by Sasha Wasley
Each time a raffle draw took place, Angus called up someone from the Harvest Ball organising committee to draw a number. It got to the point where I was the only one left and he needed someone to draw the final prize. I was confident he would leave me alone; he knew I was lying low. But Hilary stage-whispered at Angus, nodding at me so obviously that he had no choice, so he put on a smile and made the best of it. ‘Can I invite Lottie Bentz up to draw the final lucky number.’
Heads whipped around to get a good look at the fallen Peach Queen. Angus made a gentle joke about the amazing diversity of the prizes so far and chuckles rippled through the room. It gave me time to get to the stage. I arrived beside Angus and gave him a quick smile. He was a comrade in the situation, perhaps my only one. He offered the bowl of tickets and I selected one, handing it back.
‘Purple, thirty-three,’ he called.
A pause, then a cheer from table two. A woman I recognised from the co-op checkout trotted up to take her prize.
‘Let’s give Joan a clap,’ Angus said, and I was able to slink back to my table under cover of Joan’s victory.
We came a respectable second. Liv grumbled that they must have stuffed up the count because, by her calculations, our table had won. Hilary Cotton delivered our laundry basket of second-place booty and everyone dove in to divide up the spoils. Mum took a gardening kneepad, Elizabeth got an aeroplane neck pillow, and Dad chose a barbecue tool pack. Hayley claimed a set of inspirational wall stickers. Liv took a bottle of sweet wine – flashbacks to our senior year at high school; Liv could drink anything. Her mother got a wooden cheese board with a matching knife and Karen took some liqueur chocolates. Paul, Mr Nice Guy, claimed to be happy with the dud prize: a CD of Christmas hymns.
Liv noticed I hadn’t chosen anything. ‘Hang on, we need to rejig,’ she said, lifting her voice above the end-of-night chatter. ‘Lottie didn’t get a prize. Do you want my wine, Lottie?’
‘No, honestly, I don’t need anything,’ I said. ‘Although I could take the laundry basket for Mrs Brooker, if no one else wants it.’
Liv burst into laughter. ‘Wow. You’ve changed.’
It wasn’t said entirely kindly and my sister shot her an annoyed look. I took the basket. Hayley and Liv murmured together for a minute, then Liv came over to me and Elizabeth.
‘Haylz and I are getting together for a drink on Thursday,’ she said under the buzz of farewells. ‘Do you guys wanna join?’
‘Yes, for sure!’ I said, although I could see Elizabeth lacked enthusiasm.
‘Mum reckons you’ve got no phone,’ said Liv. ‘Is that true?’ I nodded and she eyed me with eyebrows raised. ‘Okay. Well, I’ll write down the details for you.’ She used a discarded raffle ticket to scribble an address.
‘What time Thursday?’ I asked Hayley.
‘Six-ish?’
‘Cool. See you then.’
Liv signalled to Paul that she was ready to go, and Dad and Elizabeth both gave me a hug goodbye. Mum was already heading for the door.
Mrs Brooker was still up when Angus and I got home. She came outside to meet us on the verandah. ‘Did you have fun?’
The urge to lie had never hit so hard.
‘Yeah, it was a good night,’ Angus said.
‘Did you have fun, love?’ she asked me.
Ugh. ‘Not fun, as such.’
Mrs Brooker’s face clouded.
‘But it was a very successful quiz night,’ I hastened to reassure her. ‘Angus was amazing as the quizmaster. And my old schoolfriends asked me over, and my table came second, and look, I got you this.’ I brandished the laundry basket. ‘I noticed yours is cracked.’
She took it, smiling again. ‘Well, this is a very sturdy basket, that’s for sure. Thank you, love.’
‘I’m off to bed.’ I made for the side gate.
‘It’s cool tonight,’ she said. ‘You’ll need another blanket.’
‘No, I’ll be fine. I’ve got that fantastic wool blanket you gave me.’
She paused. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. I found it on my shelf the other day. I could have kissed you when I saw it. It’s so incredibly warm.’
She was frowning. ‘Are you sure I did that?’
