Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  ‘Yours?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was for rosewater. I used to spray myself with a little puff of rosewater whenever I needed to freshen up. But life is hard on a farm, love. There’s no time for fuss or fancy. In the end, it seemed …’

  ‘Self-indulgent?’

  ‘Yes. Pointless.’

  My hours in salons prickled in my conscience: manicures, facials, hairstyles. ‘I’m trying to care less about my appearance,’ I blurted.

  Mrs Brooker perused my face. ‘You’re very pretty, love. Do you worry about your looks?’

  ‘I spend too much time thinking about how I look and getting ready. Primping and preening, as Mum used to call it.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed you fussing about your looks. Not at all.’

  ‘I’m getting there. Living in your caravan is good for me.’ I shot her a smile. ‘No mirrors.’

  Mrs Brooker indicated the cabinet mirror in the right-hand section of the wardrobe, speckled with rust. She lifted herself out of the sitting position to check her reflection and patted my arm until I did the same.

  ‘Do you look as you expected?’ she asked.

  I gave myself the barest glance and sat again. ‘A bit different. I have a scar now. On my chin. It surprises me every time I see it.’

  She sank back down and looked at my scar. ‘It’s not very noticeable. What else is different?’

  ‘No makeup. No products. I’ll probably get crow’s feet, double chins and laugh lines.’

  She nodded. ‘That does happen, and it happens to all of us, much more quickly than we’d like. But I’m not convinced using products or makeup makes any difference whatsoever.’

  ‘Probably not, but I’ve been doing it since I was twelve and it’s a hard habit to break.’

  ‘Using the products? Or worrying about not using them?’

  I laughed. ‘The worrying, I suppose.’

  ‘Your mother once told me something one of her favourite authors said. I can’t remember the exact words. It was something like, a grown woman shouldn’t have to pretend to be a girl to stay in the land of the living. I like that. It made me realise I was quite entitled to look old. Why should we want to look like girls? Men don’t want to look like boys. In fact, they make an effort not to look boyish from quite a young age.’ Mrs Brooker had a gentle smile on her face.

  ‘There are plenty of women actors who are letting themselves age naturally and still getting roles.’ But as I said it, it felt like bullshit. I’d been living right inside the industry for a decade and I knew how it worked. But I was so used to arguing with my mother, I said it anyway, as though Mrs Brooker was her proxy.

  She seemed surprised. ‘That’s good to hear. One gets tired of only seeing young faces. It can feel a bit alienating. Gosh, how did Colin Dalgety put it? Oh, that’s right – he said men age like wine, but women age like milk! As if we go curdled and smelly, or something.’ She chuckled. ‘Rather a chauvinist pig, is Colin.’

  I was too shocked to answer. She held the rosewater sprayer and puffed it by her nose, sniffing.

  ‘Does it give you joy?’ I asked, finding my voice.

  ‘Yes, it does. It reminds me of my mother. She always smelled of rosewater. I shall put it on my dresser so I can think of her when I see it.’

  I put it in the box and stretched right to the back of the shelf for a brown circa 1960 children’s school case. This looked intriguing. I placed it between us on the floor and when Mrs Brooker nodded, giving permission, I flicked the latches. One got stuck and I wiggled it until it came loose. For some reason I’d expected photos, but the lid came up to reveal a collection of hard plastic zoo and farm animals, and even a couple of trees and people. Among them was a goat with a chewed leg. Chewed by a dog? Or maybe toddler Angus.

  ‘Oh, look.’ Mrs Brooker dug beneath the plastic animals and pulled out a grey corduroy bunny, under-stuffed and floppy. ‘It’s Long Bunny.’

  ‘Angus’s?’

  ‘Yes. His beloved Long Bunny.’ She ran her fingers over Long Bunny’s serious stitched face. ‘Mum Brooker made it. Angus couldn’t sleep if it wasn’t in his bed.’

  ‘Do you think he’d want it back?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but I can’t throw it away.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think I could either. I’m glad it gives you joy.’

