At the end of the meeting, Mark left his desk and went to the kitchen to get himself a coffee. From this vantage point, he was able to observe with disgust the following occurrence. His new graduate, who, much to his great fortune, he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting face to face, wasn’t sitting at her own desk. Where her desk was, he had no idea. That wasn’t the point. The point was, she just appeared to be flittering about his office. Taking this drawing from that file. Going to this bookcase and then to that one. Photocopying God only knows what. No doubt, something important in her mind.
The point being, as absorbed as she was in her task, no one else was absorbed in theirs.
His piling engineer observed her walk from the bookcase to the photocopier.
His procurement officer watched her stroll from the layout table to the pin-up board.
And his quality manager craned his neck to watch her bend over to pick up a highlighter she’d dropped.
No wonder they were so behind. Enough was enough.
Why had he ever agreed to let this girl in? Oh yes, another one of Kathryn’s bright ideas. Well, maybe he could kill two birds with one stone: increase his men’s concentration and increase the productivity of his painting team.
He walked over to the girl and stood in front of the layout table until she noticed him. She looked up, her big eyes rounding even further.
‘Er . . . hi.’
‘You must be my new graduate.’
‘Yes, Emily Woods. I’m very happy to be here. Thank you for taking me on. I’ve been really enjoying –’
‘Yes, yes, we’ll dispense with the pleasantries. What are you doing?’
‘Well,’ she began shyly, ‘we have ten pre-fabricated trusses arriving next week and I’m trying to organise –’
‘Yes, that is next week. This week, the painters have fallen behind as they have the week before and the week before that.’
‘The painters?’ she faltered.
‘I have ten deck beams in the yard that are just sitting there doing nothing. I can’t use them because the painters haven’t got around to spark testing them yet. I need you in the field.’
Her face lit like a bulb. ‘You want me supervise the installation of these beams? Sir, I can’t tell you –’
‘No,’ he cut her off. ‘I want you to spark test them.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I want you to make sure that they’ve all been properly painted and then release them to be used.’
‘But I’m not a painter –’
‘Ben will show you how.’
Ben, the quality manager, who had been rather ineffectually pretending not to eavesdrop, stood up. ‘Beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Show her how, will you? I’m going out. Oh,’ he thought of something, turned back and held out his hand to the girl, ‘welcome to the Hay Point Wharf Expansion, Emily. I’m Mark Crawford.’
In a sort of daze, she lifted her hand and gave him what could only be described as a wet-fish handshake. He disengaged himself and made for the exit.
It was time to get Augustus. As he put his cage into the ute, he hoped that both his luck and his project progress improved next week. It would be a colossal embarrassment if they were not ready in time for the shiploader.
As he fished his keys out of his pocket, his fingers brushed Kathryn’s ever-present list. Unable to resist the pull, he took it out to read it again, as he often did. His wife’s last instructions were too hard to throw away. To make matters worse, he found himself involuntarily following them. Even now, he was scanning the list to see what he was up to.
Number four. Bake a cake.
Kathryn had been a chef. As far he was concerned she remained the most talented cook he’d ever met. Ever since they had married, food had infused his life, blanketing it with delightful smells and tastes and textures. He missed watching her experiment at weekends. He missed coming home to a house filled with the juicy aroma of roast beef. He knew exactly which cake she wanted him to bake.
Comfort food had been Kathryn’s answer to everything. (How his wife hadn’t been the size of house he’d never know.) When she was excited about something, she’d make chocolate tarts. When she was feeling down, she’d make stew. ‘Something hearty to warm the soul.’ When she was angry, seafood seemed to be the dish of the day. How many times had she given him prawns with severed heads when she was pissed off, or crab cooked whole?
But cake . . . cake was reserved for those moments when she just needed to stop and think.
Whenever she was faced with a difficult dilemma, a ticklish predicament, an interesting but irreconcilable problem, she would head straight to the kitchen to bake. There was nothing that helped Kathryn nut out a problem better than mixing flour, butter and eggs. And if it were a particularly stubborn problem the cake would be chocolate. A decadent mud variety. It got to the point where he wished they had more issues in their lives.
I can’t do it.
Even if he could cook, which he couldn’t, doing something like this would release memories he couldn’t face again. He grunted. Maybe that had been her plan.
He started the engine and drove to Mackay.
The appointment was shorter than expected. Augustus’s splint did not need adjustment and they were back in the car again within an hour. Mark put the turkey on the front seat. Unable to stand for too long, it sat there rather listlessly, the small plastic bucket still encasing its head.
‘I suppose you think you’ve got it tough,’ Mark remarked.
Augustus ignored him.
‘You do realise that I’m your benefactor?’ he said, as he restarted the engine. ‘The only reason you’re alive is because of me.’
The bird finally raised its head and gave him a beady stare.
‘Fine, it was me who ran you over in the first place, but you have to admit, that wasn’t my fault.’
The turkey averted its head.
‘You know, insolence doesn’t look good on you.’
The turkey closed his eyes.
As the scenery flew by the windows Mark dared to say what was on his mind. ‘I just wanted to ask you . . . you know, just in case, when you were lying there under my car tyre heading towards the light . . . Did you happen to see my wife?’
