by R. A. Spratt
‘You know, you don’t have to do anything,’ said Loretta. ‘No one is kidnapping you or holding a gun to your head. If you want to walk away and go home right now, you can.’
April took a deep breath. She was going to quit. It was clear from the uncertainty that flashed across her face.
‘No way,’ said Fin.
‘Fin,’ said Loretta. ‘Don’t. If she wants to walk away . . .’
‘No, that’s not happening,’ said Fin. ‘Not on my watch.’ He looked April squarely in the eye, which was a thing he usually avoided. Like silverback gorillas, just looking at April could make her fly into a dangerous rage, but on this occasion he did it anyway. ‘You are April Peski. You aren’t afraid of anything. You aren’t afraid of bears or head injuries or dart-gun-wielding animal control officers. You may drive us all nuts with your rage and violence. But your bravery is epic. If you are brave enough to take on wild animals and deranged adults, then you can do anything. You are brave enough to face riding down Main Street on a giant potato wearing a dress! Since when have you ever cared what anyone thought of you, anyway? When have you ever let the possibility of a few mean comments stop you from doing whatever you want to do?’
April almost seemed to swell as her pride and determination flowed back into her.
‘Ask yourself, do you want to ride down Main Street on a giant potato?’ demanded Fin.
‘Of course I do,’ said April. ‘It will be totally legendary. But I’m not wearing this dress.’
She started reaching round inside the dressing-gown for the zipper.
‘You can’t go naked,’ said Fin.
‘Duh,’ said April. ‘I’m not going to. You’re going to swap clothes with me.’
‘What?’ said Fin.
‘Just do it!’ ordered April. She was already pulling off the dress. Pumpkin grabbed the hem in his teeth and was trying to help. She might be embarrassed to be seen in a frock on Main Street, but apparently she had no qualms about stripping off in the Co-op Stock Feed Lot car park. She and Fin had soon swapped outfits. The taffeta on the skirt did make it difficult for Fin to climb back inside the Giant Potato but he managed.
April felt a million times more comfortable in the black tuxedo. It even had pockets for her dog treats. She gave one to Pumpkin as she picked him up. ‘Come on, sweetheart, we’ve got a potato to ride.’
Meanwhile on Main Street the citizens of Currawong were working themselves up into a state of potato-induced hysteria. After the excitement of the Capture the Potato Game and the carbohydrates of the baked potatoes they had eaten, everyone was primed to enjoy the highlight of the day – the parade. A temporary stage had been set up in front of the Good Times Cafe, with chairs set out for Mr Lang, the president of the CWA, the Potato Princess Nominees and Dame Bronwyn herself. The crowd couldn’t wait to see the floats and find out who the princess was, but they were even more excited to get a glimpse of that great legend of potato cultivation.
Mr Lang was nervously checking his watch, as if that would make Dame Bronwyn arrive any earlier.
‘She was meant to be here an hour ago,’ he worried.
‘I offered to organise her transport for you,’ said President Sweet, ‘but no, you said it was a council responsibility.’
‘She said she’d arrange her own transport,’ said Mr Lang.
President Sweet smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh dear, you should never have agreed to that.’
‘She’s a Dame!’ protested Mr Lang. ‘You can’t bully a Dame.’
‘You can’t, no,’ agreed President Sweet.
Mr Lang checked his watch again. There was still no change. She still wasn’t there. The eternal progress of time could be a pain in the neck some days.
Just then, at the end of Main Street there was the loud BANG of a car backfiring. Everyone turned to see a small yellow hatchback chugging its way towards them. The car was clean and shiny, but it was at least thirty-five years old.
‘This must be her,’ said the President.
‘You’d think after her service to the potato industry she could afford a better car,’ observed Mr Lang.
‘There’s no money in veg research,’ said President Sweet, sadly.
Eventually the tiny hatchback pulled up in front of the stage, there was a loud wrench of the handbrake being engaged and the driver’s door swung open. But a little old lady did not get out. The driver was a great, big muscly young man. The crowd was surprised. But then the man walked around the car and opened the passenger door, and everyone’s expectations were met.