  She stroked its long ears. ‘Not joy. No, certainly not joy.’ She handed it to me. ‘I’ll keep it. But I think I’m finished for today. I can’t quite feel joy, even though I love Long Bunny and I love Angus. For some reason, it makes me sad.’

  I thought of my own teddy bear in my bedroom at Mum and Dad’s place. Maybe Long Bunny and Big Bear needed to get together for a beer and work out why they didn’t spark joy any more.

  ‘I’ll take the rubbish out to the bin and put these few bits and pieces away,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, Penny. You’re such a help.’

  I didn’t correct her.

  Angus was mowing the lawn when I went down the back steps. Blue greeted me with joy while Bundy smiled at me from under a tree, thumping his tail. Although the afternoon shade had fallen over the caravan, it had been closed up during the day and was something akin to a sauna. I opened the single unstuck window, but it was still insufferable, so I sat outside and drank a bottle of water. Angus pushed the lawnmower around for a few minutes, then let it sputter into silence. He stood and reviewed the lawn for errant long blades. Then he looked at me and I realised he was working up to saying something.

  Before he could speak, Mrs Brooker swung open the back door and surveyed his work. ‘Can you move the chicken coop, Angus?’

  ‘Mum, I told you. I need to wait until Toby comes over to help.’

  ‘Well, call him,’ she said. ‘It needs to be moved.’

  ‘He’s not answering. He must be busy this arvo. I’ll try him tomorrow.’

  Mrs Brooker looked uncharacteristically peeved. She was puffing a little. ‘The chooks are wallowing in their own droppings. They’ll get sick.’

  He sighed. ‘If Toby can’t—’

  ‘Can I help?’ I said. ‘What do you need to move?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Angus said immediately.

  ‘The roosting cage that sits inside the chook yard,’ Mrs Brooker told me. ‘We need to move it around in the yard every month or so, or the chickens are left sitting in their own filth.’

  ‘Is it heavy?’ I asked.

  She looked at Angus.

  ‘A bit.’

  Mrs Brooker frowned.

  ‘It’s not heavy,’ he admitted. ‘Just awkward.’

  I knew what that meant. It was a universal expression for oversized and a complete pain in the arse to move. Technically two people can do it but it’s only bearable with four.

  I stood. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Thank you, love.’ Mrs Brooker went back into the house.

  I waited for Angus. He led the way, shoulders drooping. It was like everything he did was underwater – weighed down and sodden. When I knew him in high school, Angus had walked with his head up, smiling at people. He had been confident and bright-eyed, popular with guys and girls alike. Even the teachers adored him. He’d been the athletics captain and he’d made this adorable speech at graduation, positive and funny – teasing the staff and inspiring the graduates. He’d told us that it didn’t matter if you went off to become an astronaut or a surgeon, or stayed in town and became a plumber, hairdresser, or worked on your family farm, what you did was important, significant; your contribution was powerful. Meaningful. I remembered being touched but simultaneously derisive. He was from a farming family – of course he would say that. I wondered what he thought now – did he still believe what he was doing was meaningful? The only vibe I got from Angus was that he hated every minute of every day.

  Despite his heavy gait, Angus had long legs and moved fast. I was obliged to trot to keep up with him. We went out the back gate towards a long, fenced chicken yard containing a couple of tin
shelters and some scraggly trees. What looked remarkably like several short filing-cabinets were dotted among some trees in another part of the paddock. It seemed an odd place to keep derelict office furniture.

  ‘What are they for?’ I asked.

  Angus glanced back. ‘Hives,’ he said.

  Oh, yes – his bees. ‘Um, I’m supposed to be hunting down some quiz night prizes. Do you reckon you could donate some honey?’

  ‘No worries.’

  That was three down. I only had to ask one more business, then my duty was done. I didn’t want to get kicked off the Ball committee. Although being on the committee was awful, getting kicked off would be worse.

