by Sasha Wasley
‘This is an opportunity,’ Pris continued. ‘A way to prove yourself to your hometown.’
‘I don’t think she has anything to prove.’ Mrs Brooker’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp and Pris shot her a glance.
‘Lottie might like to show the wider community what she’s made of.’
Angus couldn’t resist a quick look my way.
Don’t cringe.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I mumbled to Pris.
A distant rumbling woke me. A thunderstorm? No, the dawn sky looked clear. Maybe a plane. The rumbling receded as I peered out of the little window with gritty eyes. It was barely morning and I was shivering, aching with the cold. My sleeping bag and ancient crocheted blanket couldn’t cut a chilly morning in this tin-can caravan.
Reluctantly, I sat up, the bunk creaking beneath me. My jacket was a million miles away on the other side of the caravan, and the bedside table would cut into my foot like the blade of an ice skate. I heaved a sigh worthy of a nineteenth-century poet and prepared to make the descent – then caught sight of something wonderful.
The shelf alongside my bed had spawned another blanket.
Was it a mirage? It hadn’t been there when I went to bed; I was sure of it. I grabbed the blanket before it could disappear and nearly wept to feel its thick woollen weight. This thing was a real blanket, not a crocheted wafer of holes. It was like an army blanket: not pretty or soft, but bloody warm. I laid it reverentially over my sleeping bag and, within minutes, warm relief flooded me. I snuggled down into my musty pillow, thanking the gods for the compassion of Mrs Brooker.
The usual sounds of the Brookers’ farm morning eventually broke the still.
‘Have you got your hat, love?’
‘Yep. Will you be all right, Mum?’
‘Of course, off you go. Oh, wait a moment, Angus. Just take this to Penny in the caravan, will you?’
A silence. ‘It’s Lottie.’
‘Lottie, I mean.’
Another pause. ‘I don’t have time.’
‘Nonsense. This will take you ten seconds.’
‘Can’t she make her own tea?’
‘She doesn’t have a kettle, and it’s cold this morning. She’ll need something to warm her up.’
‘She wanted to stay here.’
‘Angus Edward Brooker.’
‘All right, all right.’
Footsteps stumped resentfully along the path towards the caravan. I scrambled out of bed, dragging the army blanket with me. Ow! Bloody cold bedside table edge. Angus banged on the caravan wall just as I reached the door and heaved it open. He was holding a mug illustrated with a contented looking pig, Blue dancing at his feet with the excitement of seeing me.
‘Tea,’ he said, somehow making a short word even shorter.
‘Thanks.’ I took it.
‘It’s from Mum.’
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t think it was from you.’
He leaned a hand on the door frame, glancing at my blanket kaftan. ‘Pris said to let you know the planning session’s scheduled for Wednesday afternoon.’
‘The what?’
‘You know, the Harvest Ball committee meeting.’
‘What?’
A hint of a smile touched his lips, making him instantly handsome. Who’d’ve thought?
‘Had a few wines last night, eh? Enjoy your tea.’ Angus loped away. ‘Phone if you need me, Mum,’ he called towards the house.
I sank onto the caravan step as he drove away. Did I honestly agree to be on Pris Brooker’s Harvest Ball committee? I had a vague memory of sitting at a table with a bunch of women after dinner, all of them nodding and making suggestions, bringing me glasses of wine. The Progress Association; a notepad with a list of roles. Coordinator; Fundraising; Catering; Publicity …
The last one had my name next to it.
Damn my drunken suggestibility. Or was it that chance of redemption Pris had dangled in front of me? I was kidding myself if I thought helping with the Harvest Ball might salvage my reputation. And why did I even care about my reputation?
Mum swept into my mind and I swept her straight back out.
Mrs Brooker came out of the back door and down the steps with her washing basket. ‘Good morning, love.’
‘Good morning. Thanks for the tea.’
‘You’re very welcome. Are you busy today?’
I almost laughed. ‘No.’
‘Shall we start on the spare room? That condor method you told me about?’
‘Absolutely.’ I gulped my tea and stood.
