The Rules of Backyard Croquet

by Sunni Overend

  ‘What happened?’ Poppy cried.

  ‘Juanita Gray.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Juanita Gray. Emmaline Gray’s daughter. The one who accused me of plagiarising her work, the one who got me expelled. She was there.’

  ‘What, wait – was she applying?’

  ‘She was the receptionist.’

  ‘The . . .? Did she say something? To them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then? What happened?’

  ‘I just saw her. I ran.’

  ‘Didn’t you say something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’re a lying ho?’

  Apple laughed, eyes stinging.

  ‘You should have! She is!’

  ‘On paper I’m the liar and the cheat. I couldn’t sail into an interview knowing I was opening myself up to that scrutiny, to more people knowing – important people thinking those things about me. As if I would have got the place anyway.’

  ‘This can’t be happening! You’re so good. This was yours!’

  Apple stared at the floor.

  ‘Can’t you call them back? Ask if you can go another day? When she isn’t there?’

  ‘So I get the job then turn up to work and there she is? The first thing she’d do is spread the word and it would be like the academy all over again.’ Apple looked up. ‘Please, can we never speak about this again? I’m done with it, all of it. This is where I am and I’m staying here.’

  There was silence.

  Finally Apple said quietly, ‘I’m sorry I’ve disappointed everyone.’

  ‘You silly thing.’ Poppy drew her into a hug. ‘Why are you sorry for everyone else? We’re only sorry for you.’

  12

  Ginny was behaving unusually. Along with their coffees, she’d ordered an apple danish, blueberry escargot pastry, raspberry muffin and marzipan croissant. Given that the three women were frugal, this get-together Ginny had orchestrated felt oddly extravagant and strangely contrived.

  ‘Oh darn.’ Ginny knocked the butter dish, a yellow curl hitting the cafe floor. ‘Is it too dirty?’ She fussed, trying to dust it off.

  ‘You can’t do that, Mum, it’s butter. I’ll get more.’ Poppy scrunched the curl into a napkin and beckoned a waiter.

  Ginny sighed, flummoxed.

  Apple knew everyone was disappointed about the interview and was trying to conceal it. ‘Please don’t think about Lac Compt anymore.’ She twisted her napkin. ‘I wish it never happened. It didn’t happen, it’s forgotten.’

  Ginny and Poppy glanced at her and each other, and the three sat in silence, picking at the pastries, staring into their cups.

  Then they all tried to speak at once.

  ‘Wow,’ Poppy said when they gave up. ‘We all have something to say.’

  Apple cleared her throat and felt unsure if she was going to be able to say what she needed to. Late the night before, after Poppy had gone to bed, she’d tried her sewing machine again. She’d removed the knotted thread and unscrewed the casing. The engine smelled bad, looked black in places, and the pedal had an ominous give she’d never felt before. Apple didn’t know how to tell her sister that the task was now beyond her.

  ‘Apple?’ Ginny said.

  ‘Nothing.’ She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t deliver this new disappointment, not now.

  ‘Poppy?’ Ginny said.

  Poppy put her hands on her cheeks, looking at Apple. ‘Well, I do have something to say, and I feel awful about this. I was going to tell you yesterday after the excitement of the interview but then I felt really bad . . . Lachie wants me to move into his place, properly.’

  ‘His place?’ Apple wished she hadn’t sounded so surprised. Of course Poppy was leaving; she was getting married. ‘That’s so wonderful,’ she tried, but it sounded wooden and she hated herself for it. ‘It’s so good.’

  ‘You don’t have to pretend to be fine with it, I’m not!’ Poppy brushed a tear away. ‘It’s so final. I’d been hoping to have the best of both worlds a little longer. But now Lachie’s roommate’s moving, and with our finances . . .’ She trailed off. ‘I guess it’s just the right time.’

  ‘Of course it’s the right time, it’s the perfect time. How exciting.’ Apple hugged her.

  ‘I can keep paying rent for a while, until you find someone else.’

  Apple didn’t want to live with anyone else and they all knew it.

