Honeybee

by Craig Silvey;

  She transformed into a different person in there. She wasn’t my mum, she was Sarah, dressed up for a world that didn’t include me.

  She would promise to be back in a couple of hours, but she always came back late. I tried to wait up, but I usually fell asleep on the couch or the floor or on my mattress, and I woke up when I heard the key in the door.

  It was hard to tell what her mood would be when she came home. Sometimes she said mean things. Other times she slurred and swayed and collapsed on her bed. I would take her shoes off and put a blanket over her. Sometimes she came home full of energy. She would put on music and start cleaning and dancing. Other times she saw me standing by the door and got upset, and she would hug me and cry and apologise.

  She always came home by herself. I don’t know if it was to spare me from meeting a stranger, or if she was ashamed to have them see me. But it meant I felt safe in our apartment, even though I was by myself a lot, because it was our own little world.

  I liked the nights she didn’t leave. Sometimes she played her guitar and sang me a lullaby. She made them up on the spot using the same three chords. If she couldn’t think of a word to rhyme, she just invented one and we would both laugh.

  When I was seven, she started reading me the Harry Potter books before I went to sleep. One night we couldn’t bear to stop, so she kept going. She read so much that she almost lost her voice. She whispered the last chapter, and then she fell asleep with me.

  We never got to the last book, though. I still don’t know how it ends.

  When I was eight, I woke up late one night to a strange clanging noise. I went to the bathroom and found my mum lying on the tiles. She must have just come home. She was vomiting and having a seizure. It looked like she was being electrocuted. Her heels were hitting the toilet. Her face was red. She had wet herself and her eyes were rolled back. I shook her, but she didn’t respond to me. I took her phone out of her handbag and called 911, because that’s what they did on television. I used toilet paper to wipe the vomit off her face and I held her hand. Her skin was cold. I had never been so scared.

  Two paramedics knocked on the door and I let them in. They asked me questions that I couldn’t answer. They carried her out to the ambulance and attached a clear bag with a thin tube to her arm. They let me ride with them. The sirens were on.

  At the hospital, I wasn’t allowed to follow her into the ward. I panicked and started to cry, so a nurse took me into a separate room. She gave me a hot chocolate and a biscuit and she stayed with me for a while. She asked if there was anyone who could come get me. I shook my head.

  I stayed in the room all night. In the morning, I woke up to a lady standing over me. She looked just like my mum, but she was heavier and had brown hair. She said her name was Gabby.

  ‘I’m your mum’s sister. You’re going to come live with me while she gets treatment.’

  ‘I want to stay here with her.’

  ‘She’s not staying here.’

  ‘Where is she going?’

  ‘She’s being taken to a clinic because she’s an alcoholic. And if she doesn’t do the work and get better, she won’t be able to take care of you anymore.’

  This made me really upset and afraid. I didn’t want to leave the hospital with her. I grabbed onto the chair I was sitting on and wouldn’t let go.

  Gabby leaned in close. She smelled like toothpaste and perfume. She spoke so nobody else could hear.

  ‘You’re going to stop crying and you’re going to come with me, is that clear?’

  She led me outside to her car. She didn’t let me see my mum first to say goodbye.

  Gabby lived in Claremont with her husband Miles and their toddler, Patience. Gabby only spoke to me when she was being mean about my mum or telling me I needed a haircut.

  My grandparents came over to meet me for the first time. They didn’t hug me, and they asked me a lot of questions about my mum. They loved Patience, though. They blew raspberries on her stomach and clapped and laughed at everything she did.

  I hated it there. I planned to run away, but I didn’t have to, because a week later my mum came to get me. I ran to the door and clung to her legs. She had a big fight with Gabby in the front yard. All the neighbours came out of their houses to watch. Gabby told my mum she wouldn’t allow their parents to keep funding her toxic lifestyle. My mum said it didn’t matter what choices she made, everyone would always be critical of her. Then she accused Gabby of only caring about how much money she was going to inherit.

