Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  We were still laughing when my mother stepped into the room holding an envelope, surprising us both.

  ‘Penny!’ Mrs Brooker exclaimed. ‘How lovely.’

  Mum wore jeans and a black top as if it were cool outside instead of a warm January day, her hair sitting on her shoulders in its usual slightly unkempt style. She took us in for a long moment, then spoke awkwardly. ‘I knocked but there was no answer, so I let myself in.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Brooker said.

  I pictured us from Mum’s point of view, chopping nectarines and grinding spice in the warm kitchen. Mrs Brooker, the sweet, silver-haired paeon of maternal affection in her teal slacks and maroon slippers; me being honest and real, wearing a pink T-shirt and not feeling like I had to squeeze into a mould I didn’t fit. Our laughter, the comfortable intimacy, the way Mrs Brooker and I worked around each other so naturally after just over a month together. I knew where things were kept. We both understood who would use which chopping board, and took turns to stir the onions. A bolt of triumph went through me and probably emerged on my face: See? This is what a mother-daughter relationship should look like!

  Then just as suddenly, I was seized with deep grief.

  Mrs Brooker was washing her hands. ‘This time you must stay for a cup of tea, Penny.’

  ‘That’d be good,’ said my mother.

  Under the cover of Mrs Brooker filling the kettle, Mum handed me her envelope. She clearly didn’t want Mrs Brooker to see, so I took it to my room to check what it was. My heart thudded with apprehension as I tore it open, but it was only a couple of printed pages with ideas for cleaning burned pots.

  I tucked them away to read later and went back to the kitchen. Mrs Brooker was telling my mother the chupney story, perhaps as a kind of apology for being closer to her daughter than she was. I got the biscuit tin and switched off the onions. When they were talking about the garden, cups of tea in hands, I observed my mother covertly. Her hair was light brown with plenty of silver sprouting along the hairline and part. The black polo shirt had a lottery logo on the breast and was unbuttoned at the neck. I didn’t detect any of the décolletage cragginess my grandmother had been so dire about, but there were certainly lines around her eyes and a sagging of her cheeks. I’d never thought of Mum as old but in the bright kitchen, another chin was visible. Collagen breakdown, the old Lottie whispered.

  ‘We made relish once, remember Lottie?’

  I stared. ‘No. When was that?’

  ‘When you were about – oh, seven maybe? So Elizabeth would have been about five. We’d grown zucchinis and had so many – I wanted to do something with them. My mother wasn’t much of a cook so I didn’t have a clue how to make it. I got a recipe off you, Caroline.’

  ‘I love a zucchini relish,’ Mrs Brooker said.

  ‘I messed it up,’ Mum said ruefully. ‘I didn’t sterilise the jars properly and the whole batch went mouldy. Your dad was so nice about it, Lottie. He’d scrape off the mouldy bits and try to use it until I threw it all away. Supermarket relish for us ever since, or what we buy at the market. Conserves are an art and I never mastered it.’

  ‘There’s still time for you to learn,’ Mrs Brooker said. ‘Once you’ve mastered it, you never forget.’ A shadow crossed her face.

  I hurried to change the subject in case she was thinking of her burned jam pot. ‘Speaking of Grandma’s cooking – how about her roast chicken, Mum?’ I raised my eyebrows.

  Mum gave me a faint smile. ‘Oh, dear God. The driest, stringiest, most overcooked chicken we ever had the joy of eating, every time we drove to my mother’s place in Wallabah for Sunday lunch.’

  ‘The only thing more overcooked than the chicken was the veggies,’ I said.

  ‘That was how we cooked veggies once upon a time, though,’ Mrs Brooker said. ‘You put your vegetables on the stove at the same time as your chicken and cooked them until it was time to serve. All soft, they were, and falling apart.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mum said, laughing. ‘It was the done thing to overcook your vegetables. And always boiled – none of this nutritious steaming business.’

  ‘Boiled cabbage,’ Mrs Brooker agreed.

  Mum stayed for two cups of tea. Mrs Brooker sang my praises over the condor method and insisted on showing my mother the tidy spare room. Mum glanced at me often. I wasn’t sure if she was enjoying the visit or trying to work out who’d created this cyborg to impersonate her superficial, self-absorbed daughter. She gave me a terse cheek-kiss as she departed. A breakthrough?

