Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  I took Mrs Brooker into town on Saturday. We shopped for groceries at the co-op, then dropped in to St Edna’s so I could go through their clothing racks, hunting for gowns. Everything seemed too casual: garden party rather than Harvest Ball.

  ‘I’m after a dress,’ I said to the man. ‘Do you have anything formal?’

  ‘This for the Harvest Ball?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mostly sold out,’ he said. ‘Lots of ladies’ve come in for gowns in the last couple of weeks.’

  ‘Oh, no. Pris said you had plenty. I should have come in earlier.’ I thought of my money. It wouldn’t last very long if I had to throw it away on a full-price ball dress.

  Slow recognition dawned on his face. ‘Oh, hold on, you’re that Peach Queen, aren’t you? The Beste girl? Pris already came in and collected a couple of frocks for you to choose from. She’s got ’em at her place, I’d say.’

  Oh, good Lord. ‘What sort of dresses? What styles?’

  The man stared at me resentfully. ‘I have no idea, miss.’ He fossicked in a card file. ‘Says here she’s taken three dresses on loan and will pay for the one selected and return the others. Pris Brooker’s a trustworthy lady and a good customer here.’

  He must have mistaken the dismay on my face for surprise that they’d loaned Pris the dresses. I thanked the man and collected Mrs Brooker.

  ‘You couldn’t find anything you liked?’ she asked as we left.

  ‘Apparently Pris has something for me to wear.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very nice of her,’ Mrs Brooker said brightly. ‘She was my bridesmaid, did you know? Pris and my sister, Ann. Pris chose the pattern and they were very elegant frocks – everyone said so. Beautiful colours. Green with a little pink and brown: paisley satin. They were so long they swept the floor.’

  Those dresses had probably been the height of fashion in the late sixties, but I had no idea what I would do if Pris turned up with something hideous for me to wear on Friday. I’d crossed off Appearance in my cat notebook, as if I didn’t care how I looked any more. Hypocrite, much? Just how long was this personal declutter going to take, anyway? It felt like I was never going to be able to rid myself of some things.

  I held myself straighter. ‘Let’s go and say hello to my parents before we go home.’

  ‘Good idea, love.’

  We entered the Rabbit’s Foot together. My father came out of the back room and kissed the top of my head, and Mrs Brooker chatted to my mother about the type of cake she should bring for her visit. They settled on plum. Dad told Mrs Brooker about the new year’s gardening calendars and she bought one. I took the opportunity to speak to Mum privately.

  ‘The pot-cleaning tips worked. Thanks. Mrs B’s favourite jam pot is spotless again and nobody suspects a thing.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ My mother was looking at me strangely.

  ‘And thanks for offering to look after her next Friday,’ I added.

  ‘Angus came in last week to ask me. I’ll pick her up on Friday afternoon and bring her back to ours for the night.’ She paused. ‘Are you and Angus going to the ball together?’

  ‘He’s offered to be my wingman.’

  ‘Your wingman!’ Her forehead creased.

  ‘You know. In case things get a bit intense.’

  ‘It’s a Bonnievale Harvest Ball,’ she said drily. ‘I think you’ll handle it fine.’ She glanced at the flyers on the counter – at my smile and my cleavage.

  I held in a sigh and checked if Mrs Brooker was ready to leave. We farewelled my parents and stepped back outside into the warm air.

  ‘Do you need anything else?’ I asked as we crossed the road towards my car. ‘Anything from the chemist or the post office, maybe?’

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ Mrs Brooker replied. ‘Just milk and bread.’

  I shot a glance her way. ‘We got those at the co-op already.’ She frowned for an instant and checked her arm for her shopping bag. ‘They’re in the car.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes had that lost look again. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘Caroline,’ a voice boomed directly in front of us. We both looked up. A man was waiting for us in the middle of the footpath. Dressed in the orchardist uniform of a flannelette shirt and Stubbies, he was vaguely familiar. RSL maybe? The guy looked wound up tight: pissed off. He glared at Mrs Brooker. ‘Got a message for Angus.’

  Oh, fuck.