  ‘You could always let the room as a short-stay holiday thing,’ Ginny said, brightly. ‘You’d get more for the room without having to have someone around all the time.’

  ‘Yes.’ Apple was smiling, but sadness welled at the thought of anyone but her sister sleeping across the hall.

  Poppy picked listlessly at crumbs of pastry. ‘God, we’re sad sacks.’

  ‘Maybe I should call your father.’

  The girls glanced at their mother. Ginny kept her eyes down, spreading butter on a pastry.

  ‘Pardon?’ Poppy said.

  Ginny waved her hand blithely. ‘I should call your father, see if he can help with all this.’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘You two,’ she said, and her face seemed to tremble. ‘I just—’ She swallowed, and Apple thought her mother might be about to cry, but then the emotion seemed to evaporate. ‘You could both just do with help – money and support. I can’t help thinking sometimes how different it might have been if you’d had a true father, some extra care in your lives.’

  All Apple knew about her dad was that she had one, somewhere, and that he’d left when she was a child. There were a few photos, but nothing more, and she was fine with knowing next to nothing, more than fine, glad to be without someone in her life who was weak and unworthy.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Ginny fiddled with the butter, distracting herself from the magnitude of her words. ‘I just . . . Wouldn’t you like it if things were easier? If, Poppy, you could relax and enjoy your wedding with Lachie, leave your job to start your own brand thing, maybe buy a place? Apple, you could design your own things.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so confused,’ Apple said.

  The failed Lac Compt interview had been a blow, but her mother’s response was completely bizarre. The idea of their father ‘helping’ was outrageous. He was a non-entity.

  Poppy leaned in. ‘Mum, we don’t even know him. You don’t know him, he’s been MIA for decades. I don’t give a crap, he doesn’t, none of us do.’

  ‘Of course you “give a crap”. I give a crap, he’s your father.’ Ginny’s face crumpled and she started sobbing. She snatched a serviette off the table and wept violently into it.

  ‘Mum,’ Poppy said, ‘have a drink. Here, stop.’

  The crying began to slow and Ginny laid the soaked serviette in her lap and folded her trembling hands. ‘I . . . I love you girls,’ she said as another sob reverberated through her and Apple squeezed her arm.

  Ginny exhaled, staring at her hands. ‘Your father called me last week.’

  There was silence.

  ‘What?’ Poppy ventured.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been completely unable to stop thinking about it. It’s been consuming me.’

  ‘What? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing happened,’ Ginny spluttered. ‘It was the first time I’d heard his voice in forever! It was like talking to a ghost. I’ve felt unwell ever since.’

  Questions filled Apple’s head, but before she could voice any, Ginny spoke again.

  ‘I didn’t really let him speak. I told him he should be ashamed of himself and that I never wanted to hear from him again.’

  ‘This is crazy!’ Poppy was red in the face. ‘Why the hell did he call?’

  Ginny paused. ‘He’s not well.’

  Apple’s brain hurt.

  ‘I didn’t ask him to elaborate. I just said that I was sorry to hear it. I was about to hang up when he blurted that he’d remarried in Perth,
years ago, and had done well for himself, and that he’d been wanting to call you girls. I wanted to punch the phone into the wall!’ She trembled. ‘I hung up on him and now I feel so sad and confused and furious.’

  Apple’s clammy hand gripped Poppy’s, which was equally clammy.

  ‘All week I’ve been wondering if he deserves to know that you’re getting married, Poppy, and about everything with you, Apple. And if he’s doing so well, he can cough the hell up.’

  ‘Yuck.’ Poppy was suddenly brushing her arms restlessly. ‘No. It’s one call. It means nothing. He’s never been here and I don’t want him here, anywhere near me, us.’

  ‘I actually felt obliged to give him something, you know?’ Ginny said. ‘That foolish shit has missed so much that for a second I actually pitied him. But we owe him nothing, and what he owes you he could never repay.’

  ‘I don’t want anything to do with him.’ Apple felt faint. She didn’t want her mother’s words inside her head. She hated the way they conjured images of him.

  ‘I don’t either,’ Poppy said.

  Ginny was quiet before she drained her tea. ‘That’s fine with me.’

