Page 30 of When Lemons Give You Life

Gladys picks up the cup of sugar I’ve measured. “Now, I think we are a bit light on this, chef. I reckon it’s only 250 grams.”

“Yes, that’s the recipe.”

“Bah! Not my recipe. My Herb likes things extra sweet, that’s why he married me!” she declares, batting her eyelids. I give her more, and she tips it into a saucepan with the apples, cinnamon, breadcrumbs (tragically Wonder White) and chopped walnuts. “I also like to add a bit of zest. Hand me an orange, please.”

Good call.

She sniffs the fruit like she’s inhaling a memory. “You know, Herb and I had orange trees in our very first home. I can’t tell you the number of times I made marmalade or orange and poppy seed cake for him. The worst thing about being incapacitated is not being able to love my hubby in the way that he most feels loved. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but it’s more than that for my Herbie. I think his heart is his stomach. They are one and the same.” Gladys is right. The ability to love people in the way that is meaningful to you both is definitely one of the rights waived upon entry to this prison.

“My better half was built like that too,” I say, wiping the countertop.

The woman hesitates. “Was? Did your wife pass?”

I pause, the word catching in the air. It’d be easier to agree, to let her think I had a wife. That’s what people expect—men of my generation have spent a lifetime dodging questions, some going back into closets they thought they’d escaped. I nearly do the same. But I swallow hard and say it anyway. “My . . . husband, Beau.” The word still conjures mixed feelings—blokes my age usually stick to “partner”—but it’s the truth, and one we fought hard for.

She smiles. For a second I wait for the flinch, the awkward comment—the one I’ve braced against for as long as I can remember. But it never comes. The silence feels lighter than words.

“Good men, my Herbie and your Beau. We did alright, didn’t we?”

“We sure did.”

It’s time to turn on the stove to cook the apple filling, and despite her tipsy sway, Gladys insists she can do it. Her center of gravity strongly disagrees, so I stand close in case. Good thing I do, as Gladys topples backward onto me. “Oops, sorry, love!” she hiccups, regaining her balance. “That beer went straight to my knees!”

I wash my hands and insist on helping her pour the hot filling.

She expertly lifts the second sheet of pastry on top. “Now for my favorite part—the meringue.”

I wash the dusty Kitchen Aid bowl, and we turn the machine on, adding egg whites and sugar. Gorgeous, glossy, stiff white peaks form, and I’m transported to my mum’s kitchen. If I try hard enough, I can smell her rose perfume as she teaches me to make pavlova one rainy afternoon when Lisa was sick and Brent was at the football game. Apart from bread, it was one of the few dishes she’d mastered.

Gladys folds in some crushed walnuts and scoops the meringue on top of the pastry, and I slide it into the oven.

“Grab us a spoon, will ya, love?” she asks. “I like to scrape the bowl. And another beer—I reckon we’ve earned it!”

I hesitate, weighing whether enabling a tipsy octogenarian counts as a crime.

“Don’t overthink it, chef. I can feel you stalling. I’m right as rhubarb.”

I hand her the spoon and fetch her another beer, which she gratefully accepts. She scrapes the bowl and brings the smooth meringue to her mouth. It’s then I realize that Gladys isn’t blind and that, like me, she sees the world through her tastebuds. What a bleak view she’s had since living here.

After a quick clean up, we sit in the warm, cinnamon-scented air as we wait for the cake to bake, talking about cooking and kitchen gardens, another thing I miss. What I wouldn’t do to taste fresh basil or mint again—anything but coriander. She tells me about the cancer that took her eyes, and I tell her about losing Beau.

Soon the lenja pita is cooling on the countertop, its golden-brown crust faintly crinkled at the edges, a light dusting of icing sugar softening the ridges. Beneath the top layer, spiced apple nestles in pale, buttery pastry—simple, sturdy, and quietly beautiful. I have to stop myself from cutting a piece right now.

Gladys doesn’t have a fridge in her room, so I offer to store it. “I’m going to put this in Griff’s fridge, okay, madam? I don’t want anyone in here accidentally eating it or giving it to someone else.”

“Righto.”

“And Gladys?”

“Yeah?”

“If Griff . . . isn’t here tomorrow, just go in and take the tart, or get one of the staff to, I mean.”

She furrows her brows. “Is he going somewhere?”

I pause, my confidence shaken. “Yeah, I’m pretty certain he is. He’s . . . got plans.”

After I escort her back to her room, Gladys, full of meringue, beer and happiness, pulls me in for an embrace. I stiffen. How long had it been since I was last properly hugged?