by Sasha Wasley
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I just want to talk. How are you?’
I went for an offhand tone. ‘Pretty good. You?’
‘Not bad.’
I swallowed the anger that bubbled up. ‘How’s it been without your mum?’
‘I miss her. It’s weird at home without her. But I’m surviving.’ He reached into his pocket and held out his hand. ‘I wanted to bring you this.’
It was the boomerang two hundred dollars. ‘No, thanks,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s rent for the time I stayed at your place.’ I fiddled with a rack of mints as though I was extremely busy and he ought to move along so I could get back to it.
Angus caught my hand and placed the four notes into it, closing my fingers over the cash. Then he hung onto my hand while I got red-faced and emotional.
‘Can I talk to you? Jo wouldn’t give me your phone number.’
‘Yes. I asked her not to.’
His face fell. ‘Why?’
‘Really?’
‘Lottie, can we talk? I want to explain.’
‘I’m working.’
‘What about later? Could you come around and see me?’
‘Angus.’ My voice sounded annoyingly plaintive and I hardened it hastily. ‘It’s fine. I understand.’
‘No, you don’t.’
I withdrew my hand, but he didn’t let it go. I glared at him. ‘Well, tell me.’
‘Not here. Please – I can see you’re angry, but I just want to have a conversation.’
‘I’ve found a job in Wallabah. I’m leaving.’
He released my hand. ‘You’re leaving? When?’
‘A fortnight.’ I kept my eyes on the counter.
‘Lottie, please, I need to explain about my – my policy. Are you free after work?’
‘No.’ To my immense vexation, tears had started to gather in my eyes. I willed them not to spill. While it was just water in your eyes, it was okay; it wasn’t until the water dripped that you were officially crying. Even if you couldn’t see a damn thing.
My mum straightened up and peered over the shelves. ‘Angus, hi!’ she said, pleasure in her voice. She took a long look at my face. ‘Everything okay, Lott?’
‘Yeah. I’ll just take a quick break.’
I left Angus standing there and escaped. It became official crying the moment I made it into the back room of our shop. I waited in there until I was calm and my eyes had dried – and until I felt reasonably sure Angus had given up. Cautiously, I emerged.
He was gone.
All afternoon, I second-guessed myself. Maybe going to see Angus, letting him speak, would give me some closure. Then I got annoyed because I knew I still wanted him. What good would going to see him do? He’d just try to tell me why he had his stupid policy – again; and I’d have to accept that he didn’t want me – again.
No, I won’t go. I thought about that guy at the museum who was interested in me. He wouldn’t wait long to ask me out, I was sure, and he seemed sweet. Well-adjusted. No screwed-up history or ancestral burdens. I imagined his clean-shaven chin and lips kissing me gently – and my mind betrayed me, drifting back to Angus’s wild kisses, his scratching stubble. The look in his eyes the morning after the ball, when he passed me a cup of tea.
Shit. I was nowhere near ready to date anyone else.
I went home from work and sat out the back of the house to dwell on it a bit more. Jo text-messaged me. I know I’ve asked you this before babe, but can I give Angus your number? He just wants to talk to you.
Please don’t, I replied.
Okay, she sent back, accompanied by a sad-face emoji.
I switched off my phone and gazed at the string of hearts plant, drooping out of its hanging pot in the afternoon sunlight. Mrs Brooker came into my head, giving me her beautiful doilies, keeping Long Bunny for Angus, telling me about my mother’s ‘empathy’. What would she make of this situation – of me refusing to go and speak to Angus? Of refusing to listen to anyone who had something they needed to say? Oh God, I was being immature. I made up my mind in an instant.
‘Mum,’ I called, stepping inside. ‘I’m going to see Angus.’
‘Okay, Lott,’ she called back. ‘Will you be back for dinner?’
‘Yep. I won’t be long at all.’
