by Lia Weston
‘Nathan’s on that retreat at the moment, isn’t he?’ said Evie.
‘Escaping from Joy,’ said Amy. Somehow her lipstick didn’t get left on her cup. Evie was dying to ask her how she did it.
‘What does he think of Joy’s fully interactive church idea?’
‘I don’t think he thinks a lot,’ said Amy. ‘I’m guessing he was the brawn to your brains back in the day. Oh, don’t look so offended. He’s a sweet guy.’
‘He’s not stupid,’ said Evie, trying not to agree with her.
‘He’s very good at being the caring face of Saint Sebastian’s,’ said Amy. ‘Especially with a face like that. Very handsome in that Westley-from-The-Princess-Bride kind of way. Personally I prefer Phil. Strong. Silent. Could crack a telegraph pole with his thighs.’
They both giggled like schoolgirls. Amy looked quite different when she smiled.
‘Does Phil have a partner?’ said Evie.
‘He had a fiancée,’ said Amy, meditatively rubbing the handle of her cup. ‘Years ago. She wanted to move to the city, but Phil didn’t want to leave his mother here alone.’
‘Poor guy.’
Amy quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘Don’t worry about Phil. He’s more self-sufficient than most.’
‘More so than Nathan, I gather.’
‘Personally, I’m amazed Nathan hasn’t managed to set fire to himself during a service yet,’ said Amy. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s lovely, but I think the church needs a bit more of an agitator if it’s going to survive.’
‘God help us if Joy decides to get ordained.’
‘If she does, I’m starting my own church,’ said Amy, cutting herself another slice of flan.
*
Amy stayed for over an hour, and Evie realised that it had been months since she had properly talked to another grown woman, if you didn’t count Joy.
Amy and her cape left in a car that was as sleek and well maintained as the driver. Evie wondered what her profession was, or used to be. It was completely within reason to assume she was a retired spy, or ran a pharmaceutical company in a remote European country. Wandering back to the kitchen, eating the last handful of pistachios left in the packet, Evie tried to shake the nagging thought that Amy’s comments about Nathan were correct. Maybe he wasn’t very bright. After all, she had seen him spell ‘commitment’ with four m’s. But you had to study to become a priest, so he couldn’t be that dumb. Besides, he was kind and patient and not Gabe, and those were the best qualities for a man, whether a priest or not.
Even if he did always say ‘expecially’.
Mary had once worked as a supermarket check-out chick and had thought that no job – especially considering the uniform which gave her a rash, and the Christmas carols which started in September – could possibly be worse. After starting at the Holy Father House of Reception, she realised she was wrong.
The reception centre was an old villa with sweeping views of Sweet Meadow’s pastures and jacaranda avenues. At the bottom of the steep driveway was an ornamental pool, housing an ancient swan called Mr Bitey. There was a wedding almost every weekend. Mary couldn’t work out how so many people could still be left in Sweet Meadow to be married off, before Mini D pointed out that most of them were tourists.
Bride-watching was Sweet Meadow’s unofficial sport. On the walk to work, Mary would pass a crowd of residents gathered at Saint Sebastian’s, ostensibly to welcome the newlyweds but actually just to rate the gown. Most dresses erred on the strapless cookie-cutter side of things, one fluted tulle edge after another, like a steady procession of valances, but there was the occasional shocker to liven things up. The couple who wore matching black leather, for instance. Mini D’s favourite, unsurprisingly, had been the bride whose skirt was so short that the whole congregation saw her knickers when she leaned over to light the Candle of Marital Unity.
With myriad weddings came myriad receptions, and with those receptions came boozy best men, screaming flower girls, and guests who thought nothing of traipsing through the kitchen to help themselves to more potato salad.
Only three things stopped Mary giving the Holy Father the holy finger: pretending she was an undercover anthropologist observing human behaviour, the fact that Zach and his horrible parents came to the centre for dinner at least twice a week, and Mini D. Mini D was surprisingly effective against drunken belligerence; he was cheery enough to diffuse most macho tension and small enough to duck if they tried to punch him.
