by Sasha Wasley
I got to my feet and gestured at a spindly Christmas tree leaning up against the wall. ‘It’s time to put this up, isn’t it? It’s December.’
‘Already?’ Mrs Brooker frowned as though calculating dates.
‘Unless you want to do something funky instead. You know, like, a dowel tree or an upcycled pallet. Something from Pinterest.’
‘I don’t have the faintest idea what those things are,’ she said comfortably.
‘In that case, I’ll pull this tree out so you and Angus can decorate it later. The decorations are here, too.’
‘You might need to help me put it up, love.’ Mrs Brooker looked a little wistful. ‘Angus won’t have time.’
I felt a flare of annoyance towards Angus. Grumpy bastard could at least take the time to decorate the family Christmas tree with his sweet, ageing mother.
‘I’d be happy to,’ I said.
‘You’ll have Christmas lunch with us, won’t you?’ Mrs Brooker suddenly seemed to be pleading with me.
‘Um, my family are probably expecting me. I’ll check.’
‘It would be so nice for Angus if you were here, too.’
Uh-huh.
‘Next time, we’ll tackle two more shelves. I can donate all the stuff you don’t want to the op shop, if you like.’
She nodded, pulling herself up, then panting slightly with the effort. ‘Please do. You can toss the rubbish in the big bin out next to the garage.’
I helped her put the joyful things away, installing the doll in the bathroom to resume roll-hiding duty and delivering the binoculars to the table on the verandah for convenient bird watching. I went back out to the caravan and celebrated by using the kettle to make myself some instant noodles.
The daily condor sessions continued until there were two full bags of donations ready to go. I loaded up my car for a trip to St Edna’s on Wednesday afternoon – but first I had the Harvest Ball committee meeting at the RSL.
The RSL’s manager was Phil. At two pm the venue was empty, but Phil was there, getting ready for the old blokes who came in every day for afternoon drinks. He changed a keg behind the bar and switched on the big screen, where a greyhound race flashed in silence. Phil had once managed an overpriced little café loved by tourists, situated on the road into Bonnievale, but Blossom Cottage had closed down during the peach spot. It still sat empty out on the highway, just past the Olde Peach Tree. Phil had really struggled until Alf Scaffidi had a stroke, leaving the RSL in need of a manager.
‘The civic centre’s booked.’ Pris looked around at the rest of the organising committee like she expected opposition. ‘I had to use the very last bit of money in the Progress Association account for a deposit – and it’s non-refundable. So the ball definitely has to go ahead now.’
It sounded grim the way she said it, like an unavoidable tragedy, but Hilary Cotton clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful! This is so exciting. I spoke to young Gemma at the Bonnievale Examiner the other day and she was extremely interested. I told her she’d hear from our publicist soon enough.’ Hilary smiled at me.
In the absence of vodka, I reached for a lamington.
‘Do you know how to prepare a press statement?’ Pris asked me.
I paused with the lamington part way to my mouth. ‘I’ve seen enough of them to have a decent stab at it.’
‘I’ll bet.’ Hilary was wide-eyed and several other women there were also hanging off my words. Jesus. No wonder I’d been suckered into this role when I was drunk.
‘I don’t want any direct contact with the media,’ I added.
‘You’ll only need to write the statement,’ Pris said. ‘I can send it.’
I bit into the lamington.
‘Do we have a ticket price yet?’ someone asked.
‘That’s one of the things we need to decide,’ said Pris. ‘I’ve calculated what it will take to cover venue hire, overheads, drinks and food, and if we charge seventy dollars a head and get fifty people, we’ll break even.’
‘Fifty!’ I accidentally sprayed a couple of sponge crumbs in my surprise. ‘There used to be hundreds at the Harvest Ball.’
‘There’s not as many young people in Bonnievale these days, and we’ve lost the tradition.’ Pris’s manner was so severe it almost felt like my fault that we’d lost the tradition – and maybe even my fault that young people weren’t staying in town any longer.
‘Fifty seems a little pessimistic, Pris,’ Hilary ventured. ‘Perhaps we should count on a hundred.’
‘And people will pay more than seventy for a ball,’ was Karen Wilde’s opinion.