  Gabby was furious. She told me I deserved a better mother, then she went inside and slammed the door.

  My mum took my hand.

  ‘Come on, Honeybee.’

  We went back to the apartment. My mum tried to do better. She emptied all her wine and vodka bottles down the kitchen sink. She stayed home at night for a couple of weeks, but then she started going out more than before and leaving me alone in the apartment for longer.

  My grandparents stopped sending money. I didn’t even know they had been. We were really broke.

  That’s when I started stealing on my own.

  I went up and down the aisles and filled the basket with food. I took my time and got all the ingredients I needed.

  Most smaller supermarkets have a storage section where the night-fill staff wheel in boxes to restock the shelves. Usually it’s only separated by plastic strips or a swing door. There are often stacks of boxes back there and a cool room and a break area. And there’s always an exit.

  Once I had everything I needed, that’s where I went. I didn’t rush. There was nobody back there. But when I went out the exit, I saw a man sitting on a milk crate and smoking a cigarette next to the door. He looked at my basket.

  ‘The fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Some lady just slipped over in the freezer section. She’s screaming. I think she hit her head. I came back here to find someone.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  He got up quickly and pushed past me and went inside.

  I stole his pack of cigarettes and his plastic lighter before I left. Since I ruined Vic’s last smoke, I thought it was the least I could do. I kept the lighter for myself in case I needed it later.

  I unpacked the basket in Vic’s kitchen. I had a lamb shoulder, garlic, rosemary, potatoes, carrots, peas, chicken stock and oil. And I had all the ingredients for a trifle. They were easy to make. It was just flour and eggs and sugar for the sponge, some milk and vanilla to make a custard, and some cream to whip. I also got some gelatine and fresh strawberries to make a jelly.

  Vic watched me get everything arranged on the bench.

  ‘Bloody hell. How much I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nonsense. How much?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Vic noticed the plastic basket, then he realised.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘I don’t have any money.’

  ‘You need money, you take it out of that biscuit tin.’

  He pointed to a shortbread container next to his toaster.

  ‘Okay.’

  Vic wasn’t mad. He sat down at the table.

  ‘I got you some cigarettes too.’

  Vic took the pack. He smiled to himself and shook his head.

  I turned on the oven and opened it. There were actual spider webs inside. I cleaned them out and removed an oven tray that had rust and dust on it. There were cockroaches and mouse droppings inside the cupboards too.

  ‘Am I allowed to clean your kitchen?’ I asked.

  ‘Fill your boots.’

  I started with the lamb shoulder. I took a paring knife and stabbed small holes into the meat. I stuffed bits of garlic and rosemary into them. Vic frowned.

  ‘You know what you’re doin’ there?’

  I gave him a small smile, then I spoke in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘We’re roasting Last Meal Lamb, served with a selection of vegetables and a decadent trifle dessert, today … on The French Chef!’r />
  Vic just looked confused.

  While I was staying at Gabby’s house, she let me play with her iPad. I had never used one before, and I loved it too much to give it up, so when my mum and I were leaving, I stuffed it under my shirt.

  When my mum left me on my own again, I watched YouTube to pass the time. I clicked on cartoons and funny pets and pranks and music videos and tutorials. It was addictive. One day I clicked on a lady who was doing a cooking segment. It must have been a long time ago because it was in black and white. Her name was Julia Child. She had a strange singsong voice, and I fell in love with her. She was tall and elegant and sweet. She was really comforting. I watched her over and over. Whenever I felt lonely and hungry I would watch an episode of The French Chef and I would pretend she was my grandmother and she was teaching me how to cook in our own kitchen. Sometimes I spoke to her out loud, like it was just us. I liked the way she made mistakes and threw things away and laughed about it. She said it was okay to fail, because it just made you do it better the next time. I watched every episode of every show she ever made. I liked her rituals too. Watching her sit down and tuck her napkin into her collar and pour a huge glass of wine at the end of every episode always made me smile.