  Apple still hadn’t recovered by the time she walked into work. She’d considered calling in sick then decided that normalcy was what she needed.

  ‘You’re late,’ Veronica began, before rambling on about deliveries and stocktake. Apple was comforted by the familiarity of the exchange.

  An elderly woman, a regular client, appeared at the door and Veronica hurried to greet her.

  ‘Apple,’ Jackson whispered. ‘Who the hell is this?’

  Apple thought she meant the elderly client, but Jackson then held up her phone, displaying a photo of her and Charlie. Apple didn’t know Poppy had taken photos at Daylesford, nor that she’d posted them to her social media.

  She gazed at the still frame of Charlie helping her from the boat on the lake, then said, ‘Since when do you follow Poppy?’

  ‘Don’t you stalk everyone? I do. Who the hell is it?’

  ‘That’s, um, Charlie Beauchamp.’

  Jackson massaged her chin. ‘That tidy perfection isn’t usually my jam, but I can’t stop looking at him. Look how he’s looking at you. You didn’t tell me you were fucking someone. Isn’t he that rich Georgia’s guy?’

  ‘What? Jackson, no. My God. And we’re definitely not fucking.’

  ‘That’s a shame. What about . . . what about the red dog? I like a ginge.’ She was peering at a new photo: Apple and Noah talking over breakfast.

  Apple’s phone beeped – a message from Noah.

  I want you to be my date for Beauchamp’s sister’s birthday. I’ll start by bringing you dinner.

  ‘Noah – ears burning!’ Jackson was reading over her shoulder. ‘You’re fucking him?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ Apple said, typing her reply. I’d like that.

  ‘Did he go down on you? Do you lick his dick?’

  ‘I saw his penis. Yes, it was big. Is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want to hear.’ Jackson landed a spank before boosting herself onto the counter. ‘But more importantly . . .’ She glanced over to see that Veronica was engrossed, ‘how the hell did the interview go?’

  Apple kept her attention on folding the clothes, limbs suddenly leaden.

  ‘I didn’t get it,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m sorry. You and Arabella were amazing, but it wasn’t the right fit.’

  There was a pause before Jackson finally said, disbelieving, ‘Honestly? You honestly didn’t get it?’

  Apple hesitated, hands on a shirt as she thought about her life, the reality of it. Lac Compt was in the past and now here she was, in her future on Loom’s shop floor.

  ‘I’m shocked!’

  ‘I guess it’s competitive out there.’

  Neither spoke for a while.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Jackson finally sighed. ‘If Lac Compt didn’t choose you, they’re idiots.’ She scribbled on a piece of paper then showed Apple, her finger underlining each word. Because your clothes are a fuck-load better than the ones in this place. She nodded earnestly before throwing the note in the bin. ‘So they’re wack if they didn’t hire you at hello.’

  Apple smiled but couldn’t absorb the kindness, couldn’t afford the emotion it stirred. She went behind the counter and started typing in a web browser, and Jackson leaned in as Apple scrolled through products.

  ‘Why are you looking at new sewing machines?’ Jackson asked. ‘Do you have a plan? To make more stuff?’

  ‘No, it’s Poppy’s wedding dress.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your machine?’

  ‘Everything.’ Apple swallowed dread.

  ‘When is it? The wedding?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Well, those machines in that column are shit. That brand, that brand and that brand. I went to buy my own once, when I found this awesome fabric in a vintage store and got inspired to make drapes. What a dumb idea. The lady in the store told me I may as well spend big on a machine or forget it. I ignored her, bought the cheapest one, and what a fucking mistake – I’ve never felt so much rage at an inanimate object. After only an hour of using the thing, I wrestled the machine and all the fabric in a knotted hell to the nearest charity store.’

  ‘I understand. My machine has tortured me for years.’

  ‘Arabella’s nan’s a dressmaker. Ask her to make it. She’s not what she used to be, though.’

  Apple imagined someone else weaving themselves into the dress, saw herself sitting on the sidelines. Doing the dress herself was going to be hard, but letting someone else do it felt impossible.

