49
Lorraine sits hushed behind fogged-up glass; chairs stacked, no music, no movement. Like someone hit pause and walked away.
I knock once. Then again.
Griff appears, holding a clipboard and a tub marked Beef, the supplier’s label circled in red marker. He doesn’t say anything as he unlocks the door and turns back toward the kitchen.
Inside, everything smells like bleach and lemons. Beau sits blank-faced beside some food-grade sanitizer stacked by the pass.
Fresh gloves litter every counter, and someone’s propped open the back door to let out the fumes. The place isn’t just closed:
it’s been gutted. Beau is silent, hands clasped, watching Griff move like he’s trying to scrub shame from every surface.
I walk over and hug Beau. He folds me into his arms without hesitation—warm, solid, achingly familiar. And the fear that’s
clung to me every time I’ve visited them in the past few months loosens its hold, just for a breath. One day, he won’t know
me or reach for me at all.
“Can I help?” he asks. “I could . . . hold something? Or stand somewhere useful?” The words are a little off, but the feeling
behind them isn’t; he just wants to ease the burden, even if he doesn’t know how.
“You already are,” I say.
“Good,” he says then turns to Griff. “Griffy? Want me to dry?”
Griff’s hands freeze on the sponge. His jaw tightens. “No,” he says, too sharply. Then catches himself and softens. “No, mate. It’s fine, thanks. I’ve got it.”
Beau doesn’t seem to notice the stumble. He glances at his wrist, lips moving silently as he reads the day and time off the
large dementia-friendly watch I gave him a few weeks ago.
Griff follows my gaze and speaks without turning. “That thing . . . he likes it. Checks it a hundred times a day. It helps
him, I think.” He rinses a sponge. “So yeah. Thanks for that.”
“I’m glad.”
Beau busies himself folding a tea towel that’s already folded.
Griff grips the sink, shoulders hunched like the weight of the day is pressing down hard. And I can see it, clear as anything:
my brother is about to break.
“Where is everyone?” I ask. “Shouldn’t the staff be here helping?”
“I told them to leave. This is my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
“Is it true?” My voice is soft.
Griff doesn’t look up. “Ten diners. Saturday night. There’s an eighty-year-old man who is critical. They all had the beef
roulade.” He tosses the beef into a disposal bin and ticks something on the clipboard. “I can’t believe that days ago we were
celebrating three hats. The authorities think it was a bad batch from the supplier, contaminated before it even got here.”
His voice is quiet. “But I approved the meat during the daily inspection. I should have picked something up, stopped it being
served. I could swear there was no smell or discoloration, but what if I missed something? I was so damn tired.” He glances
at Beau then back at the bin.
“You’ll get through this,” I say quietly. “You’re not to blame.”
He slams the clipboard down. “That’s easy for you to say. It’s my bloody name on the door.”
“Then let me help protect it,” I offer.
Beau gives me the faintest smile. It’s tired but grateful.
“You’ll only get in the way.” Griff’s words land with a heavy familiarity, but I don’t leave. He exhales and points to a slip on the counter. “Wine delivery’s due in an hour. Keep them around the back—I don’t want a branded van out the front while journos are sniffing around.”
“Got it,” I say.
He turns to the walk-in fridge. I follow him in, the cold air hitting my skin. I start sorting tubs, not asking which ones
stay or go—just waiting for him to nod. We work in silence. Then he stops mid-reach, fingers hovering over a sealed container
of stock. His hand drops to the metal shelf, palm flat, steadying himself. He stares at it for a long moment. “Beau’s getting
worse. He found the car keys and backed into the neighbor’s mailbox while the carer was in the bathroom. The car was fine,
but . . .”
I pause, tub in hand.
“I’m going to have to sell it. The MG. I should have done it months ago when he lost his licence. The registration’s already
expired.”
My eyes sting as I picture Beau’s beloved convertible that he was no longer safe to drive. “You can’t just hide it?”
“I’ve tried. He always finds it. He . . . he yells at me.”
Beau’s still perched on the stool outside, humming faintly, one finger tracing slow, deliberate circles into the countertop
like he’s trying to write something he’s forgotten.
“Oh, Griff,” I whisper.
He closes the walk-in with more force than needed and presses his back to it like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
His eyes stay fixed on the floor. Jaw tight. Then his breath catches, and for the briefest second I see the crack before he
sets it all back in place.
I reach for his arm but stop short, fingers hover near his sleeve, unsure if they’re welcome.
“I haven’t told the staff about him yet. I just told them he was unwell the night of the Three Hats party. Don’t want this
place turning into some bloody sympathy project, and of course they all love him more than they do me.” He sighs. “But the
time has come. I’m holding a meeting tomorrow to tell them about his diagnosis and that I’ll eventually be taking early retirement
to care for him.”
“Retirement?” I’ve always imagined Griff being one of those chefs who cook into their eighties.
“I’ll work as long as I can and do a proper handover. But when the time comes, I have to step down to become his full-time carer.”
I steady the bin lid as he dumps another labeled tray. “You’re not alone in this.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t push me away either. We keep working, side by side, pretending that cleaning hard enough
might rewind time or stop the clock altogether.