‘Don’t rush, love. I’ve got a couple of loads of washing to do first, and you need to have some breakfast. We’ll knuckle down later. There’s a bit of room in the coloureds load – do you have anything you want to wash?’
‘Yes, please.’ I was relieved; I’d been contemplating handwashing my underwear in the washhouse trough with unease.
‘Bring them into the laundry, love,’ she said around a peg held in her teeth.
I delivered my washing, then ate breakfast on the caravan step. In my former life, when funds permitted, I would have gone for a smashed avo or eggs benny at the café beneath my apartment. The staff knew my name and my coffee order – long mac topped up – and the manager often texted me in the afternoon to let me know there were discounts on unpurchased lunches, an easy dinner for me and Jordan, also a struggling actor. Vegetable tortilla stack, goat’s cheese frittata, ancient grain salad. We ate well, even when we had no work and lived on government benefits.
There was another up-and-coming actor, Cordelia, who was completely honest on all her social profiles about how hard it was the make it in the industry. Jordan and I scorned her and decided that if anyone asked either of us about work, we would always tell them we were in casting talks. We’d never let on that we were out of a job and would definitely not mention the Centrelink payments. We Instagrammed our discounted meals to make it look like we were living the high life. We reused empty bottles of kombucha, filling them with water and tagging the brand, pretending we’d just bought them. Sometimes the manufacturers sent us freebies to thank us for promoting their brand. We had fake success down to a fine art.
I looked at my tin of cold beans. Superfood, I reminded myself, spooning some into my mouth.
After breakfast, I flannel-bathed in the cold washhouse, brushed my hair into a ponytail and cleaned my teeth. How visible was my scar today? Was my hair colour fading yet? Were my eyes dark-rimmed after last night’s drinking session?
Who knew? Who cared? A hard knell of triumph went off in my chest.
At eight, I arrived in Mrs Brooker’s kitchen in faded denim shorts and a T-shirt. ‘Hello?’ I called.
‘In here!’
She was standing in the spare room doorway, hands on hips, observing the disarray as though for the first time. She looked up at me with helplessness in her expression.
I glanced around. ‘What’s inside the wardrobe?’
‘Just bits and pieces,’ she said. ‘Bric-a-brac.’ She was watching me like she thought I would back out of the job.
‘Okay, let’s start there. Do you have any bin bags?’ I asked, tightening my ponytail. ‘We’ll need some for rubbish and donations, and a box for things that need to be put away somewhere else. We’ll start with the wardrobe and leave the bigger stuff and those cases and books for later sessions. Sound okay?’
Relief washed over Mrs Brooker’s face. ‘That sounds good.’
‘You get the bin bags. Where might I find a box?’ I asked.
‘Try the garage,’ she said, trotting towards the kitchen.
I went out the front and manoeuvred past my car and into the garage. No cardboard boxes, but there were two empty wooden crates marked Brooker’s Stone Fruit. I lugged one back to the spare room, where Mrs Brooker was holding a roll of heavy-duty black rubbish bags, looking at them as though they weren’t quite what she’d expected.
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked.
She star
ted at the sound of my voice. ‘Oh!’ She looked back at the bags. ‘Yes. One for rubbish, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, and one for donations.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She tore off two bags.
I slid open the wobbly mirror door of the giant wardrobe. ‘Right, you hold whatever I give you, Mrs B, and ask yourself: “Does it give me joy?” If not, we’ll put it in a bag. If it does, we’ll put it in the box. We can decide what to do with the things you keep at the end.’ I passed her a tobacco pipe. ‘Does this bring you joy?’
With a small grunt, she lowered herself onto an orange vinyl pouf and turned the pipe over in her hands. ‘Joy! Goodness, no. This belonged to Angus’s grandfather. He was a hard man. I didn’t like his pipe. He always knocked it on the wooden arm of his chair to let his wife know he wanted it filled – like she was some sort of slave. It made things very uncomfortable when we sat together of an evening. And he took no care where he blew his smoke. Poor Mum – I called Ted’s mother Mum because that was what people did in my day – she had to air the room every single day and hang the rugs out at least once a week or they’d be rancid with smoke. Cyril – I called him Dad, although I always thought of him as Cyril – was a domineering sort of man. He bullied poor Ted something dreadful. I was rather relieved when he had a stroke.’ Mrs Brooker’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘What a dreadful thing to say. I meant that it was nicer for Ted after his father passed away. Cyril was manipulative. Once, when Ted was about twenty-five, Cyril said he was going to let him make all the decisions about the orchards going forward. Then he arranged things so that Ted would fail.’