  ‘What if you did it by hand?’

  ‘I have to do some of it by hand, but doing all of it that way would take too long.’

  ‘You only want to do it once, and perfectly. This is an heirloom piece.’

  Apple wished Jackson would be silent.

  The shop door swung open and Arabella strode in, holding up a paper bag. ‘Too early for lunch? I bought baked potatoes.’

  ‘I smell food.’ Veronica appeared as her client departed. ‘It’s not allowed.’

  ‘We’ll be clean, I promise.’

  ‘You will be, and you’ll be fast. Lunch rush is in ten.’

  Arabella offered Veronica a fork and she sighed.

  ‘Oh fine, what is it?’ She flipped open a carton and peered in at it, before tentatively putting a forkful between her lips.

  Apple turned back to the sewing machines on the screen with a sinking heart.

  Veronica put her food down as the door chimed. ‘Oh, come off it, not yet.’

  ‘Morning!’ A courier wheeled in a trolley and heaved a box onto the counter.

  ‘I thought I had all my deliveries for the day,’ Veronica muttered as she signed, then frowned as she read the label and the courier rolled away. ‘Apple March?’

  Apple glanced up.

  ‘Don’t have your online shopping sent here,’ Veronica said. ‘It’s incredibly disruptive. Makes it feel like a goddamned warehouse, all this coming and going.’

  ‘I haven’t ordered anything.’ Apple went to look.

  She tried to pull the box towards her but it was too heavy. She found a box-cutter and stood on tiptoes to slice through the tape, before flipping the flaps wide open. Another box was inside.

  She lifted out foam padding, looked in and stalled.

  ‘What?’ Jackson said.

  Apple didn’t breathe as she swatted foam away, bringing the box into clear view. ‘What on earth?’

  The others scrambled to look inside.

  ‘A Bernina?’ Veronica said, and all hands reached in to help lift the box from the box. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Oh, my God, a top-of-the-range Bernina,’ Arabella said, as they settled the box on the counter. ‘They’re like the Rolls-Royce of sewing machines.’

  13

  ‘How do you know this is the Rolls-Royce of sewing machines?’ Jackson ask
ed. ‘You’ve never sewn in your life.’

  ‘My nan,’ said Arabella. ‘She asked the entire family for a Bernina for her birthday. These are the bomb.’

  Apple stared at the machine. ‘I just saw this,’ she said. ‘It’s online for fifteen K. I’m so confused. Did you get this, V?’

  ‘Did I pay you a third of your annual salary in the form of a sewing machine? Why would I do that?’ Veronica tittered. ‘You must have ordered it by mistake, you silly thing.’

  ‘That’s impossible, I don’t even have a credit card . . .’

  They stared at the box.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I just have to see this thing.’ Jackson grabbed the box and sliced the tape. Apple fumbled, helping to lift it onto the marble counter.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s a sewing machine, Apple, not a diamond.’

  ‘It’s so much better than a diamond.’

  ‘Stop fondling it. You’ll have to send it back.’

  ‘There’s a note!’

  Apple saw Jackson flip the tab of an envelope and pull out a card.

  ‘It says: “Apple – I once read that an artist is nothing without talent, but talent is nothing without work. Time to work. CB xx”’ Jackson looked at Apple. ‘Who’s CB?’

  ‘That’s a Georgia’s envelope.’ Veronica snatched the card.

  Apple snatched it back.

  ‘Fuck.’ Jackson clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I love it when I’m right.’

  ‘Right?’ Arabella said.

  ‘Charlie Beauchamp wants Apple.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Veronica said. ‘He’s engaged to the Huntington girl.’

  ‘They’re not engaged,’ Jackson said.

  Apple stared at the card, rereading Charlie’s words then staring at the machine.

  ‘What should . . .? Can I . . .? Surely I can’t keep it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look, look at it. It’s way, way too much.’

  ‘I’ll keep it. Ask him to send me way too much,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Of course you can keep it,’ Arabella said. ‘In his world it’s probably like giving someone . . . I don’t know, chocolates. And if anyone’s going to make the most of that machine, it’s you.’