‘Well, it wasn’t there, and then it was.’
She sighed. ‘Oh, my memory …’
Angus cleared his throat. ‘I put it there.’
I stared. His mother stared, too.
‘I knew there weren’t any proper blankets in the van and the temp was dropping that night. Cuppa, Mum?’ He moved towards the door.
Mrs Brooker wore an expression of delight. ‘That was very kind of you, Angus,’ she said, following him inside.
I went through the side gate to the backyard. Had Angus really brought me that blanket? Had he thought ahead, realised it would be a cold night, and been worried enough to go into my caravan and leave me a blanket?
I paused to pat the dogs, then stepped up into the caravan. Chooky startled when I switched on the lamp, giving a short bok of annoyance. I looked at the heavy wool blanket folded on the end of my bunk.
Whether he’d put it there or was just soothing his mother’s distress by claiming to have done so, Mountain Man had been deeply kind.
My world suddenly spun into chaos, pain stabbing at my cheek and temple. Jai, kicking out, his shoe connecting with my chin—
I lay in the darkness, spears of light and colour flashing across my vision. One side of my face burned and the rest of me was icy cold. I whimpered. Had I been bashed? Thrown into the back of a kidnapper’s van? Where the hell am I? I reached out with my hand – ow, my arm hurt – trying to locate some kind of reference. My fingers found a gritty floor.
A door banged nearby. The caravan door.
‘Lottie?’ came a voice.
I moaned and light flooded the caravan, making me squawk in protest.
‘Jesus! What happened?’ Angus’s face appeared above me, his wild hair blocking the light.
I tried to sit up but new parts of me were grumbling with pain now – my back, my shoulder, my hip. ‘I must have fallen out of bed.’
Angus pulled me gently into a sitting position. I leaned back against the bedside cupboard. My vision was fuzzy, but that could have been the sudden lamplight after being asleep. Angus looked up at the bunk.
‘Oh, shit. It’s collapsed. The struts that hold it up gave way. I heard the crash from the house.’ He looked back at my face. ‘Jesus Christ. You must have hit the edge of the cupboard on the way down. Can you stand? Come on, let’s get you into the house.’
He tugged me to my feet and put an arm around me, supporting me as we crossed the lawn to the house. Blue danced curiously at our feet all the way there. Angus switched on the kitchen light and led me to a chair.
‘Did you get knocked out?’ he asked, crossing to the freezer.
‘I don’t think so.’
He emptied ice cubes into a tea towel and pulled his own chair around. Placing his fingers under my chin, he lifted my face to see my injuries better.
‘You’ve done a bit of damage. Not much blood, but it’s swelling like a bastard already.’ He brought the icepack close but hesitated, perhaps worried he would hurt me.
I took it and pressed it against the side of my face, its chill a relief on the hot pain in my cheekbone and forehead.
He looked me over for other injuries. ‘I think we’d better get you to the hospital, just in case.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘I shouldn’t have let you stay out there.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll fix it. It’s just, the lower bunk was stuck, so I had to use the top one.’
He choked a laugh. ‘No, I meant I shouldn’t have left you out there in that piece of shit caravan. We’ll move your stuff inside. You can stay in the spare room now it’s a bit cleaner.’
‘No, seriously, Angus, the caravan’s fine. I’ll put the mattress on the floor tonight. Tomorrow I’ll make some calls and see if I can get the bunk
fixed. I’ll pay for it as soon as possible.’
‘Stop. You can’t stay out there any more. I should never have let you move into that caravan, with the leaks and mould, no lights or water, and the rats.’
‘I don’t mind no light or water—did you say rats?’
Angus shrugged, smiling faintly. ‘Probably.’
I chewed my lip.
‘I’ll make up the bed for you,’ he said firmly. ‘Wait here.’
I sat holding the icepack to my cheek, my heart slowly settling, and reviewed my other injuries. My elbow had an angry red welt and when I tugged my tracksuit pants down, I discovered I’d skinned my hip. Angus reappeared at this inopportune moment and didn’t seem to know what to do next. He got me a glass of water.
