by Sasha Wasley
‘It’s okay, I’d rather help you.’
She frowned. ‘Don’t you think I can manage by myself?’ I floundered for words. ‘I know what Angus has in his head.’ All of a sudden, her blue eyes were shrewd. ‘I won’t let it happen.’
What the hell? As quickly as her face had drawn tight in suspicion, it was mild and gentle again, her eyes on her jam. ‘Angus needs that netting as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘I think it would be very helpful of you to drive it up to him.’
Had I imagined that weird moment? I hovered. Mrs Brooker looked back at me firmly, determined that I should go and leave her unsupervised.
‘Why don’t I call Angus and let him know they’re here?’ I said. ‘He can come and grab them as soon as he gets a second.’
She seemed disappointed in me. ‘You know where the phone is,’ she said.
I dialled Angus’s number. It rang out. I tried it again, willing him to answer. It rang out. I swore softly.
‘He won’t hear his phone if he’s on the tractor.’ Mrs Brooker made me jump. Jesus, had she crept up on me?
‘I’ll try him again in a minute.’
‘He really needs those nets. The parrots will destroy the ripe plums.’
I sighed inwardly. ‘Okay. I’ll take them up to him. I’ll be back as soon as possible.’
‘No rush, love.’ She looked quite pleased. Triumphant, even.
I pulled my car out of the garage and loaded up the back seat with three net rolls. I squeezed the last one into the passenger seat. Then I roared my little two-wheel drive up the orchard track, holding my breath over soft patches where it might get bogged. Angus came into view, puttering towards the big shed in his tractor. He frowned with worry when he caught sight of me, so I waved and smiled to ease his mind. I climbed out and heaved a roll out from the back, showing it to him. Angus’s frown vanished. He chugged the tractor up to the shed and parked.
‘Bring your car up here,’ he called.
I got back in and did as he’d asked, pulling it inside the shed slightly. Dust sparkled in the sheet of sunlight pouring through the roller door.
‘Good timing,’ Angus said as I got out. ‘I was chasing birds out of the plum trees this morning.’
I helped him unload and stack the rolls. The dim shed smelled of fermented fruit, cut through with raw wood from the crates stacked against a wall in their dozens.
‘Thanks for bringing them up,’ he said when we were done.
‘Your mum insisted.’
He looked at me. ‘She did?’
‘Yeah.’ A grain train whistled. ‘I get the feeling she’s tired of me hovering around her all the time. I think she liked it better when I was an ignorant house guest.’ Angus nodded but didn’t answer. ‘Do you need help putting the netting over the trees?’ I asked.
‘This is drape netting. You use an applicator on your tractor. Toby’s got one. I’ll get him to come over and help this arvo. He owes me because I helped with his nets last week.’
I was done then, but I hesitated to leave. Angus was hesitating, too. The rumble of the train’s wheels became audible, seemingly out of nowhere.
‘Hey,’ I said impulsively. ‘I want you to come to the ball with me. Can we find someone else to hang out with your mum that night?’
‘Now Toby and Jo are going, I don’t have many options. Pris will be busy, obviously. I’m hoping Jo’s mother will let Mum help her babysit.’
‘If that doesn’t come off, let me know,’ I said. ‘Maybe I can sort something out.’
Angus nodded. The grumbling of the grain train was growing, slow but intense. Soon we wouldn’t be able to hear each other speak. Angus looked at his wall of fruit crates, the couple of boxes of nectarines positioned by the door – and at me. He looked at the collection of gloves, bags, masks – at me again, and finally at the open toolbox. The train grew closer; louder. His eyes kept coming back to mine and he kept pulling them away. The rumbling of the train built alongside my anticipation, starting in my lower back, swirling through my nerve-endings, tingling out through my skin. The train blasted another warning whistle, almost on top of us.
Its rumbling reached a roar and Angus stopped pretending not to look at me. He fixed his eyes on mine and for a moment, as the grain train rushed by behind the shed and turned the world into throbbing chaos, anything was allowed – like a nightclub where you knew nobody, and your friends had vanished, and the music was pounding and there was a beautiful boy right beside you and a kiss was the only logical conclusion. I yielded first, stepping close, my arms going up around his neck as his slipped around my waist and our lips met, hot and hungry. His hairy face would shred my lips and I didn’t care. I wanted that.
