Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  He went through the gate and headed for the beehives. I clambered down from my bunk and went outside, wriggling through the grapevine to watch. He pulled off the hat and veil, shaking his hair free, and dropped it on a stack of cut firewood. At the first hive, he removed the lid, using his funnel-accordion to puff smoke into the open top. Bees wandered through the air around him as he lifted a frame and inspected it. He replaced it, whipped off a glove and used his bare hand to lift the next. Clearly, the thought of being stung didn’t concern him. I slipped back into the caravan before he could finish and spot me spying. Somewhere inside me, a begrudging respect formed. Angus must be pretty fearless.

  I didn’t want to impose on Mrs Brooker, so I spent the morning attempting to launder my clothes in the washhouse’s concrete trough. I made use of an ancient paper package of soap flakes I’d found in a lidded bucket. The process was ludicrously slow, wasted copious amounts of water in rinsing, and gave an unsatisfying result. Jesus, how did women get anything done in the days before washing machines and powder? I hung my semi-clean clothes on the washing line, wondering if my fingers would ever lose their nasty slipperiness. I contemplated using my meagre savings to buy a box of Fab.

  I asked Mrs Brooker if she wanted to have a condor session but she was cleaning her oven so I went out to the chicken yard instead. I refilled feed dispensers and changed the water. There was a lot of chook dung lying around, so I raked it up and shovelled it into a wooden box the Brookers kept for the purpose. Every time I walked too close to a hen, she would squat. At first, I thought they were paralysed with the fear of being stepped on, but after seeing them do the same thing for the rooster, I realised they considered me a rooster. A bigger, stronger, more dominant being than themselves.

  ‘You’ve completely misjudged me,’ I told them.

  Late in the afternoon, I sat outside in the afternoon warmth, taking advantage of the more mellow weather. Blue fell asleep on my foot. I’d given up on the last book and was now reading Mum’s copy of A Room of One’s Own – it had a bit of a storyline and wasn’t too bad. Chooky had taken her enormous tablet and was now shuffling around in her box, getting organised for bed. Good smells of Mrs Brooker’s cooking emanated from the house.

  Pris found me on the caravan step. ‘Lazing about, are you, Lottie?’ she said with a sniff. ‘Olivia Knezevic has availability tomorrow to take the poster photos. Can you spare some time tomorrow?’ Her expression challenged me to just try to pretend I had no spare time after being sprung relaxing.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  She examined my face. ‘I can’t find anyone to do your hair and makeup at such short notice. Can you do it yourself?’

  ‘I can do my own hair, but I’ve got a kind of a self-imposed rule about not wearing makeup at the moment.’ Pris probably assumed it was to nurture my skin, or whatever. She pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘If you need the model to wear makeup, you might want to find another one,’ I added, somewhat hopefully.

  She gave a sharp, emphatic sigh. ‘There isn’t anyone else. We’ll see what Olivia says about the makeup. I believe photographers have tricks for that. Vaseline on the lens, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah, or Photoshop, stuff like that.’ I scratched Blue’s ears and she panted with delight. ‘Are we doing it here, in the orchard?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Very romantic, with the trees in the background.’ Pris’s poor opinion of romance was plain on her face. ‘Angus can help us find a suitable spot. Olivia wants it just before sunset, she said, when the light is good.’

  The Jack the Lad shoot on the beach at sunset flew into my mind, uninvited and deeply unwelcome.

  ‘Do you have a dress?’ Pris was asking.

  ‘Hang on, I thought it was just going to be the back of my neck?’

  ‘Yes, but we need you in something off-the-shoulder – or with a fine strap.’

  This was sounding less and less appealing. ‘Uh …’

  ‘I’ll pick up something for you to wear from St Edna’s.’ Angus’s ute trundled by, coming home for the night. She glanced at it, then brought her gaze back to the caravan, her expression filling with distaste. ‘I don’t know how Angus can let you live in this thing.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with him. Mrs Brooker said I could stay.’

  Pris gave me a sharp look. ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t know any better, would she?’

  Mrs Brooker appeared at the screen door. ‘Come in, you two,’ she called.

  ‘Come along,’ Pris said to me.

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll sort out my own dinner.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Caroline’s cooking for you, you know.’

