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‘What? How do you know where I am?’ Caleb spluttered. At Marco’s next words, the colour drained from his face like a visceral sensation. ‘No, no…’ he muttered. Forgetting his coffee, he rushed outside and scanned the street for a newsagent. Spotting it across the road, he bolted, holding up his hand and apologising to the cars he jay-walked in front of. Inside the tiny shop he held the phone to one ear and searched the pile of papers, disregarding the local rag and reaching for the national bulletin. It was at the back, a thick pile sitting by itself. Perhaps no one read The Australian in Bellethorpe? Marco nattered in his ear, but Caleb focused on the front page. A photo of his beloved Lavapond with its door bolted shut. It looked desolate and empty. He could handle that of course, but below in the corner, was a photo of him taken years back, looking young and fresh wearing his stripy kitchen gear and chef hat. Rifling through his pockets he searched for change and handed over a bunch of coins to the young girl at the counter. Outside the barista handed him his take-away coffee. She’d chased him across the street to deliver his coffee? Befuddled, he managed a thanks and strode back towards the park. He plonked himself on the closest park bench and placed the paper beside him, took his first sip of coffee. Yep, as he suspected, it was rubbish.
‘Mate, it’s not as simple as hiding away. I confess it’s been convenient but I’m here for Sybella. She needs me, I’m her guardian now and my top priority.’ He sipped the drink again as Marco replied and grimaced as the burnt flavour slipped down his throat.
‘It’s not quite that straightforward. I don’t know whether I can uproot her and return to Sydney. You think I need to reopen? Seriously? No one will turn up…’ They argued back and forth, and he kept drinking, at least the flavour kept his mind off the unpleasant conversation. ‘Listen, okay, I promise not to ignore you anymore, but I need some time to mull things over.’
One thing he couldn’t share with his oldest friend, didn’t know how to express, was his feelings about being back in a kitchen. Despite the freezing conditions, sweat droplets formed on his brow, his arms became moist and the coffee roiled in his stomach. It was one thing to cook at home…
Caleb picked up the paper. It was savage and in stark contrast to the words written about him by Bridie. If she’d been kind, this male journalist was out for his jugular.
Fled with his tail between his legs from embarrassment and not heard from again
Resurfaces in dingy old Qld town, hiding perhaps?
What was once our most successful chef is now our most hated
How can anyone ever trust his cooking again?
And that wasn’t the worst of it…. Caleb screwed the paper up into a ball before hurtling it and his paper cup across the green space.
Bridie saw Caleb and wanted to scream, stomp her feet, pummel her fists against his chest; wanted to release her frustration and anger. At him, at her father, at people who drank too much, hell, people who drank at all.
But she didn’t do any of those things.
She watched him in the kitchen. He stood in front of the free-standing cooktop and oven, muttering to himself before he seemed to lose his balance, lean to the left, connect with the wall with a heavy thud and right himself. Caleb took one step forward, paused and then stepped back, only to repeat the movement. Eventually he turned the knob and ignited the gas on one of the plates. He leaned down close and listened to it crackle awake. Bridie swore she saw his bare arms erupt in tiny, charged bumps. Still chatting to himself, he reached across to the bench where various tiny dishes were lined up. He threw into the pan what appeared to be onion and then a dash of olive oil.
There was no mistaking it, Caleb Stirling was drunk. And if there was any doubt, which there wasn’t, the sweet sickly smell permeating the room was a dead giveaway. It was like a bottle of wine had been spilled over the lino floor and left to mutate. Not to mention the three or so bottles lined up in a row near the recycling bin. Not in it, mind you.
At least he liked to mix it up.
As he reached for another dish, he caught a glimpse of her, and he turned.
‘Shit, Bridie, you can’t scare people like that!’ His words were steady; some people really could hold their alcohol.
‘I’m sorry. I came to check if you’re all right. I saw the paper.’
‘Your plan didn’t work, did it? The locals of this town might believe your glowing character reference of me, but the city folk aren’t fooled so easily. They know the truth.’
‘There’s nothing about truth in that article. That’s to mare your reputation and pick on you. They should be ashamed of themselves.’
Caleb broke out laughing, but it didn’t have the resonance of a good old belly chuckle, it was hollow, and had an evil cadence to it. Bridie cringed.
‘Yes, those naughty little journalists calling me names and ruining my career,’ his arms gesticulated wildly, and his voice rose higher as his agitation increased. ‘You know what, Bridie Finch, they didn’t ruin my career, I did. One of the top chefs in Sydney and I served up bad prawns, rookie mistake. And I just happened to serve them to celebrities who now want my guts for garters. Everything they said is true.’
In response to his rising voice, she spoke softer, quieter. ‘You’re allowed to make a mistake. You’re only human.’
‘Making a mistake is letting your kid’s birthday cake flop or the roast chicken burn on a Sunday afternoon. Not when you lose your entire business and all that you’ve worked for. That’s not a mistake, that’s a fucking disaster.’ His body softened but too much because he had to grip the chair in front of him to stay up right. The pan sizzled behind him, and he turned his head slightly as if to acknowledge it but didn’t move.
Bridie went over to the cooker and turned off the gas.
Roughly, he shoved her hand away. ‘I don’t need help in my kitchen. I don’t need your help at all. No one does. You said it. You were right. I am a drunk, just like your father. I don’t deserve your help, hell, I don’t want your help and he picked up the ceramic dishes and smashed them one by one onto the ground.
Hearing the ruckus, Sybella entered the room, silent tears rolling down her face. Bridie drew the little girl into her side and held tight. Caleb collapsed to the ground amongst the shards of sharp glass and china.
Her instinct to help was overwhelming. She placed Sybella gently into a chair and moved towards him, placed her hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off as if her touch repulsed him. ‘Leave me alone!’ he screamed, and Bridie jumped back in fright.
The curly hair that she adored, flopped across his forehead but he shot her a cold look, gone in an instant and replaced by regret. The edges of his eyes softened, the creases deepening and his lips downturned. He didn’t mean it.
With every fibre of her being she wanted to stay, to comfort and reassure him. Make him chicken soup and clean up the mess and tuck him into bed and say everything will be all right. But a heaviness weighed down upon her, turning her body to lead. It was defeat and she felt it deep within her heart.
