Those Pleasant Girls

by Lia Weston

  ‘I know I have a certain reputation in Sweet Meadow,’ said Evie, ‘and it’s not good.’

  The red-faced man folded his arms.

  ‘I also realise some of you don’t want to give me a chance,’ Evie continued. ‘But the funny thing is that I don’t mind. I understand why. Right now, the most important thing to me is to be the best role model I can be for my daughter. I want her to see that people are capable of change, of becoming part of a community. If she’s proud of me, then nothing else matters.’ She walked over to the trestle table, which was covered by a chequered cloth. ‘So whether or not you decide that there’s a place for me here, and whether or not you’ll let me do my best to contribute to the betterment of the church and Sweet Meadow, I hope you accept my apology for being such a rotten kid.’

  Evie whisked off the cloth with a flourish that would have made a magician’s assistant proud, and there was her trump card to a committee starved of quality baked goods: glorious piles of lamingtons, scones, slices, brownies, blondies, fruitcakes and, in the centre, gleaming so darkly that light disappeared into it, a majestic chocolate gateau.

  ‘Now, wait a moment,’ said the red-faced man. ‘We haven’t said no exactly. Is there cream for those scones?’

  ‘Is that Turkish fairy floss?’ said Rosemary. ‘I’ve only seen that in magazines.’

  ‘Peppermint slice! I haven’t had one of those in years,’ said Quentin.

  The yellow cardigan woman was staring at the brownies. ‘Matthew 18:21 does say we must forgive those who sin against us “seventy times seven” . . .’

  ‘Matthew 18 says a lot of things, Louise,’ said Joy dismissively.

  Evie held up a platter. ‘I’d recommend starting with the scones. They’re still warm.’

  Within three seconds the dam had broken. Joy was the only person left at the table.

  ‘Can I get you something, Joy?’ said Evie.

  ‘So sweet of you, what a lovely spread, but I’m afraid I’ve got a gluten intolerance so I’ll have to forgo your little treats.’

  ‘You’re in luck,’ said Evie, presenting her with a plate. ‘Gluten-free lamingtons. I baked them especially for you.’

  Joy’s eyelid twitched, just once. ‘How thoughtful.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got my vote,’ said the red-faced man, wiping clotted cream off his face. ‘You can be on any committee you like.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ said the woman in the pale blue cardigan. ‘What’s the secret to your scone batter, Ms Bouvier?’

  ‘It depends if you want them fluffy or dense,’ began Evie.

  ‘I hate to interrupt the fluffy or dense debate, Rachel,’ said Joy, who had taken a scant bite of her lamington and put it aside, ‘but we do have other business to attend to now that we’ve all apparently decided that we need another person on board, welcome, Evie, by the way, the paperwork is a real mess but you seem to be the kind of person who enjoys a challenge.’

  Nathan, licking fairy floss off his fingers as everyone took their seats, gave Evie a grin that made her stomach rise and fall.

  ‘Now! I’ve knocked together some actionable ideas to get us started off this year, nothing too extensive,’ said Joy, producing a bulging manila folder, ‘so take a look, have a think. Let’s run things up the flagpole, really blue-sky it.’

  Bound documents began slap-landing on the table. Joy had surprisingly good aim. Evie wondered if she played ice hockey. She looked like the kind of woman who enjoyed sports that involved shoulder pads and hitting things.

  ‘You know what I think would be a great idea?’ said the red-faced man, shaking icing sugar off his fingers.

  ‘Yes, David?’ said Joy, leaning forward, bejewelled pen at the ready.

  ‘Some coffee. Evie, are there any more scones?’

  Evie indicated the baskets under the tablecloth. ‘I brought extras.’

  There was a second stampede for refreshments, leaving Evie, Amy, Nathan and Joy at the table.

  Joy sighed heavily. ‘Actually, a coffee sounds very good right now.’ She slid her chair back with a squeal and went to join the line at the hot water urn.

  ‘Amy, this is Evie,’ said Nathan.

  ‘You look more together than I expected,’ said Amy, delicately finishing her cherry slice.

  Evie didn’t know how to respond to that, and just smiled.

  ‘By the way,’ said Amy to Nathan, ‘I don’t care how much financial trouble we’re in – I’m not “blue-sky”ing anything.’ She went off to get a coffee.

