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His body stiffened. Bracing himself, he stared at the image that had haunted him these last few weeks: him, intoxicated, looking ragged after late service. Not his best moment but the one that had gone viral.
Kathleen in her usual bulldog fashion didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Did you poison all those people?’
Caleb held in his large, deep sigh. ‘I didn’t poison anyone…’
‘Food poisoning, same thing, right?’ she gazed up at him with large round eyes. The other woman came and stood next to her.
‘It was an accident, a mistake. A stuff-up. I didn’t know the prawns were off. It was completely my fault…’
Kathleen was doing that dancing on her toes thing again. She made a habit of that when she was excited or anxious. Which was she? Excited at revealing the scandal? Everyone else seemed to enjoy it.
‘But you fed those bad prawns to a famous girl band and they were hospitalised.’ The corners of her lips turned up in the hint of a smile.
‘Oh boy,’ the other woman said eloquently.
‘Yes, that’s one way to describe it. But not only did they get sick from the food I served, they posted on social media about it and they have a lot of followers.’
The other woman put her hands on her hips. ‘How do we know you’re not going to poison us, too?’
‘Oh, this is Ruby,’ and Kathleen nodded in her direction before addressing the woman. ‘He’s not going to make us sick, Ruby.’
Dear old Kathleen was sticking up for him! She continued, ‘He’s not doing any real cooking, only making salad rolls and heating up stuff. He can hardly go wrong with that, right?’
Okay, not defending him.
‘Right?’ she turned to him for reassurance.
‘I have been a chef for over twenty years, and this is the one and only time I’ve stuffed up and the whole world learned about it. My career is ruined, and no one will ever come back to my restaurant.’ His words were calm but cut like steel. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, talk about it.
‘Let’s get on with the prep. The children will be hungry at first break. Ruby can you please wash the lettuce and Kathleen, you cut the fruit and I’ll attend to today’s special, mac and cheese.’
His words hung in the air. That involved cooking. Would they object and throw him out of the kitchen? Kathleen placed her pale, pudgy hand on his arm, covering the beak of the falcon and said, ‘The kids will love that.’
His mind was a jumbled mess as he stirred the cheesy pasta. A tremble commenced in his arm and was like a shock wave causing his hand to shake. Since being in the school kitchen, he’d controlled his cravings. It was not easy, and today, it was suddenly unbearable.
He gripped his hands together to ease the shake. Did he really think he could hide away in the country, and no one would know who he was or what he’d done?
Caleb didn’t know where to go or what to do. On rote, he headed back to the house where on the step sat three casserole dishes. Pressure pounded in his ears as the fury spiralled through him. With one foot he kicked those dishes. They crashed into each other, and he struck again. One smashed against the brick step and shattered. Grey, lumpy mince spread across the red concrete, mixed in with white mashed potato. One last boot and peas flew through the air landing in the garden. Over-cooked pasta congealed in a pool on the grass. He fought down his own urge to vomit.
Caleb couldn’t sit alone in that house filled with memories of his sister and reminders of the shit job he was doing raising his niece.
So, he walked.
His sister’s house was located on the high side of town, in a quiet street not far from the main drag, over a traffic bridge and flowing stream. Parkland surrounded one side and people traversed bike tracks. A building in the centre of the greenery had a large white ‘I’ identifying the tourist Information Centre. Surrounding it were well-tended garden beds overflowing with flowers in an explosion of colour.
The wind barrelled into him as he walked across the bridge, like ice against his cheeks. He pulled up his collar and dug his head into his chest and strode forward.
He glanced up as he passed the French Kiss bakery where Yvette wiped down the counter. After that, he passed a bank, a pharmacy, a clothing boutique with white plastic mannequins in its window. The traditional post office had an elaborate clock tower soaring above the low-set buildings. Then there was the Koffee Shoppe – he didn’t have the energy to cringe at the name. He came to a roundabout and in the middle sat a large bronze bell hanging from a crossbeam.
Caleb reached the pub on the corner and craned his neck skywards at the two-story structure and read a timber sign advertising The Belle. Without hesitating, he entered through the double-barrel doors. Inside was quiet for the middle of the day but a roaring fire enveloped him with its warmth. The publican nodded and served him with no fuss. He was on his third pint before the door swung open once more.
Caleb didn’t look up; he didn’t care who it was, the voices washed over him. A female talked to the barman about wine deliveries. He tuned out and sipped his beer.
‘I knew I recognised you the other night.’ A shadow fell across the bar. A figure stood too close, strong perfume circling. ‘Not only because you’re hard to miss, but your face was familiar. Last time I was in Sydney I had dinner at Lavapond. It was the best meal I’ve ever had.’ He looked up then, eyes flashing.
Sally.
He remembered her name.