‘Whoa. How?’ I asked.
‘Well, Batich’s – the farm supplies shop – would get in touch annually to organise the pesticides and chemicals we needed. Cyril relied on them to do it every single year. But that year, he told them not to because he thought Ted should have to remember by himself. Ted forgot, of course, and had to scramble to borrow and buy off other farmers. Mr Batich told us later what Cyril had done.’
‘What a prick!’ The words were out before I could stop them.
Mrs Brooker chuckled. ‘Yes. He was one of those and I don’t want his smelly old pipe.’
‘Bin or donate?’
‘Donate, I think,’ she said. ‘Someone might think it’s an interesting antique.’
I held open a bag. ‘Thanks for your service, pipe.’
‘Thank you for keeping Cyril quiet in the evenings, and for contributing to his stroke,’ Mrs Brooker added as she dropped the pipe into the bag.
‘It would be hard, intergenerational living,’ I said, shaking it to the bottom. ‘I understand why you have to do it on family farms, but it must be horrible sometimes. My mum would rather stick a fork in her eye than have Grandma living with her, I think.’
Mrs Brooker tipped her head. ‘I know Penny doesn’t always get along with her mother.’
‘That’s an understatement. But then, Mum doesn’t always get along with anyone – except Liz, maybe.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Yeah. Mum thinks Liz can do no wrong.’
‘Do you get along with your sister?’ she asked with interest.
‘Yeah, Elizabeth is easy to get along with, although we’re very different. But Mum—’ I stopped, remembering that Mrs Brooker was good friends with my mother – or had been once. I didn’t want her feeding anything back to Mum.
She watched me expectantly.
‘Mum doesn’t always approve of my actions,’ I finished, which was not a lie, but much nicer than saying Mum hated every single one of my life choices.
Mrs Brooker seemed to be thinking about what I’d said. I plunged my hand into the wardrobe and extracted an enamel washing bowl.
‘What about this?’ I asked.
‘Oh, that’s one of Mum Brooker’s bowls,’ she said, taking it. ‘Very useful in its day, but not needed on the farm any more. It doesn’t give me joy. Thank you for your service, bowl.’ She handed it to me. ‘Donate.’
I passed her a shiny wooden shoehorn.
‘Ted’s shoehorn.’ She fingered it thoughtfully. ‘Ted had trouble with his feet. Bone spurs. He would use this to get his boots on, to try to minimise the need to bend his poor feet. He had to use a stick for walking when it was very bad.’ She nodded at a cane that leaned against the cabinet. ‘He almost cried with the pain, sometimes.’ Mrs Brooker paused. ‘It doesn’t give me joy, but for some reason it gives me a little comfort.’
I stayed silent. Comfort wasn’t in the Kondo method – not that I knew of, anyway. I really should read the book. Maybe Mum and Dad had a copy in the newsagency.
‘But the thought of this room being free of useless items gives me joy,’ she said in the end. ‘Thank you – thank you very much, shoehorn and stick, for helping poor Ted when he had bad feet. Donate.’
She passed me the shoehorn and I added that and the varnished walking stick to the bag. Mrs Brooker spotted some old binoculars on a shelf and reached for them. She took four individual caps off the glass lenses, front and back.
‘These were Ted’s as well. He was keen on birds and always brought these with us when we went for a walk to the dam. It’s a good spot for birdwatching. Angus loved these as a boy, but he would often forget to put the caps back on so they’d get lost. It made Ted wild. I always found the caps in the end, though.’ She paused, holding them in her hand. ‘Joy. Ted used to help Angus adjust the lenses. Little Angus would slip in under the strap around Ted’s neck and they’d work it out together. Angus spotted a rare bird once when he was about eight – I can’t remember what – and Ted was so excited. Angus never looked prouder.’
