Those Pleasant Girls

by Lia Weston

  ‘It’s –’

  ‘Wonderful! I must apologise, I haven’t had a chance to pop past, I do so like to welcome people to Sweet Meadow, or back, should I say in your case, ah ah ah! But we’ve just returned from a girls’ holiday to Bali, the unpacking has been never-ending, I swear my knickers seem to multiply overnight. Ebony, say hello to Ms Bouvier.’

  A stocky girl, her enormous eyes ringed with blue eyeliner, slid into view from behind Joy Piece of Piece Real Estate.

  ‘This is my youngest here and over there is Therese, Miss Rural Pastures three years running, carrying on the family tradition. Yoo-hoo, Teezy!’ Joy waved at the group of teenagers by the hall door. Nudged to attention, a willowy blonde turned and lethargically waved back. Evie recognised the girl’s prepossessing features on Joy, though Joy’s were blurred by time and Maybelline. There was probably a long line of rural beauty queens in the Piece family tree. Ebony, however, was more on the shrub side of things.

  ‘Now, where’s your girl? I’ve heard she’s one of those gothy people, likes to wear black, but if they’re not taking drugs or jumping off bridges, then I guess we can put up with a bit of hair dye, can’t we? Is she here?’

  Mary was next to the photo display, gesturing in Evie’s direction. Oh, God, what was she saying, and to whom? Evie stood on tiptoe to see who she was with. It was the woman in that odd hat. Then Evie saw Nathan. The nerves she’d successfully clamped down all morning uncoiled like a rattlesnake. Catching her eye, Nathan lifted his hand and touched his forehead, then his shoulders – one, two, three. It was their old salute.

  It was a sign.

  The scones tipped to the side.

  ‘Whoops – hold on.’ A hand the size of a shoebox rescued her plate.

  Evie looked up past a broad expanse of chest to behold a scatter of stubble, sleepy khaki eyes, and hair that stood up at the back.

  ‘Why, Phil, I don’t believe I saw you in church,’ said Joy, fluttering three dollars’ worth of Maybelline at Evie’s rescuer.

  ‘Had to sort Henry out,’ said Phil. ‘Mum around?’

  A chirruping ring answered him. Fishing her Swarovski-encrusted mobile out of her pocket, Joy pointed Phil in the direction of the playing-card hat. ‘Lovely to meet you, Evie, welcome back, do pop into the office, we’ll have a nice ladies’ lunch, look after her, Phil, won’t you? Hello, darling!’ she trilled into the phone and began shouldering people aside with her mighty epaulets. Ebony followed at a safe distance, out of poking range.

  Phil deposited Evie’s cup and Jenga scone tower on the trestle table. ‘After you.’

  As her admirers parted before them, creating a corridor of crumbs and aftershave, Evie prayed to God that she had some lipstick left.

  She needn’t have worried. By the time they reached the bulletin board, Nathan had been dragged off by an ancient parishioner in a cardigan.

  Fucking hell, thought Evie, then cursed herself for breaking rule one in record time.

  ‘I saved you a scone,’ said Mary, offering her a plate.

  ‘You missed Nathan’s debut,’ said Mrs Beadles to Phil. ‘Sermon was good, though I’m still not sure exactly what the point was.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ said Phil.

  Mrs Beadles shook Evie’s hand. ‘Sorry to hear about your mother. She kept a beautiful garden. Shame what that last lot did to it.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing this one can’t fix,’ said Evie, putting an arm around Mary. ‘She speaks the language of plants. I tend to kill things just by looking at them.’

  ‘Gran always used to say that,’ said Mary.

  ‘I’m sure she did,’ said Evie, knowing full well what her mother had meant.

  ‘How’s Henry?’ said Mrs Beadles to Phil.

  ‘Tied up behind the shed.’ At Evie’s curious look, he added, ‘Henry is a bull.’

  ‘Henry is an escape artist,’ said Mrs Beadles, throwing her half-eaten scone in the bin, ‘masquerading as cattle. I see the catering hasn’t improved since I was here last. I swear Mrs Kitzeln stirs the batter with a cat.’

  ‘Mum’s an awesome cook,’ said Mary. ‘She can even make those profiterole toffee things.’

