Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  A couple of years back, someone told me about Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying, and I became an advocate of her method. I had never read the book or watched the show; I just saw what other people were doing on social media, skimmed a couple of blog posts and joined in the movement. As far as I could tell, I just had to get rid of crap that didn’t give me a spark of joy. I built some buzz on my socials about preparing for a massive apartment declutter and gained a bunch of new Instagram followers. I banished my housemate Jordan to her room and took ‘before’ pictures, then hid all our junk in cupboards for the ‘after’ shots. Everything was white surfaces and tiny succulents. A Nordic wooden bowl. Pink roses I’d stolen from someone’s garden, arranged perfectly in a spotless glass vase. It all created the impression of an apartment so pure and clean it would make you weep with joy. I based a whole series of posts on my faux-declutter project, diligently using hashtags and tagging Marie Kondo herself. She – or it could have been her PR team – rewarded me by hitting the heart button on one of my posts.

  Now, with time to kill, I decided to try a declutter for real in my childhood bedroom. I drove my little red car into town to pick up a roll of garbage bags from the co-op. I was still toying with the idea of selling my car. It felt noticeable in this town where everyone drove utes or four-wheel drives, usually white. I’d paid off my car loan a couple of years ago when a brief phase of responsible financial management coincided with a good artist’s fee on a stage show. If I sold it at a decent price and bought something cheaper it might give me enough money to survive on for a few months.

  I bought the binbags and emerged from the co-op, contemplating the Rabbit’s Foot. My mother’s words ran through my head, so I went into the Peach Pit coffee shop instead. There was a photo of me on the wall alongside other celebrities who’d frequented the place over the years. I was barely even B-grade but my local ancestry gave me a leg-up onto the Peach Pit wall of fame. I waited in the line for mid-morning coffee, pretending not to see the people who repeatedly glanced my way. I recognised a couple of faces – one guy from my school days – but I certainly didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not now.

  Maxine who owned the café didn’t freeze me out. Maxine never turned her nose up at a sale. She’d even given wall space to that racist politician who came through town, just under a photo of Georgie Parker.

  ‘Hi, Lottie,’ she said. ‘Or is it Charlize?’

  Everyone in the café stopped to listen. Who even cares?

  ‘Lottie’s good,’ I said clearly.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Maxine’s voice was perpetually raspy, as though she’d been at a rock concert the night before.

  ‘Flat white, please.’

  ‘Have here or takeaway?’

  The staring was not going anywhere. ‘Takeaway.’

  I survived the wait for my coffee and fought my way through the plastic fly strips at the front door. There was a woman sitting on the bench along the coffee shop’s front wall, watching the postie empty a mailbox. I sat down beside her. It was quiet. Kids were in school; the summer holidays just around the corner.

  I felt the woman’s gaze on me and glanced her way. It was Mrs Brooker. She was a friend of my mum, the Peach King Angus’s mother and former office staff at the Bonnievale High School. Mrs B, we’d called her.

  I shot her a quick smile, steeling myself for a snub.

  ‘Good morning, love,’ she said. ‘Or is it afternoon already?’

  I had no way of checking, so I squinted at the sunlight on the street. ‘I think it’s still morning. Just.’

  The woman took off her glasses, polished them, then put them back on. She returned her blue eyes to mine. ‘Aren’t you a friend of my Angus?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen him in a while, but yes, we were at school together.’

  Mrs Brooker’s gaze wandered over my face. ‘Peach Queen,’ she said.

  ‘Lottie Bentz.’

  ‘Penny’s daughter.’

  Mum and Mrs Brooker were mismatched as friends. It had never made sense to me: my tightly wound mother with her critical view of the world, and this gentle farmer’s wife who fussed over you in the school office if you’d run out of tampons. Maybe they knew each other from the newsagency. Lotto player? Magazine buyer? Mrs Brooker didn’t strike me as your typical follower of celebrity gossip, but she’d probably still heard my story around town. I sipped my coffee.