‘Maybe we should go to the hospital, Lottie. You’ve really banged yourself up, and your head—’
‘No, I’m okay,’ I said. ‘I appreciate the bed for the night. Thanks for your help.’
‘The bed’s not for the night. You stay in the house from now on. I can’t have you sleeping in that clapped-out piece of crap any more.’
‘Thanks.’ My voice sounded small. I stood cautiously, but I was steadier now. I moved towards the back door. ‘I’ll just get …’
‘What do you need? Your bag?’ Angus was next to me in an instant, pushing through the back door in my stead. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Uh, I was going to get Chooky.’
‘What?’
‘The chicken.’ It came as an embarrassed whisper. ‘She’s in a box in the caravan. She’s still – convalescing.’ Angus looked so astonished that I changed my mind. ‘You’re right. She can stay where she is for the night. She’ll be fine.’
I went to the bathroom and checked out my war wounds. Whoa. I looked like I’d been in one hell of a scrag fight. My right eye was closing up, a bump had formed on my temple and there was a slit high on my cheek, oozing blood. With these new injuries and my scarred chin, I looked bad-arse – like a chick in a women’s prison.
When I made my way to the spare room, the bed looked so inviting I wanted to give a cry of joy. Angus had made it roughly, sheets hanging untucked from the corners, but there were clean pillows and a big, puffy duck-down quilt on top. He’d shoved the junk to the corners and made a rough pile of the papers that had been on the bed. He’d even fetched my backpack and washbag and, best of all, Chooky’s beady eye was watching me through a gap in her wooden box from the corner of the room. She gave a very soft dook. Angus was gone – probably back in bed.
I left the door open so Mrs Brooker would see me first thing in the morning. In the darkness, I manoeuvred myself into bed, resting my face on the icepack. My injuries throbbed. It must have been an hour before I started to drift off again, the hall clock ticking loudly.
The wardrobe mirror trembled, making a noise like the distant celebratory clinking of glasses, and a movement right beside me made me snap my eyelids open. It was Angus, leaning down over me. He jerked back, as startled as me.
‘What are you doing?’ I whispered.
‘I’ve been lying there worrying that you had concussion. I had to make sure you weren’t unconscious.’
‘Conscious,’ I said. ‘I promise.’
He hovered. ‘Are you warm enough?’
‘Yes. This bed is five-point-seven million times better than the bunk.’
‘More stable, too.’
Still, he hovered. I waited.
‘Only Pris knows,’ he said at last.
‘Knows?’
‘About Mum.’
I hitched myself upright, my injuries protesting. ‘What about her?’
‘You haven’t already worked it out?’ Angus sank down onto the edge of my bed, staring at the floor. ‘She’s losing it,’ he said softly. ‘Dementia, Alzheimer’s or whatever. Her grandmother had it too.’
‘Oh, shit.’ It all clicked into place. I looked at Angus’s face turned down towards the carpet and suddenly my heart hurt more than my head. ‘She’s been diagnosed?’
‘No. She won’t even talk about it, but I’ve done my research and I know.’
‘But no one else knows?’
‘Only Aunty Pris. She wants Mum to move in with her so she’ll be close to medical facilities and will have someone around to care for her all the time. That, or go into a home.’
‘How long has she had it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. It’s been coming on for a year or two.’
‘She doesn’t seem too bad to me. A bit forgetful and confused occasionally, but not so she’d need full-time care, I wouldn’t think.’
‘You haven’t seen how bad it can be. Mood swings. She’s irrational, sometimes – paranoid.’ I struggled to imagine it. ‘And she’s deteriorating. At first it was just forgetfulness. Now she’s doing weird stuff: forgetting we’ve had dinner; putting the keys in the oven. I caught her trying to go out the front gate one night. I’m scared she’s going to hurt herself.’
‘I’m here. I can keep an eye on her.’
He shot me a tight smile. ‘Cheers. But you won’t be here forever.’
This was true. ‘Would it really be so bad for her, living with Pris?’
Angus raised his eyebrows.
I sighed. ‘Yeah, okay, it would be pretty bad.’
