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!’
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.