  ‘Why do you look so glum, love?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I gave a performance of cheery togetherness.

  She examined me. ‘I don’t think so.’

  I fidgeted with my cup. ‘It’s been a rough few weeks,’ I admitted, and she nodded. ‘You – you know what happened?’ I checked her face.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Mum’s not happy with me. It’s making things tense at home.’

  Mrs Brooker nodded again. ‘I’m sure she’ll get over it, given a little time.’

  I stared at the Rabbit’s Foot across the street. ‘I’m not sure she’s capable of forgiving me. She can’t even look me in the eye.’

  ‘Time heals all wounds.’

  We only had moments to enjoy Mrs Brooker’s platitude before a Pepsi truck rolled in and parked a short way down the road. We watched as a man unloaded boxes of soft-drink cans, stacked them on a trolley and wheeled them into the coffee shop. A kelpie hung out of the truck window, looking worriedly after its owner. During the height of the peach spot infection, most of Bonnievale’s businesses had shut down or gone into debt, including the Peach Pit. Mum and Dad barely scraped through, mostly because the farmers were desperately buying lotto tickets. On my trips home throughout those years Bonnievale had felt like a ghost town – the only queues you saw were at Centrelink.

  ‘Why don’t you find yourself a project, love?’ Mrs Brooker said, bringing her attention back to me. ‘Something to take your mind off things. Something useful.’

  ‘I asked if I could help at the newsagency but Mum said no.’ There was something about Mrs Brooker that invited confessions. ‘Maybe it would be better if I just moved on from Bonnievale.’

  ‘You can come stay at my place while things blow over,’ she said. I laughed but Mrs Brooker regarded me steadily. ‘On the farm,’ she added. ‘I have a caravan out the back. It’s empty.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs B, but I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I shrugged. ‘I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.’

  ‘Just because it’s in a caravan, doesn’t mean you’re not lying in your own bed.’ Mrs Brooker checked that her purse was still beside her and glanced at the Pepsi truck. ‘And it would give you a project.’

  ‘What project? Do you have things you need done?’

  She tinkled a little laugh. ‘It’s a farm, love. There’s always something to be done.’

  I forced a smile. ‘I really appreciate that, especially considering …’

  ‘I take people at face value, Lottie. Right now, you just look like a sad girl who could use a bit of help. The caravan’s there, and so is the offer.’

  I put on the bright smile and strong voice again. ‘Thanks.’

  A sturdy middle-aged woman stepped out of the bank next door to the Peach Pit. Her face was also familiar but I couldn’t place her.

  She stopped before us, giving Mrs Brooker a stern look. ‘Caroline, here you are. You should have waited inside.’

  ‘It’s much nicer out here,’ said Mrs Brooker.

  I stood. ‘It was good to see you again, Mrs B.’

  ‘Goodbye, love.’

  The other woman stared at me. She was giving me flashbacks to community fêtes and street appeals – churchie do-gooder vibes – so I made my retreat. I walked along the street, sipping my coffee and looking in shop windows. There was the real estate agency. I perused the local rentals but it was all family homes in the residential estate, and anyway, I didn’t have an income any more. Next was Gonzo’s Toys and Games, now known as Bo
nnievale Toyworld. Mum used to take me there. She tried to encourage me to get Lego or doctor kits but all I wanted was tiaras and karaoke sets. It had closed during the peach spot years and the owner had switched to online adult-toy sales, but he reopened the beloved store when things picked up around Bonnievale again. I hovered in the doorway. The girl behind the counter saw me and blinked a couple of times, fidgeting with her phone. I stepped back and walked on.

  A few houses were wedged between the toy shop and the town’s main pub. One was an Airbnb; another had been occupied by old Mrs Crimshaw, the war widow, but she was dead now and it looked empty. I found myself at the final shop on the strip: St Edna’s Op Shop. St Edna’s had been there forever, outlasting even a great big Vinnies that had opened near the servo and closed last year. Inside, a very old man and a young woman with Down Syndrome staffed the counter. I didn’t recognise them and they didn’t appear to recognise me. I nodded to them and browsed the shelves of sixty-cent glass ashtrays and one-dollar pairs of high-heeled shoes.

