Page 28 of When Lemons Give You Life

Daddy isn’t sick, although he did smell a bit like cough syrup. Maybe he has a cold. I’d better stay away to be on the safe side. I don’t want to miss show-and-tell. I have to make up for last week. How was I supposed to know the little brown rocks I found were actually rabbit poo?

“Well, I’m finding Mummy, then,” I say to Griff.

His eyes get big like Fluffy’s, the cat next door, when she sees a poodle; she’s terrified of poodles. “No, Mum’s upstairs having a lie-down. She’s . . . sick too.”

“Mummy!” I call out, running toward the stairs.

He grabs my arm.

“Ow! Stop it!” I yell, scrunching up his name label and throwing it in the bin. “You don’t deserve this!”

“If you don’t want to play with your toys then go watch TV. Mr. Squiggle is on.”

I stomp my foot. “Fine.” I do like Mr. Squiggle, and I’m not usually allowed to watch TV until I’ve unpacked my bag. I grab paper and pencil so I can draw along, flick on the telly and sprawl out on the rug.

Ratbag runs upstairs. Why does he get to see Mum and Dad?

I’ve only drawn one line when I hear a loud noise upstairs. Then the shouting starts. It’s always so loud, and I don’t like it. Why do boys have to fight? Ratbag shouldn’t be yelling at Daddy if he’s sick.

Daddy has a lot of names for Griff, but they’re all lovely, like “fairy” and “princess” and “pansy,” and he’s always telling Griff he’s a “pretty boy.” So I don’t know why Griff can’t be nice back. I look out the window at the purple and yellow pansies in Mrs. Lebowski’s garden next door. They’re so beautiful. Maybe Griff is cross because Daddy said Griff’s best friend Michael had to leave and wasn’t allowed to come over anymore after Daddy found them holding hands in his room. Mummy wanted Michael to stay, but then Mum and Dad had a grown-up conversation about it and she changed her mind and said he’d better just do what Daddy says. I think Michael’s hands must have been dirty; Dad is always telling me to wash mine. He hates germs.

I turn up the volume so I won’t hear the noise.

A minute later, the shouting stops. I stay still on the rug, hugging my pencil.

Footsteps thud on the stairs—the slow, stampy kind that mean it’s Griff. He disappears into the kitchen, cupboards banging, something sizzling. The TV show finishes, and the door opens. “Here,” he says, placing a plate on the floor near me.

It’s a slice of crackling, wrapped in foil.

17

Griff

I’m already awake when my alarm goes off at 11:30 p.m., itching for the thrill of the kitchen again. I creep into Gladys’s room, which pulses with Metallica. She swears it’s better than a white-noise track. She grumbles as I gently shake her awake, and I’m glad that we’re both still alive.

Her eyelids shoot open, my phone torch reflecting off her glass eyes. She springs up like a jack-in-the-box, raising her arms to the ceiling. “Glory hallelujah! Jesus, is that you? I’m ready, Lord! You can take me now!”

I step backward, running my hand over my chin. The carer forgot to shave me this week, but I’m no Jesus—not that she can see me anyway. “No, Gladys, it’s me Gr . . . the new Greff, I mean chef.” Thankfully, accents have always been my forte and I put on a posh voice to disguise my own. “We are cooking the cake tonight. Remember, madam? For your husband’s birthday?”

If she’s disappointed that I’m not the Messiah, she doesn’t show it. She crinkles her nose, the cogs turning. “Oooh yes! Even better! Help me get my shoes and robe, would you . . . Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Err . . . you can just call me ‘chef.’”

I hand her the fluffy robe and Velcro sneakers, which she puts on without any help. Like many residents, the woman is far more capable than she is given credit for.

“My bad leg’s been playing up a bit, chef. Hand me my walking stick. I won’t need the cane with you to guide me.”

I pass it to her, and for a split second I catch myself wondering if the timber would make a better rolling pin than the aluminum bar I’d liberated. The dough probably wouldn’t cling to the wood as much . . .

I shut the thought down as a symphony of snoring surges through the walls, pushing us toward our quiet destination. The hallways are deserted, not a nurse or carer in sight.

We reach the kitchen, and I place Gladys’s hands on the stainless-steel countertop to steady her while I fetch the ingredients. Thankfully all are pantry staples. The old woman hums softly, and I imagine her in her own kitchen, a warm wooden countertop replacing the cold metal, a window overlooking a pretty garden rather than the staff car park.

I take it upon myself to chop the butter, hesitant to give a sharp knife to a blind woman. They say the secret ingredient in any good dessert is love, not fingertips. “Would you like help to knead the dough, madam?”

“No, sir!” She bats me away. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this; I’m going to enjoy every moment.”

I know exactly how she feels.