  Evie would have modestly demurred but was trying to swallow an undissolved lump of flour without coughing.

  ‘A baker at last, thank God,’ said Mrs Beadles. ‘Saint Sebastian’s fundraisers haven’t raised any actual funds for months. The only reason they made over thirty dollars last time was because Phil bought four teacakes.’

  ‘You must really like teacakes,’ said Mary.

  ‘Not any more,’ said Phil.

  ‘Mum once made a pavlova that made my dad cry, it was that good.’

  ‘Well, food is the way to a man’s heart, apparently,’ said Mrs Beadles.

  Evie smiled sweetly and reflected that the only way she wanted to get to her ex-husband’s heart right now was with a stake.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Everything was closed. Mary stood in the middle of the median strip and felt her arms starting to crisp in the sun. A river of glass doors shimmered in a row of Victorian storefronts, an oasis in a town where Sunday trading did not exist.

  She had intended just to walk to the end of the street. As if by their own accord, however, her feet had taken a detour instead, past the strings of cottages with clipped box hedges, past the bougainvillea that lazed over fences, past the rises in the footpath where the concrete had pushed and cracked like tectonic plates, until she found herself in the heart of the valley, on the main strip where she couldn’t have spent any money even if she wanted to.

  Antique shops, old lady clothing boutiques, a servo, a hairdresser with faded eighties posters, a fodder store, a pharmacy and a pizza joint. Mary lifted the hair off the back of her neck and rubbed her face. So this was her life now. She could get a perm and buy a tractor. Unless it was a Sunday. Awesome.

  Her grandmother had told her about a garden in Sweet Meadow that was so large it took up an entire block. ‘It never looks the same way twice,’ she’d said. ‘Always think about your planting as choreography rather than mathematics.’ Mary hadn’t found this legendary garden yet. Maybe it didn’t really exist. She felt the memory of her grandmother like a physical presence, a ball bearing rolling around the metal pit of her stomach.

  Beyond the town, pastures of dappled green and brown rolled up the sides of the valley to meet a woodland fringe. There was no sound except for the wah-wah-waaauugh of a raven sitting on the pharmacy roof, a black smudge against the burnt sky. Mary liked ravens; they seemed lonely, like old men complaining from verandas.

  One shop stood out, wider than the others and sandwiched between How Sweet It Is Cafe and a window full of blue rinse mannequins. The name above the peeling sapphire door was faint but readable: The Rose Apothecary.

  The bleached grass on the median strip crunched under Mary’s feet like cornflakes. The streets were so wide here it took three times longer to cross the road than back home.

  There were benches bolted to the Rose Apothecary’s windows. She knelt on one to peer through the smeared glass into the florist shop, the wood digging into her knees. Nothing could be seen past the grime except a counter disappearing into the gloom. She pivoted her forehead on the window and squinted up at the ceiling. There was a silver helium balloon wedged in a corner, slowly collapsing.

  Mary pushed off the glass, leaving a set of ghostly handprints and a sweat mark from her forehead marring her reflection. In the heat, her eyes felt like raisins. She should get back.

  Her heel had just left the kerb when a white sports car burned around the corner and headed straight towards her. Mary froze. She’d never reach the median strip in time. The concrete rumbled under her feet. She finally stumbled back, crash-landing on the edge of the footpath. As the car flashed past, she recognised the driver – the blonde girl from the church morning tea, her passenger the boy she had been with. In a few seconds they were gone, leaving dust in Mary’s mouth, petrol fumes in her n
ose and thumping bass in her ears.

  Picking herself up, feeling a bruise forming on her hip, Mary watched the car climb the road out of town and snake towards a massive white house punched into the lip of the valley.

  Wankers.

  This time she looked both ways before she crossed the road.

  ‘There’s a grape in my casserole. You didn’t make this, did you?’

