner where a fancy-looking coffee machine sits. “This thing can make anything. Latte, cappuccino,
flat white . . . what would you like, sir?”
“Strong flat white, thanks.” My coffee order, which I must have uttered thousands of times, comes out on autopilot. I’m hit
by the dignity of those four words: What would you like? When had I last been asked that? Once you’re in this joint, there are just two drinks that appear on the breakfast tray:
piss-weak instant coffee, or tea. And I’ve strongly suspected, for some time, that they are actually one and the same.
The machine springs to life, the smell of bitter beans pulling a memory from my nose to my brain. Beau and I at Brunetti’s
on Lygon Street, two coffees and pain au chocolat, giggling like schoolboys over phallic latte art.
“Here you go, might help kickstart things.” Scotty’s voice snaps me back.
He hands me one of the proper porcelain cups that only get brought out at the Mother’s and Father’s Day teas. As I am not
a parent, and have no child to visit me on such occasions, I never get to drink from one and am instead cursed with the old
plastic mugs.
“Scotty, can you take the rubbish out like I asked you?” Nishan shouts.
With a nod, the boy scurries outside with two black garbage bags.
I bring the coffee to my lips and take a long gulp. The liquid is electrifying. My eyes shoot open, and I feel almost human
again.
“You want to get changed in the office?” asks Nishan, pointing to the clean chef whites I forgot I was holding.
“Uh, sure . . .”
I head into the office and remove the shit-raz-soaked uniform and long four-way apron. Shit-a-brick! I forgot what I’m wearing underneath!
I look down at my old novelty nightgown, like the kind Ebenezer Scrooge would wear—only worse, due to the fact that it’s covered
in fluffy yellow ducklings. Beau gave it to me one Christmas during the summer I discovered Fluffy Duck cocktails. I was obsessed
and made the creamy advocaat and white rum drinks each night for weeks. Beau thought it was hilarious. It was never meant
to come to the nursing home with me, but it wasn’t me who’d done the packing. The staff took great joy in seeing me in it
as often as possible—sometimes I think they took my other pj’s to the laundry, so I’d have to wear it despite my grumbles.
I rub the soft fabric between my fingers and picture Beau, who is making me smile, even now. There were ways I could have
got rid of it, but it reminded me too much of him.
“Oops, sorry! Didn’t know you were in here, sir.” Scotty blushes and begins to turn away, but his eyes remain glued to my
outfit. If he is trying to hide his surprise, he’s not doing very well. I politely beg the hole puncher on the desk to punch
a hole in the floor that I can jump into. It does not.
Scotty’s mouth remains agape.
“I, um . . . find that wearing a, uh, nightgown—man-gown if you will—is, um, better for circulation. It’s loose.” I grit my
teeth, what the hell does that mean? “Uh, I mean better for cooking, you know?”
“Riiight,” says Scotty, but there’s still no judgment in his voice.
I finish dressing and soon all my ducks are in a row, or at least in hiding.
“Here,” he says, passing me a face mask and putting one on himself. “We still have to wear these—extra precaution with flu
and Covid doing the rounds and all.”
I take it without a word and follow him back to the kitchen.
“So, chef.” Nishan narrows his eyes, hands on hips. “What are we making for breakfast? We heard you were putting together a new menu, though I don’t see the point. And we couldn’t find it anywhere.”
How I’ve missed being called “chef.” I’ve been called a lot of names in my life: Griff, Greg, Mr. Barlow, Ratbag, “the grumpy
bugger in room nineteen,” among others so nauseating I can’t repeat.
I stare at him for a moment, considering my options. I glance at the spotless countertops, the waiting pans, the two blokes
who need a leader. Stuff it! The real Martin will likely rock up soon, but he’s not here yet. May as well command a kitchen while I’ve got the chance.
I clap my hands twice, and the men stand to attention. I feel important, capable even.
Croissants would be too ambitious, so I settle on the classic bacon and eggs.
“Did you already start on the bacon, chef?” Scotty asks. “I can smell something amazing but can’t quite place it.”
My eyes dart to the side. My precious goddess. I hope they don’t find . . .
“Pork crackling! For breakfast?” Nishan tuts as he peeks inside the aluminum foil treasure box.
“NO! I mean . . . that’s a bad batch. Here, give it to me.” I make a show of heading for the bin, then when their backs are turned,
I slip into the office, stash the crackling in the top drawer, and return to the kitchen like I’m absolutely not keeping it
for later. “Okay, remind me how many residents we have.”
“Forty-two.” Nishan shows me a list. “Eight puréed, three celiac, one dairy-free, two vegetarians, one diabetic and one puréed
celiac, dairy-free, low-fodmap.” Poor old bugger.
At my restaurant, Lorraine, we sat forty diners, so I’m confident with the quantity. I ask Nishan to fetch the ingredients.
