When I walked through the front entrance of the main castle, I was swiftly intercepted by a natural blonde wearing a pastel twinset and conservative pumps. She seemed about my age, but had the bearing of a matron. “Catherine Daly, Manager” her shining gold name badge read.
“Help doesn’t come through the front,” she said walking out the front door and around the flagstone porch toward the side. No pleasant Irish “How ya?” or “What might your name be?”
“Kitchen entrance is through the screen door, over near that car park.” With that, she turned on her heel, and clacked back to the door, slipping noiselessly inside. The morning was cool and dewy. I could smell warm, yeasty bread well before I pulled open the heavy-framed, wooden screen door. It had a squeaky telescoping mechanism that slammed it shut automatically. Tom O’Grady’s strong back was to me and his shoulders undulated rhythmically as he kneaded a large ball of dough. I looked around and smiled, expecting someone to usher me in. No one so much as looked up from his work.
“You’re late,” Chef O’Grady said without turning around. I glanced at the giant, plain-faced industrial-white clock on the wall. 6:32. “The shift starts at 6:30.” I stood there silently, for longer than was comfortable. Finally a short, stout, sweaty man in a tall toque and a neckerchief approached.
“Name’s Bill. I’m the Sous.”
I offered him my hand in reply.
“Don’t shake my hand,” he said shortly. “I’ll only have to wash it.” Feeling a flush rise, I put my hands behind my back. I was embarrassed that Tom O’Grady had heard the exchange. “Take that station,” Bill said pointing. “You can make scones.” My heart sped up. I’d never made a scone in my life. Take a deep breath, Shayla, I told myself. There was a recipe fixed in a clear plastic holder, and an array of bowls and spoons next to a mixer. OK, one step at a time. I stood reading the sheet of paper, but fear was scrambling my synapses. I read the ingredients. Self-raising flour, never heard of it. Caster sugar, nope. Sultanas, oh my God. I stood frozen to the spot, aware that time was ticking and no scones were forthcoming.
“Bill,” a very young girl with a beaky nose and some funky necklaces worn over her chef’s coat piped up, “I’ve been here longer than the new girl.” I felt acid rise in my throat. The jig was about to be up. She was going to sell me up the river. “It’s only fair I get to make the scones and she has to peel the potatoes.” Behind Bill’s back, she gave me a quick wink, and nodded her head toward the giant pile of potatoes in the deep stainless-steel sink.
“I don’t like your sass, Brigid, but there’re two heads on me this mornin’ after watchin’ the footy with the lads last night and drinking for Ireland. I swear, startin’ today, I’m givin’ up my pints. So, shut your mouths and do what you like, just make sure it all gets done.”
“Pay no attention to Bill,” she whispered, “he’s never even said a kind word to his own mother.” Wordlessly, she flipped a potato around in her hand, showing me the most efficient way to peel it, and how to dig out the eyes using a paring knife. I methodically went through the pile, all the while watching her produce perfect little dotted rounds of dough that she lined up in regiments on baking tray after baking tray. Under her breath, and during the whirring of blenders and mixers, she narrated what she was doing.
“See here?” she’d say. “Not too wet.” Or she’d grab my attention with, “Look at this. You have to sieve the flour first.” When I finally got a batch right, she exclaimed, “Ah, that’s ace. See? You’re not useless!”
It was when she brought me a hot cup of tea that I began to believe in guardian angels. I understood that this was all a construct. I didn’t need this job the way Brigid and Bill did. I could simply walk away. Still, it felt like I’d landed in a prison camp, and she was the veteran who’d show me the ropes to ensure my survival. My hands were cramping, and my lower back was screaming out for relief but I kept on, assuming if I fell to the ground, Brigid would drag me out and bury my bones.