A tiny old lady wearing a tweed suit and pearl necklace reached out to take the young man’s arm. He helped her to her feet. She tucked her handbag over her elbow and allowed herself to be led slowly up onto the stage.
‘Oh my,’ said Dad, from his position up the back of the crowd with Mum. ‘It’s her!’ He clutched his hands to his heart. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face.
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, puh-lease.’
People in the crowd were calling out to Dame Bronwyn.
‘Thanks for coming!’
‘You look great!’
‘We love your spud!’
Dame Bronwyn nodded, smiled a smile even smaller than the Mona Lisa’s, and waved regally as she kept walking.
‘What a woman,’ said Dad. ‘Do you think now would be a good time to ask for an autograph?’
‘You know, I’ve worked with the best forgers in the world,’ said Mum. ‘I could just get an autograph forged for you. It would look exactly the same. I could get you Mick Jagger’s as well.’
‘Who?’ asked Dad.
‘Are the only celebrities you’ve ever heard of vegetable-related?’ asked Mum.
‘Yes, I’ve never understood why people are interested in pop musicians or movie stars. They’re all so silly,’ said Dad. ‘Whereas that woman, she is a tuber legend.’
Dame Bronwyn eventually made it up the short flight of steps and onto the stage. Mr Lang went over to shake her hand, and he actually bowed. It was an instinctive response. She just seemed like the type of woman you should bow to.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ said Mr Lang. ‘You do our town a great honour.’
Dame Bronwyn tilted her head, accepting the compliment. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
Mr Lang turned back to the microphone. ‘And now, as acting interim mayor of Currawong I am proud to officially welcome Dame Bronwyn, the mother of the Bronwyn Brown, the pride of Currawong, to our town!’
The crowd clapped and cheered. Dame Bronwyn raised her wrinkled hand and waved at everyone politely.
‘Now that our guest of honour is here, the parade can begin!’ announced Mr Lang.
The crowd cheered even louder.
‘Bring forth the nominees for Potato Princess,’ ordered Mr Lang.
From the far end of the street, there was the piercing blast of a whistle. Constable Pike was waving the first float forward. The forklift from the co-op nosed its way round the corner. The driver being extra cautious partly because of the teenage girl sitting on the raised prongs of his fork, but mainly because his view was obscured by the thousands of toilet paper rosettes over every square inch of his vehicle. The crowd cheered and clapped approvingly.
At the back of the line of floats, April was sitting on top of the Giant Potato with Pumpkin on her lap. She wasn’t meant to be last, but the tractor had stalled and Neil had to tinker with the engine to get it going again. It wasn’t anything serious, but it’s a hassle to adjust the throttle when you have to climb into a giant potato to do it.
‘What’s the hold up?’ April called down. There was a hole right between her feet, so she could speak to the driver. It was windy on top of the Giant Potato and the whole thing creaked and moved with each gust. It was unnerving. Pumpkin barked hysterically as if the wind was attacking him. April didn’t want to stay up there any longer than she had to.
‘Nearly there,’ said Neil, as he struggled to adjust the choke.
‘Hurry up,’ urged April. ‘The other floats are all pulling away. We’re going to miss out!’
‘Turn it over!’ called Neil.
Fin got into the driver’s seat, put one foot on the clutch, the other on the brake and turned the key, the engine grumbled for a bit but eventually roared to life.
‘Go!’ urged Neil.
‘Me? Drive this?!’ asked Fin. He had to yell, because inside the potato the sound of the engine was so loud.
‘It’s April’s big moment,’ said Neil. ‘She can’t miss out.’
Fin slid the tractor into gear and they started bunny hopping forward with Neil clutching the bonnet. The tractor and the two boys were totally encased inside the potato, so Fin could barely see where he was going. He only had the one hole to look through. But he had mounted four video cameras to the outside of the Giant Potato, so he could get a better view via an old TV they had welded to the bonnet of the tractor. The problem was you had to change channels to select a different camera view and the TV was so old it didn’t have a remote control.
