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Caleb remained silent.
‘Argh!’ Bridie collected the bottles and threw them in the trash with a loud clunk that emitted a further unpleasant sound from Caleb. Bridie stood with her hands on her head, feeling in that instant as if she might explode. Rage rolled through her once more. What on earth was she going to do?
Sybella returned and Bridie shoved those drugs into Caleb’s palm rougher than necessary, but he didn’t move. This was no time for nonsense. She lifted an unwilling Caleb to a sitting position. ‘Drink this,’ she said and forced the water to his lips. He took a tiny sip. ‘No, all of it.’ Her handbag left at the festival had her emergency kit, that’d sort him out, not that he deserved it. Today, she was pleased she couldn’t offer him all the tonics in the world. If he was going to be so stupid, let him pay the price.
Once the bottle was empty, she lowered him down to the bed and tucked him in. Sybella watched on.
‘Hey there,’ she said and slid her hand across Sybella’s silky hair. ‘Uncle Caleb needs to sleep for a while, so we’ll leave him be. Is all the food that you prepared at your house?’
The girl nodded. ‘I helped yesterday; I know where it is. He told me about the French sandwiches too, so I know how to prepare them.’
Bridie flashed a tight, tentative smile. ‘Ah, that’s great. We’ll be a team. First thing we’ll transport the food and make the baguettes. Remember the long, narrow French bread is called a baguette,’ her voice returned to its normal timbre.
At the house, Caleb’s parents asked a million questions. Bridie was livid for sure, but she wouldn’t make matters worse with his parents. She avoided the answer they most wanted – where was Caleb? Sidestepping beautifully, she placed a stack of boxes into Ian’s arms. He spluttered and reverted to Heather for guidance, but she was similarly armed. ‘Can you please help by carrying these across to the showgrounds? I can take it from there,’ and she offered her warmest smile.
It took a few trips but everything they needed was where it should be. Bridie didn’t want to admit but the sweets looked amazing. There was an assortment of tarts, cakes and macarons. Oh shit, she realised she’d forgotten to bring the punnets of strawberries. Man, she hoped her father was awake this morning. He’d promised to attend the fair, so she might be in luck.
Sybella placed the treats onto plates for display. Bridie did a double take. Every sweet was strawberry. ‘Sybella,’ she asked sidling up to the girl, ‘are there any other cakes?’
The girl shook her head and her lips dropped. ‘Don’t you like these ones?’
‘No, sweetie, I love them. I notice they’re all strawberry…’ her voice dropped, uncertain what that meant.
Sybella beamed. ‘Yes,’ she cried, ‘yes, Uncle Caleb saved your bruised berries and made all of these, for you and your farm,’ and she looked left and right searching for something. ‘Oh, he wanted a sign too, but I can’t see it.’ She turned back to Bridie. ‘You know a sign advertising Finch Berry Farm, so everyone knows where the berries come from.’
Hundreds of thoughts slammed into each other in her head, but none made coherent sense. For once, she was speechless.
Joel, running the drink stall, approached and sought help. ‘Sybella, keep going and I’ll be back in a tick.’
In record time Bridie put out spot fires: missing tables, location of equipment, introductions, checking playlists and pricing of produce. Racing back to Sybella, she noticed the clouds had cleared, the sun was dull, but present in a pale blue sky and it hadn’t rained in hours. It wasn’t freezing, either. There were millions of other tasks, but instead, she pulled up a chair once she reached Sybella and they made baguettes.
A miracle occurred over the next hour. Everyone left her alone, there were no questions to answer or decisions to make. People coped. On their own. One part of her experienced a pang of sadness, she liked being needed. She knew what the locals called her – the do-gooder, bleeding heart or good Samaritan. But she genuinely enjoyed helping people. It gave her purpose. But somewhere along the way, she’d become the only responsible person in town. Want something done? Give it to Bridie.
The other part of her was relieved that she’d enjoyed a break. What a treat! Bridie looked around the field. There were people rushing but they were happy and smiling and helping, having a great time. Reality check – if she wasn’t here, the day would proceed with success. It was a team effort. Ouch.
Even though the celebrations were in full swing, she wasn’t inclined to move. Sybella gave her a cold lemonade and she pecked at the leftovers from their sandwich prep. Man, that duck was good! Caleb the man who said he couldn’t, could sure as hell make a great French roll.
‘Oh, love, there you are. Where should I put these?’ her father approached with boxes of their punnets.
‘Dad, thank you,’ and she wrapped him in an embrace. She’d forgotten to ring him, and he’d remembered. ‘That’s okay, love. I saw a spare gazebo over yonder, should I go and set up and see if we can flog a few?’
She laughed and it released the tension that had been bunching in her belly, hell, for years. Usually, she’d insist he relax and enjoy himself and she’d take over and simultaneously run three stalls at once. Something hard and sharp shifted within her. She could not do everything and why did she think she ever could? ‘That would be fabulous. Thank you,’ and she tossed him a money bag and off he trotted.
Sitting on a picnic blanket and listening to the band play, she helped herself to a flute of icy cold French champagne. Bridie sipped the cool liquid; it felt momentous because she never drank. Would this lead to trouble? No because the rain had cleared and left them with a sparkling, bright clear winter’s day. It was idyllic.
‘Bridie, can you please come and help me?’ Sybella held her hands in front and swung them side to side appearing unable to contain her excitement.
‘Sure,’ she said, and the little girl swept her along.
14
‘You’re a drunk! And not a fit carer of a five-year-old,’ his father said.
‘We read about what you did in the newspaper. Abagail said you were a fine cook, but a good chef doesn’t make his customers sick,’ his mother said. ‘And look at you,’ she spat, ‘you’re dishevelled like a common hobo. You stink of alcohol and look like you haven’t slept in days…’ she closed her eyes and prayed but he zoned out from the words.
Caleb held a pan in his hand and gripped it so tight his knuckles turned white. ‘I don’t care what you think of me. You aren’t taking her!’ He slammed that pan down onto the steel make-shift bench where it didn’t make nearly as much clatter as he’d hoped. It hurt his head, though.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have dinner to prepare,’ and he turned his back on them.