‘I try to get back to the house a couple of times a day but it’s a crazy time of year in the orchards and it’s not enough. Or it won’t be, soon. She’s changed a lot just in the past few months. Gone downhill, fast.’
‘I’m sorry, Angus.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Thanks.’
‘What do you want for her?’
‘What makes her happy. She’s happy here.’
‘Yeah.’
He sat for a while longer and his weight on my bed was a comfort. I didn’t want him to go.
He stood. ‘Call me if you need anything. If you feel weird or sick or whatever. Promise?’
‘I promise.’
Mrs Brooker was pleased to discover I was now living in the house.
‘We’d better finish sorting out the last bits and pieces in the spare room, since you’re sleeping in there,’ she said over breakfast – the best apricot jam ever, spread on toast. ‘You don’t want all that clutter on the floor.’
‘There’s not too much left to do,’ I said. ‘Just some boxes of books, the stack of papers and a bit of hard junk.’
Mrs Brooker wiped the bench, but her cloth was already covered in crumbs and all it achieved was spreading more. Angus’s revelation kept swarming in, and I found myself watching for signs of her condition, analysing her words and looking for lapses in her concentration. In a way, I was hoping Angus was wrong – seeking opportunities to prove she was okay.
But now I knew about the dementia, I saw it in everything she did. The way she opened the pantry door and stared at the shelves, then closed it again. The way she looked at me, her blue eyes wandering over my face as if she didn’t completely know who I was. The way she moved the butter dish to the table, to the fridge, then the bench, and back to the table.
Somehow, I’d been so caught up in feeling like everyone was watching me that I’d failed to notice anyone else. All the energy I’d expended over the past three weeks, trying to clean my slate, to lose the falseness, vanity and superficiality in my life – and look at me. I was still self-obsessed.
She sat down beside me to drink her tea and her eyes settled on my split face. ‘Goodness, love. What happened to you?’
I had already told her the story. ‘I fell off the bunk in the caravan.’
‘Oh, dear! That one on your chin, it might leave a scar.’
‘Definitely,’ I said, unable to help a laugh.
Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘I’m glad you don’t mind. So many girls only care about what they look like.’
After breakfast, I helped her with a floor sweep and bringing in some washing. Without any prompting, Mrs Brooker said we should sort through the books in the spare room.
She called it ‘your room’ as if I’d lived there for years. I went in to make a start, unpacking the boxes of books until they were in several short stacks on the floor, spines visible. I called for Mrs Brooker and she joined me, grunting as she got down on the floor. She looked at me, taking in my facial injuries.
‘You must report it if he hits you again,’ she told me firmly.
‘No, I fell off the top bunk in the caravan,’ I said.
‘Oh, that’s right.’
I picked up the first book. It was a musty-smelling hardcover edition of The Water Babies with a torn dust jacket. I passed it to Mrs Brooker.
‘My grandma had a copy of this, too,’ I said. ‘I loved looking at the cover but I found the language confusing if I tried to read it myself. It was so old-fashioned. It was better when Grandma read it to me – then it made sense.’ Mrs Brooker ran a hand across the cover. ‘Did you used to read it to Angus?’
‘Yes, I read it to him. He liked this one. This, and The Magic Pudding. He loved the pictures in The Magic Pudding.’
‘Me, too,’ I said. ‘Albert the pudding. I could stare at him for hours. Do you want to keep this book?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There isn’t much point in keeping any of these. They’re just a load of old books nobody reads any more.’
‘So you want to donate them all?’ I asked. ‘Without doing the spark joy check?’
‘Yes, let’s donate them all,’ she said. ‘Just between you and me, I’d saved these children’s books for my grandchildren. They don’t spark joy any more because I am not at all confident Angus will have any children.’
This was unbearably sad. I stacked the books back into boxes without speaking.
‘Oh, look.’ She arrested my hand. ‘Anne of Green Gables. I received that as a prize in school.’ She opened the cover and there was a book plate inside. It said, Caroline Edith Piggett – For Excellent Grammar in incredibly neat handwriting.
