It’s a country road, a long road, straight and flat and shade less. Each summer, Paul slogged his old bike, for eight hours, on that dusty, deserted route, watched by warbling magpies – the sweetest morning sound he’d ever heard – contrasting with screeching cockatoos, like the grinding of concrete, mixed with boot camp shouting, and hysterical kookaburras and a dozen other winged friends. On this day, as the sun burned through his shirt, he came at last to the welcome sign that said 800 people are in this dry, bleached town. He choked on the dregs of hot water from his army canteen and his bare forearms, red as beets, flamed as he creaked by the few sunlit shops to his gramma’s house.
After joyful greetings and tea and hearing chatter and family news, Paul left his gramma, limped to the river and swam thankfully in the leaf-stained, fishy-smelling water, while the stiffness in his young legs faded.
In the meantime, the Gallagher sisters, Lemme and half crippled Jibby, held court in their little bake shop. It doubled as a gathering place for local ladies, as they bought little or lots and sat nibbling, sipping tea and prattling merrily about local goings-on.
Detached behind the shop, stood the brick bakehouse itself. Old bricks, but solid; a monument to a hundred years of wear and tear and sweat and honest labor. It was the nerve center of the Gallagher business, its chimney flue belching white smoke as if a new Pope was just elected.
The bakery fronted a rear street along which Paul walked on his way back from swimming. The baker was Morris Gallagher, brother to the girls; not a spouse between the three of them. No one seemed to know how long they’d run the bakery; always been there and would always be there.
The day’s products were being taken from the oven. The aromas from the breads and pastries blended with smoke from the red gum wood blocks that fueled the oven. Instantly, Paul reacted; couldn’t help himself. He bounded in and asked Morris Gallagher if he might be allowed to come watch next day. “Can’t pay yer,” says Morris. “This is a one-man show.” Paul just said, “I wasn’t thinking of getting money.”
After all, what unpaid kid shows at 5 am every day without fail?
Once and only once during the five weeks he was in town did Paul not arrive at work before Morris himself; that was the very first day. He’d not been told when to show up and he didn’t ask; Morris hardly expected him anyway. After all, what unpaid kid shows at 5 am every day without fail?
Paul had no plan. He just stood around, keeping out of the way, but noting what tasks he could handle. Routinely, Morris would go to the wood-stack outside the door and bring more wood to the fire, the yellow flames keenly enveloping the fresh fuel. Paul saw how to clean the bread tins, sweep the floor, and cart butter, jam, coloring, lemon curd back and forth to the big old fridge, and, bit by bit, he took over these chores.
As bread and pastries went into the oven, Paul set the horrible rowdy alarm clock to time the baking. Pies, cakes, jam rolls and lemon tarts, had their own cook time; Paul soon knew each one. Then he would stand by, trying to anticipate what should next be done. He watched Morris querulously. How could such a painfully thin, grey man, wearing a stained singlet, his corrugated ribs clearly showing, even through that singlet, be able to lump bags of flour, buckets of sugar, tubs of lard so effortlessly?
The only mechanical aid was the dough mixer, a cranking, banging, scraping mechanical monstrosity. Paul kept well away from it till it had made dough for the day, then he’d clean it just as he’d seen Morris do. He wondered when he might be able to knead the dough and place the loaves in the tins ready for the oven. When might the wonderful dough caress his fingers; Morris was so lucky, he thought.
It was odd that Morris never told Paul to do any task. He just kept on with working his bakery, but his Irish thoughts raced on. What had happened here? Is this a leprechaun? It’s not April Fool’s Day, is it? Sure, he’ll not come tomorrow!
Yet, show up Paul did. Now and then, the baker would mutter a quiet thanks, especially when his weary bones breathed thanks for the help, but Paul never said, “your welcome,” or smiled or talked, save for good morning and good night. At one point, Morris asked Paul to do an important thing: “Go to the railway station and bring back the new yeast shipment.” Paul loved that lightning bike ride, but back at the bakery, after being out in the fresh air, he was struck by how damned hot it was near the oven. After all, it was a hundred in the shade without the roaring fire adding its contribution.
Still, once he was back at work, Paul felt the heat not at all.
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