  Why did Mrs Brooker have to be so effortlessly hospitable? I wasn’t supposed to be their houseguest. More an indentured orphan, working for her board. That was almost certainly how Angus saw it – he seemed to resent my presence with every angry cell in his body.

  ‘That’s really sweet of her,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘Hello, love,’ Mrs Brooker said to me when Pris and I appeared in the kitchen. ‘Angus won’t be long. He’s just cleaning up.’

  It was as if she thought he was my particular friend, just because we were in the same playgroup twenty-five years ago. I went to the cutlery drawer and gathered knives and forks.

  ‘Angus works long days,’ I commented.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Brooker, draining peas. ‘He’s getting so tired, so young.’

  ‘Farming wasn’t meant to be easy,’ Pris opined. ‘And he foolishly added beekeeping to his load.’

  ‘Is that a hobby for him, or another form of production?’ I asked.

  Mrs Brooker stirred a pan of gravy. ‘Well, he does seem to find his bees relaxing. When we talk about the bees, he has a bit of a light in his eyes, but when we talk about the orchards, he’s always very serious. Ted had the light for his fruit trees, but Angus doesn’t.’

  Pris seated herself at the table. ‘You’re fanciful, Caroline.’

  ‘No, it’s true. When we discuss the bees, Angus almost seems cheerful.’

  ‘Farming’s a hard life all over. “It’s not all beer and skittles, Priscilla Rose,” my dad would say. That’s my full name,’ she explained, looking suddenly self-conscious, as though her full name was a whimsical secret. ‘Farming’s no picnic, especially stone fruit. Being a town girl, you wouldn’t understand, Lottie. Fruit trees are touchy things – so many pests. They’re always circling – like sharks around a pair of legs at the beach. Fruit fly, grubs, beetles, birds, possums, kangaroos. Always something. Even the fungi and bacteria.’ Pris shook her head. ‘One can’t get a moment’s peace for worrying.’

  I felt a stab of pity for Angus but he arrived in the kitchen freshly showered so we changed the subject.

  ‘What do you think I’m doing tomorrow morning, Caroline?’ Pris said. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’m sorting through two boxes of rubbish.’

  ‘You want a wine, Mum?’ Angus asked.

  ‘Oh, we have wine? Yes, why not?’

  ‘Aunty Pris?’

  ‘Just a little.’

  He paused, as if gauging whether I should be included in his hospitality. ‘Lottie?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said.

  ‘So, anyway.’ Pris recovered from the trauma of being interrupted with good grace. ‘I’ll be sorting two boxes of rubbish Hilary Cotton’s managed to get hold of. Apparently—’ Her voice dripped with doubt ‘—Geraldine at the Shire found two boxes of Harvest Ball paraphernalia in storage. She told Hilary she felt obligated to pass them on to the committee now the ball’s on again. Obligated!’ Pris was disgusted. ‘What a nuisance! As if we don’t have enough on our plates. Hilary said she’d do it but I wasn’t about to let that happen. It’s probably all complete rubbish but just in case, I thought I’d better handle it.’

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ I offered. I was on the committee, after all.

  ‘No, I can manage. It’s just a nuisance.’

  ‘You should
let Penny help,’ Mrs Brooker told her. ‘She uses the condor method. Wonderful.’

  ‘She’s Lottie, Caroline. The what method?’

  ‘The Kondo method,’ I said. ‘Spark joy, you know?’

  Pris stared blankly. Somehow an entire cultural movement had bypassed Bonnievale.

  Mrs Brooker explained. ‘You need to hold each thing in your hand and ask yourself, does this give me joy? If it does, you keep it; if not, you thank it for its service and get rid of it.’

  Spoken like a true pro, but Pris’s face was the picture of scorn. ‘Joy? What’s joy got to do with anything? This is probably a load of useless papers and claptrap some bureaucrat threw together twelve years ago without the least bit of care or attention. It’s a nuisance, that’s what. There won’t be any joy in it.’

  ‘Lottie will help you find the joy. She’s very good at it. Will you help her, Lottie?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, grinning at Pris.

  To my surprise, she relented. ‘Fine, then. You can help me, first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘At your place?’ I asked.

