The Cover all Bases Series #2: New Beginnings.

 

After years of procrastinating, months of saving, and dozens of sleepless nights, the time had finally come to leave Aberdeen to travel. It had been a long time coming and despite setbacks, I felt I was ready and I wanted it, so badly.

Despite their differences, my family had mustered a little gathering – Mum, Dad, both Grandmas and Granddad –  even though I had made it clear that I didn’t want a sending off at the airport  (my parents were going through a divorce and not on talking terms, and my grandmother from my mother’s side hadn’t spoken to my father in years.) I was a nervous wreck. This was an important moment in my life, but I hadn’t thought about just how significant it would be to them. They were proud and supportive, they would certainly miss me, and, of course, they wanted to say goodbye. The life that awaited me was within touching distance. My familiar life, for now, was set to disappear.

Scattered tactically around a restaurant table at the terminal, my family watched on as I sipped on a strong coffee, rifled frantically through my notes, and enjoyed the last Scottish breakfast I’d be eating for a while. I was very much being given room to breathe – something to which I had been missing for months prior. There followed careful conversation as my family remained focused on me and the impending trip. They tentatively judged and changed the pace depending on the ever-shifting vibe around the table in a concerted attempt to form a delicate environment for me to star in. But, in truth, I had said most of what I wanted to the weeks before, and was, surprisingly, doing a good enough job of keeping it together. I only wanted one person with me at the airport that day – my Grandad, a strong and wise and worldly man who gave countless pieces of good advice and was always generous with his words. When the time came to leave, he would know what to say, he would know how to act, and he would give me the added strength I needed.

The mood around the table changed as the time drew closer. I was suddenly bombarded with silly yet mandatory questioning: “Got your passport?” “Got everything you need?” “When does your flight get in?” “How are you getting to the hotel?” This unsettled me. I could feel my family becoming restless too as what little conversation there was descended into unsubstantiated ramblings.

I was flying to Heathrow and then onto a connecting flight to Beijing. I had been dreaming of this for a long time. I hated who I had become in Aberdeen – a gambler, a drunk, and the clichéd under-achiever. In the weeks before, I had my first real run in with online roulette, and had blown a chunk of my travel money. This put a huge downer on my preparation. Despite this, I still felt ready to leave – I had worked hard to escape; I was proud that I was finally broadening my horizons.

Soon my flight was called and it was time. As a family, we began to make the short walk to the gate. I walked ahead to buy some time as I couldn’t bear to look at my parents. This was going to hurt.

As expected, both my grandmothers were in tears, and, although there was no family protocol to saying goodbye, I turned to them first. They couldn’t be more different: a very Aberdonian grafter, with a love for whisky, bingo, and an incessant quest to cater for my vegetarian mother, despite not really knowing what a vegetarian is; a flamboyant, eccentric, animal-loving Jehovah from South Africa to whom there is never a dull moment in life. I loved them both equally.

I turned to my old man. I was dreading this. I harbour a lot of feelings on him (so much so, I’ve always struggle to say and even write the word ‘Dad’) and our relationship has been, and still is, strained. We are both scarily similar from the way we walk to the way we talk, to the jobs that we do. I see so much of myself in him, and he does in me. But we still find it incredibly hard to relate to one another. We moved in for an awkward hug. I would have welcomed us letting our guards down for just one moment but it wasn’t to be. Unfortunately, moments of true honesty, relaxed conversation and real bonding are few and far between. He loves me; I love him. Yet, something, nothing and everything prevents us from truly becoming close.

The relationship between my mother and I had also seen better days. The three of us had been living under the same roof since they announced they would be getting a divorce, but I couldn’t remember the last conversation that any of us had, together or otherwise. We had our own rooms, now ate at different times, and tip-toed around each-other. My mother said she thought she had driven me away. That wasn’t true. I had at least made sure she knew that. We shared a genuine moment at the gate as we said goodbye, and I was reminded how much my mother loves me. It was hard for her to let go. I gently edged myself out of her death grip hug and pulled away. I couldn’t tell her when I’d be back. I honestly didn’t know. She was devastated I was actually leaving.

Then, as I approached my grandfather, suddenly I began to crumble. I had remained strong throughout, but now it was all getting a bit too much. My eyes filled up, my lip began to tremble and I knew I was about to fall apart. But before I could, he interjected with some more wise words of wisdom which I had come to expect from him. I wanted his advice and I wanted to remember it. It felt right that he would be the last person to see me off.  We shook hands firmly and I was almost there. I worried that I would never see him in good health again: Parkinson’s had been slowing him down in recent months and he could well be a different man by the time I returned.

