27
Griff
The kitchen is finally still again, apart from the thrum of the commercial dishwasher. Scotty, fortified by the crackling,
has gone to join Nishan on his break. One of the residents went to hospital this morning, so their breakfast was returned,
and I don’t let it go to waste.
I consider going back to my room. Surely someone has noticed my absence? Then again, this place is so short-staffed, and it
is the weekend. We mostly have agency fill-ins who barely glance at me, rotating like specials on a chalkboard. It’s quite
possible no one has been to my room.
As I check the clock on the office table, a red light blinks at me from the answering machine: the recorded message I heard
when I was locked in the grog cabinet. My curious finger presses play.
“Hello, Martin McDonald here.” His thick Kiwi accent is muffled by background noise. “Look, I’m sorry this is very late notice,
as I’m meant to be starting today, but I’m in a bit of a pickle. In my phone interview I said I’d be moving to Melbourne last
week, but we’ve had a family emergency, and I’m going to have to stay here in Auckland to look after my mum and won’t be able
to take on the weekend chef role.” A siren roars behind him. “I apologize for leaving a message—I’m still at the hospital,
and it’s all a bit hectic here. Can you please call me back so I know you’ve got this? I can also put it in writing if you
need. Sorry again for leaving you in the lurch; I hope you find someone else quickly. Okay, bye-bye now.”
I plonk my forehead down on the desk, the thrill of heading a kitchen still tingling through my veins. Shame I’m going to die soon. Unless . . . nah, who am I kidding? They’d surely notice my empty room and come looking for me. I wonder how long his shifts are, anyway?
Curiosity gets the better of me again, and I rummage through the pile of paperwork beside the printer, flicking past maintenance
logs and food charts, until a manila file catches my eye. “Martin McDonald—Part-time Chef” is printed in bold type across
the top. I open it to see a color-coded schedule. Sure enough, Martin is only rostered on Saturdays and Sundays, with decent
breaks between each meal.
Paperclipped to the schedule is Martin’s CV. There’s no photo. He’s a fair bit younger than me, according to his date of birth,
but I’ve always thought I look good for my age. The next page, marked “Confidential,” is his employment form, with bank details,
super, and next of kin.
I flip through his résumé. Seems like he had a bit of a late career change; twenty years as a hairdresser, then off to Commercial
Cookery at community college, before working for two years as head chef at Elanora Gardens retirement home in Auckland. Bet
he never earned a bloody Michelin star.
Scotty appears in the doorway. “Chef would usually go on his break now.”
“Thanks.” I hurriedly close the file. “What time am I needed back?”
“Lunch prep is at ten forty-five.”
He exits, and I whip my phone out of my pocket and snap photos of all the paperwork so I can finish reading it later. I head
down the corridor, tugging at the sleeves of my chef whites.
A visiting doctor, coming the other way, catches my eye and smiles. “Hi, how are you?” she says as she passes. Two visitors
follow, walking by with a nod. At the end of the hall, a woman in scrubs waves like we’re old friends.
I keep walking, too stunned to answer any of them. Incredible how people treat you differently if they think you are useful. The uniform counteracts the invisibility cloak of age and dementia, making me seen and heard for the first time in months.
I sneak into my room, stuff the uniform and face mask in the back of my cupboard and put on my robe.
As I sit down, there’s a knock at the door. “Hi there, Griff, got your brekkie!” says Tessa, lifting the lid. “You’ll never
guess what it is!”