‘Then we’ll say eighty dollars a ticket. That will make us a comfortable profit,’ Pris decided. ‘It can be a fundraiser for the PA.’
‘Progress Association,’ Karen explained, seeing my puzzled face. She was the mother of Hayley, one of my old schoolfriends.
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Or the Orchardist Support Fund,’ Hilary said. ‘That would be quite fitting, since we’re celebrating the end of the spot.’
‘I like that.’ Old Charis Beam spoke out of nowhere.
Everyone nodded and Pris wrote it down. Clearly, when Charis liked something, it was as good as moved, seconded and passed.
‘Hayley says we need to put the ball on social media,’ Karen said. ‘She says no one will go to something that’s not on Facebook.’
Several faces turned my way. I raised my palms. ‘Sorry, can’t help with that.’
‘You don’t know how?’ Hilary was amazed.
No lying. ‘I don’t have any social accounts any more. And I won’t have any for quite a while.’
They accepted this without further comment.
‘Can you rope Hayley in?’ Hilary asked Karen.
‘I’m good on Facebook,’ said Janet Weymouth. She was a teacher at the primary school. ‘I can set up an event. I don’t have any other social thingummies, though. Instagram or anything.’
‘My granddaughter knows all about the internet,’ Charis declared. ‘I’ll get her to help.’
‘A brand would help,’ I said. ‘A logo or image that represents the ball.’
‘Yes.’ Janet looked delighted. ‘A brand.’
Wendy Orville, who had been Bonnievale’s librarian forever, cleared her throat. ‘I had a thought for a poster,’ she said shyly. ‘A beautiful girl with her face turned away, wearing the peach blossom coronet, and the words Harvest Ball all loopy and fancy. It would look so romantic, and it would make all the girls imagine themselves as the Peach Queen, you know?’
‘Aspirational,’ I agreed.
‘There’s Liv, a friend of my daughter,’ Karen said. ‘She does photography and graphic design.’
‘The one who married the vet?’ said Hilary.
‘Olivia Knezevic,’ Pris said.
Karen nodded. ‘She does all Bonnievale Fresh’s catalogues for them. I can get Hayley to ask her.’
‘Would you model for it, Lottie?’ Wendy looked at me hopefully.
‘I don’t want to be on the poster—’
‘Your face wouldn’t be visible,’ she said. ‘Just your hair, all done up, and the back of your neck.’
‘If it’s definitely not my face,’ I said cautiously. ‘I don’t want to be recognisable.’
‘I’ll get Hayley to ask Liv.’ Karen made a note.
‘Ticket sales,’ said Pris. ‘What did the library say, Karen?’
‘I don’t think we’ll need to sell tickets through the library, after all.’ Karen had clearly been sitting on this announcement and her eyes sparkled. ‘Richard Bentz is willing to sell tickets through the Rabbit’s Foot. He’ll even let people use the EFTPOS machine and then transfer the money to us each week.’
‘When did you speak to him?’ Pris looked chagrined not to have been informed earlier. She glanced at me suspiciously, as though I must also be involved in this subterfuge, since Richard was my father.
‘Just yesterday. He and Penny were very keen to be involved as spo
nsors. They said they will help us with ticket and poster printing, too.’
Oh hell, what would Mum say when she heard I was modelling for the poster? People around the table murmured with pleasure, although Pris wasn’t at all happy that this generosity had been inspired without her direct involvement.
‘What about catering?’ she said, her face sour.
‘Not Simmo’s Spitroasts,’ Hilary said.
Everyone nodded grimly and I wondered what Simmo had done to deserve this shunning.
‘Could we cater it?’ Wendy ventured.
Pris pursed her lips. ‘I’ve budgeted for a three-course dinner through Packards, just like we always used to have. If we cater it, it will be cheaper, but much more fuss. I didn’t think we’d want to concern ourselves with that on the night.’
‘Eminently sensible,’ Janet murmured.
‘Packards it is.’ Pris made a note. ‘They’ll require a deposit, too – as will the equipment hire place and DJ. With the PA account empty, I think we might need to run an emergency fundraiser.’
A fundraiser for a fundraiser? No one else seemed to notice how odd that was.
‘Christmas Market?’ someone suggested.
‘Rotary’s already doing one,’ said Hilary.
