The Secret Ingredient

by Dianne Blacklock

  ‘It’s a good chance to get some more packing done,’ she told Jess. ‘I still have a couple of boxes of stuff I haven’t been through yet.’

  ‘I guess it’s an appropriate way to spend Boxing Day,’ Jess quipped.

  When Andie arrived home and got out of the car, it was really getting quite steamy, but because the house had been shut up since the day before, it was relatively cool inside. She had a quick shower and changed out of the clothes she’d been wearing since yesterday, before dragging the boxes out of the wardrobe. These were the last ones from amongst her mother’s things. She sat down cross-legged on the floor and opened the first, lifting out an old concertina-style file. She flicked through the alphabetised sections, they appeared to be full of old bills, receipts, guarantees. She knew the solicitor had the deed for the house and all her father’s financial documents, Andie was pretty sure these were just household records. The whole thing could probably go straight into the recycling, but what if there was something relevant, instructions or a valid warranty, for example? She really didn’t feel like sorting through it all now, so she decided she’d hold on to it for a couple of months after the new owners had moved in, and if no issues surfaced, she’d toss the lot then. There was another file in the bottom of the box, an old manila folder marked ‘Certificates’, tied with a thin, faded ribbon. Andie lifted it out and laid it on the floor in front of her. She untied the ribbon and opened the folder.

  Her heart lurched. On top was an envelope marked ‘Death Certificate’. Andie gingerly picked it up, only to reveal another, identical envelope underneath. Oh God, one must be her mother’s, the other had to be Brendan’s. Andie held them both, just staring at them, her hands trembling. There was no need to open them or look at them, it would only make her sad. She held them close to her chest as her gaze landed on the next document on the pile, titled ‘Coroner’s Report’. It wasn’t in an envelope, it was just lying there, barefaced. Phrases jumped out at her before she could block them . . . compound fracture to the skull . . . death – instant . . . Andie turned away, quickly placing the envelopes aside and the report face-down on top of them. She hoped it wasn’t all going to be this depressing. She looked back to the pile, relieved to see their certificates of confirmation and first communion next, printed on pages featuring quaint pictures of angels and the Virgin Mary and Jesus – the anglicised version, with fair hair and blue eyes, in flowing, luminous robes, children clustered around him, all blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked. They looked like characters in an Enid Blyton book, dressed up for a nativity play perhaps, Andie smiled to herself. Their baptismal certificates followed, less colourfully adorned, and finally copies of their official birth certificates.

  The last few documents were her parents’ original birth certificates, and their marriage certificate. Andie picked it up and read the florid script. They were married at the Church of the Holy Redeemer, on the twelfth day of September, nineteen hundred and . . .

  That couldn’t be right. Meredith was going to be forty next year, in just a few months, the maths was pretty straightforward. Andie sifted back through the documents and found Meredith’s birth certificate, checking the year of birth against the date of her parents’ wedding. Unless the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages had made a mistake, Meredith was born six months after they were married.

  Why had they never mentioned it? Andie wondered if Meredith knew, and decided she probably didn’t. Her mother had clearly kept it a secret from everyone all these years, like a hidden shame. Andie only ever remembered seeing one photo from their wedding, a very long time ago, when she was just a girl, it was certainly never put out on display. Her mother had worn quite a severe grey suit, and Andie had asked her why she didn’t wear a real bride’s dress. She said it would have been a waste of money, because you could never wear it again. Andie remembered being perplexed about all the other brides she had seen in proper wedding dresses that would never be worn again, and wondering whatever happened to them.

  If her mother was pregnant she certainly wouldn’t have been able to wear the grey suit for much longer either. Andie leaned back against the wardrobe behind her. She believed her parents loved each other, she wanted to believe that, though she supposed she hadn’t witnessed much affection between them. There was respect; she couldn’t recall her mother ever criticising her husband, and she never heard her father say a bad word about his wife. But if they hadn’t really loved each other, if they’d married because they had no choice . . . well, that was just too sad to contemplate.

  Her dad had seemed to get joy out of all his children, but Andie was sure Brendan was the only one who brought her mother any joy. She was perennially worried about her daughters, always so insistent that they had to make more of their lives, so she never let her guard down around them, at least not around Andie anyway. She and Meredith seemed to understand each other, speak the same language. And she was entirely different with Brendan; she must have felt she didn’t have to worry about him, he was going to be a man in what she still considered was a man’s world. He would be all right. No wonder she was so destroyed by his death.

  Andie stirred after a while, glancing over at the other box. She wasn’t so sure she felt like uncovering any more family history, but she might as well get it over with. She dragged the box closer and opened it. Lying on top was a large dark blue photo album. Andie opened the cover. On the facing page, in her mother’s own hand, was neatly written ‘Brendan Patrick Lonergan’, followed underneath by his date of birth, at St Margaret’s Hospital, Darlinghurst. She turned the page, and there were his hospital records, his newborn photo, and his ankle and wrist identification bands, all glued neatly into place. This was Brendan’s baby book. Andie had never seen it before, she was surprised her mother had even kept such a thing, she wasn’t a sentimental sort at all. Though she was different with Brendan, her beloved son. Perhaps she had worked on this after he died, as a memorial to him, but surely Andie would have noticed, she was with her most of the time throughout her last year.