  ‘The woman across the road did,’ said Evie, ripping off a piece of paper towel. ‘It was a nice gesture.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Mary, putting her fork down. ‘I thought country women were supposed to be good cooks.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think it’s a myth.’ Evie wiped her hands and collected both dishes. ‘Country hospitality isn’t, though. We’ve been invited to a party by that Joy woman. Already! It’s not for a while, but still. Isn’t that nice?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘I guess.’ She rested her head on her arms and watched Evie scrape the beefy grapey sludge into a garbage bag. Evie pulled all of the crockpots and saucepans which had also been neighbourly goodwill gestures out of the fridge and binned their contents one by one until the garbage bag looked like it was about to come alive and put itself out on the footpath. ‘Do you know the old guy next door?’

  ‘That’s Felix,’ said Evie, shutting the dishwasher with her knee.

  ‘He’s kind of nosey.’

  ‘You’re in a small town now, honey. Everyone’s nosey.’

  ‘He said he hoped we were quieter than the last people who lived here.’

  ‘Judging by the shed full of beer bottles and broken piñatas, that shouldn’t be too hard,’ said Evie from the depths of the fridge.

  ‘Did we kick them out?’

  ‘We haven’t made anyone homeless, don’t worry.’ Evie deposited salad leaves, ham and cheese on the table. ‘Their lease expired at the end of last year. Everything worked out well, all things considered.’

  ‘Except for Gran being dead,’ said Mary.

  Evie leaned over the back of Mary’s chair to give her a hug. ‘I’m sorry, babyduck. I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘I know.’ Mary put her chin on Evie’s forearm for a moment. She knew she missed her grandmother more than her mother did. Evie had been quiet for a few days after the funeral, but that was about it. ‘Can I have extra cheese in my sandwich?’

  ‘You can have whatever you want.’ Evie dropped a kiss on Mary’s head.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘We can’t, sweetheart. You know that.’

  ‘I know.’ Mary picked out a rocket leaf and chewed it.

  The pattern on Evie’s dress reflected in the glossy white of the refrigerator door. Dresses. Another new thing. Mary had only seen Evie in dresses at weddings or for Christmas, and even then they weren’t like these. These ones had little belts and skirts that spun. Mary added a ‘clothing’ folder to her mental file: Mum’s Revised Persona – Tricks, Quirks and Corrected Behaviours. It was fascinating. If only she could do a Year 12 project on it. Distinctions for sure.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Evie, cutting a thick wedge of cheddar, her hands moving quickly. ‘This place is ours now, and once I pick up some part-time work, we’ll be covered until the settlement comes through. It shouldn’t be too much longer.’

  She slid an enormous sandwich across the table. The ham lolled out towards Mary like a tongue. ‘Trust me, honey, you’ll love it here.’

  Thinking about the car in Main Street, looking at the tongue, Mary said nothing.

  There was an iceberg of cream in Evie’s coffee, with a moat of yellow fat. She fished it out with a watermarked teaspoon.

  ‘Next thing you know, she’s changed her relationship status to “single”. That’s how I found out. Her cousin knew before I did. Her bloody dentist knew before I did.’

  The morning was not going quite as Evie had imagined. She had planned her Main Street debut so carefully: goodbye child hellion, hello respectable small-town citizen. A quick coffee, charm her way into employment, bump into Nathan, charm her way into relationship, solve world hunger, buy chops, ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom.

  The owner of How Sweet It Is Cafe, banging on about his break-up, did not seem to recognise her. It was probably a good thing. Evie eyed the plate-glass window and remembered how she used to pepper it with spitballs. In the corner, near the coffee machine, watching her every move, was a cat with a face like someone had sat on it.

  The cafe’s decor had not changed one iota. Every surface was still covered in rose-patterned wallpaper, including the tables and chairs. The magazine rack held titles of specific and limited interest: Tractor Round-Up, Livestock Monthly, Grazing Enthusiast.

  Evie anchored her grip on the cup; the handle felt greasy. The coffee was disgusting, which seemed to be a theme in Sweet Meadow. For a town with so many cafes, no one knew one end of a milk frother from another.

  The bell above the door announced the arrival of an elderly woman who was wearing a lemon cardigan despite the heat. Evie seized her chance to escape. ‘That was lovely, thank you so much,’ she said to the owner, abandoning the cup of beige muck. ‘I just remembered that I have to pick up a . . . thing from somewhere.’