I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s caged eggs and bulk low-quality bacon with more fat than meat. Scotty follows behind with
a packet of frozen white bread doing its best impression of something edible. I glance at my watch, fighting the urge to make
fresh ciabatta. There’s not time.
It isn’t my first time making something out of nothing.
I recall my days as a kitchenhand in the Irish pub, peeling semi-squishy potatoes and making the crispiest hashbrowns imaginable.
That’s it! Who needs horrid white bread when you’ve got hashbrowns!
Many people think love is the answer to the world’s problems; few know it’s actually potato.
“Throw that rubbish out,” I command, pointing at the frosty bags of sliced cardboard. “Not today, Satan!”
The two exchange confused glances.
“We’re doing hash browns.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll see if we have any left in the freezer.” Scotty turns back.
“No. We’re going to make them.”
They stare at me with frowns so deep I may as well have asked them to construct a croquembouche.
“Why on earth would we make them?” Nishan asks.
“Because we care.”
He rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but does as he’s told.
Scotty shuffles his feet. “I’d love to learn how.”
Behind him, Nishan catches my eye and gives a firm shake of the head—a quiet warning not to encourage him.
“No, we’ve got this,” I say. “You’ll only get in the way.” The words land with a jolt of familiarity. I’ve said them many
times before, mainly to Lisa.
The flash of hurt in Scotty’s eyes is unmistakable: it’s the look of someone who’s been told they don’t matter, someone desperate
to be seen but repeatedly put back in their place.
A weight presses against my chest. I shove it down.
Soon, the kitchen is abuzz with activity. Nishan peels and grates the potatoes using the food processor, then squeezes out
the excess liquid. I reach for an onion, peel it in a few quick flicks. The knife fits into my hand like it was made for me;
the blade barely touches the chopping board, gliding through the onion in a blur of motion. My rhythm’s automatic, a low,
steady staccato that fills the room. Thin slices fall like paper, each one identical, vanishing under my fingertips.
By the time I reach for the second onion, Scotty’s gaping at me, frozen with a sponge in one hand.
Even Nishan’s stopped moving, his previous guarded expression replaced with something close to disbelief. “Where on earth
did you learn to chop like that?”
I don’t look up. “It’s easy if you practice.” I whisk in eggs, grated potatoes and seasoning, and form the mixture into patties.
We work in near silence. I drop the hash browns into the deep fryer one by one, timing each turn by instinct. The oil sizzles,
the scent lifts. For a moment, I forget the world outside the kitchen. The first batch turns out golden, crisp, piping hot.
I drain and plate them, then start again.
We move efficiently. Bacon sizzling, eggs poaching. Nishan’s got enough rhythm not to be a total liability. Scotty lingers
in the background, scrubbing trays like his life depends on it.
It isn’t joy I feel, not quite. But something close. Something like purpose. I even have time to whip up a quick hollandaise.
As the last trolley is loaded, I stumble toward the office, close the door behind me, and collapse into the chair. My pork
crackling has lost a bit of her crunch, but I don’t care. She’s still mine. I unwrap, break off a piece, and take a long,
glorious bite. Gelatinous, fatty, salty perfection. It coats my palate like nothing else on earth.
I close my eyes and murmur, “Mmm! Oh how I’ve missed you, my darling! Oh god, I’m never going this long without you again!”
When I open my eyes, Scotty is in the doorway.
Bugger. “How long have you been standing there?”
He grimaces. “Uh . . . long enough to see you devour the pork crackling you told us was a bad batch . . . ?” He rubs the back
of his neck. “And, um . . . to hear you speaking to it?”
My cheeks flush, and I clear the frog—nay, toad—in my throat. “Well, um, turns out it wasn’t so bad after all.”
We lock eyes, but we both know I’m not fooling anyone and erupt into snorts of laughter.
“Don’t worry, my nan was a crack-ling addict too.” A grin flashes across his face.
“She’s got good taste then.”
His voice quietens. “Yeah, she used to anyway.”
“She didn’t go to the dark side and become a vegan, did she?” I say with mock horror.
He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t take. “Nah, she died last year. Cancer. She was just sixty-five.”
My heart flushes with sympathy as I picture Beau—also lost too soon. “I’m sorry. It’s a bloody horrible disease.”
He shrugs it off. “You know, when I was six, I wanted to be a famous chef . . . But now? I’d probably just make a mess of
it . . .” He stares out the window.
A faint memory floats to the surface: Mum’s kitchen, Lisa’s sad young face, another pork roast. Another closed door.
I glance at my last remaining piece of crackling, and I might be crazy, but I swear I feel my heart shift. Not by much, a
millimeter at most—but that’s all it takes. Before my tastebuds can talk me out of it, I’ve offered Scotty my last piece.