  She lifted the album onto her lap and flipped through the pages. He was such an adorable baby, and then toddler, always grinning mischievously at the camera. All his milestones were recorded faithfully, and once he was at school, his class photos and yearly reports were interspersed with paintings and handwritten stories, tests with impressive scores. The photos and reports continued all the way to Year 12; the last photo taken at his formal. He wore a plain black dinner suit, but with a lime green tie, braces and shoes – he’d had to get them specially dyed, Andie remembered. There were more pages, but they were blank. Brendan had died the following year, so there were no graduation photos or anything else. She wondered if he’d ever seen this album, but she doubted it, he would have told her.

  Andie closed the cover and hugged it to her chest, thinking of Brendan in those crazy green shoes. Their mother had pleaded with him to reconsider, but of course in the end he’d cajoled her into going along with what he wanted, as usual. Andie looked down at the album in her arms, she was so relieved she hadn’t decided to turf all the boxes without going through them.

  She lay it gently on the floor next to her, and leaned forward to lift the next album out of the box. As Andie opened the cover she drew her breath in sharply. Her own details were recorded on the first page, just like Brendan’s. Her heart beat faster as she turned page after page; the same meticulous care had been taken recording her milestones, preserving her childhood paintings and stories, handmade Mother’s Day cards, school reports, photos. Andie was overcome and tears filled her eyes. Why had her mother never shown her this? Did she plan that they would only be found after her death? But why? What a shame not to share these with her children. Then it occurred to Andie, maybe she hadn’t done them for her children at all, maybe she’d done them for herself. Perhaps her own regrets and disappointments faded when she looked at the lives and achievements of the children she had borne. Andie hoped she had felt proud, that creating these albums had given he
r some of the joy that seemed to be missing from her life.

  There was one more album at the bottom of the box, and it was Meredith’s. Andie quickly flicked through the pages; it was the same as the others, except at the end there was a photo of Meredith graduating from university. At least her mother had been around to see one of her daughters achieve that.

  Andie went back through the certificates and separated out Meredith’s, slipping them between the pages of her album. She’d pass it on to her next time she saw her. She sorted her and Brendan’s certificates and put them inside their respective albums. She didn’t think Meredith would mind if she held on to Brendan’s, so long as someone did. Andie considered her parents’ papers, wondering what to do with them. She didn’t want to tell Meredith; her parents had kept it a secret, perhaps from some misplaced sense of shame, but Andie would respect their intent. Besides, what would it achieve telling Meredith? It was the kind of thing that was likely to upset her, so there was nothing to be gained from it. Finally Andie slipped the documents into the back of her own album, and then she packed it back into one of the boxes, along with Brendan’s album, and the concertina file. She sealed the box with tape, and wrote ‘To Be Kept’ across the top, in thick, black marker.

  Viande

  Andie fronted up for work the day after Boxing Day, feeling sad, and sentimental, but also a sense of peace as well. Her perspective had been radically altered, though she had to admit, largely for the better. She knew one thing for certain – a life shaped by regrets was half a life, if that. Her mother had a solid marriage, and children she obviously loved, but she wouldn’t allow herself to get much joy out of any of it. Andie’s marriage had failed, and she didn’t see herself having a baby now, but she just couldn’t let those regrets define her forever. She was lucky enough to find herself in her dream career, and she wasn’t going to waste a minute of the opportunity. Even though it wasn’t the career her mother had envisaged for her, Andie hoped it would still have made her proud.

  So she was keen to get out of the house and back to work – though she was not so keen when she remembered she’d have to face Dominic . . . Chef . . . bloody hell, it was just going to be awkward and uncomfortable, or worse.

  It had been stupid to have anything to do with her boss outside of work; this job was too important. Andie should have just said a polite no in the first place – better to have risked offending his ego ever so slightly than to have this hanging over her. With anyone else, working at the shelter together would have been a bonding experience, but the best Andie could hope for was that things would be as they were before, and they would have very little to do with each other.

  As it turned out, she didn’t lay eyes on him the entire first shift back at work, Cosmo and Tang ran both the lunch and dinner services. She wondered if Chef was sick, or had gone away . . . or maybe it was something more serious? He couldn’t have left outright without there being some sort of announcement, surely?

  When he hadn’t appeared by halfway through the shift again the following day, Andie decided to ask Tang at her first opportunity. But she had to get the wording right, she didn’t want it to seem like she was asking after Dominic, as such.

  ‘So you and Cosmo have had a promotion?’ she said to Tang when he came by to collect the vegetables for garnish. ‘You’re running the place now.’

  He smiled at her. ‘It’s only temporary. Chef’s having a week off.’

  There. Mystery solved. For the most part. Was it a holiday? Was he visiting family? Was he unwell? Was it any of her business?

