Page 38 of When Lemons Give You Life

“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.