  The Brookers had twenty or so chickens, some brown and some black. There was a big old rooster who eyed us suspiciously as we approached. Several hens paused in their foraging and one let out a long bwaaaak in greeting when she saw us. That seemed to be the signal for the rest of them. They all made for the gate, waddling at a terrific pace. I couldn’t help a burst of laughter and Angus glanced back with a frown.

  ‘They’re funny,’ I said. ‘Why are they running at us like that?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Are they expecting food?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I laughed again. ‘Why else would they want to see us?’

  ‘Chickens are social,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Huh. Even your chickens?’ It fell out before I thought the better of it.

  He shot a surprised look my way but said nothing. Dumb move, Lottie. He could chuck me out of my free accommodation in a heartbeat. He looked back at the chickens, his frown remaining.

  Behind one of the shelters was the roosting cage, a rectangular prism constructed from sturdy sheets of wire. It was at least eight feet long and cemented to the floor of the chook yard with earth and chicken shit. There were a couple of broomsticks stuck through its wire sides to act as roosts.

  ‘Why do you have the cage inside the yard?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the only way to keep them safe at night. The foxes can dig under the fences and sometimes owls pick them off.’ Angus took up a position on one side. ‘If you get on that end and we both lift, it should come up.’

  I pinned the entrance closed with a piece of wire obviously left there for the purpose, then tested the cage’s weight. It didn’t seem like it would move at all.

  ‘We might have to dig the crap out first,’ I said.

  ‘No, it should lift right through it.’

  ‘I dunno …’

  ‘Trust me.’

  I took the end of the coop, hooking my fingers through the wire.

  ‘One, two, lift,’ he said.

  We both heaved, the thick wire cutting into the flesh of our fingers. There was no way this thing would move. Angus strained harder, so I did, too. Suddenly, the whole cage sliced through its peat floor from the outer edges inwards. We pulled harder and the middle section finally broke free of the earth and shit, sagging in its reluctance.

  ‘Let’s put it over there,’ he said, nodding towards a tree. We lugged it clumsily across the chicken yard. ‘You all right?’ he checked partway.

  My fingers were killing me, but I was damned if I was going to admit that to Angus.

  ‘Fine,’ I puffed. What’s a little nerve damage? But a few steps later, it was too much. ‘Wait.’

  Angus put it down immediately. I flexed my fingers three or four times.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

  We arrived at the spindly gum and plonked the coop in place. I flexed my poor fingers again, then undid the tie-wire and opened the end of the coop. The chickens ignored us, scratching excitedly in the pile of sliced peat where their coop had been.

  ‘Look,’ I called. ‘Nice and clean for you tonight, chooks.’

  ‘The silly buggers won’t go in like usual though – you watch,’ said Angus.

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s moved. They hate change.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I watched the chickens. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘I’ll toss in some bread when the sun drops,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Most of them should go in.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  Angus observed the flock. ‘Then they get eaten by foxes or owls.’

  I stared. ‘Can’t we catch them?’

  Angus shuffled the cage so that it sat with more stability but he didn’t answer. I sighed vocally, so he’d know he was being annoying. As he headed for the gate a chicken squawked and scampered suddenly, trying to escape another’s pecking. She blundered into a partially empty water basin and tipped the whole thing over.

  Angus sighed. ‘Stupid chook.’ He leaned down to retrieve the basin.

  ‘I’ll refill it,’ I offered, holding out my hand for the basin.

  He swung it out of reach as if he didn’t trust me with the task, then seemed to realise how odd that was. ‘It’s fine,’ he mumbled as an explanation. ‘Not your problem.’

  I kept my hand out. ‘I’ll fill it. I like helping around the place. I told your mum I’d work in exchange for board.’

  ‘You’re already helping her with the spare room,’ he said, but reluctantly handed the basin over.

  I went and filled the basin at the tap outside the yard, and when I returned with it, Angus was crouched down in front of one of the tin shelters. I dropped off the water bowl and joined him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sick chicken.’

  In one corner of the shelter, a black hen sat huddled, looking deeply sorry for herself.