  ‘Is “blue sky” a verb now?’ said Evie.

  ‘I was hoping you knew,’ said Nathan.

  The table was a sea of coffee cups and crumbs. Joy had still not finished her lamington.

  Nathan was by the urn chatting to Rachel. How sweet he was. He really did listen, his head bent forward, focusing on Rachel’s face. There was something so attractive about a good listener. Especially when they looked as good in jeans as Nathan did. He had a runner’s physique. Including the glutes. Evie’s mind happily glazed over until Joy rudely interrupted.

  ‘If everyone’s quite finished, let’s get down to business, shall we?’

  The committee drifted back to the table, still clutching pastries.

  ‘Thank you for that lovely spread, Evie, though I have found that carbs can make people rather sleepy so perhaps we can keep that in mind next time,’ said Joy.

  David widened his eyes and shook his head ‘no’ at Evie.

  Joy tapped one of the bound documents on the table. ‘Now, you’ll notice that my ideas portfolio begins with a concept.’ She spread her hands wide. ‘Fully interactive church.’

  The rest of the committee looked nonplussed, besides Amy, who looked bored. Evie, ready for minute-taking with her brand new notebook and pen, tried not to doodle.

  ‘Last week,’ continued Joy, ‘I went to a wedding in Fallow Halls, groom used to do my hair, dab hand with a frosted tip, what a poppet, and I was amazed, amazed, at what they’ve done with their parish. Modern hymns, a projection screen, a website, the kids all love it and they are indeed our future, as Whitney Houston said, God rest her.’

  Evie thought fully interactive church sounded like hell. Church was supposed to be a place that eschewed modern conveniences. You were meant to think about the mistakes you’d made, how you could be a better person, why your husband turned out to have a thing for teenaged redheads, et cetera, not tweets from the pulpit. Sure, the pews hurt your knees and the sermons weren’t that interesting, especially when all you had to look at was the back of the head of the person in front, but it was about piety and modesty and suffering. That’s why it was church.

  ‘I am not coming here to watch a screen,’ said Amy. ‘If I want to ignore television, I’ll do it at home.’

  ‘It’s not television, Amy, it’s a communication channel. Inspirational photos, psalms, hymns. People want something lovely to look at, besides our priest, of course, ah ah ah!’ That yelping laugh again.

  Nathan looked embarrassed.

  ‘Not only is this idea monstrously stupid, but we also can’t afford it,’ said Amy.

  ‘I knew you’d bring that up, so I’ve been liaising with a girlfriend in the banking sector, such a sweetheart, you’d never guess she’s OCD, and she said we’d be in an excellent position to take out a loan.’

  As the splutterings foamed around her, Evie’s hand moved rhythmically across the page. To think she had wondered if learning shorthand was a waste of time. Slash, curve, little curve . . . What was the sequence for ‘idiocy’ again?

  Evie lingered over packing up the trestle table, now stripped bare of everything except empty plates, Joy’s lamington and a jam-smeared tablecloth. Nathan was talking to Quentin. She had no idea what they were discussing; they were too far away and she couldn’t attempt lip-reading without staring. Joy had disappeared, possibly to harvest some small children for sacrifice.

  ‘Haven’t enjoyed a meeting so much in ages,’ said David, dropping a crumpled cl
otted-cream-splodged paper napkin onto the table Evie had just cleaned.

  ‘I must get your lamington recipe,’ said Rosemary, who turned out to be David’s wife. She was clad head to toe in brocade and rather resembled a slim couch.

  Quentin and Nathan were still talking. Evie proceeded to get stuck in another conversation with Rachel and Louise about scones. She tried not to keep glancing in Nathan’s direction while answering questions about lemonade versus fluffy butter. Then stone-ground flour versus regular flour. Then baking powder versus baking soda. Then food processors versus rubbing the butter in with fingertips. Finally Evie was forced to excuse herself to visit the bathroom and pray that she wouldn’t be followed.

  She sat in the stall and leaned her head against the wall. New Evie’s rules were proving unexpectedly hard to manage. She hadn’t realised how much she used to swear. And substitutes like ‘fiddlesticks’ sounded so goddamned stupid. On the plus side, she hadn’t stolen anything, set fire to anything or resorted to alcohol yet.

