28
Griff
My watch tells me that I have exactly seven and a half minutes to decide whether to go back. Should I risk it for the biscuit,
or whatever it is “Martin” is meant to make for lunch? Soon, someone will listen to his voice message and find out. I got
away with being missing this morning, but I can’t count on being so lucky a second time.
I look at my photo of the cooking roster. Technically, I could be showered, attend the shifts and, if I went straight back
to my room for my breaks, be served my meals. Because it’s the weekend, there is very little chance that I’d be bothered in
between. But could they really be that negligent?
As if in answer, a flash of crinkled pink skin whizzes past my door. It’s poor old Rob on his nudie run again—or nudie power
walk, I should say. At least he’s exercising.
Six minutes . . .
My pulse quickens as Rob’s sister Mabel walks past. I lower my face and pull my beanie further down over my eyebrows, hoping
she won’t recognize me without the chef whites.
“Hello, it’s Griff, isn’t it?” she asks brightly, probably unaware that I’m supposedly nonverbal. “I wondered if Lisa might
be here.” She scans the room.
I give a small shake of my head.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Rob, have you? He may have been naked?” She laughs, cleaning her glasses with her blouse.
I nod.
“Cheeky beggar! It’s been happening a lot lately. We’ve had the best morning though, that brekkie! I swear that was homemade
hollandaise!” I suppress a smile as she looks down the hall. “Anyway, I’d better find him. Nice to see you. Let’s hope the
new chef sticks around; we could really do with someone who cares in this place.”
And with a wave, she’s gone, her words ringing in my ears: Someone who cares.
Beau was the caring one. The thoughtful one. The one who would know exactly what to say or do when someone was in pain. Lisa
has that knack too, though it’s wrapped in chaos and noise. In the world of kindness, I’m an imposter, more concerned with
truffles and fresh barramundi than people. Except for Beau, of course. I would have given up caviar for Beau.
I could end it all now, but the hint of hollandaise lingering on my tongue stops me. There’s literally nothing left to lose.
If anything goes south, I still have my exit.
I tuck pillows under the comforter, shaping them into the silhouette of a sleeping body. Chef whites and face mask on, I ease
the door open and slip out again. A visitor asks me for directions to the bathroom, and the staff members make eye contact
with me again. I’m a somebody once more.
After a quick survey of available ingredients in the kitchen, I decide to make pumpkin soup. Real soup, not the sad beige
kind that comes powdered from a tin and smells like wet cardboard.
“Do you reckon I could help cook lunch?” asks Scotty, his eyes wide.
Nishan shakes his head from the far corner.
I pause. “No, sorry. Not today.”
“Right. Of course, I’m sorry, chef.” He retreats to the sink with his tail between his legs. He doesn’t argue, just starts
wiping surfaces that don’t need wiping, his eyes fixed on anything but me.
I shouldn’t care. I’ve barked far worse at junior chefs who were probably being paid triple.
But something about the slope of his shoulders tugs at a deeply buried nerve.
That look—too eager, too hurt—takes me back to the kitchen I’d rather forget.
A seven-year-old Lisa, hands coated in flour and egg, beaming beside a bowl of cracked-shell batter and a countertop covered in mess; me too tired or shut down to see the effort, telling her to get out.
I clear my throat. The bitterness in my mouth isn’t reflux: it’s regret. “Scotty.”
He turns, eyes wary.
“You ever roasted pumpkin before?”
He blinks. “No.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day.” I slide him a chopping board.
“What? Really? But you said—”
“Just don’t cut your fingers off, okay?”
He fumbles at first—poor grip, no confidence—but I guide him through it.
“No, not like that. You’re fighting it. It’s a pumpkin, not a burglar.” I take the knife from his hand.
He steps back, sheepish.
I set the wedge on the board and press my palm flat against the back of the blade. “Watch. You don’t hack; you glide. Let
the weight do the work.” The knife slices cleanly through the orange flesh with a satisfying thunk. I rotate the chunk, making clean, even cuts, each one exactly three fingers wide.