The very second I had washed, peeled and cut the eyes out of the very last dirty potato, Bill pointed to a sack of onions the size of a large child and grunted, “Get them peeled and chopped. Not minced, mind you, chopped.” Upright, the bag stood nearly half my height. Moving it was awkward. Every time I got a grip on it, the onions inside shifted like marbles in a bag, and it tilted and toppled above my head. I’d be lucky if I made it through a day in this kitchen without being hospitalized. Nearly dislocating my shoulder, I managed to heave the onions onto my workspace, and Bill immediately shouted at me for contaminating the area. I pulled the sack back down, and Bill yelled at me again for bruising the produce. He barked that I needed to sterilize the counter top, and replace my knives, which had been knocked off onto the floor, nearly severing off a few toes on the trip. Not to point out the obvious, but kitchens are dangerous places with heavy stock on high shelves, and all the ultra-sharp knives laying on counters, stuck to walls, and flying around in people’s hands. I’m surprised more horror films aren’t set in kitchens.
I fumbled around with the heavy paper of the sack. It seemed to have some kind of string netting inside it that I couldn’t tear. Brigid pulled a pair of kitchen shears out of a handy holster on her belt and handed them to me. I sliced open the top of the bag, and its contents shifted, sending a wave of rolling onions fanning out across the floor.
“Sheila!” Bill bellowed, red-faced. Chef O’Grady turned around from his work and shook his head. I skittered around the room, gathering onions in my arms, dropping them as fast as I could capture them. Brigid handed me a giant mixing bowl.
Onions contained, I got down to business. Through a series of grunts and pantomimes, my protector sent me down the right path. After the senseless massacre of a couple of the innocent bulbs, I learned to peel them without losing half the flesh, and to chop them into relatively uniform pieces using an impressively large French knife. After the first five, the fumes got to me. Tears pooled in my eyes, and I had to contort my neck sideways to keep them from dropping in the food. I went to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, forgetting I was holding a giant knife. The point caught my skullcap, and pulled it right off of my head, just nicking the side of my scalp. I put the knife down and clamped my hand to my skull. Was I bleeding? Barely, thank God.
“Sheila! Get your cap on,” Bill shouted. “That’s a health and safety violation!”
I re-hatted myself and went back to the monotonous chopping. This fresh batch of tears wasn’t coming from the onions. I chopped through the blur, offloading my tears to the side until there seemed to be no more moisture left in my body. Every now and again, I felt Chef O’Grady checking me out. I didn’t dare look at him. I could only imagine he was filled with derision and scorn. The morning had not been the success I’d visualized at all.
The longer I stood in the close kitchen, though, the more I internalized its rhythm. In a short time, I learned a lot through trial by fire. I now knew to stand frozen when someone yelled, “Hot behind!” meaning a scalding hot pan or pot of boiling water was being whisked within an inch of my body. Although I hadn’t yet learned how to dance, I noticed the choreographed moves of the waiters, bussers, and “dish dogs,” as they called the young men carrying huge bus pans and racks of clean glasses, as they wove in and out of each other’s personal space.
And all the while, I checked in on Tom. I’d decided to start calling him that, in my own head, anyhow. Screw decorum. If anyone heard my thoughts, so be it. I’d been bruised and shed buckets of tears. I felt like I’d earned the privilege. I wasn’t some publishing assistant calling from a climate-controlled office in midtown, who could jump up and get a Starbucks or waste a sneaky hour surfing on Huff Po or Buzzfeed. I’d lost blood on the front lines, and I stood on a hard kitchen floor peeling my way to carpal tunnel syndrome while rivulets of perspiration snaked down my butt crack.
Now that things in my corner were running more smoothly, I was fairly sure Tom O’Grady had forgotten that I was in his kitchen.
I’d tracked his every movement since I’d walked in, but I’d hardly seen his face. I’d heard his resonant voice steadily commanding everyone around him. I’d glanced at his back so many times, I could probably draw a fairly good rendering of the black tails of his head wrap grazed against the thick, dark-blonde curls tucked into the high collar of his white chef’s coat. And the shape of his body. My original goal was to watch what he did in the kitchen, to try to get a feel of who he was as a chef so I could write reflective essays in his voice. But I kept drifting off topic. Tall and solid, his body resembled an upside-down triangle. Broad shoulders, tapering down to a thinner waist and ending at a tight high rear, carelessly accented by the thin draping jersey and elastic waist of his chef’s trousers.