  I wanted to be just like her, so I started practising in the kitchen. I would explain what I was doing in her voice. I was nine years old and I knew how to sweat onions and celery and carrots for a mirepoix, I knew how to make a roux and a bearnaise, I knew what herbs to pair with any meat. I baked a lot of sweets, because the ingredients were easy to find and steal. I could make a butterscotch gateau or a crepe stack or a tarte Tatin.

  I tried to cook something every single day, and I got better at it. I thought about food all the time, maybe because we never had any and getting the ingredients was so risky. For me, every meal was important, especially when I cooked for my mum. I felt nervous giving her a dish that I had prepared. I would watch her closely as she took her first bite. Sometimes she couldn’t believe that I had made it.

  I always imagined being a chef with my very own restaurant. I would never leave the kitchen, but I would have some way of looking out at the tables so I could see my customers enjoying my food. Maybe a two-way mirror or something, so they wouldn’t ever have to see me.

  I plated up Vic’s meal so it looked really nice. The lamb came out just right. I laid it in front of him.

  ‘Bon appétit!’

  Vic dipped his head close to the plate and inhaled.

  ‘Smells good. Thanks mate.’

  I sat down too. I was hungry, but before I could eat I wanted to see Vic’s reaction. He took a bite and chewed and nodded.

  ‘Is it as good as Edith’s?’

  He thought about it.

  ‘It’s different. You do your own thing. I like the gravy.’

  ‘It’s called a velouté. It’s one of the five French mother sauces.’

  Vic raised his eyebrows and nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t that interested.

  ‘Was she a good cook?’

  Vic nodded.

  ‘I was spoiled for a long time. This reminds me how lucky I was.’

  ‘I can teach you. It’s not that hard.’

  ‘Bit late in the day for new tricks.’

  Vic ate slowly and he couldn’t finish his plate. I worried that he didn’t like it and was just being polite.

  ‘Are you sure it was alright?’

  ‘Saving myself for afters. I always like the leftovers better anyway.’

  I cleared away Vic’s plate, and I came back with two bowls and the trifle. Vic had helped by finding a bottle of brandy in the back of one of the cabinets in the lounge room. It was covered in dust. Vic said it was a wedding present that he and Edie had planned to drink on their fiftieth anniversary.

  It made me sad, and I didn’t want to open it. I asked Vic if he was sure. He said there was no sense letting good booze go to waste, and Edie would have wanted it to be drunk.

  Vic’s eyes went wide when he saw the trifle. The sponge came out perfectly, and I had soaked it in brandy. It was layered with strawberry jelly and vanilla custard and topped with whipped cream.

  ‘Look at that!’ He sounded impressed.

  I served him up a big bowl and I watched him closely again as he took a spoonful. He closed his eyes when he tasted it.

  ‘You know what? This might be better than my mother’s.’

  I got a tingly feeling on the back of my neck.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s very good, thank you.’

  Vic ate another mouthful.

  ‘It tastes like Christmas Day,’ he said. ‘My mother always put a lucky two-bob bit in the bottom of the dish.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Two-bob bit. A florin.’

  ‘What’s a florin?’

  ‘Two shillings.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a coin, in the old money. Like a ten-cent piece, but worth more. See, she would throw one in the trifle before she dished it out, and whoever got it in their bowl got to keep it.’

  ‘And did you ever get it?’

  ‘Not even once. One of my sisters got it every year, except the very last time my mother ever made a trifle. My old man was a glutton for sweets. Went at it like a pig at a trough. And one Christmas he swallowed the coin. It got stuck in his throat and he sat up like he’d been struck by lightning. I had never seen him scared before.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Me? I started screaming with my sisters.’

  ‘Did he die?’

  Vic shook his head.