It didn’t shred anywhere near like I thought it would. Sure, there was a little abrasion, but it wasn’t uncomfortable or disgusting; it wasn’t even a negative. It was deeply, unfathomably hot – raw and male. I caught his tangle of curls, much softer than I’d expected, then slid my hands down the sides of his face and grasped his beard. I was kissing Angus, and wishing his mouth would graze my nipples and thighs—
He pulled his mouth away from mine. ‘Fuck, Lottie.’
‘Shut up.’
He found my mouth again and we kissed in rhythm with the train’s clunk-shugging behind the shed, heavy-breathing against each other. I willed his hands to move, to explore and squeeze, but he kept them still, although he couldn’t have held me tighter if he’d tried. By now, the train had passed. We kept kissing for a few more seconds but the moment was broken, and his grip loosened. I looked up at him, trying to settle my panting.
‘Bloody hell.’ Angus groaned the words. He pulled away completely and dragged his hair back from his face with two hands, eyeing me. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
Okay. ‘Your policy?’
He paused infinitesimally and nodded.
For the first time since I’d made my list, I lied. ‘No big deal. It was just a kiss.’
I headed for my car.
There was a long period during our evening meal in which I didn’t once meet Angus’s eyes.
‘I’m going to make a start on the crochet squares for Pris’s tree jacket tonight,’ Mrs Brooker said into the silence. ‘I found my wool bag. I have quite a bit of orange and yellow.’
‘I think Pris wants pink and green,’ I said.
‘Oh, blow.’ Mrs Brooker looked irritated. ‘I don’t think I have pink or green.’
‘I’ll take a look after dinner, if you like,’ I said.
‘I’ve already looked.’ She sounded deeply annoyed by now and I glanced at her in surprise. Then I remembered what Elizabeth had said about dementia and mood swings and looked back at my plate. Mrs Brooker scratched her ear with a Band-Aid-wrapped finger and sighed. ‘Pris has always been a fusspot.’
‘Perhaps we can pick up some wool tomorrow?’ I said. ‘We could go into town together.’
She remained disgruntled. ‘Yes, I suppose.’
From the corner of my eye, I saw Angus give his mother a long look. ‘How did you go with the jam today, Mum?’ he asked, deliberately changing the subject. ‘How many jars?’
Her face altered, and she swallowed her mouthful. ‘I don’t think the peaches were ready.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘They were definitely ready.’
‘The jam was no good.’
‘No good?’ He put down his fork. ‘Were the peaches watery? Floury?’
Her mouth was in a line. ‘There was something wrong with them. The jam didn’t set.’
‘Didn’t set?’ Angus repeated. ‘That’s the pectin. What makes …’ He trailed off because Mrs Brooker’s eyes had filled.
We watched wordlessly as she stared at her plate, tears running down her cheeks. A thin, clear line of mucous trickled from her nose. She attempted to breathe in and a giant sob escaped, like a horrified gasp. Angus scraped his chair back and was beside her in a moment, bent down with his arms tight around his mother’s shoulders. His eye
s were squeezed shut but they were leaking too. She lifted a trembling hand and curled it around his arm, crying – mostly in silence but occasionally sucking in a deep, rending sob. I sat and watched helplessly through my own tears.
‘Come on, Mum,’ Angus whispered after a minute. ‘Come on. Let’s go sit down in the lounge, hey? It’s okay. Come on.’
‘I’ll make tea,’ I said, feeling about as useless as possible.
He helped his mother up and they went into the lounge while I switched on the kettle. I cursed myself for leaving her alone during the day. I was far from an expert on conserves, but if I’d been here, I might have noticed whatever went wrong with her jam in time to save it. I cleared the dinner dishes from the table, a thought nagging at me: But then it would have been something else. I couldn’t be there every moment of every day, even now I was living with her.
