by Sasha Wasley
I groaned. ‘Thanks for the heads up.’
He stood and tipped the remainder of his tea into the oleander next to the verandah. ‘Okay, I’m getting back to work. Catch you later.’
Every time Angus went outside in his beekeeping gear, I followed and watched his routine from a spot under the grapevine. He would poke around in his smoker, testing it with a few puffs as he walked through the pasture where the beehives were kept. As soon as he was out of sight of the back door, he pulled off the veil-hat and dropped it on the log pile. Sometimes he would get rid of the gloves there, too. Other days, he kept the gloves on until he was messing around in the hives, then he’d generally cast them off impatiently as he checked each frame. When he finished, he would come back to the house in his gloves and hat as though he’d been wearing them all along. Occasionally he found me in the backyard on his return and we both pretended I hadn’t been watching.
I lay awake in bed at night thinking about why he did it.
Toby and Jo arrived with their baby in the late afternoon on New Year’s Eve. Jo helped Mrs Brooker make a salad. Toby wanted to watch the end of the cricket and sat with his baby on his knee in the lounge room.
‘Get us a coldie, Ango,’ he called. ‘Mine are in the little red Esky.’
‘On it,’ Angus called back. ‘Bubbly?’ he said to us.
‘Ooh, there’s bubbly? Yes, please,’ Jo said.
‘Me too, love,’ said Mrs Brooker.
‘What can I help with?’ I asked.
‘I think Jo and I have it all under control,’ she said. ‘You can go and help Toby with the baby.’
I went to sit with Toby and Angus, sipping my sparkling wine. The baby seemed fine where she was. The cricket ended and Toby bounced her on his knee.
‘You guys want some honey?’ Angus asked Toby.
‘Yeah, we’ll take some. You still not selling it?’ Toby studied Angus’s face. ‘Why not?’
‘Just haven’t got around to it,’ Angus answered. He caught my eye and there was something a little apologetic there. I thought it was a lie.
‘Got any plums yet?’ asked Toby.
‘Not yet. Bloody close. I’m waiting on some new netting. I’ll be screwed if it doesn’t get here in the next day or two; the parrots are flying past to check every few hours.’
Mrs Brooker and Jo joined us, drinks in hand.
‘Mrs B was telling me you’re a declutter master, Lott,’ Jo said.
‘Not a true master,’ I said. ‘Only an Insta-master.’
She laughed but Mrs Brooker argued. ‘No, you’re very good, really. Jo was telling me she has a clutter problem in the baby’s room, Lottie. She needs your help.’
‘I’d be happy to help but I’m truly not an expert.’
‘You are,’ Mrs Brooker insisted. ‘It was like magic, how you fixed the spare room.’
‘I’m struggling to let go,’ Jo told me. ‘Every time I look at Ammers’s quadruple-ohs, I melt and can’t get rid of anything. I’ve completely run out of space – baby clothes everywhere.’
‘Lottie will come and help you,’ Mrs Brooker said firmly. ‘What day are you free this week, Lottie?’
I glanced at Angus. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘Why don’t you come Friday, five-ish?’ Jo said. ‘Stay for a feed after?’
Angus shot me a small smile, obviously relieved she’d suggested an evening. He could stay with his mother.
‘Okay, sounds good,’ I said.
Jo beamed at me. ‘Thanks. I need help – I need a bloody intervention!’
‘Did you hear about old Giuliani, mate?’ Toby asked Angus.
‘Johnny?’
‘Nah, his dad. Franco. Popped off yesterday. Ninety-six, he was.’
‘Ninety-six.’ Angus raised his eyebrows. ‘Pretty good innings.’
‘I don’t think he had much of a life for the past ten years though,’ Jo remarked. ‘Dialysis every couple of days, I heard, and stroke after stroke. He couldn’t talk any more, couldn’t walk, either.’
‘I knew Frank,’ Mrs Brooker said. ‘Quite well, actually. He was friends with Ted’s father.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jo said. ‘We didn’t realise.’ She nudged Toby.
‘Yeah, sorry, Mrs B,’ he put in.
‘That’s all right.’ She mused. ‘I wonder what Frank would have thought about living like an invalid for ten years. He was a very robust man in his younger days. Loved sports and was at all the town dances. I don’t think he would have much enjoyed being a cripple. Was he all there?’ she asked Jo.
