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12
‘What are you doing, love?’
The chill of the early morning dawn held her in its embrace, and she shivered, right down to her core. Bridie tugged the pink beanie down to cover her ears and moved her hands in the fingerless gloves trying to retain some warmth. The sun didn’t yet cover the fields in its golden glow and the frost hadn’t yet melted on the blades of grass.
‘Picking, Dad.’ His grin infectious as she smiled back.
‘It’s Sunday, you should be in the shop. This is my job.’
Pausing a moment too long, he knelt down to her bent position at the height of the strawberry plants and placed his rough and thick-fingered hand on hers, stilling its movements.
‘I’m so sorry for being useless. It’s hard during July, I almost can’t bear it. I lose myself because the pain is too great, the sadness overwhelms me and the only thing that helps is the drink. Forgive me, let me get through this time of year and I’ll be right again.’
Bridie’s throat constricted. She wished it was only the month. She seethed with mounting rage that her father had dropped the bundle and she’d been left to pick up the pieces, yet again. Bridie was adept at keeping her feelings locked tightly inside of her. How could she hurtle angry words at him, anyway? Who was she to understand grief and how it affected people? Her father felt the loss of their mother and brother from the tragic car accident years ago more keenly in July, the month of their death. Bridie’s pain surfaced on a daily basis, but she didn’t have the luxury of letting people down. And she didn’t want her father to feel bad about his behaviour when anguish gripped him so heavily. Nonetheless words of forgiveness didn’t slip off her tongue, nor reassurances.
‘It’s only early, let’s work together for a while and then I’ll head to the shop. You’ll be due a cuppa by then, too.’
He removed his hand and the moment of tenderness between them disappeared. Her father skipped over a row and commenced picking. They worked in companionable silence until Bridie spoke. ‘Dad,’ she was nervous, new ideas had never been his thing. ‘I saw on the internet that some strawberry farms are running ‘pick-your-own’ weekends and school holidays. They open up their patch for an entrance fee and people pick their own berries and take them home. You know, it’s like a set fee per punnet. I was thinking we could do something like that. Everyone loves pretending they’re farmers for a day and then,’ she paused, ‘given we don’t have any help, that would help reduce some of the workload of picking.’
Her father had his head down and kept picking. It was quite methodical work once you got in the zone. You had to pay attention, though, because those delicious looking berries were deceptive, they required a tug before releasing from the bush.
‘Now that’s a novel idea. Would never have thought of it myself. If it works, we might be able to get the back field operational.’
The sun was an orange ball risen high in the sky now. Bridie wished it let out some love in the way of warmth, but she still shivered. She wasn’t cold, though, not anymore, her father continued to pick and today he was open to her new idea. Mulling over her disbelief, she heard a car rumble down the drive. Could this day get any better? ‘Better get back up to the shed,’ she said and stood, stretching out her back. ‘Come up for a cuppa when you’re ready.’
‘Don’t worry about packaging these, love, I’ll do that. You must have a story to finish, you attend to that during the quiet spells in the shop.’
Bridie almost danced across the field towards the house and shop. Let’s hope their visitors bought out all their home-made jams and strawberry ice-creams.
‘Please Uncle Caleb, can I have the day off school and help you?’ Those tiny almond eyes bored into him, pleading. He’d told his folks they needed to clear out for the day. Tomorrow was the festival and he had stacks to do and needed the kitchen.
His mother was quick. ‘We’ll take Sybella and go for a day trip, visit fellow parishioners in nearby towns.’ Caleb caught Sybella roll her eyes.
They’d survived the week, so far. His parents were manically trying to convince their granddaughter what a life they could provide in an exotic foreign land, away from her friends, her school, the community and any close proximity to the memory of her mother. They needed to up their campaign, but Caleb wasn’t going to help them. What had caused him such angst, now didn’t matter. That kid was stubborn, perhaps she’d inherited that streak from him, because she wasn’t having a bar of it. It made him enormously proud, but also relieved. Any battle he thought might have occurred over trying to convince her to stay, was unlikely now, unless his parents refused to accept her emphatic no.
Caleb prevaricated. Sybella had been a fabulous trooper, enduring many days with her grandparents. What would be one more? And he was going to be flat out. But he couldn’t do it to the nipper, and he agreed to let her help. She squealed and jumped up and down on the spot while his parents looked forlorn.
He’d been baking for hours and had already produced 200 strawberry macarons. His father gazed at them longingly decorating the bench. Caleb pulled out his tart bases and let them warm to room temperature. He’d prepared the crepe ingredients and hoped the stall he’d arranged would be prepped and ready to go tomorrow without any hassle. The committee assured him there was plenty of willing helpers, too many in fact. Hopefully that meant Bridie wasn’t doing everything.
The front door clicked shut and his shoulders relaxed. Sybella was beside him in an instant and he lowered himself to give her a big hug. Just the two of them again; it felt right. ‘Okay, my assistant, you need to wash your hands and put on an apron. Then we’re going to bake the strawberry cakes.’ He fussed at the bench moving unnecessary ingredients and other items out of the way.
‘How many?’ she asked.
‘I think we need at least ten.’
‘Wow, that’s a lot of cake.’
‘Sure is,’ his mind swirled with tasks. ‘While they cool, we’ll prep the ingredients for the baguettes, but they’ll be prepared fresh in the morning. I have bakers delivering the French sticks before the sun will even be thinking about rising.’
‘The food is going to be so good! Everyone is going to love you Uncle Caleb,’ and she beamed up at him with one of those smiles that melted his insides and left him a gloopy mess.
‘And you too, kiddo, my helper extraordinaire.’
They worked tirelessly. ‘What are you doing with all those photos?’ he asked her as she’d whipped out his phone once more capturing cooling cake slabs and tart bases while he sliced chicken and whipped cream.
She shrugged and he forgot about it.
‘I’m tired Uncle Caleb,’ she said mid-afternoon and collapsed into the kitchen chair.
