by Sasha Wasley
‘Oh, that’s mine, Mum.’ He reached out a hand.
Mrs Brooker passed the cash over. ‘How did it get there, Angus? In your socks?’ She shook her head, tsking.
Angus pocketed the money. I smirked.
Pris visited every day that week, using us as her debriefing station in the lead-up to the ball. She would sit at the kitchen table to drink tea and eat whatever we’d baked, complaining that she would never lose her excess weight if Mrs Brooker kept cooking treats every day. Then she would launch into a diatribe on the incompetence of committee members or the poor standard of service of local businesses or the abysmal spelling on young ladies’ Peach Queen applications.
‘Are you sure you don’t want help with judging?’ I asked on Thursday. ‘I’d still love to be involved.’
‘No, it’s all in hand. We’ve well and truly made our selection.’
‘Who is it?’
‘That’s completely confidential, I’m afraid, Lottie. Even you won’t know until you’re on stage, handing over the coronet.’
I frowned. How the hell had I got myself into this situation? Here I was being manipulated for someone else’s purposes all over again. Pris was even in control of what I was to wear. I imagined myself in a green paisley dress, crowning a possibly illiterate girl the new Peach Queen. Maybe I should whisper to her to run while she still could.
Pris read my mind. ‘I’ve brought your dress selection over. Come with me.’
I shot Mrs Brooker a look of conspiratorial dread but she just beamed, nodding encouragingly. I followed Pris out to her car, where three dresses hung from the hooks in her backseat. She handed me two – one pale pink, another glittery black. She carried the last, emerald green. That was the most likely contender, I thought, trailing after her back to the house. I sussed it out in her arms. A straight neckline, French cuff with modest shoulder straps to prevent slipping. It appeared to be fitted but not so tight I might offend people. It was long; it would sweep the floor but probably had a slit up to the knee on one side to aid movement. A classic. Just the dress I would have labelled ‘boring as shit’ for the past ten years.
Mrs Brooker and I examined them together in the lounge room. ‘I think this one, love,’ she said, taking the black one in her arms.
It was a stretchy fabric, shot through with silver thread, giving the impression of a starry sky. Fine straps and a subtle shape that would cling like paint.
‘I think I have just the right shoes to match, somewhere.’ Mrs Brooker stroked the dress and it rippled under her hand. I fell in love with it instantly. I felt the fabric. The weight of it glued the hems to the floor.
‘That belongs on a red carpet somewhere,’ I said. ‘God knows how it found its way into St Edna’s.’
‘I was thinking the pink, actually.’ Pris fluttered the pink gown in front of me.
It was soft and slinky, with a chiffon outer layer and a slight cowl-neck. Sexy and feminine – very Peach Queen. My eyes slipped back to the silver dress. It would be criminal not to choose that one.
‘The green is very elegant, too.’ Pris hastened to run her hand down the satin of the skirt.
‘You’re happy for me to choose any of these three?’ I asked her.
She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, yes.’
What had possessed her to bring that silvery dress for me? She obviously didn’t want me to wear it, and yet here it was, dangling in front of me like forbidden fruit from the serpent’s mouth.
‘You could be right about this one, Mrs B,’ I said, taking it from her.
‘Keep them all for now,’ said Pris. ‘You might find one or another looks better on.’
‘Thank you, Pris. They’re all pretty. And I can afford my own dress now, so I’ll pay for whichever one I choose.’
She seemed to disapprove of the fact that I had some independent means of living. Pris gathered the pink and green gowns, then swung the silver dress from my hands rather more savagely than was necessary. She clanged all the coat hangers into the wardrobe in my bedroom, making the mirror door rattle like windows in an earthquake.
Toby and Jo came for another barbecue that evening.
‘Two nights out baby-free in a row,’ Jo told me with a grin. ‘I won’t know myself.’
‘Is your mum loving her time with her grandbaby?’ I asked.
Toby chipped in, aggrieved. ‘She’s outta control. I’ve hardly been allowed to hold my own kid for the past twenty-four hours.’
