Read Online The Nature of Ice by Robyn Mundy - Free Book Online

wide-eyed.
    More toast, slushy!
    Freya slides the tray into a bain-marie of steaming porridge, beans, scrambled eggs, Sandy’s maple syrup pancakes and his grab-’em-while-they-last cheese scones. No sooner has she topped up the coffee machine than there are empty jugs to refill. She scours the shelves in search of powdered milk, scans an out-of-reach ledge, afraid the chefs will snap at her if she asks, one more time, where things are kept. With a rising tide of despair she hears the clatter of pots being slung onto the bench, the sizzle of a pan plunged into water. Used baking tins hover in a teetering pile, tongs fall and clank, batter forms an ellipsis that stretches across the floor from the rim of the stove to a bowl bobbing in the sink.
    Freya remembers that the music on the MP3 player is slushy’s choice only when an opportunist takes advantage of her oversight and puts on Metallica. Loud.
    â€˜On ya, Freya!’ Tommo, the big chef, springs into life, drumming his meat knife on the stainless steel counter.
    â€˜Turn it down, please!’ Dr Ev calls from the furthest table.
    â€˜Hear, hear.’ Malcolm theatrically pokes his fingers in his ears.
    Chad McGonigal slouches in the corner, swirling syrup across his high-rise of pancakes.
    Sandy pleads, ‘Freya, I know we’re one slushy down. I’m onto it, but for now, try and get those pots washed. Soon as you can.’
    â€˜I told her already,’ Tommo growls, throwing his frisbee of a meat tray onto the bench. Blood splatters the wall tiles. ‘She’s slow.’
    The two chefs are as glum as a pair of sad clowns. Sandy, the new summer chef who travelled south with Freya, looks exhausted as he pours filling into fluted shells of pastry, his forearms powdered with flour. Tommo, who wintered over, rocks to the rhythm as he trims fat from a weeping shoulder of pork. He throws the discards none too carefully into a bin.
    Charlie, Freya’s saviour, rounds the corner with a carton of milk powder balanced on his shoulder. ‘This should hold back the herd. You mix up a fresh lot. I’ll get a head start on the washing up and we’ll round them off at the pass.’
    â€˜I’ll do it, Charlie. You’ve been working since six this morning. Sit down and have your break.’
    Charlie ignores her, pushing through the mess to the sink and rolling up his tartan sleeves. Two field assistants scuttle up from a table and run a stack of plates and cutlery through the glass washer, then launch into a tea-towel flicking match.
    â€˜You galahs got nothing better to do with your time?’ Malcolm ushers them over to the drinks fridge. ‘Merv, you unpack the juice and Wattsie, let’s you and I get these boxes stacked away.’
    Dr Ev pulls an overflowing laundry basket from under the bench. ‘Freya, I’ll run the tea-towels upstairs, get them started for you.’
    Freya does battle with an overfilled garbage bag that splits as she pulls it free of the bin. She seizes the bag in her arms, her futile grip all that stops it rupturing further, while the innards of the bag leak onto her jeans and across the floor.
    Chad McGonigal appears before her and shakes out a new bag, easing it over the old.
    â€˜Thanks,’ she says.
    â€˜When do you want to start?’ he asks by way of hello. ‘Malcolm’s given me the list of places you want to photograph.’
    â€˜I can be ready as soon as you say.’
    Chad winds a length of colour-coded tape around the neck of the bag: green for wet burnables. ‘It’s not my project,’ he says. ‘I’m just along for the ride.’
    â€˜Look,’ she says, frustrated at his surliness, ‘I’m sorry if you feel put out. I didn’t ask for your help. If I had my way—’ Freya stops herself. ‘I mean that I’m used to working on my own.’
    â€˜The way it looked from the cab of the D8, you’re lucky