Augustus did not stir.
‘I guess not. It was a long shot, I know, as technically you didn’t die, but it’s just that I wish I knew what was in her head when she gave me this damn list to complete. So,’ he tried conversationally, ‘feel like baking tonight?’
The turkey finally opened both eyes and put his head up in what could only be described as the bird version of horror.
‘Relax!’ Mark shot at him. ‘I wasn’t talking about putting you in the oven. I’m thinking of baking a cake.’
The turkey’s expression did not change.
After swinging by a supermarket to pick up the ingredients, Mark was home an hour later. He ordered his dinner – chicken and vegetables – set the turkey cage on the dining table (Charlotte Templeton would never know) and then put his two bags of groceries on the counter. He stood in the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. The turkey, which was clearly visible over the bench, squawked.
‘What’s your problem?’ he asked. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’
He was pleased to note that his voice sounded very convincing. The truth was, he had no idea of Kathryn’s precise cake recipe. But surely with a cake precision wasn’t crucial. He had seen her make her decadent chocolate mud a million times and did recall what went in it, just not exactly how much. And of course he knew what it tasted like. So those two items of knowledge combined should allow him to guess his way through it. It couldn’t be that hard surely – certainly a lot easier that getting the correct mix of cement and aggregate to achieve the specified compressive strength.
‘Right,’ he rubbed his hands together as Augustus rubbed the rim of his bucket headpiece along the bars of his cage, ‘I’m pretty sure the first thing she di
d was melt a lot of chocolate with other stuff.’
He took out a saucepan and popped in a block of chocolate, sugar, butter and a little bit of water. Then he turned the stove on high and put the pan on.
‘Now I guess we just wait till that’s all melted and runny,’ he told Augustus, who gobbled agreeably.
Mark went to the couch and sat down. Drawing a computer magazine from the coffee table, he began to flick through it. As the smell of chocolate infused the room he started to feel very relaxed.
It was a relief. He was sure this would have been too hard – too close to the bone. But maybe enough time had passed to enjoy this again. Sitting here, flicking through his magazine with the heavy aroma of chocolate swirling around him was almost like getting a hug from his dead wife. It was very therapeutic and surprisingly easy.
The turkey squawked.
‘I’m sorry.’ He looked up imperiously. ‘Are you bored? You can’t possibly expect me to entertain you. I’m very busy at the moment, baking a cake.’
Augustus gobbled and banged his head piece against the cage with such force that Mark was sure he must have been very close to knocking himself out.
‘It amazes me sometimes how incredibly stupid you are,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose that’s what turkeys are in general, aren’t they? That’s why they’re called turkeys.’
He lifted his nose to the air. ‘Hmmm, that doesn’t smell quite right.’
He got up and went over to the stove. The butter appeared to be boiling, which was good because it was definitely melted. The chocolate also looked soft . . . ish. He got a spoon and began to stir it. But the chocolate just wouldn’t liquefy. In fact, it rather had the consistency of Play-Doh. The sugar grains stuck in it like pimples.
‘I think this chocolate is off,’ he told Augustus. ‘We’re going to have to start again. It’s a good thing I bought three blocks.’
He took the saucepan off the stove, shoved it in the sink and got out a new pot. Again, he added chocolate, butter, sugar and water and put the pot on the stove. He went back to the couch. Augustus banged his head again.
‘Stop that,’ said Mark. ‘You are going to hurt yourself and I’m not letting you out.’
The turkey dropped its arse and hit the paper-littered floor of its cage with a gentle whoosh.
‘Much better.’
Five minutes later Mark returned to the stove to discover that the same thing had happened. ‘I suppose the question we’re all asking then is, should I try again or cut my losses and move on?’
He laced his fingers together and flexed them. ‘I mean, let’s use the knowledge we know to be true. Most cakes are fairly crumbly. With mud cake you want it really hard and firm. I know Kathryn’s were always that way.’
Augustus squawked.
‘Just give me a second here. Why don’t we just break up the chocolate rather than melt it, so that it’s more like aggregate? That way we have some nice chunky bits to improve strength.’
He got out a large mixing bowl and did just this. Then he melted the butter with the sugar in a plastic bowl in the microwave because he couldn’t bear to use the stove again. He added this to the mixing bowl and then tried to recall the rest of the recipe.
‘Well, there’s definitely water in there, and eggs, cocoa and self-raising flour. I’m just not sure how much of each.’
Augustus put his head down.
‘You’re right . . . for once. Let’s think about this. With concrete we look at the water-to-cement ratio. For something nice and strong we might go sixty per cent cement. If we think about the self-raising flour like the cement, I think that’s our proportions.’
Augustus bent over and put his bum in the air, his tail feathers flexing.
Mark frowned. ‘You know, you’ve really got to stop doing that. It’s incredibly rude.’
Augustus shat.
Mark closed his eyes in pain. ‘I’ve got to get a cover for your cage. I think it would be better for both of us if we each had some privacy.’
He put all the ingredients in a bowl, greased a cake tin and shoved it in the oven. ‘Done.’