  ‘Oh, no. Poor thing. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Probably an infection.’ He reached in a gentle hand and retrieved the chicken, turning her carefully over. Her abdomen was swollen and red. ‘Yep. Egg yolk peritonitis, I think.’

  ‘What can be done for her?’

  ‘I’ve seen worse. She might come good yet. If she’s not better in the morning, I’ll have to put her to sleep.’

  ‘Have you got any antibiotics to give her, or something?’

  ‘I’ve got a broad-spectrum powder, but the trouble is, the powder goes in their drinking water and you can’t stop the others from getting some of it. Then you can’t sell or eat the eggs for a couple of weeks.’

  I contemplated the chicken. ‘What about if she were kept in isolation?’

  ‘I don’t have time to bugger around with that.’ His voice was gruff again, as if he had to hide any compassion he might feel. ‘And nor does Mum.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. ‘I can keep her in a box in the washhouse. It’s cool in there. Just tell me where the feed and antibiotic powder are kept and I’ll look after her till she’s better.’

  ‘She’s been sick a few times this year,’ he said. ‘Once they start getting egg yolk peritonitis, it recurs. She’s a few years old now, on the way out.’ I waited. Angus passed me the chicken with an air of resignation and I took her awkwardly. ‘Feed’s in the drum outside the yard.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Something like an amused smile appeared on his face. ‘Any time.’

  Then he turned his head away, in case I saw his pleasantness and mistook him for a nice guy.

  I took the chicken to the washhouse. She had poop stuck to her feathers so I gave her backside a gentle wash, trying not to get too grossed out, then sat and cuddled her in a towel for a while. My mother used to rescue birds when they flew into the windows of our house, or if the babies fell out of the nest. Silvereyes and doves. She always wrapped them loosely in a towel and put them in a shoebox to stay warm and quiet. The chicken’s belly was hot, her comb was drooping and her breathing sounded rattly. I had a bad feeling she was going to die. All of a sudden, I couldn’t handle the thought of that.

  Karen Wilde had said that Liv was married to a vet.

  I loaded the chicken into a Brooker’s fruit-crate lined with newspaper and slung the towel over the top, then drove her to the only vet clinic in town. I asked the vet nurse at the counter if Dr
Knezevic was available and while I waited, she got me to fill out a form. It asked for the pet’s name, so I wrote ‘Chooky’.

  After half an hour, a mild-faced man in his thirties called me into the consulting room.

  ‘Before you look at the chicken,’ I said, ‘I need you to know that I have no money to pay you today. I’m not working at the moment, and I only have about forty bucks to my name, and that’s supposed to feed me for the next couple of weeks. But I will pay you as soon as I have the cash, I promise. I was Liv’s best friend in high school and I was hoping you’d take pity on me – or at least on this sick chicken.’

  I held my breath, watching his surprised face. Recognition hit him an instant later and his eyebrows crept up towards his receding hairline.

  ‘Oh. You’re Charlize.’

  ‘Lottie.’

  He considered me for a few moments but this guy was kind-hearted, I could see it. ‘I’m Paul,’ he said at last. ‘What have we got here?’

  ‘Angus Brooker said she’s got egg something-itis.’

  ‘Egg yolk peritonitis?’ Paul was feeling the chicken’s abdomen. ‘Most likely correct. I can draw some fluid to check. How’s your squeamishness?’

  ‘I can handle it,’ I said.

  ‘You hold her, facing you – hold her wings down or she’ll flap.’

  Paul was unwrapping a syringe as he spoke. He lifted her back end and inserted the syringe somewhere. Chooky didn’t bat an eyelid. Paul held up the syringe, filled with murky, pale-yellow liquid.

  ‘There you go. Angus was right. The yolk’s gone to the wrong spot, so it’s a foreign body. She’s produced a lot of fluid to try to dilute it – that’s why she’s so swollen. It’s compressing her organs, hence the wheezing. I’ll get as much fluid as possible out of her and I can give you some antibiotics.’