My resolve wavered as I reached Brooker Road and I almost kept driving past the turnoff. No, I needed to deal with this now. I couldn’t have Angus bugging Jo for my number or coming to see me at work any more. I swung into the road and pulled up at the farm gate. There was a new sign fixed to the front fence, but I couldn’t read it from this angle. Blue came running to greet me, barking joyously, Bundy trundling more slowly behind her, his tongue lolling.
‘Hello, hello,’ I said as I climbed out of my car. ‘It’s just me. Just Lottie.’
Instead of going through the gate I backtracked to read the sign screwed to the fence. Bonnie Brook Natural Honey, it said, with softly illustrated little bees swirling around the blue lettering. My logo design. I went through the gate and patted the dogs, willing my heart rate to slow. So, Angus had used my logo? No biggie. I should send him an invoice for the design work.
Angus swung open the front door and I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.
‘Hi.’ His chocolate eyes were bright.
I remained stony. ‘You wanted to discuss something?’
‘Yes. Thanks for coming. Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?’ He gestured at the house as though to invite me inside.
I folded my arms across my chest. ‘No, thanks.’
He came down the steps and I tensed but all he said was, ‘I’m doing a burn-off. Will you come?’
Seriously?
I took my time, then shrugged. ‘For a little while, I guess. What’s with the honey sign?’
‘I’m expanding the hives.’
‘Expanding?’
Angus wasn’t heading for the ute as expected. He was leading the way to the backyard, the dogs panting happily in front of us.
‘I’m trying to get them commercially viable. The region’s becoming more produce-focused, not just stone fruit.’
‘You mean, conserves and wines and stuff?’
‘Yeah. Someone’s opening a cheese factory on the road to Wallabah and there’s an application in the shire for a cidery here in Bonnievale, too. I was thinking of running a weekend honey shop, maybe even making mead and other products.’
How would he find time for that, given his long hours in the orchards? Not my problem. Hopefully he wouldn’t overcommit and end up burning himself out. Not my goddamn problem.
We arrived at a small burn-off pile in the beehive pasture. Not much of a pile. It didn’t really warrant a burn-off, in my opinion. Angus fetched us stumps to sit on and I watched him get the fire going.
He stepped back. ‘I just need to get something.’
He went towards the house. I visited the chickens while he was gone. They all came waddle-running over, and I recognised Chooky in the lead. How did I ever get her mixed up with the other black chickens? I softened, crouching down to stick my finger through the wire. Chooky pecked my fingertip, expecting food, and I laughed.
Angus was returning. I went back to the fire and seated myself on a stump. He was carrying two beers and a large yellow envelope that had Policy written on the front. I froze. Angus shot me a self-conscious glance and passed me a beer. He sat down on his stump, opening the envelope. Bundy settled at his feet; Blue was glued to my side.
I hadn’t wanted a drink, but the situation seemed to call for it, so I cracked the top and took a swig. ‘What’s that?’
He gave me a crooked smile. ‘You know what it is.’
‘I mean, what are you doing with it?’
‘Talking you through it.’
I stood abruptly, which made Blue jump up too. ‘You don’t need to. I know what’s in there and I know what it means.’
‘There’s some stuff you don’t kno
w.’
I sank back down, too curious to stay on my high moral ground. Angus pulled out a photo and showed it to me. It was him and Bianca on their wedding day. He looked at it for a moment, then tossed it into the flames. We watched it buckle and melt.
‘I hated her,’ he said. ‘Not because she was horrible – she wasn’t. Or because she broke my heart – she didn’t. Just because she was part of my failure. She got the money and that made Dad lose hope.’
He reached back in and pulled out a photo of a headstone, passing it to me. ‘The company that made Dad’s headstone spelled a word wrong.’
I read it.
Edward Henry Brooker.
Beloved husband of Caroline and father of Angus.
May your soul fly forver free.
‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘How …’
‘I emailed them this photo to let them know. They were really apologetic. They replaced the headstone but I printed the photo and kept it. It was the perfect way for me to remember the fuck-up that my father’s death represented. My mistake, his mistake. The mess he left behind.’