  ‘Tell him to stop stirring people up. We voted. He lost. If he doesn’t get that, send him round to my place and I’ll explain it in a way he might understand.’

  He waited. Mrs Brooker gazed at him in frightened confusion until he became uneasy.

  ‘You got that?’ he growled.

  I stepped closer to Mrs Brooker. ‘Please. She’s got nothing to do with it.’

  His lip curled. ‘He’s her son!’

  Mrs Brooker made a weird noise – something like a cross between a harrumph and a whimper. I held her arm. ‘I’ll pass on the message,’ I told the man.

  He muttered something indistinct and let us leave. I ushered Mrs Brooker into the car and slipped into the driver’s side, half panicking and half fuming.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked as soon as we were on the road.

  ‘Yes. Yes, fine.’ She stared out of the window. ‘Just stop at the co-op so I can get some milk and bread.’

  Back at Brooker’s, the reason for Random Angry Farmer’s warning became apparent. Pris had been over and left the weekend edition of the Bonnievale Examiner on the kitchen table. There was a big story on the return of the peach spot on the front page, by-line Gemma di Bortoli. I snatched it up and took it to my bedroom before Mrs Brooker could see it. There, I pored over the story, practically gagging with dismay when I found a section that quoted Angus.

  Orchardist and descendant of the founding Brooker family, Angus Brooker (31), identified bacterial spot on the flagship tree on Monday.

  ‘Most of the orchards in Bonnievale grow resistant trees these days, but bacterial spot can mutate, which means we’re still at risk,’ Mr Brooker told the Examiner.

  ‘The only way we can protect the orchards is to remove the tree.’

  Christ, Angus. Way to rile up your enemies. Further down, I got my own honourable mention.

  Association members can apply to the Orchardist Support Fund if facing financial difficulty. With the return of Bonnievale’s long-running Harvest Ball tradition this month, it is hoped the ball will raise much-needed monies for the Support Fund. The event has the support of homegrown celebrity Charlize Beste.

  Miss Beste, currently residing with Mr Brooker, did not wish to comment on the discovery of the stone-fruit tree disease or her fundraising work.

  I shoved the newspaper under my pillow.

  Most of that afternoon was spent searching Mrs Brooker’s enormous cookbook collection for the right plum cake recipe.

  ‘Uh, Mrs B,’ I said, looking through a recipe book so old its pages were coming away from the spine. ‘I’m planning to make an appointment to go see a doctor next week for a check-up. I was wondering if you’d come along – for moral support.’

  She frowned at me. ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘No, but I would appreciate some company. You just never know what might crop up.’

  Mrs Brooker laid down the book she was flipping through. ‘Have you had symptoms that are worrying you, love?’

  ‘No, but …’

  Realisation dawned on her face. ‘Do you suspect you’re – pregnant?’

  ‘God, no! No chance of that.’

  She looked slightly disappointed. ‘Is it lady problems?’

  ‘No, seriously, there’s nothing wrong that I know of. It’s just a check-up. But I’d be so grateful if you’d come, too.’

  ‘Are you frightened of the doctor?’

  Hoodwinking someone was complex when you couldn’t lie. I gave her a beseeching look.

  ‘I have a very nice doctor,’ she said. ‘Dr
Legian. I’ve seen him for many years. You ought to see him.’

  ‘I will, but will you come too? Please?’

  ‘Yes, love. I’m sure I can fit that in.’

  I exhaled in relief. ‘Thank you. Thanks so much, Mrs B.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ She shut her book and moved onto the next one.

  We never located the perfect plum cake recipe but Mrs Brooker settled for an adequate one from a book called Cakes of Yesteryear. Our day went on in the usual gentle fashion: cleaning, cooking and tending to the chickens. When Mrs Brooker went for her lie down, I sat on the verandah and called the doctor’s clinic, asking to speak to Dr Legian. He was in a consultation but the receptionist took a message. He called back within half an hour and I explained what I wanted him to do.

  ‘Angus spoke to me about his mother’s state of health once before,’ the doctor said, caution in his voice. ‘He made an appointment but she declined to come in.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘And Angus knows about me doing this. I can get him to confirm it with you, if you like. I just thought that if we make the appointment for me, you could do a bit of an assessment on her while we’re there. Have a chat to her and see if she’ll agree to some tests.’

