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13
The crack of the lid on the soda bottle and the eruption of the fizz had him salivating. Back at The Belle that night, Caleb’s hand shook as he held the glass and poured. The clear liquids mixed, and the ice popped. A squeeze of lemon and he took one sip, and the strong hit calmed him immediately. Then he downed the rest in one gulp.
The self-recrimination started immediately: he’d just have the one drink to calm his nerves; to get on with preparation; to ensure he was in the right frame of mind. Blah. Blah. Blah. It was bullshit and he was man enough to admit it. He poured the next shot before his brain caught up. It was gone in seconds too. It was like a drug - intense, immediate relief until he returned to a state of normal. Caleb needed to recalibrate his normal. But, damnit, he’d do that tomorrow.
In his dingy hotel room, rain drops splattered the tin roof and only served to remind him of where he was, and why. Anger made the blood run faster through his veins. He was in town because his sister died, but the uncanny timing could not be denied. It was funny how his major life stuff-up thwarted the death of his sister. Bellethorpe was unequivocally linked to his career failure as he’d tripped over his own feet rushing into town to hide and recover.
And now, his parents had complicated matters. He wasn’t at home with Sybella, instead, he was at the pub, again. Alone, with his demons.
Another drink and his mind turned in a different direction: the berating started. What a baby! Just get on and do what you need to do. The chance of poisoning more people with his cooking was practically near impossible. He guessed it was the ‘practically’ part that had him frazzled. He was a bloody good chef. One mistake did not negate the years of hard work and success.
How can anyone ever trust his cooking again?
So, yeah, he’d have these few drinks to calm his frenetic mind, and tomorrow he would make the best bloody French feast this town had ever seen.
Bridie lay in bed listening to the rain pummel the earth, imagined the rain puddles deepening, the mud collecting and everything damp to the touch. Today of all days, on their annual Bastille Day Festival, the sky had to open up. If only she could control the weather too.
The drops on the roof eased and she rolled out of bed having hardly slept. She searched her dimly lit room for her wellies, at least they were pink. She’d need them today, even if the weather cleared, the ground would be soggy for hours. A craving for a warm cuppa was irrepressible and would clear her foggy mind. Cradling the mug, she headed outside. The sky was a grey blanket crowded with heavy, dirty clouds. She spied a triangle of light behind the hiding sun and hope sparked. It might clear. The best part of the day was towards the afternoon anyway when people relaxed with drinks and music. She breathed in and out, it would be okay.
Stall holders were setting up as she arrived at the showgrounds. Bridie released a sigh of relief at the sight of the marquees still standing and nothing damaged or blown away.
She was hanging the tablecloths out to dry when she heard her name and saw Sybella racing across the field. ‘Bridie! I can’t find Caleb. Can you help me?’
‘Of course, let’s check the pub.’
Sybella knocked on the door with her little knuckles barely raising a sound. Bridie pounded, waited, turned the knob. It was open. ‘Caleb, knock, knock,’ she made her voice light, but she was frightened of what they’d find. Sybella had no such inhibitions and raced into the room and onto the bed where a figure lay.
‘Uncle Caleb,’ she hollered and thumped his arms and back. ‘Wake up! How could you sleep in today?’
Bridie stood back but heard a groan as the body rolled over. Sybella whacked his chest. ‘Uncle Caleb,’ she drew out the words and her voice cracked as if the five-year-old realised this might not be a funny joke.
‘No. No. No,’ she whispered but couldn’t bear to look at him. Her chest felt like someone stomped on it and she grappled to breathe and bent over trying to quell her rising fear.
She’d known. Who was she kidding? She wanted to believe, did suspend belief for a while, but more importantly, trusted him to do his job. That was why she outsourced. Bridie Finch wasn’t a chef, thank God, otherwise she’d be responsible for the food as well as everything else. Deep down, she’d known she couldn’t rely upon him. He was a quick smile and kind word but at crunch time he couldn’t deliver. It didn’t matter how many times she defended him; Caleb Stirling was a drunk. Maybe she needed to ply him with more alcohol, and he’d perform today, enough to get him through anyways.
Now she really was going crazy. Bridie stood up tall, her breathing coming easier. She pushed the disappointment away, but it was replaced by overwhelming, crushing defeat. Fatigue washed over her; from lack of sleep, from weeks of preparations, from keeping everything going, for being responsible. Her shoulders sagged with the heavy weight. Bridie wanted to curl up in that bed and hide from the world too.
But that’s not what she did, was it?
At the lack of response from Caleb, Sybella cried. ‘Bridie, he’s not dead, is he?’ That snapped her quick-smart out of her stupor. The poor kid.
‘Sweetie,’ she touched Sybella on the shoulders, ‘he isn’t dead, I promise,’ and she guided the girl back to the edge of the bed. Meanwhile her gaze scanned the room for the culprits; they lay in a jumble off to the side. Gin was his choice this time and there were two empty bottles. That was why there was no smell. She’d learned a lot over the years from her over-indulging father.
Bridie zoned in to do what she did best, care for others, ensure they were okay and get on with things, by herself if she had to.
‘Caleb,’ she yelled and shook his shoulders. He roused, his face creased from a deep sleep and his hair tousled. She refused to listen to her erratic heartbeat, that was adrenalin, right? His bare arms lay outside the bed linen to reveal the top of his chest where a sprig of hair sat at the nape of his neck. A groan escaped as his eyes flicked open, she presumed the pathetic daylight creeping into the room made his temples throb. Good.
‘Sybella, honey, can you run downstairs to Luke the barman and ask for a bottle of water and some aspirin, please?’ She nodded and backstepped off the bed, her eyes peeled to Caleb.
After she’d left the room, Bridie leaned over, pulled the sheets up to cover his bare chest and unleashed her anger. ‘How could you be so irresponsible? The festival is today, today Caleb!’ Her intonation rose at each word.
His head lifted, and he rose onto his elbows with effort. Dazed, he glanced around the room, taking in the dingy setting and peered out the window. ‘Shit, Bridie, I can’t do it. I can’t cook for all those people. What if I do it again?’ and he fell back against the bed and covered his eyes with a pillow.
‘You’re a fool,’ she said and ripped the pillow off his head. ‘What do you think you’ve been doing? What do you call the food you’ve prepared for the tuckshop, for others, that you’ve fed Sybella every night? Is that not cooking?’ she mocked him.
‘That’s different,’ he pouted.
‘No, it’s not. You haven’t killed anyone that I’m aware of. For God’s sake, get over yourself,’ and Caleb reached for the pillow again, but it was out of reach, and he pulled the sheet over his head instead. ‘For once, Caleb Stirling, this isn’t about you. This isn’t about your career, or your fancy restaurant or how good a chef you are. This about community. A tight-knit group of kind people that celebrate together once a year. Do you think they care how you made the cakes? Or what you serve for dinner? They aren’t five-star clientele but good-hard working folk. And you know what, they deserve better.’