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. His dinner had arrived. Perfect timing.
He collected his dinner from one of Charlotte’s kitchen staff. Then after putting Augustus’s cage outside he sat down to have his meal in front of the television. By the time he was finished, forty minutes had easily spun by. It was time to check on his cake. He tested it with a knife in the way he had seen Kathryn do many times before. Surprisingly, it didn’t seem to be ready. He thought about cleaning up the kitchen but couldn’t face all those pots and pans just yet.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ he told Augustus and left the room.
When he was dressed he returned to the kitchen to test his cake again. It smelled like it was burning and it was, on the outside. But when he stuck the knife in again it was still gooey in the centre.
‘Why isn’t it setting?’
Suddenly there was another knock at the door. No doubt the woman from the kitchen was back to collect his dirty plates. He wondered if he’d be able to persuade her to take all the dirty chocolate dishes he’d created in the kitchen as well.
He flung open the door, his most formidable expression firmly in place. After all, one needed to be adamant if one was to explain to anyone what was in their best interest to do. But instead of the fifty-year-old woman who usually worked in the Silver Seas kitchen, his visitor was Charlotte Templeton.
‘What are you doing here?’
She wrinkled nose. ‘What is that smell?’
He set his mouth stubbornly. ‘I asked you first.’
‘We need to talk,’ she said briskly and brushed past him into the room. Her floral scent infused his nostrils briefly as her body wafted the air around him.
‘About what?’
‘It’s been over two weeks and your men are still having pool parties and –’ She stopped talking abruptly, her nose wrinkling. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’
‘Baking.’
She choked. ‘Baking?’
‘Yes.’ He stared stonily back, daring her to challenge him.
Unfortunately, as usual she wasn’t intimidated by this haughty demeanour and spoke again, much like she was talking to a toddler standing next to a play kitchen. ‘And what have you been baking?’
Before he could stop her, she had marched over to the oven and opened it.
‘Crap, that looks bloody awful. What is it?’
His lips were so tight they almost refused to move. ‘It’s a decadent chocolate mud cake.’
Her eyes danced as she looked back at him. ‘Oh, it’s decadent all right.’
He lifted his chin. ‘It’s still soft in the middle.’
‘Honey, I think it’s done.’ She turned off the oven.
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck fly to points as the endearment tripped off her tongue without any concern for his feelings at all. He knew instinctively that she meant nothing by it, except maybe to patronise him a little. But he still couldn’t help an uncomfortably tight feeling from taking hold in his chest. Really, the woman was way too familiar for her own good. He didn’t like her bustling about his kitchen either, getting another mixing bowl out of the cupboard. A dangerous scowl curled his mouth.
‘I think you ought to go, Ms Templeton.’
‘Mr Crawford, have you read my list?’
‘What list?’
She shut her eyes for what seemed to be a moment in prayer before saying, ‘Figures.’
She went to his cupboard and removed a measuring cup.
‘What are you doing?’
She tipped three-quarters of a cup of self-raising flour into a bowl. ‘I’m going to make you a new cake.’
‘Ms Templeton –’
‘And I’m going to continue baking until you listen to what I have to say.’
He folded his arms, a muscle in his cheek twitching while she placed three tablespoons of cocoa powd
er into the bowl.
‘Fine.’
She cracked two eggs. ‘Mr Crawford, I find your complete lack of interest in the well-being of your men concerning.’
‘I thought we were talking about your list.’
‘We are. Why do you think your men are such alcoholic, vandalising, disrespectful louts?’
He watched maddeningly as she scooped some butter into a container and went to the microwave. ‘Continue.’
‘Your men are living away from home, away from their families, working twelve-hour shifts, with very little time off. They have virtually no contact with the outside world except through phones and television. Their loved ones are too far away for them to have an influence on their lives.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘Observation, conversation, deduction,’ she said a little too succinctly for his taste. That was his forte, not hers. He pursed his lips.
‘So what’s your point?’
She gaped at him but after a moment shut her mouth, opened the microwave and removed the melted butter. ‘They are depressed and lonely. They feel powerless being so far away from their families, wanting to help but unable to return home because by the same token they need to earn a living. Are you aware of the statistics regarding suicide among FIFO workers?’
She poured in half a cup of caster sugar and gave the bowl a vigorous stir. He noticed that she cooked completely differently from Kathryn. Kathryn carefully measured her ingredients, savoured the smells, tasted the dough by dipping in her pinkie finger. Even sang to herself sometimes as she lovingly beat her mixture. Charlotte, on the other hand, attacked the ingredients, slapped them together, briskly whipped them into shape, like a drill sergeant shouting orders to his men. He noticed she hadn’t melted any chocolate either. Her focus was functionality. Her pace was efficient and her movements were almost second nature, as though she was used to doing three different things at once.
‘Mr Crawford, do you hear what I’m saying to you?’
‘Of course,’ he snapped, turning away. ‘That’s the nature of the industry we work in. The men knew what they were getting themselves into when they signed up for these roles. Furthermore, I don’t see how this has anything to do with you.’
The Girl in the Yellow Vest Page 16