  The doctor was silent for a moment. ‘Yes, I will need Angus to confirm with me that he supports this, please. Does she have a living will?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He paused again. ‘What’s your objective in getting Mrs Brooker an appointment?’

  ‘I’ve heard there are medications that can slow the progress of dementia. If you manage to get her to agree to tests, maybe you’ll be able to prescribe something. I’m caring for her now, so I could help make sure she takes her pills, or whatever.’ I stopped. He probably knew about my past and thought I was using trickery to try to gain power over an unsuspecting elderly lady for nefarious reasons …

  ‘There are a few tests I can probably carry out without her noticing.’ He sounded a little warmer. ‘As part of a conversation with her. It’s a first step.’

  I breathed again, relieved. ‘Thank you. I’ll get Angus to call you.’

  He put me back through to his receptionist to make the appointment for next week. Inside, I found Mrs Brooker awake, standing by my bedroom door, gazing in. Thank Christ she hadn’t wandered further up the hall and overheard me plotting to get her to a GP appointment.

  ‘I must say, it’s so good to have this room sorted out,’ she said. ‘It had been worrying me. I wanted it fixed – urgently.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  The soft skin around her eyes wrinkled more deeply. ‘I didn’t like the idea that Angus might get stuck with the job.’

  My heart seemed to stutter to a stop. She smiled and moved on.

  Does she know? Did she suspect she was on a downhill slide? Maybe that was why she refused to see a doctor. Or maybe she simply meant that some of the decluttering work had involved physical labour she was no longer quite capable of, and she didn’t want to take Angus away from his work in the orchards.

  Yes, that must be it.

  Angus came back to the house in the late afternoon and we all had dinner together, discussing the harvest. Angus said that the picking crew was booked again for the following week. Mrs Brooker asked for plums to stew and he said he would bring her some. We got the kitchen tidied up and I went for a shower. Hair towelled dry, I joined Mrs Brooker in front of the television.

  ‘Where’s Angus?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s nipped out.’ Mrs Brooker’s eyes remained on the bake-off show.

  ‘At eight o’clock?’

  ‘He said he was going to check on the tree.’ She yawned.

  I jumped to my feet. ‘The Olde Peach Tree?’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  I dashed out to the hall phone and hit the speed dial for Angus’s mobile. He didn’t answer. Shit.

  I attempt to present myself as calm. ‘Mrs Brooker, I might just go and see if he needs a hand at the tree. Will you be all right?’

  She met my eyes. ‘Of course, love.’

  I grabbed my keys and ran for my car, breaking speeding laws to get to the damn tree. Too late. In the distance ahead, blue and red lights were flashing on the side of the road.

  ‘Christ, Angus,’ I muttered.

  The Dalgetys were there, of course, shouting down a long-suffering police officer. Angus watched in bemused silence, standing beside the harshly pruned tree. He lifted a hand in greeting when he saw me.

  ‘—and he’ll cut the bloody thing down as soon as my bloody back’s turned,’ Colin was blustering.

  ‘All right, mate. That’ll do now.’ The officer, a man in his mid-forties, was unmoved. ‘There’s nothing to indicate he intended to do anything except look at the tree. No law against that.’

  ‘Take a look in the back of his ute,’ Nathan put in. ‘I bet you’ll find a chainsaw or an axe or something.’

  ‘I’m a fruit farmer, mate,’ Angus reminded him. ‘I’ve always got shit like that in my ute.’

  Nathan scoffed but the cop seemed to agree. He tipped his head at me as I approached. ‘Can I help, miss?’

  ‘I’m with Angus,’ I said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Nathan mumbled.

  ‘I just came down to help,’ I added.

  ‘Help with what, exactly?’ the officer asked.

  ‘Angus told his mum he wanted to check the progress of the spot treatment on the tree.’

  The officer nodded and Angus shot me an entertained smile. Colin looked as if he might lose it completely at any moment.