Angus held out his hand and I passed the photo back. He dropped it into the fire.
‘The mortgage contract on Brooker’s,’ he said, pulling out a stapled document. He swung it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘The bank made us jump through hoops before they would give us this loan. They knew we wouldn’t be able to make repayments. I hoped Dad would sell up to get us out of the shit, but I also knew that if he did, it was more than just selling a farm. It was selling himself and his whole ancestry.’
Angus dropped the contract on the fire. The staple flared a beautiful green, like a polar aurora. He fished for the next document: the insurance payout letter I’d already read.
‘Entrust. They sniffed around, you know. They suspected. They interviewed Mum and me, spoke to Dad’s friends. Lots of questions about his state of mind. I played dumb but part of me wanted them to find out, then I could admit I knew the truth and maybe I would even get in trouble, but it would be a relief to have it out in the open. Instead of it all being my fault, my father would be under scrutiny. Pris and Mum could hate him, even just a little bit, and it wouldn’t be all down to me any more. It wouldn’t just be “young Brooker”, who lost the money and put his father into an early grave. It would be old Brooker who took the coward’s way out. But they didn’t find any evidence.’ Angus shot a look my way. ‘It wasn’t long after that I stopped wearing the bee veil.’
‘You know, your decision not to wear the veil was the same as what your dad did,’ I said, not holding back. ‘It was suicidal.’
He was silent for a long moment, then he dipped his head. ‘I know.’
I was too surprised to answer. Angus dropped the letter onto the flames. The quality paper blackened in the centre before a hole formed, burning from the middle outwards.
Next was the court orders. ‘I was in denial over this for a while,’ he said, showing me the wad of paper. ‘I thought, no way is this fair. The court’s made a mistake. I can appeal. But I saw three different lawyers and they all told me I was dreaming if I thought the court would change its mind. They all said, in their own ways, take out a mortgage and move on – accept it and face the consequences.’
He dropped it on the fire. Bundy gave a particularly loud snore. Angus pulled the last few things out of the envelope. ‘The letter from the bank to say the mortgage was discharged,’ he said, tossing it onto the fire. ‘My divorce certificate.’ Onto the fire. ‘An acknowledgement from Farm and Plant Trader that Dad cancelled his subscription just before he died – my only real, tangible proof that he took those pills deliberately.’ He dropped it into the flames and used a stick to poke any errant scraps of unburned paper back into the heart of the fire.
At last Angus was left with one last item: a photograph of Mrs Brooker smiling on the verandah. He studied it.
‘Don’t burn that,’ I said.
He looked up. ‘I’ve got others. This one, I kept in the envelope from the time I realised Mum was going downhill. I needed it to remind myself that I would never have anything but bad luck and misery.’ He tossed the photo onto the fire. ‘That’s not how I want to remember her.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ I said. ‘I know all this. I know how much you hate yourself, how guilty you feel, how miserable you want to be for the rest of your life. I don’t need a detailed lesson in it, you – you absolute—’
He interrupted before I could find the right word. ‘I’m trying to change.’
I was silenced. Angus retrieved the yellow Policy envelope from where it had fallen on the ground. He dropped it onto the fire and it went up like a dead eucalyptus leaf, it was so old and dry.
‘The other day, I found one of the Harvest Ball flyers sitting in a pile of papers,’ he said. ‘Here’s the truth, Lottie: I decided to add it to the envelope. I decided that a picture of you would be a good thing to add to my policy, to remind me how everything I touch goes wrong – to remind me never to get this close again.’ He glanced at me, knowing I would want to argue, but I let him continue. ‘I was standing there in the spare room, about to put the flyer in the envelope, but then I noticed your windchime hanging in the window and I thought about all those things you burned – how you cut all the crap out of your life. How strong you were, even burning stuff that was important to you. I wondered if I could do that – if I could try to be better than my mistakes.’