  In the afternoon, Angus came back to the house and kitted up in his beekeeping gear. Mrs Brooker was taking her nap, so I collected the kitchen scraps to take out to the chickens and stumped down the garden path in the big green boots. I paused in the cover of the grapevine to watch Angus to his usual trick – but he didn’t pause at the log pile. He kept walking.

  I caught my breath and scurried deeper into the grapevine to get a better view. He opened the first hive. The veil stayed. He puffed smoke; pulled out a frame and inspected it; replaced it. Another. And another. Gloves on, veil in place. He tended each hive, one after the other, the veil remaining in place. I stayed where I was, watching the whole process with my heart hammering against my ribs. I had no clue what it meant but it filled me with happiness. At last he finished and turned towards the house. I ran to meet him halfway, unable to wipe the smile off my face.

  Angus stared. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re still wearing the veil,’ I said.

  ‘You’re still wearing my boots.’ Angus tried to be gruff but only succeeded in looking bashful.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, what?’

  ‘Why are you wearing the veil?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Anaphylaxis, or whatever.’

  I dropped the yoghurt tub of scraps and lunged at him, hugging him hard. If he hadn’t been wearing a layer of black flyscreen over his face, I might have kissed him.

  ‘Get off,’ he said.

  ‘Arsehole,’ I returned, and he laughed. It sounded warm and felt good.

  We looked at each other for a few moments, then Angus dropped his gaze and headed for the house. I went to feed the chickens.

  Angus said that he had an Orchardist Association meeting to go to and left before dinner. I shared a meal with Mrs Brooker, then pretended to watch a documentary on sixties rock-and-roll music. I smiled at Mrs Brooker as she hummed and tapped her foot, but I was on high alert, waiting for Angus to return with news. Colin Dalgety would probably pop a vein when the association voted to remove the Olde Peach Tree. I had visions of the Dalgetys attacking Angus as he cut down the tree. A scuffle involving tree-lopping equipment couldn’t have a good outcome. Or maybe they would meet him out there with their shotguns. They would threaten him – and Angus was stubborn. How far would it go? I twisted my hands and chewed my lip and stared at the documentary without taking it in.

  It got to nine pm and Mrs Brooker went to bed. I had to occupy myself somehow – distract myself from worrying – so I collected the old jam pot from its hiding place in the garage. Even the ants hadn’t touched it. I read through the pages my mother had sent me and found a bottle of vinegar in the pantry. I poured it in, adding enough water to cover the nasty layer of peach resin before setting it on the stove to cook, and got the baking soda ready to go.

  To my immense relief, Angus’s ute pulled in just before ten.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, coming into the kitchen. ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘In bed.’ I flicked on the kettle. ‘How did it go? Is it done?’

  He shook his head. ‘I went back and forth with Colin Dalgety for three hours. No one else was willing to stand up and argue with him.’

  ‘Oh, crap. But you won, right?’

  ‘No. There was a vote. Twenty-six to seventeen in favour of treating the tree.’

  ‘What?’ I sat down. ‘Are they crazy?’

  ‘Bloody Dalgety. He’s got a lot of sway. After the vote I asked if we c
ould put a time limit on it. If there’s no improvement in, say, three months, or if it spreads, we take the tree out. Colin said, “You’ve been outvoted, young Brooker. Time to be gracious in defeat.”’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I moaned.

  Angus got up to make the tea and peered into the big pot bubbling on the stove. ‘What in Christ’s name …?’

  I explained the jam pot problem. He stared at the slowly softening resin in silence, then gave me a quick look that held so much gratitude I started to blush. He turned back to the kettle.

  ‘Is there any chance of changing their minds?’ I asked. ‘Seventeen to twenty-six. That’s reasonably close. Maybe another few could be influenced if you sent them some information.’

  Angus put a teacup down in front of me. ‘The vote’s done and dusted – Colin made that very clear.’

  ‘I don’t understand how they can simply refuse to acknowledge the facts after what happened last time. There’s an opportunity to stop it before it takes hold, and yet they’re willing to gamble with their farms to save one tree. And it’s not like it’s thousands of years old. It just happens to have been planted by the founder. Who cares? There are other trees he planted, right?’