It wasn’t a lot of fun for April either, every vibration and lurch of the tractor was amplified up through the potato. She clung to the arms of her chair for dear life. Pumpkin loved it. He barked excitedly at each lurch and shake of the vehicle. The whole thing was terrifying, which was a good thing because it totally took April’s mind off what she was doing. She totally forgot she was sitting on a potato as she swung into full view of Main Street.
Suddenly, there was a deafening roar. Thousands of people were cheering. A chant was starting up, ‘Spud, spud, spud, spud.’ They were cheering for her! April would have waved, if she wasn’t so frightened of letting go for even a second.
‘Is that my April?’ marvelled Mum.
‘Oh, so it is,’ said Dad. ‘I didn’t notice her. I was looking at the potato. It’s a magnificent representation.’
The Potato Princess Parade may have been silly, and an extreme waste of toilet paper, but it was an impressive sight. A tiny, old-fashioned town in the middle of nowhere, in which every resident within a hundred kilometre radius had gathered to celebrate the importance of potatoes to their region. It may have been a brutally competitive event, but as every girl sat atop her own special float, waving to the delighted cheering crowd, every one of them felt like a princess.
One by one the floats pulled up in front of the stage, and the nominees were each handed a bouquet of roses as they stepped off to take their spot on the podium. April was the last to arrive. It was a bit harder for her to get off her float, because the potato was so big and she was so high off the ground. In the end, she had to lie face down on the potato and slide backwards as far as she could before gravity took over and she dropped the rest of the way. She landed in a crumpled heap at Dame Bronwyn’s feet, with Pumpkin tumbling into her lap, barking and startling the old lady.
‘No worries,’ April reassured her. ‘I’m fine.’ April scrambled up, tucked Pumpkin under her arm and strode in a most unladylike manner to her spot.
Mr Lang handed her a bunch of roses.
‘What’s this?’ asked April.
‘A bouquet of flowers,’ said Mr Lang.
‘What am I supposed to do with them?’ asked April. ‘I don’t have a vase in my pocket.’
‘You’re meant to hold them elegantly,’ said Mr Lang.
‘Fine,’ said April, tucking the bunch under her armpit so she could keep both hands free. Pumpkin grabbed a rose in his mouth and savaged it.
‘Now that all the nominees have arrived,’ said Mr Lang. ‘I call upon the President of the CWA to tell us the results of the Potato Princess Poll,’ said Mr Lang.
President Sweet stepped forward amongst much clapping and cheering. She took out a wad of notes.
‘Thank you,’ she began, waiting for the crowd to quiet down. ‘The members of the CWA stayed up late last night counting all the votes, and then recounting them to make sure there were no mistakes. This year we have a clear winner. You, the citizens of Currawong, were asked to vote for the girl who had done the most to make this town a better place and eighty-one per cent of you voted for the same candidate.’
A hush fell over the crowd. You could have heard a square of toilet paper drop.
President Sweet cleared her throat, ‘Achem . . . This year’s Potato Princess is . . . April Peski!’
All 3000 people present at the parade collectively gasped. Then there was an explosion of gabbling and conversation.
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s rigged!’
‘She’s off her rocker!’
But the person who was most vocal in her response was Matilda Voss-Nevers. ‘Nooooooooo!’ she screamed. ‘No no no!’ She lunged at April, belting her about the head with her bouquet of roses.
‘Ow!’ said April, ducking and weaving to avoid the rain of blows. ‘Those roses have thorns.’
‘IT IS NOT FAIR!’ screamed Matilda.
‘Stop that!’ yelled Daisy Odinsdottir, rushing forward and knocking Matilda out of the way. ‘I’m going to kill her!’ Daisy lunged for April, but Loretta deftly used her own bouquet to trip Daisy, causing her to topple head first off the front of the stage and land right in Constable Pike’s arms.
‘You’re under arrest,’ said Constable Pike.
‘You can’t arrest me!’ demanded Daisy. ‘Arrest her!’
‘Girls!’ snapped Mr Lang, ‘Control yourselves. Give the President a chance to speak and explain herself.’