  Andie put it out of her mind and got on with her week, relieved she had been given a reprieve for now. The restaurant was open on New Year’s Eve, and she was more than happy to spend it working . . . and thus avoid the whole dilemma about what to do on New Year’s Eve. It had always been a romantic night for her and Ross. They didn’t get invited to many parties in the beginning, as a new couple they didn’t really fit in with old groups of friends. So they made it a special night for just the two of them. They had watched the fireworks from a suite overlooking Sydney Harbour, relaxed in a luxurious spa retreat in Byron Bay, they had even flown to New York one year. But even the years they spent at home were special; they had each other, they didn’t need to be at a big party with lots of people. Though that was exactly what they had done last year, as it turned out. Ross accepted an invitation to some swanky corporate soirée, and though Andie objected, he said it might be fun for a change. It wasn’t, Andie had never been so bored in her life. She kept hinting at Ross to leave and he’d say ‘Soon’, but they didn’t end up getting home until nearly 3 am. It had been her worst New Year’s Eve ever, and she had no intention of topping it this year.

  Working was by far the best antidote for whatever emotions threatened to surface on the night, especially as they were flat chat the whole time. They only had one sitting for dinner, serving a special degustation menu which carried the diners through to midnight. Andie was given more responsibility, with some of the regular staff on leave; she even got to actually help assemble the amuse-bouche – tiny butter puff pastries topped with a single, perfect scallop poached in white wine with lemon and dill. It was as close to plating up as Andie had ever been, and she couldn’t believe the thrill it gave her. She worked on New Year’s Day as well; again the restaurant only offered one sitting, at lunch, but it was a huge seafood-based feast this time. Chef was still away, and Andie had put the whole thing to the back of her mind, she was so immersed in her work. So she was startled when he turned up on the second day of January – literally startled, because she bumped right into him as she was carrying a large rack of bread across the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Andie,’ he said, with a slight bow of his head.

  ‘Chef,’ she nodded. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘I am.’

  They stood for a moment longer, in awkward silence, till Andie finally excused herself. ‘I best get on with it.’

  ‘Of course.’ He moved out of her way. ‘Andie,’ he called after her.

  She looked back.

  ‘Happy New Year.’

  She felt her face go hot. ‘Same to you, Chef.’

  At least he didn’t seem angry or pissed at her. Maybe all her worrying had been for nothing, and he was going to pretend it had never happened? That suited Andie just fine.

  At the end of the shift, she was cleaning her work station after most of the staff had gone for the night. Andie tended to be one of the last to leave; she took her time, she was never in much of a hurry to get back to the house. She heard someone clearing his throat behind her and she looked around. Dominic was standing at the end of the bench, watching her.

  ‘Oh, you gave me a start,’ she said, her heart pounding.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Is there something you need?’

  He hesitated. ‘Could I speak with you for a moment, Andie? I won’t hold you up long.’

  ‘Okay.’ What was this about? She had a bad feeling.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said, indicating the doors to the restaurant. ‘We can talk in there.’

  ‘Sure.’ He walked ahead, and Andie followed him. Bugger, was he going to give her the sack or something? Because he felt awkward around her now? That hardly seemed fair. She hadn’t done anything wrong; she had as much right to volunteer at the shelter as he did, and he was the one who had asked her to go for a drink anyway, and he was the one who had started asking personal questions, and making outrageous assumptions. So she had walked out. All right, maybe that was a bit of an overreaction on her part, maybe he hadn’t said anything all that outrageous. But she’d taken her leave politely, and he wasn’t bloody royalty. How could that be a sackable offence?

  It didn’t have to be. When you were employed on a contract basis, a boss only had to take a dislike to you, or decide he felt awkward around you, or that he just didn’t like the cut of your jib for whatever arbitrary reason, and he was under no obligation to renew your contract th
e next time around. Right now Chef could say she wasn’t working out, and as her contract was up in a couple of months, maybe she should start looking around . . . There was no use fighting it, or she’d never get a job anywhere else. He had all the power, Andie had none. She was best to take it gracefully and hope he’d at least give her a reasonable reference.

  She followed him into the main room of the restaurant. The tables were stripped, the chairs stacked on top of them, ready for the cleaners in the morning. She waited as he turned over a couple of chairs and set them down on the floor, then indicated for her to take a seat. Andie felt vaguely nauseous as she stepped forward and sat down.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, or anything?’ he asked.

  She looked up at him. ‘Look, Chef, if you’re going to fire me, I’d rather you just cut to the chase.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, as though he wasn’t following her. It was clearly an act. ‘I’m not going to fire you.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, you can’t actually fire me,’ she said. ‘But you’re letting me know you’re not going to renew my contract, right? And you’re going to suggest I start looking around for alternatives. It’s the same difference.’ So much for taking it gracefully.

  ‘Andie, I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘Your position here is perfectly safe.’

  She was instantly relieved, and then instantly confused. ‘Then what’s this about?’

  He breathed out. ‘May I sit?’

  Why was he asking her? She nodded.

  He sat down opposite her. Andie would have preferred to have the table between them, some kind of barrier, but he’d placed the chairs at the end of the table, facing each other.