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Caleb was an adult and intoxicated and responsible for the care of a little frightened girl.
Bridie whispered to Sybella and suggested she get her night things and they’d have a sleepover and when they came back in the morning, Uncle Caleb would be feeling much better.
But would he?
10
Caleb saw Sybella at the school gate and his feet broke into a run without his brain telling them to. The cold air cut through him like ice, and he struggled to breathe. He’d run over hot coals if he had to; nothing else mattered but her.
She wore a pressed school pinafore with two pigtails, her pink unicorn bag on her back. Seeing him, she bolted too, and they met halfway. He folded her into his body, and she snuggled in willingly.
When she unravelled herself, tears pooled in her eyes. ‘You won’t leave me too, will you? Like mummy?’
He knelt down to her level and held her in place with his large hands on her arms. ‘I’m not going anywhere, you hear?’
She grinned and swiped roughly at her tears. He encircled his large hand around her small one and they walked towards her classroom, swinging their arms as they went. Bridie stood by the gate. As they ambled closer, she turned and marched away. Caleb’s hand was mid-air in a wave, but she didn’t see.
Relief swam through him and he gripped Sybella’s hand tighter. His bloody temples throbbed though, so hard it thrummed in his chest. He was right worn out. He’d had many a bender before, long nights in the kitchen and drinking too much to deal with the pressure. He rarely drank outside of work, but that wasn’t saying much, he was always working. Most times, a good sleep and he’d be up and at ‘em doing it again the next day. But working wasn’t emotional. The kitchen was his domain, he was king.
Last night was different. When he’d realised Sybella was gone, his heart had torn open, and he’d sobered, fast. Yes, his life had gone to shit but the kid had lost her mother, she was all he had. Caleb didn’t know why he was so slow on the uptake. Stupid.
Forgiven, the orange orb sun in the sky brightened, his footsteps became lighter and his own problems were put in perspective. Everything had hinged on her. If she’d rejected him as a useless surrogate parent, he didn’t know what he would have done. His new world, the one he was forming, would have crumbled.
At her classroom she asked him if he had stuck to their planned menu for lunch today.
‘For sure,’ he replied. In the early hours of the morning that was his only focus and he was now prepped and ready to serve up another tuckshop special. Sybella offered a thumbs up which was a lot more than he deserved. Caleb embraced her again and watched her place her bag on the rack and extract her drink bottle before greeting her classmates. He stood longer than necessary and soon she shooed him away, embarrassed.
Familiar with the narrow corridors of the school after almost a month in town, Caleb headed towards Bite Right Inn. He could even say the name now without flinching. Except unlike other mornings there was a flurry of activity as he approached. Extra bodies filled the kitchen and bowls, and utensils and food covered the benches.
‘Ah, you must be Caleb.’ A giant of a woman approached him, and his first unkind thought was of the Trunchbull from the Roald Dahl tale of Matilda he’d read as a child. Might have been the last book he’d read. But she didn’t have either a mole on her cheek nor her hair pulled back into a bun. But she was rather severe looking and serious, one hand to her hip.
‘I’m back. Thank you for filling in for me at such short notice, but I’ve got it from here.’
The words echoed in his head.
Over the woman’s shoulder, Kathleen shot him a sympathetic look, but what did it mean? Was Kathleen sorry he was being ousted or feeling sorry for herself back under the reign of Mrs Bingham?
The convenor moved her hand to the bench blocking his entry to the kitchen. He wanted to continue helping but he wouldn’t fight her for it.
‘Right then. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Polly.’ Her left eye twitched at the mention of her first name. ‘I’ll be off then.’
Shit. All those pieces that had fitted back together so perfectly after seeing Sybella felt loose and shifting in his chest now. The throb in his temple worsened.
Her father wasn’t in the armchair when Bridie returned home. How ironic; she’d already imagined making him endless cups of tea, pumpkin scones and even taking off his boots and socks. One sole ray of sun streamed through a gap in the curtains and landed on the chair, colouring the old fabric in the most gorgeous orange glow.
For a brief moment, she imagined sinking into the soft cushions of the chair and letting the golden rays caress her skin. Ha! The stuff of fantasies. It took her less than thirty seconds to dismiss the idea as preposterous. What a self-indulgent thing to do in the middle of the morning. Instead, she put the kettle on and craned her neck around the window frame to catch a glimpse of her father. There weren’t any berries to pick so what was he up to? The house was as quiet as a church and after a few moments, she heard the tinkle and crash of tools in the shed. Bridie reached for another cup and tea bag. Despite the stream of sun into the front room, the kitchen was cold. She’d make him a warm tea because the shed was usually freezing, too.
Bridie listened to the kettle bubble and slid her gaze around the kitchen searching for crumbs, dirty dishes, anything, to still her twitchy fingers. Is what Caleb said true? Did people not need her help? He might not want her help, but everyone else did, didn’t they? Her father would be starving and wearing filthy clothes without her. Hell, he’d have choked on his own vomit by now. The primary school would be in a right pickle if she didn’t take their weekly French classes. There was no budget for languages, nor culture; she provided that for free. And then the committees – the business chamber would not have a secretary, the creche wouldn’t have a supply fill-in, the agricultural society wouldn’t have any crafts for the charity foundations they supported, and God forbid, the French festival would not be a thing. And in times of illness, she weaned this town back to health with her chicken soups and hot drinks.
The kettle sang, its whistle piercing the air. Huh, she was most definitely needed in Bellethorpe, in fact, she wasn’t sure how they’d survive without her.
Damn, Caleb. Bridie filled the cups and let them steep, gazed out the window. Why then did she feel so discombobulated this morning when she didn’t have an urgent task to attend to? For sure, she could find one, but as if to prove to herself, she didn’t. Her life was full, it was. But she was an essential service. Yes, that was right. Essential. What did Caleb think Sybella would have done last night without her?
She rescued the tea, shrugged her coat back on and headed outside. Her father was head-bent in the tractor. Today was a good day and she was grateful for that. He smiled enough for his cheeks to crease with lines and accepted the cup. ‘Almost got her,’ he said. Her smile faded, that old clunker hadn’t worked for years. Was he losing his memory too?
On the short walk back to the house she reminded herself that today was a workday for her. Yes, she accepted that the French manuscript usually came second trump to urgent community tasks, but not today. Rinsing her used cup in the sink she noticed a chipped nail on her left pinkie finger. ‘Damnit, when did that happen?’ she cursed. But it didn’t matter, did it? She had plenty of time and she resiled to redo both her fingers and toes before tackling the manuscript.
Her phone beeped and she flicked the screen with one finger to see the beginning of a message. Huh! She should shove that phone in Caleb’s face and prove that she was indispensable. Rudy from the next farm had a fence down and needed her to keep an eye out for his missing sheep. Well, at least she didn’t have any berries for them to munch on and ruin.