‘It can’t be right!’ wailed Matilda. ‘Who on earth would vote for her?!’ Matilda turned on the crowd. ‘Those pesky Peski kids must have rigged the election. No one here would have actually voted for April Peski as Potato Princess!’
There was silence for a moment. Then a woman in the middle of the crowd put her hand up. ‘I did,’ she said. ‘I’m the chairperson of the local branch of the RSPCA. There’s lots of people who fight for the rights of cute animals like koalas and puppies, but April Peski fought for the rights of an aging escaped circus bear. She earned my vote.’
At the back of the crowd another man put his hand up. ‘I run the council animal shelter and April Peski comes in once a week to read picture books to the unwanted dogs,’ said the man. ‘She earned my vote. She always shows them each page so they can have a good look at every picture.’
The crowd mumbled.
‘April always stops and talks to us old folks at the retirement home,’ an octogenarian man called out. ‘Well to be strictly accurate, she yells abuse at us for being the generation that ruined the planet. But most people patronise us and talk to us like we’re toddlers so we find her vitriolic insults refreshing. It’s the highlight of my day.’
‘She exposed the cheating at the cockroach race!’ called out another citizen.
‘She helps disabled people,’ called out someone else. ‘She helped that blind boy participate in a mud run.’
‘He’s not blind,’ snapped April. ‘He’s vision impaired. At least he says he is. I’m not a hundred per cent convinced.’
‘I voted for her because she caught those bank robbers,’ said someone else.
‘She got my vote because she keeps Constable Dimwit on his toes,’ added the Cat Lady.
‘You see,’ said President Sweet. ‘The results are conclusive. Currawong loves you.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said the Cat Lady. ‘We just like her more than the others.’
Matilda stared for a moment, drew a deep breath then broke into racking sobs, collapsing on Dame Bronwyn’s shoulder.
Dame Bronwyn did not look like a woman used to giving comfort. Not to humans anyway. Mr Lang took Matilda by the shoulders and led her away.
President Sweet continued, ‘Miss Peski’s demeanour may be non-traditional, but the sheer weight of statistics does not lie. Miss Peski has at all times, even when not asked to do so, articulated her firm beliefs in feminism, animal conservation and against hypocrisy.’
‘That�
�s true enough,’ said Mr Lang, dabbing his forehead. He had been on the end of April’s harangues more than anyone.
‘Doing good works in the community is rarely pretty or fun,’ said President Sweet. ‘Standing up for good values is rarely popular or appreciated. That is why we have competitions like this to recognise people who buck the trend, not for the way it makes them look, but simply because it is the right thing to do. It gives me great pride to name this year’s Potato Princess – April Peski. Dame Bronwyn, could you please crown our new princess?’
Dame Bronwyn stepped forward and took the crown from the President. It was not diamond studded, or even fake-diamond studded, it was potato studded. It was the ugliest crown April had ever seen.
She barked a snort of laughter. ‘That is so cool! Dad will love it.’
As Dame Bronwyn lowered the crown onto April’s head, she spoke into the microphone in a quavering voice, ‘I feel as proud of this moment as I was the first time I pruned a potato plant.’
These words caught Dad’s attention, ‘What did she say?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mum, dabbing a tear from her eye. ‘I’ve got something in my eye.’
‘She said something about pruning, didn’t she?’ asked Dad.
‘I wasn’t listening to that bit,’ said Mum. ‘Did you hear what that woman said about our daughter? Aren’t you proud?’
‘Yes yes, of course, I’m proud of April every day,’ said Dad. ‘But Dame Bronwyn said she pruned a potato! That’s preposterous. That woman is a fraud.’
‘Oh Harold,’ said Mum. ‘Please don’t cause a scene now.’
Up on stage Dame Bronwyn was starting to get in the swing of things. She seemed to enjoy the sound of her own voice amplified out across Main Street. ‘Your mother must be so proud of you, young lady. I would love to meet the woman who raised you. Where is Mrs Peski?’
April had already spotted her mother in the crowd. She pointed straight at her. ‘Over there.’
‘Marvellous!’ said Dame Bronwyn. ‘Come up on stage. You deserve acclaim too for raising such a wonderful daughter.’