  The stealing wasn’t much of an issue, really. She hadn’t pinched anything since leaving Sweet Meadow, except for a couple of magazines when she was a teenager. And a silver ring when she was in first year uni. And a CD as a present for Gabe when they’d just met and she had no money. But then nothing for years, besides those plums from her old neighbour, though the tree was sort of almost near the boundary fence, so they didn’t really count.

  Alcohol, however, was proving harder. She’d make an exception for that particular rule when she finally managed to get Nathan over for dinner. Booze was the unlocker of secrets and bra hooks alike. Besides, a martini would suit the new image quite nicely. But no tequila. As history proved, tequila was Evie’s gateway drug to bad behaviour and public nudity.

  No matter how much she missed her old habits, change was required, and so change she must suffer. Original Evie had not worked. Original Evie had led to no husband and no house.

  Evie fingered the treehouse note, which she had started keeping in her pocket as a talisman. Should she show Nathan the evidence? Cook him a calzone with the note inside, like a bizarre and very specific fortune cookie? ‘Hey, do you remember when you promised to marry me? Well, ta-da!’ More difficult was explaining how she found it, though. ‘I was trespassing, skirtless, in Sturn’s orchard the other day and happened to lever up a floorboard and, well, wouldn’t you know it . . .’

  Surely it didn’t have to be this difficult.

  Her mother would no doubt have been able to make it work. Thomasina always knew exactly what to do or say in social situations. Evie was again aware of the strange after-effect of her death. Their relationship had descended into mere tolerance bound together through their adoration of Mary, but Evie still felt as if she had been set adrift in a way she did not anticipate.

  Against the mint green tiles her face looked pale. Maybe she had gone out too hard with the new image. The committee didn’t care about her clothes – they just wanted to stuff their faces. She could be wearing a beer keg for all that it mattered.

  Evie splashed water on her skin and blotted it with a paper towel from the ancient dispenser. She checked her hair, re-anchoring the pins that kept working loose, then her phone. She had managed to kill over twenty minutes. He would have to have finished with Quentin by now, surely.

  ‘Nathan?’

  Her voice echoed in the corridor. She touched the rose nestled behind her ear to ensure it was still in place.

  ‘Hello?’

  The office was empty. Evie looked in the hall. Also empty. Maybe he’d retired to the cottage. She must get his phone number, in case of an emergency. ‘Help! I can’t do up my peignoir!’

  Evie picked up the tablecloth and cake stand and looped her bag strap over her shoulder. The kitchen could do with a dishwasher; she should table that at the next meeting. She’d happily fundraise for a dishwasher.

  At the hall door she put her hip against the handle and pushed. It didn’t move. She tried the other hip, then tried pushing up instead of down. Dropping her things, she shook the handle with both hands.

  They’d locked her in.

  There was also no convenient driver’s-licence-sized gap in the door.

  Brilliant.

  *

  Mini D gallantly escorted Mary home. She now knew that he lived in a house that smelled of earth, was allowed to draw portraits on the walls, and made pasta sauce which contained sardines as well as peanut butter. The resulting meal explained his adulation of Evie. Mini D’s mother, whose cloud of brown hair floated in the air behind her like an independent being, wandered in from her studio for a few minutes to say hello, but did not return for dinner. ‘She’s soldering,’ said Mini D, explaining that his mother was a jewellery maker. ‘She’s probably forgotten you’re here. Don’t take it personally.’

  Sweet Meadow was silent except for the occasional cough and hum of a battered airconditioner. They wandered along the middle of Main Street, Mary detouring to peer again through the smeared window of the world’s saddest florist. In the dark, the Rose Apothecary’s carved blue door faded to grey. The windowsill had collected more insect corpses.

  Mary stood back to envision the building as it was supposed to be. Ferns sprouted from the hanging baskets. The coloured glass window panes filled themselves in. The grey door shifted to a deep sapphire, and the gold lettering above shone bright and clear. It was beautiful, even if it didn’t really exist.

  ‘This place would have been gorgeous.’

  ‘You’re mooning over a building. No wonder Travis has a thing for you.’

  Mary stopped her imaginary restoration work. ‘What? No. Seriously?’