  ‘Colin’s a convincing speaker. He made it sound like we’d be pissing on our ancestors’ graves if we removed the tree.’ Angus’s phone beeped and he checked it. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He read the text message and held it up for me to read, wearing a rueful half-smile.

  Just in case you’re thinking about taking matters into your own hands, I’ve informed the police that the tree is at risk of vandalism and arranged a few locals to keep an eye on things.

  I groaned. ‘Tosser. So that’s it? We just have to accept the decision, even if it’s wrong?’

  ‘That’s it. All I can do is treat my trees as best I can to prevent the spot. Keep the moisture levels low, test the soil regularly, lots of pruning, and check for spot every single bloody day. I’ll have to bring back the bucket of anti-bacterial shoe-cleaning mix for visitors and when we go off the farm. History repeating itself.’

  I ached for him. ‘I’m sorry, Angus. You don’t need this.’

  He shrugged. ‘Been through it before. I can do it again, I guess.’

  I got up and poked at the stuff in the pot. The layer on the bottom had lifted, floating in the simmering water like a sheet of gelatine.

  ‘Oh, wow. That really worked!’ I fished the stinking orange sheet out with a pair of tongs and threw it in the bin. There was still some sticky residue on the bottom of the pot, but it looked manageable. I added a little cold water to cool the pan down and poured in a load of baking soda. It fizzed up and overflowed, making a mess of the sink, but then it settled down and I scrubbed at the sticky, burned-on patches. When I leaned back for a breather, Angus got up and bumped me gently out of the way so he could take over. Between the two of us, we got the pot clean. I rinsed and dried it carefully and hung it on the hook. The only evidence of the whole incident was that the bottom of the pot was a bit more scratched than before. I shot him a triumphant grin.

  ‘Nice work,’ Angus told me, and stared at me for such a long time that I started to wonder if I had something weird on my face.

  At last he grabbed our cups and went to rinse them out.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ he said, and disappeared into his room.

  It was Pris’s birthday the next day. I helped Mrs Brooker bake a lemon cake.

  ‘When is this ball again, love?’ she asked me.

  ‘Uh – in just over a week. Not this Friday, but the one after.’

  ‘Friday week, yes. I’ll make another cake then, to take for dessert.’ She peered through the oven door.

  ‘Take where?’

  ‘To your mother’s place. She invited me to come for dinner while the ball’s on, and then stay overnight. I wasn’t going to stay, but she said Angus would be very late home and she couldn’t bear the thought of me staying here by myself. I tried to tell her I’ve done it many times before, but Penny was insistent. Yes, very insistent. Anyway, I don’t mind staying over. Perhaps I shall even have a couple of glasses of wine.’ She trilled a little laugh.

  I couldn’t hide my smile. ‘That’s so good. I was really wanting Angus to come along but I know he didn’t want you lonely on the night.’

  ‘Do you think he will go to the ball, then, if he knows I’ll be with Penny for the night?’ she asked.

  ‘I hope so. He said he’d come to the ball with me to look out for me – make sure I’m okay.’

  Mrs Brooker clasped her hands together, her bright blue eyes on mine. ‘He’s taking you to the ball? And he said that to you, did he – that he wants to look after you?’

  I hesitated. ‘He said he’d look out for me at the ball.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I meant.’ She went back to peeling slivers of lemon rind for the sauce, a pleased little smile on her lips. ‘Perhaps he’ll be elected Peach King. I think he’s been nominated.’

  I didn’t try to explain that the Peach King wasn’t a thing any more. Pris wasn’t due until three pm, so once the cake was done, Mrs Brooker went for a rest and I ran the carpet sweeper over the floors. After taking the kitchen rubbish out to the bin and sorting the dry washing, there really wasn’t anything more to do. I looked around the tidy house and wished I could be out in the orchard with Angus and his picking crew. A change would be fun. Picking was undoubtedly hard, hot work, but satisfying, I imagined – plenty of opportunity to chat and joke with the other pickers.