  ‘No, at St Edna’s Church. The father lets me keep all the equipment for our community efforts in one of the storerooms. Hilary was going to drop it off at my place but I told her I didn’t want it there, for heaven’s sake.’

  Mrs Brooker and Angus brought food to the table. We served our meals and Pris continued to complain.

  ‘The visitors’ centre has become involved, too.’ Her manner was grim, even though this would surely be a boost for the ball. ‘Jane there, she wants to make it a proper Harvest Festival. She told me there are a few other events happening locally in January – an outdoor movie night and an art show. They want to put on a bus tour to take people past the orchards and to the fruit wine place, and Sweet Figgy Lane to taste jams, and perhaps a stop at the teddy bear museum – and then hold the ball as the grand finale. She’s getting street banners made up and she wants me to crochet a shawl for the Olde Peach Tree.’

  Mrs Brooker was startled. ‘A shawl?’

  ‘Yarn bombing,’ I murmured.

  ‘Yarn bombing, yes,’ said Pris. ‘I’m to yarn bomb the Olde Peach Tree. Wendy tried to take charge of that, but I reminded her it was Henry Brooker who planted the first peach tree in the region.’

  ‘Hang on, did I miss a committee meeting?’ I asked.

  Pris tasted her wine. ‘No. Jane rang me after she heard about the ball – from your father, in fact. That’s a decent drop of wine, Angus. Where’s that from? You don’t normally have wine here.’

  ‘It’s just from the bottle-o.’ Angus focused on his dinner but his left ear, hair tucked behind it, went red.

  ‘Yes, it is nice, love,’ Mrs Brooker added, having tried hers.

  I had some. It was.

  ‘So I must remember to go and measure the tree in the next few days,’ Pris continued. ‘All the girls are going to crochet a couple of squares. Or knit,’ she added with a slight edge of exasperation. ‘Karen only knows how to knit and I said that would be fine, of course, although it would look so much better if all the squares were crocheted. I did stipulate colours, however. Green or pink, to represent the peach-blossom.’

  ‘I’ll crochet a few squares, if you like,’ Mrs Brooker offered.

  Pris nodded. ‘I know it will be done well if you do it, Caroline. You’re still known as the best crocheter in the district.’ Her attention shifted subtly to me.

  ‘I don’t know how to crochet,’ I said.

  ‘All my Sunday School Girls learned to crochet and knit,’ Pris said, her voice disapproving. ‘Your mother ought to have joined you up.’

  ‘She wouldn’t let me.’

  They all looked surprised. Even Angus glanced up.

  ‘Why not?’ Pris asked.

  I chewed my lip. No lying. ‘She said the Sunday School Girls club was, um, outdated.’

  Angus hid his smile but Pris was deeply offended. ‘Outdated? The SSG has been in Bonnievale since Caroline and I were girls. There’s nothing outdated about teaching young girls practical home skills and good manners.’

  Angus snorted. ‘That’s pretty much the definition of “outdated” right there, Aunty Pris. Maybe that’s why it shut down. Even Bonnievale couldn’t justify training up women as domestic servants any more.’

  ‘You don’t know a thing about it,’ she said crossly. ‘It was simply that there was already so much for the girls in town to do, what with Guides and Scouts, hockey and netball – even girls’ football.’

  ‘I wasn’t fond of SSG.’ Mrs Brooker gave a regretful sigh. ‘It was such a dull way to spend my Sunday mornings after church, especially when my brothers were allowed to go down to the dam and catch yabbies for supper.’ Pris bristled, but Mrs Brooker seemed oblivious. ‘I thought it was nice that you kept the tradition going, Pris, but I was surprised you still had girls willing to attend as long as you did.’

  Pris’s face had grown even crosser so I tried to defuse things. ‘Um, was there any honey in your hives today, Angus?’

  ‘There’s always honey in the hives.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I guess it’s not like chooks laying eggs. How do you know when it’s ready to, um … drain out?

  ‘Extract.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s a bit involved.’

  ‘I’m sure I can follow.’

  ‘No, I mean it might be boring.’

  Because I’m empty-headed celebrity wannabe? ‘I’m interested to find out,’ I said.

  Angus had little choice but to explain how the bees built on the frames within the hives, cared for their larvae and made honey to feed them, capping each cell with wax. Mrs Brooker was right: he did have a light in his rather beautiful eyes while he talked about it.