Head down, passport and boarding pass in hand, I took a deep breath and made a turn for the gate. My eyes had been pushing back tears in those last few minutes, but like faulty swimming goggles, I couldn’t keep them dry any longer. I began to sob, but out of site from my family, as I continued to make mercifully towards the desk. I looked back only once, to let out a forced smile. And then as I turned the corner, it was done.

I was gone.

It would be fifteen months until I would eat another Scottish breakfast.

Lessons Learned From a Dead End Career in Hospitality – Part 1 – ‘The Pantry’.

 

 

I’d go on to associate 3am on a Sunday morning with stumbling home drunk from town: eighty quid down, my trainers scuffed to bits and guided by streams of piss and the stench of Joop Aftershave to the nearest 24 hour bakery. Before those bleary years, there was a time that I’d be ‘working’ at this god awful hour, before I would notice what laborious road I was hurtling down; and about eleven hours before your mum had the dinner on. I’d go on to work in many restaurants, cafes and bars. But it all began in my dad’s small bakery in Torry – a working class area where a lot of the Fisherman grafted –  at the unsullied age of twelve. This was work experience. An introduction to the working world and a literal awakening by a tinny cheap alarm clock picked up from the cash and carry.

My dad always worked in the industry. A baker by trade and a grafter. Growing up, I have memories of him dotting about the city from A to B, looking to pick something up or sort something out. I would be given the choice of coming in or waiting in the car, as he went down some unspecified stairwell or chap on the back door. I would usually pick the latter as these visits tended to be lengthy, despite the assurance of “just popping in”. As he would talk about, (whatever the hell bakers talked about…) I’d get to try the cakes or be shown how something is done or how a machine works. For example, he worked in a little shop that specialized in wedding cakes. I remember being given a blank cake board and a piping bag with various coloured icing to play with. This was the equivalent of pencils and paper to keep me busy and kept me out of the way. I didn’t mind. I found these experiences fascinating. I fondly remember meeting some local characters and learning how an industrial kitchen functioned.

My dad would go on to buy The Pantry: a small, no thrills bakery that catered mainly for the early morning trade. Initially, he ran the place on his own, although help would come in later in the morning to serve the public. I think he found the experience somewhat lonely. In my opinion, the best part of any kitchen job (bar, you know, actually cooking things and completing a successful service) is the social environment created by you and your colleagues. Working side by side with the right team can keep you going throughout a long day. Without that, you may only have the radio for company and the inner workings of a tired brain.

On Saturday night, I’d go to bed fully clothed because…that’s what grown-ups do?…dreading the inevitable 3am wake up from my tinny pocket alarm clock; and my dad who would absurdly wake me up a minute or two before it went off. I often ignored his attempts to wake me in hope that I would get away with not going. This had limited success. I’d lumber into the car in pitch darkness and sleep for most of the journey, awakened as we approached the bakery, by the stench of fresh fish and the sound of screeching seagulls.

Opening up was always the worst part: lighting all the stoves, cranking them up full blast to get some heat into the kitchen; waiting for hot water to boil and counting the minutes and seconds until you could take your jacket off. Front of house was basic but practical: brightly coloured price tags peppered the walls and the display cabinets lay dark and bare. Between the hours of three and six, my dad would systematically work through producing pies, cakes, pancakes, etc. I’d be tasked with putting them on display, cleaning and other odd jobs. We’d also get deliveries during this time. I’d find myself making cups of teas and bacon rolls for the Tradesman and Fisherman either ending or beginning their shift. You could usually tell which, by the dirtiness of their overalls and the level of weariness in their voice when they ordered.

As the morning went on and darkness fell to light, the bakery would get busier and I would get chirpier, knowing that the arrival of day come with my departure. I’d either get a lift home from my grandfather who would often help out; or from some indistinguishable woman who would do the sandwich run around local offices and drop me off on the way back. Before leaving, I would shuffle up to Blockbuster Video to rent a couple of Mega Drive games – this is how I would spend the rest of my weekend.

These sporadic shifts would indicate who I would become in the working world. My dad would go on to sell The Pantry and I dodged diabetes as a result. His next acquisition would be something a little more exciting.

The tinny alarm clock never did ring again. Where as I, was just beginning to chime.