Jo looked uneasy. ‘Ah, I believe not. I think he was, like, in a vegie state, most of the time.’
Mrs Brooker shook her head. ‘How sad. I do hope that never happens to me.’ We all froze, and no one met anyone else’s eyes. ‘I would not wish to get sick like that and then hang on for years. A quick death is far preferable to a slow and painful life.’ She gazed into her glass. ‘I don’t fear death. I would be very happy to see Ted again, I think.’
Angus’s face, now I sneaked a glance at it, was tight with pain. Amelie squawked and Jo seized the opportunity. ‘Yes, young lady, you need a nappy change.’
‘Come and use my bed, love,’ Mrs Brooker said, rising.
They left us sitting in silence. Toby stretched out a thong-clad foot and bumped Angus’s knee.
‘Come on, mate. It’s New Year’s. Let’s get smashed and forget our troubles.’
Angus nodded. ‘I’ll get us another.’
The mood was merrier by the time Pris arrived. We’d taken the party outside so Angus could use the barbecue, Toby standing nearby to rag him about his cooking skills. Mrs Brooker had settled into a chair with Amelie on her lap and Jo and I were perched on a step. Blue was laughing at everyone’s jokes with her lolling tongue and Bundy was sniffing around Angus’s feet, expecting a bit of sausage to fall to the ground at any moment.
‘Here you all are,’ Pris said, pushing through the screen door. ‘I knocked and called but not a soul came to let me in.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Brooker. ‘There’s more noise than usual. But you know you can always let yourself in, Pris.’
Pris sniffed faintly. Clearly, letting oneself in ought to be optional, not compulsory, when visiting one’s sister-in-law.
‘Hello, Toby, Joanne.’ Pris eyed Amelie. ‘It’s late for the baby to be up, isn’t it?’
Toby looked a little cowed by Angus’s aunt, but Jo was not intimidated. ‘Hi, Pris. What is it now – six-thirty? Nah, Ammers is used to it. She’s normally up till about nine.’
‘Nine!’ Pris’s eyebrows shot up. ‘How things have changed. When I was a little girl, Edward and I were given our tea at four-thirty and in bed an hour later.’
‘Ammers’d be getting up at three in the morning if I did that,’ Jo said with a laugh. ‘You want a champers, Pris? The rest of us girls are having some.’
‘Just a little one,’ Pris said, but Jo had already poured her a generous serve.
‘Bottoms up,’ said Jo, raising her glass. ‘To the end of another year and the start of a new one.’ Everyone clinked and echoed her toast. ‘How’s the ball planning coming along?’ she asked Pris.
Pris looked at me as though daring me to complain about the posters. I watched her steadily but said nothing.
‘Very nicely, thank you, Joanne,’ Pris said. ‘I confirmed the menu yesterday, and the decorations subcommittee submitted their plan, which I’ve approved.’ There was a decorations subcommittee now? I’d heard nothing about the ball for days. Clearly Pris had taken me at my word when I declared myself no longer involved in the organising duties.
‘Awesome. I can’t wait,’ said Jo.
‘You’re coming, are you?’ Pris said.
‘Do you have someone to sit with the little one?’ Mrs Brooker asked.
‘Yeah, Mum’s coming to stay for the weekend. She was going to visit, so we timed it so Tobes and I can go to the ball. I’ve been hearing about the Bonnievale Har
vest Ball since I was a kid, and Toby’s got fond memories, so we thought we’d make a night of it. He’s still got his wedding suit, haven’t you, Tobes?’
‘What’s this?’
The conversation was recounted for Toby and he agreed that he still had his wedding suit somewhere.
‘Are you coming along, mate?’ he asked Angus.
‘Um, maybe.’ Angus prodded a sausage on the grill.
I realised with a pang that Toby couldn’t look after Mrs Brooker on ball night if they were going.
‘You should come, Ango,’ Jo called. ‘It’ll be a blast.’
‘Angus can’t go.’ Pris was decided. ‘He needs to be home with his mother.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Brooker exclaimed. ‘I’d love to see him go out and have fun.’
There was a pause while we all considered the problem.
‘My mum might like some company looking after Amelie,’ Jo ventured. ‘I wonder, if Angus wanted to head out to the ball, would you like to hang out at our place, Mrs B? Might be more fun than being alone.’