  ‘That is complicated,’ I said when he finished. ‘If you ever need an assistant, I’d love to see it all up close.’ He nodded and sipped his beer. ‘I’m not sure bees are easier than orchards, after all,’ I said to Pris.

  ‘Bees are way easier,’ Angus said.

  I shrugged. ‘Fair enough. As long as you don’t get stung, anyway.’

  Mrs Brooker smiled. ‘Yes – especially Angus. He’s allergic.’ She poured more gravy onto her dinner from a china jug. ‘Swells up something dreadful if he gets stung. Remember, Pris, how Angus swelled up when he got stung that day at Grand Falls?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ Pris was wry. ‘Turned blue and barely survived the drive to hospital. And Edward, he was halfway through cooking the sausages and said he was blowed if he was leaving them on the barbecue. He thought it was all just a carry-on, Angus not being able to breathe.’

  ‘Poor Ted, he was full of remorse when the doctors told us Angus had a severe allergy.’ Mrs Brooker smiled indulgently. ‘But he did always insist that all Angus needed was a few more stings and he’d grow out of it.’

  ‘So much for that.’ Pris sipped her wine.

  My mouth had fallen open. I stared at Angus.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Lottie,’ Pris said. ‘Why would he choose to keep bees if he’s allergic? The million-dollar question!’

  I found my voice. ‘Why don’t you wear protective gear?’

  ‘I do.’ Angus glanced at his mother.

  ‘I mean, over your face! On your hands!’

  ‘I do,’ he repeated.

  ‘It would be madness if he didn’t,’ Pris told me. ‘Angus could die if he got stung.’

  ‘Madness,’ his mother agreed.

  ‘I saw you,’ I said.

  Angus shot me a frown. ‘Saw him?’ Mrs Brooker tipped her head.

  ‘I – I saw him tending the bees this morning.’ No lying. Is this lying? This isn’t my truth to spill. Angus’s eyes were locked on my face. Was he challenging me or begging me not to tell? ‘Early.’ They all waited. ‘I haven’t seen you go to the hives before,’ I finished lamely.

  Angus kept his gaze even. ‘You only need to look at them every couple of weeks, just to check there’re no problems and see if it�
�s time to extract.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Panic was building inside my gut. I grabbed my wine and took a big gulp. Pris was sharp-eyed but maybe she was getting used to me being a bit nervy and weird because she let it slide.

  Angus played his part, refilling our glasses – Pris said she’d had enough – and helping me clear the plates. Mrs Brooker served us an incredible sticky date pudding with cream that I could hardly eat because I didn’t know what to do with this new information about Angus. Pris accused Mrs Brooker of deliberately making her favourite pudding and Mrs Brooker agreed complacently that sticky date pudding was dreadful for the waistline. I washed and Angus dried while tea was brewed.

  When the jobs were done, he almost outsmarted me. He put his tea towel down, gave a choreographed weary stretch and claimed he was going to bed. But Mrs Brooker stymied his plan.

  ‘Just pop out and give the dogs their dinner before you go to bed, will you, love?’

  Angus shot me a glance. ‘Yeah, no worries.’ He took the dog food and vanished.

  I jumped up. ‘Thank you so much for dinner, Mrs B. I’m a bit tired, too. I’m off to bed.’

  ‘Good night, love.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the church hall, Lottie,’ Pris added. ‘Eight sharp.’

  ‘See you then. Good night.’

  Outside, I sprinted across the backyard to where Angus was forking food from a big tin into the dogs’ dishes, Blue and Bundy watching him avidly. In my haste, I almost fell over Blue and she skittered to one side, laughter all over her doggy face at this new game.

  Angus looked astonished. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘You’re severely allergic to bees but you don’t wear protective gear!’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Bullshit, nothing! What are you doing, Angus? I saw you take off the hat-veil thing and leave it on the woodpile. And your gloves, too!’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  I glowered. ‘I’ll tell your mum.’

  Angus paused, then resumed forking out the food. He gave the dogs their bowls. ‘I do wear protective gear. I just—’

  ‘Not on your face.’

  ‘That’s enough, Lottie. It’s perfectly safe.’