Page 238 - Eggs and Ashes pages

Easter Sunday 237

pale inside of his arm was bruised and marked.
I asked him what sort of food he’d cooked and he said he could cook anything
and everything, but that cakes were his speciality.
‘That’s my real talent. Layer cakes, cheesecakes, sponges. Birthday cakes,
wedding cakes – you name it.’
I thought of this tough, hard man baking cakes: the strong hands that had looked
like they wanted to strangle the life out of me, squeezing out thick icing; piping
beautiful rosettes. I thought of the hard work and patience needed, the skill and
artistry.
He wanted to start his own business, he told me. His own business selling cakes –
cakes by mail order, cakes on the Internet; that was his dream, he said, and shrugged.
I thought of a cake falling. ‘No, why don’t you?’ I said.
He took another hit of Strong Brew, then told me about the time a famous food
critic visited the restaurant. At the end of the meal the critic asked to shake the hand
of the person who had made the raspberry soufflé, and he got called out.
‘You must have felt proud,’ I said.
‘I felt brilliant,’ he answered, sitting, working the empty crushed can.

He started to give us a hand around the night shelter, running boxes and crates
into the kitchen whenever there was a delivery or donation.
Another evening out on the steps he told me that he had a five-year-old son.
I asked him his son’s name and he said: ‘Rory.’
His son was in care. His girlfriend was in detox. (I imagined him for a moment,
back in the world of birthdays and weddings.) He’d been on the streets two years in
September, he said, and fell silent.
‘Rory, that’s a beautiful name,’ I told him.

It took a long time to build trust.
It took Ray who’d lived on the streets and was a counsellor now.
It took Ray and Jane and Tony and people who had been there.
It took people who had never been there exactly but who could empathise.
It took Ann mothering him when he was sick, and people treating him like a
human being again.
It took accepting him at the door, drunk and difficult and out of his head.
It took us barring him for a week for throwing an empty plate and calling
Rahim, ‘Paki bastard’.
It took tough love.
It took Father William’s understanding, gentle way.
It took giving him a home address so he could finally get a paybook sent.