Karen piped up. ‘Cake stall?’
‘We need more than we can make with a cake stall.’ Pris barely kept the derision out of her voice. She wasn’t forgiving Karen any time soon.
‘A Christmas pudding drive—’
‘Lions has that covered.’
‘Bingo?’ Hilary ventured.
There was some hmming.
Karen was cynical. ‘Why would people come to our bingo if they can go to the Wallabah one every Monday?’
‘Perhaps a quiz night?’ Wendy practically whispered.
‘Oh, yes!’ Hilary almost spilled her tea in excitement. ‘The high school’s annual quiz night got cancelled because of the storm, so we haven’t had one in Bonnievale since the livestock rescue place ran theirs back in March. Have we got time to pull it together, do you think, Pris?’
Pris considered the question. ‘I’ve got plenty of things we could use from past quiz nights – question lists, table quizzes, answer sheets – even raffle ticket books. We can hold it here at the RSL, so no need for us to organise drinks. And Phil said he wanted to run one more community event before Christmas – on Saturday the eighteenth.’
‘That’s only two weeks away,’ Karen objected. ‘We won’t even have time to sell tickets.’
Pris disagreed. ‘Quiz night tickets sell themselves. We’ve got everything we need except prizes.’
‘Perhaps if we each pop round to four or five shops and businesses this week to get some prizes, and push the tickets really hard, we can make it happen.’ Wendy’s eyes shone with excitement. Adrenaline junkie.
Pris nodded and Karen sat back, defeated.
‘Who could be our quizmaster?’ Hilary’s eyes wandered my way.
‘Colin Dalgety, of course,’ Pris said promptly, to my relief.
There was murmured agreement. Colin Dalgety had headed up almost every club and MCed every event in town since I was a kid. He’d put the crown on my head when I was Peach Queen – and slipped his arm around my waist in a memorably creepy way for the photo.
Job lists commenced. Pris delegated most of the quiz night tasks so that she could focus on the more important Harvest Ball.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘it’s very easy to get caught up in doing things for the quiz night but someone’s got to keep their sights on the main event. And there are only six weeks to pull it all together.’ She and Wendy locked gazes for a moment, shaking their heads at the delicious impossibility of it all.
It wasn’t long before Pris was required at another club meeting and we were released. I went to St Edna’s to deliver Mrs Brooker’s donations. It was the same old man and younger woman who’d been there the last time I’d visited.
‘Fifty per cent off everything on Wednesdays,’ the woman said. ‘All funds raised go to St Edna’s Church.’
‘I’ve actually got some things to donate,’ I said, approaching the counter.
The woman checked with the man and he nodded at her. ‘Donations bin through that door,’ she said, clearly having practised this line as well. As an afterthought, she pointed at the side door that led into an alley.
‘Leaving things outside when we’re closed is littering,’ the man added, although I hadn’t suggested or even thought of such a thing.
I lugged the bags through the side door and loaded them into big white roller-bins. When I was back in the shop, I paused at the counter.
‘I’m supposed to ask local businesses for prize donations for a quiz night fundraiser for the PA,’ I said. ‘I know you guys are a charity, but is there anything you want to offload?’
The man considered, the young woman staring at me in open fascination. ‘We got given some surplus safety gear. Happy for you to take some of that.’
He loaded up a bag with some hi-vis vests, protective goggles, earplugs, gloves and dust masks. I thanked them and departed, wondering if I would be forced to re-donate the gear when Pris declared it totally unsuitable as a quiz night prize.
I looked over the road at the Rabbit’s Foot. I should really go and say hello to my parents. I pictured the way Mum kept pulling her eyes away from me like the very sight gave her pain. Nevertheless, I straightened and crossed the road.
Dad was at the counter. ‘Hello, Lott.’
‘Hi, Dad.’ I kept my eyes off the gossip magazines. ‘How’s things?’
‘Not bad. Selling plenty of scratchies.’
‘’Tis the season,’ I said with a weak smile. ‘How’s it going over at Brooker’s? They got you picking in the orchards?’
‘I’m helping Mrs Brooker clear out her spare room. Is Mum here?’
He shook his head. ‘Bank.’
I was relieved – which made me feel guilty. ‘I’m helping organise the Harvest Ball. I’m on the committee.’
