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‘Fabulous, thank you, Roberta. Hi Kathleen,’ she matched their beaming welcome. She paused and stared at him, her smile faltering. He was getting lots of that, too. Were the rumours about small towns true? She threw a quick peek at the two women before asking, ‘Is everything all right?’ Her smile dropped and her eyes scanned him, starting at his shoes and moving at a leisurely pace until it stalled on his right arm. Most people did that, too. The length of his right arm, commencing at the wrist up to pretty much his shoulder, was covered in art. Black ink.
Caleb removed his cap and ran his hands through his hair and dragged them across his stubble-covered cheeks. God, he must look a sight. He’d been wearing these clothes for days and had slept in them too. At least the black jeans didn’t crease but his ratty t-shirt with the portrait of some singer he couldn’t even name, hadn’t faired so well.
An obnoxious chorus of music blared out through invisible speakers, jolting his thoughts. Mrs Ackhurst let it finish before speaking again. ‘That’s the start of the school day. I must be off. Mr Stirling, as I was saying, it would be of great help to the school if you could provide some assistance today. It won’t take long. We’re short and the children need to eat.’
Did she think he was some Jamie Oliver celebrity chef cooking up school dinners? ‘I’m sorry that isn’t possible. Can she do it?’ He pointed at the beautiful brunette, Bridie they said. It was a low act, he knew.
‘Are you short, Kathleen? Where’s Polly?’
‘I don’t know, but she’s not here and we aren’t to expect her.’
As Bridie listened, she was already removing her coat and nodding agreement, her beautiful crystal-clear eyes, contemplative. No doubt her mind was whirring, too. ‘I have my own disaster this morning. The chef I use every year for the Bastille Day Festival has pulled out and I need to find another one, pronto. It’s only a month away, so I have to get that organised. But of course, that can wait until later. I’ll help this morning. We can’t let the children starve.’
Mrs Ackhurst observed him again. ‘Well, this is timely, Bridie. This is Caleb Stirling, new to town and Sybella’s…um… Yes, well, he’s a city chef just arrived in Bellethorpe who’s sure to help with the festival.’
This time he quickly raised his hand as if that would quell the conversation, but the women ignored him and disbursed. Bridie gripped his wrist, ‘C’mon, I’ll show you the ropes and we’ll get this done in no time. We can chat about the festival too.’
He glanced at his wrist in her grasp. Her fingernails were short but flamingo pink. This woman was a pink powderpuff, all feminine and light and pretty. She was enticing him in all sorts of ways, and his body stirred at the sight of her, but really, all he wanted was to sink back onto the couch and sleep the next few hours away. Forget for a little longer.
Instead, he followed suit, doing what he was told for the second time this morning. In the kitchen she handed him an apron and he robotically placed it over his head and tied the knot at the back; something he’d done a thousand times before. But not since… not in this kitchen either.
‘I’m not cooking,’ he said, his words harsh and lost on Bridie who was busy gathering lettuces from the fridge and placing them on the bench in front of him. Someone lit the gas stovetop and he jumped at the ignition sound. Bridie paused, her hand on the bench next to his fisted knuckle. Her chest inflated with an intake of breath and her eyes squinted. She moved away to rummage in her handbag before extracting a box. She grabbed a glass of water and collected an apple from the fruit bowl. Without saying a word, she popped out two tiny white tablets, placed them in her palm, waited until he took them and he’d swallowed with a large gulp. When he was finished, she handed him the apple.
How did she know?
2
Well, what a surprise; that wasn’t how she’d expected her morning to proceed, it had been a little exciting. First the disaster at school; how could she not pitch in? It had been a rush of prepping salad rolls and fruit cups and baking banana and choc chip muffins. She made a mental note to check on Polly. She might need a homemade lasagne.