‘Mum reckons there’s nothing like the connection you have with a grandchild,’ Jo said. ‘She says she can almost feel her own milk let-down when she sees me feed Ammers.’ She laughed. ‘Speaking of which, I’ve spent half the day on the breast pump so I can have a wild night tomorrow. Mum said she’ll let us sleep in on Saturday and everything. I’m going to get hammered.’ Jo raised her glass to me, in training.
‘You driving tomorrow, mate?’ Toby asked Angus.
‘Yeah.’
‘Mint. Pick us up?’
‘Yep.’
‘Don’t you want to have a drink, Ango?’ Jo asked.
‘I’ll have a beer or two but I’m not going to get drunk.’
‘Not with the Dalgetys there,’ Toby said with a grin. ‘Don’t want fisticuffs at the Harvest Ball. It’s supposed to be a classy do.’
‘The Dalgetys will be there?’ I asked, heart sinking.
‘Yeah, Nathan’s going. He’ll go anywhere there’s a chance of seeing chicks looking hot for free.’ Toby’s words made Jo groan. ‘And old Dalgety’s on MC duties.’
‘Colin is usually MC,’ was Mrs Brooker’s contribution.
‘It’ll be a peaceful evening, though.’ I looked at Angus. ‘Won’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ He turned a burger patty on the barbecue.
‘What are you wearing, Lottie?’ Jo asked me.
‘Pris has organised a couple of options for me. Want to see?’
‘Yeah, deffo.’ Jo stood.
I led her to my room and she perused the three dresses. ‘They’re all nice but this one’s bloody gorgeous,’ she said, fingering the silvery one.
‘It is.’
‘I’m wearing the dress I wore to my best friend’s wedding last year.’ Jo sipped her drink. ‘Lavender. It’s a bit meh, but I don’t have anything else, and all our money went on the tickets.’
‘Lavender’s very now,’ I said, and she brightened.
‘I’m just happy to have an adult night out, even if I do have to pump shitloads of milk.’ She sat on my bed.
‘Amelie’s pretty big now – doesn’t she eat solid food?’ I asked, sitting beside her.
‘She does, but I’m a boob nazi. She’s never had formula.’
‘Oh, right.’ I was vaguely aware that this was a point of contention between mothers of young babies.
‘I had to fight to breastfeed,’ she explained. ‘I’ve got an inverted nip. Had to pump and wear a shield, then my supply would drop and Ammers would scream her head off. I nearly gave in a few times. One night, I was sitting there pumping in the middle of the night, Amelie asleep on my lap. I wanted to get my supply up and the only way to do that is feed or pump. I wasn’t getting much, but it’s the sucking motion that increases your supply. Anyway, I got up to put her into her bassinet and when I went to put the milk in the fridge, it was a weird colour. Like strawberry milk. My nipple had been pissing blood into the pump.’ I winced and Jo laughed. ‘Yeah. Bleeding nips was the worst. But it was all worth it. I love feeding.’ She gestured at her chest. ‘Nice to know these things are useful. I always hated my boobs, but breastfeeding changed that. Oh, hey.’ Her face brightened. ‘I got all that baby gear to my cousin. She’s stoked. Thanks for that.’
‘Well done!’ I said. ‘And you barely needed me. I just gave you a little push in the right direction.’
‘Nah, I’m with Mrs B – you’re the master. Just, with your declutter, don’t touch the good stuff, okay?’
‘Huh?’
‘You know, your pe
rsonality declutter. Leave the good things alone. The bits like being kind, funny, generous and good at making people feel comfortable – I’ve never told anyone else some of that shit I said when you came over. But you don’t judge.’
I choked a little. ‘I can hardly judge others after some of the stuff I’ve done.’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever the reason, it’s cool. It’s nice. Makes you a good person – a good friend.’ Jo’s gaze fell on my bedside table. ‘Why’ve you got money stuck inside your lamp?’
I peered into the lamp and found four fifties sticky taped to the inside of the conical shade. I burst out laughing.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Oh, it’s just this stupid thing Angus and I have got going. I keep trying to pay him some rent and he keeps refusing. It’s become a game.’ Her eyebrows shot up and hovered mid-forehead. ‘Don’t say it,’ I warned her.