  ‘My mother was calm as you like. While the old man was lurching around, she got up, went to the kitchen, come back with a rolling pin and thumped him straight in the guts. The coin came out, hit the deck and rolled under the upright piano. My mother gave him a couple of extra whacks after it came out. Had them stored up, I reckon. And she never made a trifle again.’

  He had a couple more bites then put his spoon down.

  ‘I’m stuffed to the gills,’ he said. ‘Very nice though, mate. Thank you.’

  Vic cleared away the bowls. He came back with the bottle of brandy and two old teacups. He poured some into both. I didn’t want any, but I didn’t want him to drink it alone. Vic smelled the brandy and swirled it around the cup. We clinked the teacups together.

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ I said.

  Vic nodded, took a sip and gave me a smile that seemed sad.

  ‘How long were you married for?’

  ‘Thirty-seven years.’

  ‘How many kids did you have?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘How come?’

  Vic just poured himself another cup of brandy and stayed quiet. He drank the whole cup before he spoke again.

  ‘She died six years ago. When you’re a young bloke, you think about your life in terms of possibilities. The job you’ll have, the man you’ll be, places you’ll go. But when you get older, the way you think changes. You think about the stuff you’ve done, how you’ve done it, where you’ve gone. But the most important thing is who you’ve shared it with.’

  Vic poured himself another drink, then he started talking again.

  ‘She was my best mate. And when she died, I died too. My life went with hers, because it was our life that mattered, not my own.’

  My throat got really thick and fat, and I couldn’t swallow. I sniffed and wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

  ‘I promised myself that I’d stick around to look after the dog, because she spoiled that thing more than she spoiled me, same with all her dogs. Didn’t realise the little bastard would make it to seventeen. Arthritis, blind as a bat, pissed everywhere, bad-tempered, stubborn as a donkey. But not a bad little mate in the end. You get used to things being around, I suppose.’

  Vic’s voice was really shaky. He shook his head quickly and blinked a few times and puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Anyway …’ He shrugged. ‘Now the dog’s dead.’

  I did
n’t know what to say. We sat there without talking for over an hour. We were alone with our own thoughts, the same as a couple of nights ago on the overpass. We still had all the same problems, but I felt safe sitting there with Vic, and I didn’t want to die right then. I didn’t want Vic to die either.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I meant this to be your actual last meal,’ I said.

  Vic smiled and shook his head. He looked really tired. Half the bottle of brandy was gone.

  ‘Vic?’

  ‘Yes mate?’

  ‘Is it alright if I stay the night here again?’

  Vic looked me in the eye.

  ‘You can live here as long as you like. But you can’t die here. Understood?’

  I nodded.

  I got up and cleaned the dishes and put everything away in the empty fridge. When I was finished, I saw that Vic was asleep at the table. I felt bad for keeping him up. I shook his shoulder and startled him.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I thought you would be more comfortable in bed.’

  He got up slowly, using the table for balance. He nodded.

  ‘You’re a good kid. Thanks for dinner.’

  He slowly shuffled towards the spare room with the small bed and the stack of clothes.

  ‘I can sleep in there,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to give up your room.’

  ‘No, no. This is where I sleep. Night mate.’

  ‘Goodnight, Vic.’

  The Black Shadow

  It was late when I finally slept. I had the same nightmare that I always did. I was stuck on a train going in the wrong direction and I was trying to stop it. I hit the emergency buttons and ran down the carriages, but nobody paid any attention to me. I tried to force the doors open but they wouldn’t move, and the train kept going faster and faster, and got further away.

  I woke up when I heard a noise. I opened my eyes and it was dark and I was sweating. I heard the noise again, and I recognised it. Vic was vomiting in the bathroom. I got up and walked quietly down the hall. When it was my mum, I always knew what to do. I would hold her hair back and get her some water and help her to bed. But this was different. The toilet door was closed and I could hear Vic heaving and groaning. I hoped it wasn’t my cooking that made him sick. I sat by the door and waited, and when the toilet flushed I crept back to bed.