  ‘Well, only intellectually. It doesn’t really count.’ Mini D jumped off the footpath onto the road. ‘You’ve got twigs in your hair, by the way.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Mary, pulling them out. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘I liked it. You looked like a zergiot. They’re dryads who stalk the marshlands and live off rabbits.’ He tugged a pack of chewing gum out of his pocket.

  Mary kicked a rock along the kerb and stepped down to join him. ‘I got lost on the way to your house. There are no short cuts in this stupid place. I ended up having to go over a barbed-wire fence and through a dam.’

  ‘Ah,’ Mini D nodded. ‘Flackett’s dam. There’s eels in there.’

  ‘Oh, ew.’ Mary swung around the streetlight. ‘What’s that huge place up on the hill?’

  ‘The Holy Father House of Reception. My place of employ.’

  ‘You’re a waiter?’

  ‘Correction: the senior hospitality customer service manager,’ said Mini D. ‘Hey, I need a favour. Wanna work with me?’

  ‘That’s not a favour. That’s a job.’

  ‘You get paid. And we can hang out. Think of all the shoes you could buy.’

  ‘Why would I want to buy shoes?’ Mary thought of her chipped black toenail polish.

  ‘See, this is why you’re not friends with Therese. She’d say “Why would I not want to buy shoes?” It’s quite Zen, if you think about it.’

  ‘It’s totally stupid,’ said Mary.

  ‘There are other benefits. Zach and his horrible parents come to the restaurant every week.’ Mini D waggled his eyebrows at her. ‘You can continue your forbidden lurve.’

  ‘I have no lurve for Zach. Anyway, Therese would probably try to stab me with a hair straightener.’

  ‘Nah, I’d just distract her. Lure her into the kitchen.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘A trail of shoes.’

  ‘And graphic novels.’

  They followed the path of the moon. The silver rays lit the shop roofs, the oak trees in the park, and the head and shoulders now emerging from Saint Sebastian’s hall window.

  Mini D and Mary stopped walking.

  The head and shoulders sprouted arms. After some twisting and turning, a torso emerged. Next, a leg. It was like watching something hatch.

  As the fi
gure nimbly withdrew its other leg, Mary realised there was something familiar about it.

  ‘Is that your mum?’ said Mini D.

  From the window came a ripping sound and a faint curse.

  ‘Yup,’ said Mary.

  The figure lowered itself down from the sill, hesitated, and then chanced the two-metre drop. There was a thump and another curse. After some scurrying in the bushes, Evie emerged, hair and skirt askew. Shoes in hand, she neatly jumped off the kerb and headed towards Cherry Orchard Way at a run.

  Mini D moved his gum to the other cheek. ‘So the rumours were true.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Mary.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For a florist’s shop the Rose Apothecary had very few flowers. Mary’s vision of a treasure trove of fat leaves to squeeze vanished the morning she actually went inside.

  Despite several more nocturnal searches of Sweet Meadow’s streets – during which she may or may not have graffitied a few more surfaces – the elusive scent of syrup and decay had not returned. It was, however, the perfect excuse to finally patronise the shop. If she was hoping that the exterior’s grimy windows weren’t a harbinger of what lay beyond, however, she was doomed to disappointment.

  Most of the Rose Apothecary was devoted to giftware, though apparently primarily designed for people you didn’t like. Soap that smelled of dusty milk, World’s Best Something mugs, and a thousand china cats of different sizes, colours and attitudes. Mary rummaged through a clump of ceramic figurines and tried to imagine a scenario which would necessitate the gifting of a small replica outhouse. ‘Happy Birthday! May your trips to the toilet be less traumatic than usual.’

  The sole floral offerings were two bunches of scentless hothouse roses with burnished leaves, half-a-dozen ragged posies and pots of shiny-leaved anthuriums. Mary hated anthuriums; they always looked fake, even when they weren’t. ‘Plastic flowers for plastic people,’ her grandmother used to say. Mary wondered if she ever came in here. Considering the outhouse, probably not.

  The worst thing by far was the fact that the Rose Apothecary had undoubtedly been beautiful once but left to rot, like Miss Havisham. Chunks of plaster had fallen off the ornate ceiling. The tiny glass lamps studding the walls were all broken or cracked. No wonder the front door hunched inward; even the shop seemed ashamed of itself.