Jo laughed and waved her glass at me. ‘Come on. I’m empty.’
Angus served our burgers and we ate as the sun set.
‘D’you hear the rumour about the Dalgetys?’ Toby asked.
‘What now?’ said Angus.
‘Clearing trees in the old orchard.’
Angus stopped eating. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Angus,’ his mother murmured.
Toby nodded. ‘They say the treatment on the Olde Peach Tree is going really well. Doesn’t explain why they’re suddenly cutting down trees in the heritage orchard right next to it.’ Toby grimaced. ‘Maybe they found something on those trees they didn’t want anyone to see.’
Angus stared at his plate, all humour gone.
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Do you mean they might have found peach spot in the orchard near the Olde Peach Tree?’ Toby shrugged in answer. ‘Are those orchards on Dalgety land?’
‘Partially. Spills over, I think. That right, mate?’ Toby was eyeing his friend warily by now. ‘Who bloody knows, though? Might just be being cautious.’
‘If he’s clearing trees, he’s found more spot,’ said Angus.
There was silence for a few moments. I thought Angus was probably right. He lifted his gaze to exchange a look with me and I glanced at his mother. He gave me the slightest of comprehending nods. It might have even been a psychic nod.
Angus picked up his burger. ‘You picking any white nectarines, yet, Tobes?’
On the day of the ball, I helped Mrs Brooker make her plum cake for much of the morning. We tidied the kitchen while I tried not to worry about being in the public eye that night. When the phone rang, I answered.
‘Is that you, Lottie?’ Pris sounded more flustered than I’d ever heard her.
‘What’s wrong?’
Her explanation burst from her. ‘My jolly car won’t start, that’s what! It’s never done this before – never. On today, of all days!’
‘Have you got roadside assistance?’ I asked.
‘No! Why would I? It’s always been reliable.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I soothed her. ‘We can pick you up on our way in tonight.’
‘I need to be at the civic centre before then. I have to oversee the decorating and meet the caterers. And to top it all off, my jolly Siamese seems unwell and I think I’d better take him to the vet. I’ve got so much to do,’ she added with a moan.
‘Do you want me to come and pick you up? I could get Angus to keep an eye on …’ I stopped, aware that Mrs Brooker might be listening.
‘No, it’s all right.’ She snapped the words, as though she’d rather fight through on her own than accept my help. ‘You need to get ready. I’ll call around the committee and see if one of the ladies can give me a lift. I can drop my cat at the vet on the way.’
She hung up without even a goodbye. Manners, I thought, channelling Pris. She would be aghast at herself if she realised.
Around five, Angus came back from the orchards. He had a shower while I stared at the three dresses, still prevaricating. The dogs barked and a minute later Pris’s loud voice sounded at the front door. I came out to discover her in the hall with my mother.
‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Pris – I thought you’d be at the civic centre now.’
‘Lottie, you’re not even dressed!’ Pris spoke over the top of my mother, banging her basket down on the hall table. Clearly, the stress had become too much for her.
‘I’m getting dressed in a minute.’
‘I’ve been at the blasted civic centre with Hilary for hours.’ She patted perspiration from her face with a folded tissue and smoothed her yellow twin set. ‘That woman will be the death of me. Hopeless. I rushed home to get ready, then the vet called and wanted me to pick up Cosgrove’s Dream this afternoon, would you believe? I told him he could jolly-well keep the cat overnight. He knew I was coordinating the ball, for heaven’s sake! I got ready, then called for a taxi. A taxi! I haven’t called a taxi in thirty years. And what do you think? They’re all booked! Not one left in the blooming district! Luckily your mother offered to give me a lift here.’
I’d never heard Pris swear so much. Angus came out of the bathroom in a T-shirt and shorts, hair damp, beard gone. My God, those cheekbones. He’d gone from bushranger to rockstar. I stared.
‘Angus, I need you to give me a lift to the ball,’ Pris said immediately. She flicked a frown at me. ‘As soon as Lottie’s ready.’
Mrs Brooker appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Hello, Penny – Pris. Oh, Angus!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You look so different. So young.’
‘I think it suits him,’ my mother said, looking at Angus with amusement. He was going red.