At some point, Brigid approached me with concern. “You’re allowed the occasional bio break, you know. Don’t be scared of Bill. He’s a gobshite.”
“Bio break?”
“You know. Human needs. Tea. Food. The toilet. Come with me.”
For the first time in hours, I crossed through the kitchen. Tom, who was doing some kind of elaborate slicing and wrapping of a long, thin strip of meat dotted with bones, looked up from his work. I’d have to get the recipe for whatever that was. I looked around his station, hoping to see it displayed in one of those see-through holders.
Tom lasered his blue eyes right into mine with a knowing look. He’s getting ready to fire me. He’s going to let me work here all morning then he’s going to have me thrown off the grounds with nothing but the uniform on my back. I’d have to walk to Dublin in shame, fraudulently dressed as a productive member of society. I couldn’t look away. I’m sure guilt was written all over my face. He looked at me hard, just before his countenance softened and I caught the slightest hint of a crinkle at the corners of his sleepy, bedroom eyes. Then Brigid pulled me by the sleeve.
“Toilet’s through there. When you’re finished, come to the break room.”
I used the toilet and splashed my face with water. Aside from going swimming or to the gym, I hadn’t been out of the house with zero makeup since I was maybe 15. I hurried back to the break room, trying to avoid making contact with anyone else. Keep it simple, Shayla. I told myself. You are an international spy. James Bond didn’t go around making friends with people and going home with soda bread wrapped in their tea towels. You are here to do a job. I threw my shoulders back and tried to walk like a chef. I’d gotten better, hadn’t I? By the end, I was pretty sure I was doing more good than harm.
Brigid was sitting at a table bathed in a thick slice of sunshine.
“There’s a bacon and egg bap for you, with loads of butter on, and I fetched you a cup of coffee from the guest area, figuring you might like that, being American and all. Hurry, though, we’ve only a few minutes.”
My heart wanted to reach out of my chest and give her heart a hug. This morning had been so hard. I’d only been on the job for mere hours and I was exhausted to the bone. I bit into my sandwich like a starving person. Being around the delicious smells of baking sweets and roasting meats had set my animal brain on high alert. I had been hungry, and there was food all around. I washed down the sandwich with a huge glug of coffee. I could feel it joining with my blood, filling me with warmth and energy. Maybe I wasn’t getting fired after all. She wouldn’t feed me to keep me alive if I were, right? She’d leave me to die like the runt of a litter and invest her resources elsewhere.
“Thank you, Brigid,” I said, filled with warmth for her. This tiny slip of a girl was my hero. She could have sold me up the river and had me bounced out on my ass five minutes after I walked in.
“Not at all,” she said, waving me off. “It can be fierce intimidating around here when you’re new. You’ll find your feet soon enough.”
“Hey, I’d love to get my hair colored today. Do you think you can show me how to get to town when we’re through with work?”
“The shops’ll all be long closed by then.”
I was confused. Maybe they closed for a siesta in the middle of the afternoon, like in Spain?
“OK, then maybe after?”
“You’re on a twelve today,” she said. I blinked.
“That means you work twelve hours.”
No. Way.
“Apart from the odd corner shop, businesses will be locked up by the time you’re off duty. I know how you feel. I did a course in Dublin – art – and after, it was hard getting used to the early hours again.” My mouth fell open, with a large hunk of unchewed bap resting inside. It wasn’t just that I had to live with my hairdo, it was that I had to keep this up until 6:30 tonight. Already my knees felt creaky and my neck ached from bending sideways. “You’ll need to find your way into Ballykelty before long, though. Those shoes aren’t doing you any favors. She pointed to my black ballet flats, with the gold double-C Chanel logo on the toe. They were a birthday present from Hank — chosen, purchased, and wrapped by Maggie. They were damp, greyed out by a fine dusting of flour. “You’ll need a pair of clogs before you slip on the grease and crack your head, or irritate your sciatic nerve by standing all day on the slate floor.”
“And you’re telling me that stores aren’t open at 6:30 p.m.?”
She shook her head. “Most close at 5 and a few stay open till 6.”
What was this, 1930? I never left my desk before 7.