Scotty whistles. “Bloody hell. That was like butter.”
I hand him the knife. “Your turn. Relax your grip. Pretend it’s someone you love, but you’re still annoyed at them. And for
god’s sake, keep your fingers curled in. You’re much more useful to me with ten.”
He grins, the blade now steady in his hand. He slices again, cleaner this time.
“You pick things up fast,” I say, watching him build momentum. There’s real instinct in it, the kind you can’t teach.
Nishan grunts beside us as he lobs the pumpkin onto a tray like he’s unloading bricks.
I slap a head of garlic down between them. “Roast these whole. Turns bitter into sweet. Like people, really—some just need
heat to soften up,” I add, shooting a glance at Nishan.
Scotty chuckles under his breath.
We slide the trays into the oven, and I send Nishan to find the rest of the ingredients. Of course, all we’ve got is that
powdered supermarket stock. Bloody disgrace. “We’ll use this for now,” I mutter, “but real kitchens make their own.”
When the pumpkin’s done, I make Scotty and Nishan taste it, a concept that seems totally foreign to them. No wonder the food
has been so bad: we residents have been the guinea pigs.
“We’re not serving guesswork,” I say. “Taste, season, trust your tongue.” I hand Scotty the immersion blender. “Try not to
redecorate the ceiling.”
He blends carefully and, to his credit, doesn’t screw it up. The soup thickens into something warm and luscious. He suggests
a splash of cream; I grunt, which in my world is high praise.
We bowl it up. It smells like comfort.
I catch myself watching Scotty, how focused he is, how much he wants to be good. Not just at cooking—at being wanted, too.
Nishan seems to have it in for him. The boy is a bit clumsy, but I see something in him. A younger, kinder version of myself,
perhaps?
When the staff leave for lunch, I race back to the office.
Nishan mentioned something about a new weekend menu, which I’m guessing Martin hasn’t done. I grab a folder labeled Budget and Ordering from the shelf above the desk. My eyes flick to the budget section, and my stomach sinks. The criminals! I’m not expecting
to be able to buy Wagyu steak, but this must be close to a prison budget: seven dollars per day, per resident.
I scan the monthly ordering list. Littered between pantry staples are atrocities such as Instant Mashed Potato, Bulk Gravy Powder, Artificial Honey, Essence of Chicken, Beef Booster and Packet Vanilla Cake Mix.
I shake my head. Perhaps they are trying to knock people off, to increase their turnover? I paid for my place privately
so know exactly how high the rates are. Where is our money going?
I grab a folder marked Fee Schedule. Residents are being charged sixty dollars a day for meals. Sixty. Only a fraction of it is being spent on food. The rest neatly siphoned into “administrative costs.” This isn’t a kitchen:
it’s a profiteering racket.
To make a real change, I need more money and better ingredients. But it looks like the main head chef did the ordering for
the whole week. Martin doesn’t have access. I rap my fingers on the binder. Back when I was a poor apprentice, I lived on
zhuzhed-up ramen and fondant potatoes—anything I could make cheaply. A true chef can make something out of nothing.
“If anyone can do it, it’s you, my love,” says Beau.
I turn to see him leaning against the wall. I’m not sure if it’s a hallucination or a memory. Maybe both. Perhaps the stream
of encouragement he gave me when he was alive was so great that it overflowed after his death and helps me even now.
I reread the list of available ingredients and get to work. It’s like a Mystery Box Challenge on MasterChef, in which contestants have to create a dish from pantry staples and one other item.
I listen to Martin’s message once more, my foot tapping the ground. The delete button beckons. Martin did say he hoped they
found someone asap, and I’m more than qualified . . .
“Your message has been deleted,” says a robotic woman’s voice.
I make a quick call to Martin, and relief floods me as it goes to voicemail. “Hello, Martin, this is Allison’s assistant calling
from Sunny Glen Aged Care Facility. Just wanted to let you know we’ve received your message. No need to put it in writing.
Please don’t worry about the job, we understand and wish you and your mum the very best. You’ll be pleased to know we have
found a very suitable replacement.”