‘Yes, it looks much better than that horrid beard,’ Pris said crossly.
‘Why don’t you just borrow my car, Pris?’ I said. ‘Then you can get yourself to the civic centre and not have to worry about waiting for a lift. Angus and I will take one of the farm cars.’
She hesitated. ‘Is your car a manual?’
‘Uh, yes.’
Pris was quiet for several moments. ‘I don’t drive manual,’ she said at last.
I was shocked into silence. Every self-respecting country dweller drove manual. Pink had risen on her cheeks. Could this be Pris Brooker’s darkest secret? Her one weakness?
‘You can’t drive manual?’ Even Angus was incredulous.
‘I didn’t get a driver’s licence until I was thirty, young man. I purchased an automatic car and learned to drive in that.’
He stopped grinning with an effort. ‘Fair enough, Aunty Pris. Manual’s not for everyone.’
She loathed that. ‘So yes, I will require a lift to the ball with you.’
‘I’m picking up Toby and Jo, as well,’ Angus said.
She sighed. ‘Fine. We need to be there at least half an hour before the doors open. Everything should be running smoothly, but you never know when something will crop up at the last minute.’ Pris glared in my direction. ‘You’d better get start getting ready.’
‘I’d like to see them all dressed up before we go to your place, if you don’t mind, Penny,’ Mrs Brooker said. ‘Let’s have a tea while we wait.’
My mother had no objection and the three women went for tea. I could hear Pris filling the kettle and then there was more swearing because she splashed water onto her jolly twin-set and it was bound to leave a mark when it jolly-well dried.
I inspected Angus. ‘I like you clean-shaven.’
He touched his chin. ‘Not too “pretty boy”?’
‘I quite like a pretty boy.’
A faint smile appeared but his eyes were serious. I moved around him and went for my own shower.
By the time I climbed out and towelled off, I’d decided on the green dress. The pink would make me feel like a sellout. The silver one was simply too spectacular. If I wanted to avoid attention, the green was the wise choice. I pulled it on and looked at myself in the mirrored wardrobe door. Nice dress. Not high fashion but elegant.
I looked at the shimmery one. I should try it, just for curiosity’s sake. I let the green one drop to
the floor and stepped into the silver.
Oh, holy shit.
It even felt amazing. What a shame Pris had taken it from the shop when some lucky Bonnievale girl could be wearing it tonight. My bra had removable straps, so I unclipped them and turned around to check myself out.
The magical dress clung and dripped from me like glittering tar. It was almost obscene, the way it encased every curve, except it was wonderfully classy at the same time. Not too low-cut or revealing. Not too strappy or even too tight. Just cosmically sexy, like the gods had thrown me about in the stars until I found myself wrapped up in the night sky. No famous designer could have done a better job of creating a bespoke dress for Charlize Beste. And it was from a church op shop, selected by Pris Brooker.
There was a tap on my door. I opened it to Mrs Brooker. ‘Oh, my goodness, love. You were made to wear that dress.’
How could I go back to the green, after that?
‘I thought you might like to use my room to get ready,’ she added. ‘I have a few bits and bobs – a hair dryer, spray, some makeup. You don’t seem to have much of that sort of thing, yourself. And there’s a bit more room.’
I thanked her. ‘Maybe some lipstick. Just for tonight.’
I followed Mrs Brooker to her room. She turned on the light and led me to the dressing table, pulling out the stool for me.
‘Here, see?’ She tugged open a drawer. ‘I have all colours of eyeshadow and lipstick. There’s rouge and foundation and a couple of compact powders. They’re a bit old but they seem to be all right. And here are my curlers and hairdryer and all the things you might need. I have a bit of costume jewellery in this box. What else?’ She perused me. ‘Shoes!’
She went to her wardrobe and pulled out the shoes we’d rescued from the spare room weeks earlier. The galaxy shoes.
‘They’re just perfect,’ she exclaimed, holding them against the dark glittering of my dress. ‘It was meant to be.’
I half expected her to whip out a wand and say bibbity bobbity boo. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs B. You’re amazing.’ I hugged her impulsively.