  ‘Fifty per cent off everything on Wednesdays,’ the woman called.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘All funds raised go to St Edna’s Church,’ she added, then looked at the man.

  He gave her a nod of approval and she relaxed, returning to her task of sorting bracelets into colours. I wanted to leave but felt obliged to buy something after forcing the woman to do her sales pitch. I grabbed the first thing I saw: a notebook with a big-eyed cat on the cover. The cat had a speech bubble that said, ‘Always believe love, that’s all ask.’ It was marked at eighty cents.

  ‘This one, please,’ I said, as if I’d been looking for such a notebook all my life.

  ‘Eighty cents,’ the woman said.

  I was about to remind her about the fifty per cent discount but caught myself. It was eighty cents, for God’s sake. I handed her a dollar and she frowned at it for a few moments before fishing a twenty-cent piece out of the till. She held it up to the man’s face to show him and he nodded his approval again. I thanked her, turning to leave.

  ‘Hold on, hold on!’ the man boomed suddenly. ‘Discount Wednesday! Should’ve been forty cents, Angela.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said. ‘Keep it.’

  ‘No,’ moaned the woman. ‘I got it wrong!’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said.

  ‘Come back,’ she demanded, and when I did, she thrust my dollar back into my hand.

  I handed over the twenty cents. She put it into the cash register. Then I slid the dollar across the counter once again and she looked helplessly at the till.

  ‘Give the young lady two twenty cent coins, Angela,’ the man said in his unnecessarily loud voice.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, doing as he’d asked.

  She passed me the coins. I thanked her again, then got out of there before they could realise another mistake had been made. I hurried back up the road and unlocked my car, glancing at my parents’ shop again. Surely I could help them, even if it was just unpacking some stock.

  I really can’t see your face at the moment, Lottie.

  I climbed into my car, resigning myself to the bedroom declutter. Maybe it would make me feel better – like when I dismantled my phone. An epiphany hit me: I could declutter my life. Not just my room, but everything – all the shit that had got me to this point: the stuff that had been weighing me down without me even realising it. Uncomplicate my life; purify it. I could start fresh with nothing to trip me up.

  I opened my new cat notebook to the first page, digging a pen out of my handbag, and wrote down all the things I needed to cut out of my life.

  1. Clothes/stuff

  2. False friends

  3. Appearance (obsession with)

  4. Lying

  5. Faking

  One thing I knew about to-do lists was that you should add and cross off things you’ve already done because it makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something. I added Phone/ social media and Stage name as six and seven, then drew a neat line through each.

  I headed for home feeling slightly more hopeful.

  Over two days, I stripped my bedroom of my entire high school existence: the tarnished costume jewellery and hair accessories – I’d really loved pink back then – the ‘vision book’ containing scrapbooked pictures of cities, apartments, red carpets and soapie stars. I blushed, loathing my teenage self as I stuffed the book into a garbage bag. An array of coloured purses – one to match every outfit. Play scripts, audition details and a collection of stage show posters. Professional photoshoot prints for my portfolio. I looked like a puppet in them, as if someone had been operating my limbs and smile with hooks and strings. A Teach Yourself to Sing like a Broadway Star CD. Ninety-two bottles of nail varnish.

  I forgot all about checking if any of it sparked joy until the end, when I was left with two giant black garbage bags, one for donating; one to be burned. But I didn’t need to check, anyway – because none of it had brought me joy. All that remained was the furniture and my ancient teddy bear. I hesitated to test the Kondo method with Big Bear. If he didn’t give me a spark of joy, I’d have to throw him away too, and I had a sneaking suspicion that not much at all was sparking my joy right now.

  On Friday night, as I sat with my parents watching a repeat of the same cooking show we’d seen on Wednesday, an ad came on for the latest edition of Peeps Weekly magazine. A bright female voice enthused about summer makeup and smoothie recipes to die for. Then, before any of us had time to react, her enthusiasm dimmed into slightly intrigued sadness.