My face was heating up and I couldn’t tell if it was the fire or his words. I looked away, rubbing Blue’s ears as she squinted contentedly in the falling sunlight.
Angus took a breath. ‘I’ve sold the orchards.’
My eyes flew back to him and my mouth fell open.
‘The Dalgetys approached me after the funeral and offered to buy. Not sure if it’s a commercially astute decision or they just wanted the glory of buying out Brooker’s. I don’t care. We signed the contracts yesterday. I’m free of this place.’
I stared around myself wildly. ‘But – your home! And – and it’s Brooker’s.’
‘I’m keeping the house and a couple of acres for honey production, but I’ve sold all the orchards. There will be enough money from the sale to keep me going until I make the hives profitable. If that doesn’t work, I’ll get rid of the rest of the property and find myself a job. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to worry about keeping Brooker’s going any more.’
I tried to process it. ‘Aren’t people mad at you?’
He shrugged. ‘A few are. They’ve aired their opinions. Pris is pissed as hell, but she’ll come around. I’m planning to give her some money from the property sale.’ Angus examined my face, chewing his lip. ‘Look, I’ve probably already fucked this up, but if there’s any chance I haven’t … This job you’ve got – moving to Wallabah. How set in stone is it?’
‘I’m taking the job,’ I said. ‘It’s perfect for me. I don’t have a rental yet, but I’ve shortlisted some places.’
‘Would you – would you consider commuting from Bonnievale?’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Would you consider moving back in here?’
‘What? Why?’
‘To be with me.’ Angus didn’t take his eyes off mine.
‘What about your policy?’
He didn’t let up with the stare. ‘You saw. It’s gone. I burned it all.’
I lowered my gaze to the fire, suddenly feeling unanchored. ‘Well, yeah, it’s easy to scrap your policy now you’ve got rid of the orchards. There’s no chance you could lose the farm in a separation settlement. You don’t need your policy any more, not really. You’ve got nothing to lose.’ I bit my lip to halt the gabbling.
Angus was shaking his head. ‘Fuck the property. I don’t care about that. I’ve got a lot to lose – more than I’ve ever had.’ I kept my gaze on the fire and he dipped his chin to catch my eye again. ‘Lottie?’
‘What?’
‘I’m asking you to be with me.�
��
‘Bullshit.’ It exploded out of me, violent and angry.
‘Not bullshit. Take the Wallabah job but come home at night to live with me.’
I opened my mouth to make a sassy retort, but it never quite manifested so I was left sitting there with my mouth ajar.
‘Come and keep bees and chickens with me,’ Angus said.
He appeared to be serious. I took a long pull on my beer that made me cough.
‘Marry me,’ he said. ‘Have kids with me.’
‘Angus, do you think I’m insane? I’ll be miserable with someone as broken as you. You’ll only push me away again the next time something goes wrong and you decide the Brooker curse is rearing its head.’
He shook his head, those eyes steady on mine. ‘I won’t.’
Just two words, so heartfelt I almost caved. It appeared Angus was not lying any more – that he had burned the lies and fear along with the yellow envelope of reminders. I stood up, thoughts whirling.
‘I think I’d better go.’
‘Please, Lottie.’
I put down my beer and turned towards the house. Blue laughed all over her face and danced at my feet, excited about where we were going. I could hear Angus walking behind me but I didn’t look back. I reached the gate. Blue stopped and her tail drooped.
‘Lottie.’
I glanced back as I undid the latch and Angus held out a hand. I stared at it. I didn’t move, but his hand remained where it was, outstretched – trembling but steadfast. He wanted me: not celebrity hanger-on Charlize with a nail-varnish habit; not abjectly honest Lottie who never looked at herself in the mirror. Just me, Charlotte Bentz, work in progress. Trying every day to be – or at least do – something worthwhile.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, almost unintentionally.
He still had that beautiful hope in his eyes and the hand stayed.
It would never work.