“Wow, village folk sure know how to kick back and take it easy!”
A tall shadow fell across our little table. “Certainly looks as though some do,” Tom O’Grady said. Brigid picked up her plate and cup, and was on her feet before I registered what was happening. I found my bearings, and gathered up the remnants of my snack.
“One minute, Sheila, if you don’t mind.”
This was it. I flinched. He was going to fire me. I’d just gotten fired from HPC. Even though I was faking doing a job under a fake name, I didn’t think I could live through it again.
“So um, Chef…” The title sounded so odd coming out of my mouth. I checked in to see if it had fallen wrong on his ears, too. He was waiting, watching me. I tried to think of something, anything, to say that would fix what had happened. Words failed me. Some writer I was. I looked at the floor. “I guess I’m fired, then,” I took the last gulp of coffee from my mug, set it on the table, and slumped over. Nothing left to fear. At least now I could breathe out.
“Will you follow me, please?”
Oh, come on. Here I was for the second time in a week, being escorted out of a place of business. He led me out of the side door of the restaurant, out to the service side, next to the car park. Why not just do it next to the dumpster?
“So?” My desperation brought out my belligerence. “If I’m fired, fire me.” I crossed my arms. “Chef.”
“I didn’t say that.” He gave me a serious look. “Do you need this position?” It was warm in the direct sunlight. He loosened the buttons on his chef’s coat nearest his collarbone.
How could I answer? And why would he care? Yes, I needed this position, but not for the reasons he might think. I hated digging in deeper and deeper with the lies. I chose my words carefully. “My situation is complicated.” I kicked at some pebbles at the edge of the grass.
“We’ve all been down that road, haven’t we?” He pulled off his head wrap, freeing his waves and curls. He raked his fingers back through his hair. “Listen, could be that there’s something I need from you.”
“Oh, anything! I’ll do whatever you ask. I-” A fresh sprig of hope uncoiled in my ribcage. He held up his hand to stop me from talking.
“I haven’t quite worked out a plan. And I’ll not ask you to give your word about something before you have the facts. For the time being, let’s say you’ll keep working here and we’ll take it hour by hour.” He looked pained. “I’ll think of something to tell Bill.”
“Aren’t you the chef? Now my high school French isn’t very good, but the last time I checked, that meant chief.” He gave me a thunderous look. It scared me. “I’m sorry,
” I said immediately. “I thought we were playing.”
“Well, we aren’t.” His face closed off. He tied his headwrap back on. “I have a restaurant to run,” he said, looking at his sleek black rubber waterproof watch, “Now, get in there and make 40 portions of Sticky Toffee Pudding for the dinner service.”
My breath caught in my throat. “But, I don’t know how to make Sticky…that.”
“Of course you don’t.” He buttoned up the side of his jacket. His eyes softened into genuine, undisputed crinkles this time. His lips spread into a smile. “That was playing.”
I laughed. “Hey, I’m sorry I’m a disappointment. I wish I were better at this.”
“Ah,” he said looking into my eyes. “I wouldn’t call you a disappointment.” His gaze hung on me for a second or two. I crossed my arms and looked down at my feet.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“New plan altogether,” he said, clapping his hands together. Wash salad for now, stay out of Bill’s path, and try not to do any harm to yourself or others. At half-past two, meet me in my mother’s kitchen.” He tied his head wrap back on over his wild curls. “I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
“Hello? Mrs. O’Grady?” I called from the path in front of the neat whitewashed cottage. I opened the gate and approached the door. Nap bounced wildly along with me, tangling himself in my feet as I walked the path. I peeked in the window. Tom sat at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of tea. He wore a heather blue vee-necked t-shirt that, if I remembered right, matched his eyes exactly. He looked softer out of his chef’s coat.
I knocked. He didn’t answer. I knocked again. After waiting for a minute or two, I eased the door open, calling “Hello?” I surprised myself at how quietly I said it. I could see through to the kitchen, where Tom still sat, calm in his private moment. His shoulders were relaxed and his face at rest fell into what was almost a serene smile. In the kitchen, his expression alternated between determined and guarded.
Summer at Castle Stone Page 14