Mrs Brooker tipped her head. ‘I never mind being alone. If your mother wants a hand, I’ll certainly come and help. But I won’t be lonely here, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
I was silent, feeling for Angus. The guy could never catch a break. I felt a little sorry for me, too.
Jo was still frowning, looking over at Angus. ‘I reckon we can work something out.’
‘We’ve sold over a hundred and thirty tickets,’ Pris said. ‘And many of the local businesses are getting involved. We’ve had a very generous donation from Princi’s Tractors to sponsor the Peach Queen cash prize.’
‘The Princi’s Tractors Peach Queen,’ I said with a smile.
‘What about the Peach King?’ Toby called, shooting Angus a teasing grin. ‘Got a cash prize for that? Maybe I’ll chuck my hat in the ring.’
‘We’re not having a Peach King this time.’ Pris was humourless as usual. ‘However, we’ve got a good list of nominees for Peach Queen.’
‘And how are you going to decide who wins?’ Jo asked with interest.
‘We have a panel of judges to choose,’ Pris told her. ‘Myself, Charis Beam and Colin Dalgety.’
I looked at her quickly. ‘What are the judging criteria?’ ‘Appearance, deportment, ability to represent the town – that sort of thing.’
‘I’m not sure those criteria—’ I stopped and tried to control the rising anxiety in my voice. ‘I mean, anyone could fake their attitude. Can the criteria have a bit more substance, maybe? I wouldn’t feel right about presenting the crown to someone who’s just in it for the title.’
‘You’re not selecting the winner, Lottie,’ Pris reminded me.
I picked at a nail. ‘Maybe I could be a judge, too?’ I blurted. ‘I’m here to pass on the crown, after all. And being the most recent Peach Queen, I’d know better than anyone what the role demands of a girl. I’d like to be a judge.’
All faces turned to Pris. Angus’s eyes were bright with interest and Jo grinned openly.
Pris didn’t even waver. ‘The judges are all decided. You needn’t bother yourself about it.’
Angus turned back to the barbecue and Mrs Brooker tutted at a fly bothering the baby. Jo smiled at me – a smile of solidarity – and I gave her a brief eyeroll to show her it was fine.
‘There’s still so much to do.’ Pris sounded grim. ‘More than anyone else realises. And the visitors’ centre is insisting on their schedule of events, so we have extra jobs on top, as well. The yarnbombing, for instance. I haven’t even measured the Olde Peach Tree, yet – and the ladies are bombarding me with crocheted squares. I have no idea if I have too many or not enough.’ She sighed. ‘I never get out that way these days, what with all the running around in town – and my back’s been giving me trouble again.’
‘Didn’t you say you were going to Batich’s this week, Angus?’ his mother asked. ‘The Olde Peach Tree is on the way. Perhaps you can measure it for Pris.’
‘I s’pose.’ Angus lacked enthusiasm.
Relief warred with doubt in Pris’s face. ‘Mind you measure it properly,’ she said.
‘I still have to crochet some squares for you, too.’ Mrs Brooker frowned. ‘I’m sure I have some eight-ply wool … Where now?’
‘Probably that bag in the linen cupboard, Mum,’ Angus said. ‘With your sewing stuff.’
‘Oh, yes. I’ll get to work, Pris – and just let me know if there’s anything else I can do.’
‘Don’t you worry yourself about the ball,’ Pris said, a soothing edge coming into her voice. ‘You ought to be spending your days quietly with plenty of rest.’
‘I don’t need rest,’ Mrs Brooker said.
Her frown had returned – the frown that told me she was feeling bad, probably thinking about that turkey incident again. I was annoyed with Pris for reminding her.
‘We should give Ammers her food now, Toby,’ Jo said. ‘So we can eat in peace.’
‘Yeah, I’ll get it,’ he said. ‘Just let me finish my beer.’
Mrs Brooker looked down at the baby, that faint expression of sadness still on her face and Pris turned her negativity suddenly on Angus.
‘Look at your poor mother, having to nurse your friend’s baby because you refuse get married again, Angus Brooker.’
Angus didn’t turn around but his shoulders tightened.
‘Pris,’ Mrs Brooker murmured.
‘You know I always speak my mind, Caroline.’ Pris was glaring at Angus’s back now. ‘Toby did very well for himself, finding a nice girl and starting a family to carry on the Humboldt name. What’s going to happen to the Brooker name, Angus? It will die out, that’s what.’ Her voice grew even sharper. ‘What do you call that? I call it selfishness.’