Both Mary and Mini D hated Clayton, the unctuous centre manager who would have preferred to keep them apart but was scuppered by short staffing.
Zach spent his twice-weekly dinners texting while his parents talked over the top of him. The fact that he never looked up from his phone made it easier for Mary to watch him covertly while she cleaned glasses at the bar. Zach’s parents tended to treat her as if she were an invisible source of sustenance and nothing more. One night, while she was clearing their table, Zach glanced up from his screen and said, ‘Thanks.’ It was the first time any of the Sturns had directly addressed her except to order more food. Mary promptly dropped a fork, which clanged under the table, and fled to the kitchen.
Mini D walked Mary home after their evening shifts. He also usually topped up a small flask from the bar before they left. Mary, who was unused to drinking, only needed a couple of sips to get giggly. Mini D held his liquor surprisingly well.
By early April, the dry heat had dissipated into heel-nipping nights. Mary trudged down the Holy Father House of Reception driveway and pulled two scarves and a pair of gloves out of her bag. Mini D was wearing a furry hat that made him look like a small bear. He handed the flask to Mary, who glanced back up towards the centre before taking a swig. Upon hearing tyres on the gravel, Mini D stuffed the flask inside his jacket.
‘Goodnight, Claypot!’ he bellowed as the car passed them.
Clayton gave a wave which consisted of barely lifting his finger from the steering wheel.
‘Wanker,’ said his loyal staff.
The metal was uncomfortable. It didn’t matter, though. Like an Advent calendar, the square of window framed Evie perfectly. She was washing the dishes, the bubbles coming up to her elbows like opalescent gloves. Each piece of glass and china was carefully inspected before being plunged into hot water and then to the drainboard lined with a tea towel. He knew the routine by now.
It wasn’t a crush. Crushes were useless, reserved for actors and boy bands. This was something different. She had set a clock ticking that he previously thought didn’t work. For a while, he had believed that Mary and her long legs might be the key. But then he had found Evie, lit like a seraph in the fire of her white kitchen.
Autumn had arrived like a bad temper, bringing winds which bellowed down into the valley. Travis flipped up the hood on his windcheater to cover his hair, in case the moon marked him like a silver highlighter. His striped scarf was wound around his face. Regardless of the danger of discovery, he couldn’t stop coming to watch her.
In the window, Evie turned and disappeared. Travis chewed his thumb and waited. A set of headlights lit up the street, throwing a spotlight onto the Pleasants’ house before turning off into a driveway.
He shifted sideways on the slippery dip, slotting his knee in the handle, and ignored the edge digging into his shin. Evie returned into view, looking at her phone, absent-mindedly playing with her hair, leaving a streak of bubbles across the nape of her neck. Who was she texting? Her ex-husband? Mary had showed Travis a photo of her dad with a strange combination of embarrassment and pride, telling him how he had won skateboarding competitions, played the guitar and knew lots of famous people. Her dad was as attractive as the subjects he photographed. Even so, looking at his weatherbeaten leather jacket, Travis couldn’t pair him with Evie and her dainty, button-neat perfection.
Over the edge of the scarf, he watched Mary and Mini D, jackets over their uniforms, wander up the street and turn down the laneway to the back gate. He was just abo
ut to climb down and join them, but then Evie turned towards the window, stretching her arms above her head, and Travis stayed where he was. Just a few more minutes.
Evie’s feet looked oddly naked, tucked up next to a cushion on the couch. Travis stretched and stole a glance at her painted toenails. In the light of the TV, he couldn’t tell the colour. He imagined her in a bathrobe, skin shower-damp, brushing the nail with lacquer and leaning over to see the finish.
Travis dropped a cushion into his lap and pretended to be very absorbed in people shooting each other.
‘I thought you said this was a good film,’ said Mary.
‘I forgot how violent it was,’ said Evie, looking at the cover of Miss Crawford’s Revenge.
‘I like it,’ said Mini D, shovelling popcorn into his pie hole. He was wearing an orange face mask. More than once Travis had been reminded of an Oompa Loompa.
Evie got up and padded into the kitchen.