I made tea and carried the cups into the lounge. Angus was sitting next to his mother on the couch, an arm around her as she stared at the switched-off television, clutching a tissue. I noticed the Band-Aid on her finger again. Had she burned herself? I felt sick as I realised what could have gone wrong while I was up at the shed snogging her son’s beard off – how much worse it could have been than spoiled jam. I returned to the kitchen and sat at the table with my own cup, my eyes wandering over the stovetop and bench. Mrs Brooker always cleaned as she cooked, the pots washed in water so hot that the liquid evaporated off the metal and they didn’t even need to be wiped.
Her enormous jam pot was missing from its hook.
I cast my gaze around the kitchen. Had she taken it to the chicken yard for the chooks to peck? The pale gleam of enamelled metal drew my eye to the glass oven door. I went over and opened it as quietly as I could, blinking as a wave of stink gusted out. It was the great jam pot, sitting stone cold in an unused oven. I pulled it out, taking care not to make any clanging or scraping noises that might remind Mrs Brooker of her experience.
Inside, half an inch of a brown, toffee-like substance was baked onto the bottom of the pot. I held my breath to avoid the nasty burned-fruit odour. Mrs Brooker must have forgotten about it while cooking, then, when she’d remembered, been so aghast at her failure that she’d shoved it in the oven to hide the evidence. I cast my mind back to when I returned from the orchard: she’d been working on her crossword puzzle book, all the kitchen windows and doors open to a brisk breeze. Clearing the stench? Or smoke?
I poked at the hard mass. It looked like it would never come off, not without some kind of industrial drilling. I licked my finger tentatively and almost gagged at the bitter taste. It tasted wrong – as though she’d used something other than sugar: possibly some kind of chemical powder. Jesus, we were lucky she hadn’t gassed herself with the fumes while it cooked – or tasted it and poisoned herself.
Quietly, I manoeuvred the pot back into the oven and closed the door. I would take care of it in the morning. I turned on the tap and started rinsing plates.
Angus hung around the house and garden the next morning, as though he couldn’t trust that his mother would be safe in his absence. He was plainly itching to get back to the orchard so I suggested that I take Mrs Brooker into town to buy pink and green wool. She agreed but wanted a little rest first. Five minutes later, she was snoring softly on top of her neatly made bed.
I dashed to retrieve the jam pot and carried it out to the garage. I selected a rusted chisel and a hammer with a taped-up handle from the old tools hanging on the wall. A few resin-like chips came off but this stuff was some kind of new power-substance that could permanently adhere anything to anything else. We could sell it to the government, if we only knew what was in it. After half an hour I gave up, sweating, and slid the pot beneath the old workbench. I went back into the house to wash my hands, which smelled like the deadly peach compound.
When Mrs Brooker woke, we had sandwiches for lunch and Angus finally headed up to the orchards. She seemed calmer – not as fuzzy or moody as she had been yesterday – and put on lipstick for the trip into town. We parked near the coop and spent a while in the sewing and crafts section, which comprised just one shelf. Clearly, an enterprising staff member had caught wind of Pris’s yarnbombing project and ordered plenty of pink and green wool. We picked out a couple of skeins and I sneaked a cheap crochet hook into our basket in case Mrs Brooker couldn’t find her own. We picked up bread and milk, paid, then went out into the afternoon heat.
Bonnievale looked different today. Pink splashes of the Harvest Ball posters were everywhere, and peach silk banners spruiking the Festival hung from the posts down the centre of the main street. People were everywhere and they looked excited – eager, almost. It all had the effect of blossoms on a bare branch, brightening the tired town. For a few minutes, Mrs Brooker and I stood under the shade of an awning and watched the town coming out of hibernation before our eyes. It reminded me of a movie set, and I couldn’t be sure if the vision of our town’s awakening was real or just for show.
I checked my bank balance at the ATM to see if I had enough to get us coffees. To my astonishment, there was over a thousand dollars in my account. Bank error? Ugh, more likely my father coming to the rescue. I couldn’t bear not knowing so I went into the bank and asked for a printed statement to check who’d made a deposit.
Kelsey Hannan Artist Management.
‘Huh. My agent sent me some money.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Mrs Brooker. ‘Real estate agent?’
‘No, my performance agent. She pays quarterly. There must have been an appearance fee or some other kind of payment outstanding.’