Then there was the setback for the festival but what a relief there was a newcomer in town. He’d help. How had she not met him already? He’d been here three whole days. Perhaps they should organise a welcome dinner? Given he’s a chef that might not work. A cocktail night or wine tasting at one of their prestigious vineyards? Bridie was sure he’d fall in love with their local produce. Bridie remembered his arm of tattoos and shivered. She hoped he wasn’t trouble. Sybella needed him, and the last thing the town wanted was a bad influence. But then, his eyes, they’d seemed sad, his whole demeanour sorrowful and melancholy. But of course, it would be, wouldn’t it? She remembered his condition this morning and her guts churned, but instead of judging him she’d turn her mind to how she might help.
But now arriving home, she felt edgy and behind schedule. Always so much to do.
Bridie creaked open the front door, hoping beyond hope that she didn’t need to be quiet. But before the door was ajar to reveal their humble living area, she heard the soft snoring.
Her heart sank like a leaden lump to her stomach, and she braced, breathing deeply to calm herself. Taking tiny steps, she entered the room and clicked the door shut. Her father sat hunched over in the armchair he’d slept in last night. She guessed if she was a better daughter, she’d have hauled him into bed and made him comfortable. But really? The man weighed a tonne and for sure her back would ache for days after. There were limits, after all.
Pausing in front of him, she took in his haggard features and sunken skin, the grey whiskers lining his chin. She moved closer, recoiling at the stench of him. Gently, she removed one boot, then the other. Yanking the crocheted rug from the couch, she placed it across his lap and legs. It was cool in this room where the winter sun didn’t quite reach through the flimsy curtains.
In the kitchen she put the kettle on to boil and whipped up a batch of her father’s favourite cookies. He’d wake later and be ravenous. She wondered if their new celebrity chef baked as well as he cooked. How did she know he was famous? Roberta hadn’t said, someone else must have told her but she couldn’t remember who. He was certainly an enigma. A tall dark, moody stranger arriving in their town; it was like a scene from a book and Bridie smiled. Her smile slipped as she remembered he’d hardly spoken at the tuckshop as they worked side by side. She’d tried, maybe she talked too much, probably had; she usually did.
In between sips of tea, she placed the tray of biscuits into the oven before filling a glass of water and popping out more paracetamol and placing them on the coffee table to her father’s left. She’d place the cookies next to them. A proper meal would have to wait until dinner.
En route back to the kitchen she passed her study. It was a mistake, but she entered and fingered the corners of the manuscript on her desk. Bridie was immersed in this story; she could feel its brilliance and knew it would be successful. You could always tell. She was so excited to be a part of its production. Could she do a little now? Her toes crunched up and she leaned forward, as if the manuscript had a force of its own, dragging her towards it. Oh, she wanted to, couldn’t wait to get back into the lives of those characters, live in the world of the words, the French verbs and the joy of translating paragraph after paragraph.
It was mid-week and time to perform her ‘day’ job. That had always been the agreement. She worked in the farm shop with its assortment of strawberry flavoured produce on the weekends and during the week was her time to work.
But with her father out of action again, the farm beckoned, she could hear it whispering to her. It was being neglected and it was up to her. Bridie glanced out the window. She loved that view, a clear path to the patches of bright red strawberries, row after row. The years had dwindled their patch. In some ways it was a mercy, they could hardly manage what they had. As always, duty called first. It was ironic though, because whilst the berry patch was her first priority, it was the French translation of manuscripts that kept them afloat. And kept her working almost twenty-four seven. No point whinging. With a heavy sigh, she left the room.
The timer on the oven binged and she savoured the aroma of home-baking. Like a real home, a real family.
Brusque knocking roused Caleb. He shifted his head and groaned as shooting pain raced up his neck. That’d teach him for crashing on the couch. The knocking continued, and he rose out of his chair and laboured towards the door, bleary-eyed and groggy from his deep slumber.
‘Well, hello there.’
The voice was too high-pitched, the woman’s smile too bright with extra white teeth and flashing eyes.
He squinted at the assault to his senses.