Mary broke a Violet Crumble into thirds and tossed the boys a piece each.
‘I see Lent isn’t a big consideration for the Pleasant household,’ said Travis.
‘Whuh?’ said Mini D, chocolate following popcorn.
‘Jesus in the tomb, period of mourning and spiritual reflection,’ said Travis. ‘Lent.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Mary, crunching honeycomb. ‘We’re not really church people. I think Mum just goes to be sociable. She doesn’t even know who names the saints.’
‘Why does Jesus say you can’t eat chocolate?’ said Mini D over the sound of Miss Crawford beating someone to death with an umbrella.
Travis shifted position. ‘You’re supposed to abstain from pleasure during Lent.’
Mini D waved a neon jelly snake at him. ‘No more internet for you!’
‘Funny.’
‘If I gave up chocolate for Lent, I’d just binge at Easter,’ said Mary. ‘Technically, that’s unhealthier.’
‘Apparently you have to give up something,’ said Mini D, rolling his head back to address her, jelly snakes festooned around his mouth.
‘Hope,’ said Mary, staring at the screen.
Mini D mimed playing a violin.
Evie returned from the kitchen with a plate of macarons, stacked in order of colour.
‘For someone who knows so much about church, you don’t ever come,’ said Mary to Travis.
‘It’s AFL pre-season,’ said Mini D.
Travis shrugged. ‘We do Christmas and Easter. But basically if it’s a toss-up between God and football, football wins.’
Drifting past his chair, Evie put a hand on his shoulder. ‘If you ever want to come to church with me, Travis, you’re more than welcome.’
His gaze followed the ivory line of her arm. What was it about her that made him want to confess every bad thought he’d ever had?
Mary cleared her throat.
Evie turned. ‘And you’re welcome, too, of course, Dean. Of course.’
Mini D gave her a grin from under his orange face mask. ‘It’s all right, Mrs P. I’m beyond saving.’
The elm tree’s branches thrashed silently in the backyard. Mary put her nose to the glass to see whether her seedlings had been whipped out of their new beds and were now on their way to Oz. One of the pot plants on the veranda had been blown over, soil spilling down the steps.
Mary opened the door. A gust of wind blew her hair backwards. She stopped short. There it was again. That strange, sickeningly sweet fragrance. There was no mistaking it. Mary wrenched the back gate open. It was coming from the left. She headed into the wind. At the corner she broke into a run, praying that the breeze wouldn’t change direction again.
The scent led her on, across roads and through back alleys, over median strips and around blind corners. At the T-junction of an alley she finally emerged, lungs protesting, at the outskirts of Sweet Meadow on the final road that rose up the hill and sped towards Fallow Halls.
Perfume spilled down from the top of a high stone wall. Mary prowled along, looking for an entrance. There was nothing except for a set of steel-backed gates which didn’t even offer a foothold. Whatever the wall was hiding took up the whole block.
The scent continued drifting down. It was so strong now she could almost see it; a glittering mist that stuck inside her nostrils and leached into her blood. She had to know what it was.
Mary took a step back from the wall, hands on her hips. She would come back tomorrow. Her mother probably had a grappling hook she could borrow.
The gates were still shut the next day. Mary’s knock made a low clang, and was met with resounding silence. She walked around to the place the scent had been the strongest last night. It was still faintly detectable.
The wall was over ten feet high. Mary ran her fingers over the stones and looked up at the top. The clouds scudding across the sky made her feel as if she was falling backwards.
An ancient oak tree at the back of the block extended an arm into the garden. Mary tucked the secateurs into her back pocket and jumped to catch the lowest branch, the bark scratching her palms as she scrambled up. She shimmied along until her sneakers dangled above the wall. Her carefully timed drop wasn’t careful enough; she landed clumsily, grabbing the edge to steady herself.
The ground looked a lot further away than she had anticipated. There was a makeshift shelter just ahead. She crawled along towards it, the concrete punishing her knees and bark-grazed palms. Shakily, one foot then the other met the corrugated-iron roof. Mary crouched but had only managed a few steps before the iron panel gave way with a crack.