  ‘What really happened the night Jai Carradine died? Exclusive pictures and interviews.’

  A photo montage flicked past, including the shot of Jai with his face bent to my chest.

  Dad scrabbled for the remote control but it was too late. My mother sat up sharply, got to her feet and walked out. In the distance, her bedroom door closed.

  Dad hit the mute button and turned regretful eyes on me. ‘Sorry, Lottie. You all right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘She’ll come around. She’s just …’ The word ‘disappointed’ hung unspoken between us.

  ‘I’ve been invited to stay with Mrs Brooker,’ I said. ‘Do you think getting out of the house would help?’

  I expected Dad to demur but he considered my proposition for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Maybe it would be better. Just for a couple of weeks. Let the dust settle.’

  I concealed the sting, my audition face in place. ‘I’ll go tomorrow.’

  ‘Good idea, Lott.’

  In the morning, I got together a bag of clothes. Mrs Brooker had said she would have farm jobs for me, so I made sure I packed the right attire: old T-shirts, jeans, shorts, sneakers and tracksuit pants. I stuffed my party clothes, silk tops and a colourful array of Vans into another garbage bag and left Big Bear on the bed to watch over my spotless room.

  Hopefully Mrs Brooker wouldn’t renege on her offer. If she did, I’d have to try my former best friend, Olivia. We hardly even interacted these days – not much more than the odd like on a social media post – but maybe she would take pity and let me crash at hers for a week or so.

  Mum had already left for the newsagency when I emerged from my bedroom. I helped Dad unload the dishwasher before bringing my bags out to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not using my phone at the moment,’ I told him. ‘If you need me, I should be at Brooker’s but if not, try Liv – Olivia Parnham.’

  ‘Knezevic, these days, I think,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Shit, that’s right. Liv was married with a kid, maybe even two. There was no way she would be able to take me in.

  ‘Have fun at the Brookers’ farm,’ Dad said. ‘What are you going to do there?’

  ‘Mrs B said she had some farm jobs for me.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘All right, then.’

  Should I leave a message for Mum? I decided against it and grabbed some of the books from her shelf as a gesture o
f contrition.

  I kissed my father’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you around town, Dad.’

  For a moment, he looked like he might tell me this was all silliness, that of course I should stay in the family home and he would talk to Mum for me. But he simply gave me a quick hug and said, ‘Take care, Lott. Let me know if you need anything.’

  I squeezed the black bags into the boot. On the way to Brooker’s I stopped at the co-op and used my small bank balance to buy a few basic food supplies. I’d never been out to Brooker’s Farm before, but I knew where it was. Everyone did: fifteen minutes out of town, turn right at the lake and you’ll find yourself on Brooker Road. The fact that there was a road named after them showed how long the Brookers had been there – at least since the early 1900s, I guessed. There were others like that too: Dalgety Road, Batich Road. When I was a kid, I thought it was unfair and said our street should get renamed Bentz Road. But that was before I understood the difference between the farming families and the town families.

  It was pretty out on Brooker Road. Rows and rows of peach and nectarine trees flickered past, as well as smaller orchards of plums and apricots on the gentle slopes of the property. In the distance, a white ute sat parked between two rows of fruit trees and, beyond that, a dam sparkled blue in the December sunshine. The farmhouse came into view: a fibro place with yellow walls and an iron roof. The front yard was dominated by a willow tree, its branches trailing over the porch rail as though it wanted to sweep the house closer.

  Two dogs ran up to the front gate, barking as I pulled in and parked. ‘Hello, hello, it’s not an enemy,’ I said to them through the car window. They were a blue and a red heeler, their tongues lolling between barks. ‘It’s just me, just Lottie.’

  I slipped through the gate, the dogs continuing to announce my arrival until Mrs Brooker appeared on the porch, her hair a puff of silver.

  ‘Good morning, love,’ she called. ‘It is morning?’