‘I’ll put them in the box,’ I said. ‘We can find somewhere to put them later. What about this?’ It was a calico pocket tied in a roll with the straps at either end. I untied it and opened out the roll to reveal a neat row of paintbrushes. I eased one out of its pocket and it left its brush-hairs on the fabric. ‘Oh …’
‘It’s all right,’ Mrs Brooker assured me. ‘They’re very old. Not usable any more, I dare say. Ted loved to paint when I first met him. He painted the most wonderful little birds on scraps of paper. Watercolour. He had a bundle of them in his birdwatching book when we were courting. I found it under the seat of his car one evening as he was driving us to a dance. I pulled it out to see what it was and the paintings all fell out on little pieces of paper. Ted was mortified. It was one of the things that made me decide to marry him.’ She smiled, then sighed, rolling the calico back up. ‘Throw it away.’
I hesitated. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. It makes me sad. He stopped painting his little birds, you see. He didn’t have time once Cyril brought him into the farm management. And the brushes can’t be used any more even if I did donate them – they’re falling apart. Thank you for your service, paintbrushes.’
I put them in the bin bag, waited a respectful moment, then reached for a plastic doll with russet hair and a lime green dress.
‘What about this?’
Mrs Brooker nodded at it. ‘Polyester netting, crocheted, see? Mum Brooker made these for everyone. These, and padded coat hangers.’ She flipped the doll to reveal she was an amputee from the waist down. ‘She sits on the toilet paper, and the roll holds out her dress like a crinoline petticoat.’ She flipped her back over and put her fist into the dress to demonstrate.
‘Why?’
‘It’s decorative. She hides the toilet roll.’
‘Oh, right. It’s a way to conceal the ugly truth that there’s a spare toilet roll if you use it all up?’
Mrs Brooker chuckled. ‘Yes. The ugly truth.’ She laughed again. ‘We use more practical methods these days, don’t we? A stacking post, or a basket of spare rolls. But these were very popular in the sixties and seventies.’
‘You could repurpose her,’ I said. ‘Put her out on display.’
Mrs Brooker examined the doll. ‘She’s a little the worse for wear. Biro stains on her face. But I think I’d l
ike to see her in the toilet again, back in gainful employment.’
I put the doll in the box and pulled out a set of doilies, soft cream in colour, made from a heavy silk thread. I ran my finger over the stitching, following the shifting grains. ‘These are beautiful. Did your mother-in-law make these, too?’
‘No, I made them.’
‘Wow. They’re gorgeous, Mrs B. You can’t throw them out.’
‘Well, I don’t really have a need for them …’
‘Angus would want them someday, I think, or someone in your family. They’re really beautiful.’
‘I loved to crochet,’ she said. ‘I would look forward to the evenings after all the jobs were done and Angus was in bed, so I could sit down and make things. I had far too many in the end. I started donating them to the Auxiliary to sell. I liked trying new patterns. This one is pineapple stitch, see?’
‘Oh, yeah. I see the pineapple shape.’ I fingered the doily, feeling its soft weight. It was a work of art.
‘I won’t throw them away if you don’t think I should,’ she said.
‘Good.’
‘Put them in the box, love.’ Mrs Brooker smiled at me. ‘This condor method is wonderful. We’ve only done a few things and I feel lighter already!’
‘You’re better at it than me,’ I confessed. ‘You take the spark joy thing more seriously.’
‘Isn’t that the whole point, though?’
I shrugged. ‘Yes, but I was in too much of a hurry to toss out my junk to give each item proper consideration.’
‘You must do that step,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to throw out the baby with the bathwater.’
The bottom two shelves of the wardrobe held years’ worth of junk – antiques, tools and decorative clutter from every generation of the Brooker dynasty. Commemorative plates – Mum Brooker had been a fan of the royal family – a collection of bottle openers, a compact mirror, a porcelain Afghan hound and metal callipers. We worked through the eclectic mix until Mrs Brooker declared we’d spent long enough on the project for the day. She ended our session by giving me an ancient electric kettle for the caravan.