Winded, she found herself in a pile of straw and vegetable peelings, a few centimetres away from an upturned pitchfork. She lay there for a minute, trying to get her breath back. It could have been worse; she could have bled to death in a compost patch.
There was a movement to the left. Slowly, Mary turned her head. For a moment she couldn’t work out what the enormous hairy mass was until it lifted a lip and let out a growl that rumbled into the ground.
Now it was worse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Good morning, Mary. Alasdair, stop that.’
The growling abruptly stopped. A short, squat figure had joined the hairy mass. It was wearing a hat so wide it shaded them both.
‘Your timing is excellent. I’ve just put the kettle on.’
Without waiting to see if she would be followed, Mrs Beadles headed off between the shrubbery, followed by the dog. Mary peeled herself off the straw. Her secateurs lay next to the pitchfork. Somehow she had managed to avoid getting stabbed twice.
Mrs Beadles and her hat led Mary to the house, two storeys of white-washed timber and stone. A wicker table was set for morning tea.
Mary leaned on the railing to drink in the view. This was it, the legendary ever-shifting garden her grandmother had told her about. Everywhere she looked things were blooming or sprouting or fruiting. Paths weaved between flower-studded walls, thyme carpets, weeping willows, dahlias, dogbane, belladonna lilies, stakes heavy with emerald leaves. A dome-shaped greenhouse stood at the end of an avenue of espaliered apple trees. Even the bees looked blissful, drunkenly floating in and out of bushes and beds. It was paradise.
Both Mrs Beadles and Alasdair took their time getting up the stairs. It was only now that Mary appreciated how enormous Alasdair was. He lumbered over to a large cushion and collapsed with a thud that would have set off a car alarm.
‘What kind of dog is he?’
‘Part Newfoundland, part horse, my husband used to say. All sook, despite appearances.’ From a tin on top of the railing, Mrs Beadles retrieved a dried pig’s ear and threw it to Alasdair. The dog took it delicately between his paws and then turned away to consume the ear in private.
The teacups were white, the tea mahogany against the china. Mary tempered hers with two sugars and milk, and watched as the mahogany swirled into beige.
There was a plate of Tim Tams on the table but Mary was too polite to take one.
‘The milk looks so weird
here.’ She peered at the jug.
‘You’re probably used to the homogenised stuff. This is proper milk.’
Magpies were taking turns at the carved wooden drinking bowl. While one dipped, the others stood around like bodyguards, looking over their shoulders. She loved the roundness of their tummies. They needed little vests and fob watches.
Mrs Beadles didn’t even ask her why she was in the compost, instead quizzing her about her studies and school life.
‘Made lots of friends?’
Mary scrunched up her face. ‘Just Travis and Dean.’
‘The ghost and that little fellow?’
Mary nodded. ‘Mum thinks I need girlfriends instead.’
‘Couldn’t imagine you and Therese socialising.’ Before Mary had time to be insulted, she added, ‘Not a lot happening in that head of hers, and what is happening isn’t interesting.’
Mary blew on her tea. ‘It must take ages to weed this place.’
‘I’m retired,’ said Mrs Beadles, refilling her cup. ‘I have a lot of spare time. For God’s sake, have a biscuit. You’ve looked at the plate so often it’ll start writing you letters.’
‘What did you used to do?’ said Mary, taking a biscuit. ‘Before you retired.’
‘Archaeology. Travelled, dug things up, then came back and lectured people about them.’
‘Is that how you met Mr Beadles?’
‘I neither dug him up nor lectured him. It’s probably why our marriage survived. We met at a dance. Unoriginal but true.’
‘It’s kind of romantic, though. Were you swept off your feet?’
‘I had no choice, really – he was six foot five. I was surprised he could see me at all.’
‘Was he an archaeologist, too?’
‘A milliner.’
That explained the hats. Mary wondered if she had one for every day of the month.
Alasdair rolled over and let out a heavy sigh, his eyebrows sinking down to rest on his muzzle. The pig’s ear, gently sucked, dangled forgotten out of the corner of his mouth.