Dad blinked at me. ‘You’re on the …’
I nodded. ‘Organising committee. I’ve been at a meeting just now.’
‘Oh, right. I knew it was happening. Karen Wilde asked if we could sell the tickets here. Isn’t Pris Brooker in charge of the whole thing?’
‘Yeah. She’s pretty hardcore.’
Dad grinned. ‘Well, it sounds like an interesting project.’
‘I’m supposed to ask businesses for quiz night prize donations, but you guys are already helping with ticket sales and promotion for the ball, aren’t you?’
‘Quiz night, eh?’ Dad scratched his chin. ‘That should be fun. Your mum and I will probably come along.’ He thought for a minute. ‘I can give you a back-to-school pack as a prize. Pencil case, ruler, eraser, notebooks, stuff like that.’
‘Really? That’s perfect. Thanks, Dad.’
Dad went to gather the items. I looked at the bookshelf but there were no copies of the Kondo book and nothing else interested me. I hadn’t read a book in years, I realised; only social media and online articles. No wonder I was struggling to get into Mum’s books. When I was little, I would sit in the back room of the shop, perched on the pile of yesterday’s newspapers, and read book after book, taking care not to crack the spines so we could still sell them afterwards. Mum never told me off for that. Later, when it turned into DOLLY magazine or Cosmopolitan, she would get grumpy and tell me to make myself useful or go home.
A customer arrived while Dad was bagging up the quiz night donation, so I served, the memory of how to use the till coming back as if I’d never been away. When the customer was gone, Dad handed over the package in a Rabbit’s Foot Lucky Lotto and News printed bag.
I paused on my way out. ‘Say hello to Mum for me?’
‘Yep. Lizzy’s coming home for Christmas. You’ll come for lunch on Christmas Day, eh?’
It stung that he was inviting me to my own family’s house for Christmas – as though I we
re a distant relation who happened to be in the area. And yet Elizabeth was ‘coming home.’ What had Mum said to him? That she would never forgive me?
Jesus. She’d spent my entire childhood urging me to think for myself. Surely I was entitled to make my own decisions without being judged against someone else’s set of standards.
It seemed I could only make my own decisions as long as I met her standards.
‘The Brookers have asked me to have lunch with them on Christmas Day,’ I said.
‘Oh!’ Dad’s eyebrows were almost in his hairline.
‘I’ll let you know what I’m doing. Catch you around, Dad.’
I probably should have started with the floor in Mrs Brooker’s spare room; it didn’t look like the thin green carpet had seen daylight in years and the bed was also hidden under a mountain of papers and suitcases. We kept working on the wardrobe, anyway. The thing seemed endless, with three vertical sections and deep shelves you had to lean into up to your armpits, but we were making gradual progress.
Each morning, Mrs Brooker let me know when she was ready to ‘be a condor’ and we found ourselves spots on the floor. I pulled items off a shelf one-by-one, passing them to her for a verdict. I’d thought she’d start getting a little faster after those first few sessions, but she took the process seriously, considering each item with quiet attention. There was something strangely beautiful about the way Mrs Brooker conducted her spare-room declutter. She looked at each object with wonder and respect, as though it was a precious artefact – like she’d found a trove of stolen treasure. I felt slightly ashamed of the flippant way I’d sorted through my childhood bedroom. If the decluttering process were acting, Mrs Brooker was a Lady Macbeth soliloquy and I was a stain-remover commercial.
However, it meant the sessions could only last about an hour. Not only did Mrs Brooker’s back get sore on the orange pouf, but she seemed emotionally exhausted, too. It was hard, I realised. It was the same as the list in my cat notebook: I couldn’t just chuck that stuff out and be done with it. It was going to take effort. Time.
Today’s effort had involved a collection of VHS movies, a jar of buttons and a selection of chipped china with the conserved chips taped carefully to each piece, ready for repair. There were collectible teaspoons from the Brookers’ caravan travels, silver candlesticks and a number of hats and fascinators the Brooker women had worn at the Wallabah Races over the years. On the fourth shelf I found a perfume diffuser made of thick, pale-green glass. I pressed its dusky pink-silk bladder and it wheezed a puff of scentless air.