It would have been handy about a month ago – or even two weeks ago, before Christmas Day. I turned back to the counter and withdrew two hundred dollars.
‘Here,’ I said to Mrs Brooker. ‘It’s not much, but once I’ve got a job, I can backpay you for rent.’
‘Rent?’ She frowned at me. ‘You’re a guest at the farm.’
‘Thank you, but I’ve eaten my way through at least this much of your food, and I’d feel better if I could cover some of the expense. Please.’ I kept my hand firmly out with the four fifties in it, willing her to accept.
‘Put it away, love,’ she said. ‘Let’s pop into the Rabbit’s Foot. It’s Pris’s birthday next week and I always get her a nice card. I’ve got a little stockpile of things I can give Pris when she’s due a present. She only likes practical gifts – pretty but practical.’
She started walking, leaving me no choice but to pocket my money and go after her. When she slid the door open, I spied Mum at the counter and hung back.
‘Come on, love.’ Mrs Brooker stepped inside, leaving the door ajar so I was forced to follow. Mum smiled at Mrs Brooker and when her eyes landed on me, I got the leftovers. For an instant, it was as if she was happy to see me, and her smile falling away felt like a kick. My resentment rumbled.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hello, Lottie. How are you, Caroline?’
‘Well, thank you, love.’
‘Busy at the farm?’
‘Very! Harvest. How are you and Richard and the girls?’
Mum flicked a puzzled look my way. ‘All good, thanks.’ Mrs Brooker ambled towards the card aisle. ‘I’m just after a birthday card for Pris.’
‘Do you need a hand?’ Mum called. ‘No, thank you.’ She stood before the display stand, perusing cards.
My eye fell on one of the Harvest Ball posters stuck to the front of the lotto counter. I looked quickly away from my laughing face and hint of bosom, pretending it didn’t exist. Why would Mum allow that in here? She must be disgusted with it – assuming I was willingly using my body to sell something. Again.
‘Still living at the Brookers’ farm?’ she said.
Fire surged inside me, eradicating the shame. ‘Do I have a choice?’
Mum regarded me steadily. ‘I suppose you could find yourself a job and take a rental somewhere.’
‘I’m earning my keep. I’m helping Angus.’
Mrs Brooker came back to the counter. ‘Just this, please. It’s Pris’s birthday on Thursday.’ She placed a card on the counter – butterflies and floral patterns. And a big number nine.
I shot at look at Mrs Brooker, but she was fishing in her purse. My mother frowned at the card and met my eyes, understanding passing between us. She looked suddenly devastated.
I touched Mrs Brooker’s arm. ‘That’s really pretty. Uh, were there any other cards you liked back there, Mrs B? It’s just, look – this one’s got a number on it.’
She transferred her gaze to the card. ‘Oh! So it has.’ She stared at it, pink creeping up her cheeks.
My mother jumped in, conjuring up a fake chuckle. ‘Oh, my goodness – I did the same thing once, Caroline! I got Elizabeth a twenty-first card when she was actually twenty-seven. We laughed so hard!’
Mrs Brooker laughed too, relieved. ‘I’m glad you spotted that, love,’ she said to me. ‘I’ll pick out a different one. Won’t be a moment.’
She took the nine-year-old’s birthday card back to the rack and Mum watched her go.
She leaned forward to whisper to me. ‘I heard you asking Lizzy about dementia.’
I checked on Mrs Brooker but she was engrossed in card selection.
‘Angus thinks it’s that,’ I answered in a low voice. ‘She’s getting confused. Forgetful.’
Mum stared at Mrs Brooker. ‘She’s changed a bit in the last year or so. I wondered …’ She looked back at me. ‘How’s Angus coping?’
‘He needs someone to be with her while he’s busy out in the orchards. That’s how I’m earning my keep.’
‘She’s got that bad?’ she said, her face stricken.
‘She’s becoming a bit of a danger to herself.’
Pain crossed Mum’s face, then she rearranged her features into the cool neutrality to which I had become accustomed. I crossed to the card rack.
‘How’s it going?’
‘I don’t know what to choose,’ Mrs Brooker said. ‘It’s for …’