‘I call it smart,’ Toby remarked. ‘I should’ve adopted Angus’s policy years ago. Now look at the mess I’m in.’ Jo screeched with laughter before miming slapping him and Angus relaxed.
‘Policy?’ Pris had somehow caught onto the one word no one wanted her to notice. ‘You have a policy not to continue the Brooker name, Angus?’ She muttered ‘selfish’ once again.
Toby realised he’d dropped a bomb and got the hell out of there. ‘I’ll get Amelie’s food,’ he told Jo.
‘A policy.’ Pris was simmering. ‘Is it true, Angus? You’ve got some sort of policy?’
He couldn’t avoid speaking any longer. ‘I’m not interested in getting married, Aunty Pris. Tried it once and look how that turned out.’
‘Well, that’s true enough. Nasty, money-grubbing girl. It drove your father into the grave, the divorce did.’ There was a tense silence and when I looked at Mrs Brooker, she was staring at Amelie with tears in her eyes. ‘Still, you oughtn’t hide from your responsibility because of one bad apple,’ Pris went on. ‘The Brooker name will die with you, Angus, if you don’t do something about it. Over a hundred years of history in this town alone – gone.’
‘Sorry, Aunty.’ Angus was unable to suppress his bitterness. ‘I didn’t realise we had a royal bloodline to keep alive. Do you want me to go out and impregnate some random girl?’
Pris drew a sharp breath.
‘There’s still time for Angus.’ Jo tried to appease the both of them. ‘And he might decide he’s happier on his own, but in the end it’s his choice, yeah?’
‘Might?’ he muttered and the very same moment that Pris mumbled, ‘Selfish.’
Jo caught Amelie’s hand and entertained her with a snatch of nursery rhyme to defuse the argument, but Pris was finished with Angus for now. She turned on me instead.
‘Do you have a dress for the ball yet?’
‘No,’ I said, so pissed at her I could hardly be civil. ‘I don’t have any money to buy one, either. Maybe someone else should do the coronation.’
‘Certainly not,’ she said. ‘It’s on the poster. St Edna’s has several suitable frocks at a good price, and we have a little money in the kitty. I will borrow a
couple for you to try. They’ll accept whatever we don’t use as a return.’
Vanity crept in. ‘Maybe I could choose one myself?’
‘I’m happy to do it,’ she said. ‘And I’m the one paying for it, after all.’
Yay.
Pris stayed for the whole evening, dumping an oil spill of dissatisfaction whenever our spirits got too high. I noticed for the first time how oppressed Mrs Brooker was by Pris’s presence. She grew vexed at herself when she got muddled or forgot something, where normally Angus or I could reassure her and make it seem unimportant. Pris dwelled openly on every one of her sister-in-law’s lapses. Jo and Toby were our saving grace. They were good at ignoring the tense undercurrent and making Angus laugh.
We moved inside after dinner and midnight crawled closer. Mrs Brooker looked tired and Pris had sighed impatiently more than once. Jo had put Amelie to bed in the portable cot assembled in my bedroom. At last we were counting down, glasses refilled for one final toast, and we all cheered for the new year as though it was really something to welcome. Or like last year was worth saying goodbye to. Toby and Jo hugged and kissed, then we moved through one another in an orderly fashion, exchanging cheek kisses and ‘Happy New Year’ wishes. Except when I got to Angus, we both went the wrong way and ended up kissing on the mouth, then instead of slipping apart without eye contact, he caught my eye for an instant.
After that, I had no idea who I was kissing or wishing a happy new year.
Mrs Brooker made more jam on New Year’s Day. I helped her with peeling and chopping the peaches, but part way through Angus’s new tree netting was delivered. I tried to get the delivery guy to take the nets up to the big shed in the orchard, but he said his truck couldn’t handle the track and simply unloaded the large rolls onto the verandah.
‘Mrs B,’ I called. ‘Can you take a break for a few minutes? I just want to take these nets up to Angus. Come for a ride?’
‘You go, love,’ she called back. ‘I’m up to my arms in peaches.’
‘I’ll wait till later then.’ I headed back to the kitchen.
‘No, you go, love.’ She stirred the huge pot slowly. I checked and the gas burner was on.