  I pictured myself in protective long sleeves, a picking apron and a wide-brimmed hat, standing atop a ladder, testing and picking ripe plums. It seemed such a simple, honest existence after my old job. That had been complex: networking my way into auditions; digging for gossip about the next screen test or reality show; curating my lifestyle on social media. The morning of that pool party where Jai had died, I’d spent over an hour contemplating the relative merits of tangelo or prima donna shades of lip gloss.

  I found myself fingering the scar on my chin.

  I went for a book, curling up on the couch to wait for Mrs Brooker to awaken. I was almost finished the Virginia Woolf one where she discovers the difference between male and female colleges in 1929. I’d been waiting for the big climax, but there weren’t many pages left and I was beginning to suspect there would be no climax at all. There was no room for a sudden overthrow of the patriarchy now. Maybe that’s why the pursuit of equality was so damn unsatisfying. I opened the book and two hundred dollars in fifties fell out.

  I laughed aloud and jumped up, scouting around for my next hiding spot. I couldn’t use Angus’s preferred tea mug – Mrs Brooker might find the money in there. Under his pillow? It seemed a little unimaginative. I spied a pile of clean work socks on his bed. Grinning, I unfolded a pair and then refolded them with the money inside. It might take him weeks to discover it. Maybe I would be gone by then. My stomach tightened at the thought. Gone where? Not to my parents’ house. Back to the city?

  I couldn’t go back. And who would look after Mrs Brooker? A hazy plan suggested itself. Could I stay here as Mrs Brooker’s carer, living in the house in exchange for looking after her and helping out with the cooking and cleaning? Surely this would be a welcome solution for Angus. He needed help caring for his mother and I understood his approach of reassure-and-distract. And he and I seemed to be getting along quite well. I thought about that long stare he’d given me the night before.

  Maybe I could make the suggestion in a non-threatening way. I didn’t want him thinking I was trying to make a move on him. I could even sign an agreement of some sort to reassure him that I wasn’t trying to worm my way into the Brooker family and claim false entitlements.

  Mrs Brooker woke up after two, fuzzier in the head than usual. I reminded her gently about Pris’s birthday tea and she frowned at me. ‘Oh, yes. Pris is – Pris is fifty-two, I think. Yes, at least fifty-two.’

  I didn’t say that Pris must be seventy
or more by now. Mrs Brooker wrote on the birthday card she’d bought, and I helped her wrap a pair of cake tongs and a potholder decorated with Japanese dolls from her stash of gifts. Pretty, yet practical. Pris arrived and Mrs Brooker called Angus back to the house. He arrived as the tea was being poured.

  ‘Happy birthday, Aunty Pris,’ he said in that slightly sardonic tone he reserved for his aunt – as though he was always just one shift in intonation away from snapping at her. But that was only fair because Pris’s habitual tone for Angus was that of a hard-done-by, offended saint.

  ‘Thank you, Angus.’

  She shoved her card from Mrs Brooker into Angus’s hand, making a show of discretion. He checked it quickly and his forehead crumpled into a frown. Angus flashed a look at his aunt and turned away to examine the card more carefully. Mrs Brooker clinked teaspoons at the bench. Noticing me watching, Angus showed me the card. His mother’s handwriting was barely legible and some of the characters looked more like a jagged series of serrated spikes than actual letters. I blinked at the card, trying to work it out.

  D—r Pris,

  Wissing you verj happe bthday.

  All lov,

  Pris, Angus and—

  I couldn’t even make out the final name. Shit. Pris observed the both of us, her eyes glittering.

  ‘Well, young man,’ she said to Angus when the cake had been cut and we all had cups of tea. ‘You’ve caused a fair ruckus in this town.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Mrs Brooker asked in surprise.

  Angus shot Pris a warning glare that she completely ignored. ‘Angus found spot on the Olde Peach Tree,’ she told Mrs Brooker. ‘Wanted to cut it down, would you believe? Colin Dalgety talked some sense into him, thank goodness.’

  Mrs Brooker sat up straight. ‘Spot? On the Olde Peach Tree? Our Olde Peach Tree?’

  Angus was left with no option but to tell her. ‘It’s okay, Mum. It’s being treated. Just means we need to keep our eyes peeled for any signs. Should be fine, though.’