Page 109 of In Sheets of Rain

42

The Silver Ferns Won

It was hot. Steam lifted off the wet tar-seal. People walked with purpose towards Madills Farm Reserve. I could see tents up ahead — so many. Voices rose on the early morning air.

I walked down one line and then another, tents on either side of me like stubby fingers pointing up into the air. I found my employer’s tent on the third line of fingers.

“Kylee,” my boss said. “Great to see you here! You’re not running?”

“Ah, no. Running’s not my thing.”

“I hope turning sausages on the barbie is,” he said and laughed.

I smiled. He handed me a set of tongs. I took my place behind the grill.

Sausages and white bread. Tomato sauce and onion rings. Laughter and lycra. The sun shining down on St Heliers.

The first of the runners started to arrive an hour or so later. I was onto my second bulk bag of sausages by then.

“Get ready,” my boss said. “They’ll be hungry.”

I tossed more sausages on the barbie. The smell of caramelised onion wafted on the air. The hum of voices joined it. Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades. The first runner to join our corporate tent wanted tomato sauce but no mustard.

I handed him his sausage butty and went on to the next.

I’d lost count of how many people I’d fed when he stepped up to the barbecue.

“What are you after?” I said, not looking up.

“What are you offering?” he replied in a familiar voice.

I looked up. He was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Sweat beaded his brow, coated his arms. His shoulders were wider than I had realised — his chest firmer. My eyes scanned his body before I could help myself.

“Ah,” I said.

Michael just laughed.

“Give me one of everything,” he said.

And I wondered if everything was a euphemism for something else.

My hand shook as I placed a sausage in the already buttered bread, then added grilled onions, sauce and mustard. I handed the butty to him.

He touched my fingers when he took it.

Stepping aside, so the next person in line could order, Michael bit into his sandwich with relish.

“This is good,” he said. Tomato sauce pooled in the corner of his lips. I forced my eyes back to the grill. “You can make me breakfast any time,” he added.

I glanced at him again. He winked.

I blushed.

The next person wanted no onions, but tomato sauce and mustard.

After a few seconds, I realised Michael had gone.

I spent too long looking for him and imagining what I would make him for breakfast.

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