  ‘This is my land—’

  ‘Not your land,’ Angus interrupted. ‘Public land.’

  ‘Near enough,’ Colin spat back at him. ‘I want you out of here. Now.’

  ‘Now, Mr Dalgety,’ said the cop. ‘I understand Angus here is about to move on, anyway. And he’s quite entitled to come and look at the tree.’

  ‘Why’s he sneaking around doing it at night, then?’ Nathan said.

  ‘Because you psychos are watching the tree with your shotguns out during the day,’ said Angus.

  ‘I hope that’s not true, Mr Dalgety,’ the officer said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Of course it’s not.’ Colin didn’t strike me as being completely honest on that point, but the cop let it slide. ‘And I’m not on trial here. It’s that little bastard who’s threatening the bloody tree. Heritage listed, you know that?’ Colin said this to the officer, jabbing a thick finger at the tree.

  ‘No one’s on trial and no one’s in trouble – yet.’ The cop’s voice had hardened. ‘But I suggest you all get yourselves home, pronto.’

  I seized Angus’s arm and tugged him towards the ute. He resisted, casting a torch over the clipped branches as though he intended to complete a leisurely examination of the tree before he went anywhere. I pulled harder and he gave in, grinning at me.

  ‘Shit-stirrer,’ I said. We reached his car. ‘You’ll get yourself shot!’

  Angus climbed behind the wheel. ‘Nah. Dalgety’s too fond of his own skin to get himself into trouble. He just wants to see me put in my place.’

  ‘He’ll get his wish if you don’t chill out.’ I slipped into the passenger seat to speak to him privately. ‘Do you realise some bloke stopped your mum and me in the street today to sound off about you?’ He didn’t react. ‘Angus, what the hell were you doing out here?’

  ‘You said I need to stop running scared.’

  I almost choked. ‘Oh, my God. Were you going to try to cut it down?’

  He shrugged. ‘No chance. Colin and Nathan are taking shifts on their front verandah.’

  ‘But were you going to try to cut it down if the opportunity came up?’ Angus looked at me wordlessly. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  I got out of the ute and went back to my own car. The Dalgetys watched us leave the clearing and drive to Brooker’s, where the dogs barked joyful greetings from the backyard. I trudged towards the house, hoping poor Mrs Brooker hadn’t burned her
self making a cup of tea or mistaken washing detergent for sugar. Angus caught me around the waist before I got to the porch and swung me back into his arms, landing a clumsy kiss on my lips.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hissed, checking his mother wasn’t waiting at the door for us.

  ‘I’m trying not to be scared.’ His dark eyes scoured my face. ‘What about you?’

  I wriggled free and dashed inside to make sure his mother hadn’t got an eyeful of that kiss, slowed down only by the necessity of sticking my gumboots in the antibacterial bath by the door. The television was off. I tiptoed to Mrs Brooker’s bedroom and very quietly opened the door. She was asleep in there, in the faint talcum powder sillage. I closed the door again and turned around to find Angus right behind me.

  ‘She okay?’ he asked, his voice low.

  ‘Asleep.’

  I edged past Angus, and he watched me all the way to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me, then leaned against it and listened, barely breathing. There was no sound from the other side and I waited for a long time. Eventually I slumped, relieved – or disappointed.

  ‘Lottie,’ came a whisper from just outside my door.

  I froze and stayed silent, heat coursing through me.

  ‘Lottie?’ It was louder this time.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘I get that. But you’ve still got your policy, right?’

  He didn’t reply for a moment. I listened to my pulse pounding in my ears.

  ‘Yeah. You’re right,’ he said at last. ‘Good night.’

  His footsteps retreated.

  Angus and I dealt with this new round of awkwardness by avoiding each other for several days. It was Wednesday before he was able to meet my eyes again, and only then because his mother gave us an icebreaker. She was fussing over the lack of matching socks as we sorted washing together. Angus was on his laptop, entering farm costs into an accounting program.

  ‘What on earth—?’ she said suddenly.

  She had picked up a work sock and found herself with four fifty-dollar notes in her hand. Angus looked up to see what the matter was and saw the notes. He shot a look my way, a grin lighting up his face.