  Outside, the heat radiated off the Main Street windows. Evie caught sight of herself slouching in the hairdresser’s mirror and just for a moment was overwhelmed by the thought that she had bitten off far more than she could chew. Surely someone would realise that she could barely hold her own life together, let alone a wardrobe that required this much maintenance. What if Nathan didn’t want to be with someone who had to try so hard not to be themselves? Her idea to simply strike up where they had left off – so simple in theory – suddenly looked riddled with errors. They hadn’t spoken in over twenty-five years. He could have developed strange peccadillos or a taste for Maroon 5. Fear plumed in her bones like smoke. Evie briskly extinguished it, straightening her shoulders and neatening herself in the window. She was different now, she was determined to be better. She would not let Mary down.

  There was an optometrist tucked between yet another cafe and Sweet Meadow Financial Planning Services.

  There was no bell to announce her arrival. The woman at the counter barely looked up.

  Evie put on her most respectable expression. ‘Excuse me, hello, sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you were looking for staff.’ Shoulders back, Evie. Try to look as if you’re used to wearing foundation garments.

  The woman raised her head. ‘You’re an optometrist?’

  ‘God, no,’ Evie said, and instantly regretted it. ‘But I can type, and have excellent organisational skills.’

  She was raked from head to foot with a gaze that really did feel like a garden implement. ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Evie.’

  ‘Evie who?’

  Evie shifted her weight and ignored the burning sensation in the ball of her foot from her new shoes. ‘Pleasant.’

  The woman’s jaw sagged. ‘You’re the Bouvier girl from Cherry Orchard Way.’

  Air rolled inside Evie’s mouth, which she unsuccessfully tried to form into words.

  There was a long silence. The woman continued to look at Evie as if she were struggling with a horrible memory.

  ‘I’ll show myself out,’ Evie finally said, and did.

  Sweet Meadow’s little co-op had gone, along with the haberdashery store and the gift shop. Three more possible employment opportunities down the tubes, but looking at it optimistically, three fewer people to recognise Evie from some traumatic childhood experience. Evie flipped through the bargain bin of paperbacks out the front of the newsagent’s, which was now mostly devoted to lotto tickets. Mary would baulk at the book selection: not a gloomy gothic romance to be found.

  From a billboard in front of another vacant shopfront, Joy Piece of Piece Real Estate flashed pearly choppers big enough to take down King Kong.

  The takeaway chicken shop door was closed, reflecting the fact that the zipper on Evie’s pencil skirt had worked it
s way around to her hip. Frantically straightening it, Evie looked at the shop’s logo – a chicken salivating over a drumstick, a strange little piece of cannibalistic anthropomorphism – and felt her forced optimism start to crack like an egg.

  There was one saving grace: the Sweet Meadow Sweet Shoppe was still intact, down to the broken door panel which Evie had a vague feeling she had had something to do with. The airconditioner was also apparently broken, rendering the atmosphere inside stifling. It was not the ideal condition for confectionery. The glass cabinet had turned into a display of glucose horrors. Jelly babies pressed their distorted faces against the panes, pleading for help, while boiled lollies fused into a solid rainbow mass and chocolate bullets congealed in a spreading pool of black and brown.

  Evie’s kitten heel caught in a loose square of vinyl flooring. By the time the proprietor, Mr Zucker, came out she had managed to free herself and was straightening her skirt yet again.

  ‘Good morning. Looking for something in particular?’ His forehead was beading like a freshly cut cucumber.

  Evie dithered. Musk sticks beckoned momentarily before she remembered the time she’d overdosed on them and spent the afternoon throwing up into the Reids’ compost patch. Mrs Reid had not been impressed. Mrs Reid had been even less impressed when Nathan had broken a molar on a Mintie.

  ‘Liquorice logs, please. And some aniseed rings. And a Wizz Fizz.’

  Mr Zucker started scooping. His sideburns were big enough to play hide-and-seek in. ‘On holiday, love?’

  ‘No, actually, I just moved back. I grew up here.’

  ‘Really? What’s your name?’

  For the second time that morning, she wondered if she should adopt a pseudonym. ‘Evie.’

  There was a clang as Mr Zucker dropped the scooper.