Those Pleasant Girls

by Lia Weston

  The bus crested the lip of the valley and the pine trees pressed in from both sides. In between the rows of uniform trunks, the occasional blackened stump broke the ranks. Things seemed to get hit by lightning a lot around here. Maybe she could get Joy to stand out in a paddock for a while. Holding a kite.

  The first thing they saw was the giant baby.

  Evie stopped so abruptly in the aisle that Amy trod on her heel.

  ‘What the –’

  Both women stared at the screen dwarfing the altar. According to the four-hundred-point-font caption, the baby’s name was Bailey Ashton Casey. It – for Evie had no clue as to its gender – looked distinctly wall-eyed.

  Joy joined them. ‘Oh how gorgeous and what a cutie too isn’t Bailey the best name one of my nieces is called that and at first I thought what why not just call her Gin and be done with it but it’s really grown on me so interesting without being too out there if you know what I mean must find a good seat toodles!’

  David and Rosemary squeezed past, both ooh-ing over the screen and the gargantuan Bailey.

  It had taken longer than expected to find the Fallow Halls church. From the outside, it looked like an architect’s office, all edges and glass and slate. Only when Rosemary spotted the discreet laser-cut crucifix did they realise what it was. To Evie, it was as ugly as sin. She was heartened when Nathan likened the building to a surfboard broken in half, until she remembered that he really liked surfing.

  Amy tugged Evie into a pew to get her out of the way of the parishioners piling in. It was a much younger community than Saint Sebastian’s. Babies slept in slings across their parents’ chests. Children romped around the pews or plunged into the ball crawl at the back.

  ‘There are no prayerbooks,’ whispered Evie.

  ‘I think we’re supposed to follow the bouncing ball,’ said Amy, pointing to the screen.

  Underneath the screen was a drum kit and several guitars. Evie regarded them with dread. Things did not begin well. The congregation hacked its way through a song Evie had never heard of (‘Our God Is An Awesome God’). Without a prayerbook, she didn’t know what to do with her hands, and ended up mimicking Amy’s crossed arms, like a pair of bouncers.

  Nathan was across the aisle with Rosemary and David, singing away. Next to Quentin, Joy had her hands above her head gospel-style. Evie expected her to shout, ‘Testify!’ and clap. The Pointers, on the other side of Joy, were singing but with considerably less enthusiasm.

  The church band was not the worst band Evie had ever heard. The worst band she had ever heard was made up of third-year students from her architectural design class who believed that playing in the same key and tempo stifled creativity. The Fallow Halls church band also followed this principle, albeit unintentionally, and therefore was the second-worst band Evie had ever heard.

  The altar looked nothing like she expected. It was a large white box wearing some gold trim. Where were the cloths? Where was the Bible? It was Church By Ikea.

  For the baptism of Bailey, who was far smaller and noisier than her on-screen likeness, a section of the altar slid back and a baptismal font rose up.

  ‘It also comes with a set of steak knives,’ muttered Amy. Evie almost kissed her.

  While a screaming Bailey was blessed, the screen mercifully replaced her picture with a slideshow of lavender fields, sunsets, beaches and all the other calming pictures found at a dentist’s office or other places where pain is imminent.

  The priest, who also looked nothing like Evie expected, gave his sermon while wandering up and down the aisles. Evie had to admit he was a good speaker, though it didn’t make up for the fact that he wasn’t wearing vestments. How did you know he actually was the priest? He could have just wandered in off the street and started talking about God. Surely it would have happened before.

  The band struck up yet again, and the screen displayed the title of the next hymn: Gloria (U2).

  ‘Jesus,’ said Evie.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Amy.

  *

  Morning tea was packed. The hall was beautifully heated; no one here would have to hold their hands over the urn. Evie sampled a piece of marble cake and was disturbed to find it was very good.

  Amy had run into some friends of her husband’s. Rosemary and the Pointers were engrossed in the History of Fallow Halls touchscreen display. Every time Louise tapped the screen, she gave a delighted squeak. Nathan and the priest were chatting animatedly by the state-of-the-art coffee machine. There was no sign of David or Joy. No doubt they were interrogating someone about getting free installation for Saint Sebastian’s new screen.

  Stuck by herself again, watching her spring carnival proposal get swallowed up by gadgets and frappucinos, Evie was working her way down the morning tea trestle table. She was currently up to the finger buns and would shortly need to unzip something.

  Bugger, she’d forgotten to tell Mary to take the steak out of the freezer. Evie fished in her bag for her mobile. No phone. She put the bag down on the table and went through the contents twice. Still no phone. It must have fallen out in the bus.

  Slipping outside, she tucked her bag against her coat as the wind chewed on her knuckles.

  She had been so certain that the rest of the committee would be turned off by a modern church. Instead, everyone was having a wonderful time pressing buttons and making macchiatos. Her carnival would never get a look-in now.

  Didn’t any of them realise what could happen? The screen would suck the budget into a black hole, the church would collapse, Nathan would be forced to move to a different parish, and Evie would be stuck in Sweet Meadow, bogged down in Fancy Lady tracksuits and table settings for two until Mary left home.

  The inheritance money was running out. The settlement was still not settled; Gabe was refusing to disclose his financial position and she was positive he was hiding money through the agency’s accounts. But the idea of having to sell the house to Joy, take Mary out of school, move somewhere else, start all over again . . . No, she couldn’t do it. She had to make this work somehow. Evie blinked back the unwelcome tears that threatened to freeze on her cheeks.

  If only she had some leverage in the committee. But what could she do besides flatter and bake? As wonderful as it was, pastry only went so far; once it was eaten, it was forgotten. She smiled reluctantly. Now there was a name for a bakery: The One Night Cake Stand.

  The door of the minibus was still unlocked. Evie cranked it open and then halted in the aisle, all thoughts of phones, Nathan and bakeries instantly erased, as she beheld the unholy union taking place before her.

  There was a short silence as three members of the Committee for the Betterment of the Church of Saint Sebastian the Meek stared at each other.

  Evie left the scene without saying a word.

  Now she had leverage.

  One week later, Evie’s spring carnival was voted in unanimously.

  Enjoying Joy’s obvious discomfort, Evie tried not to look too triumphant, but failed.

  Her best stockings on, her swishiest skirt in place and a loaded basket on her arm, Evie hit Main Street to drum up support for her project. The whole shebang had to be pulled together in eight weeks; her kitchen was already covered in plans. She’d invested in a whiteboard, journals and different coloured pens. She had forgotten how much she liked organising things, until she remembered how meticulously she used to plan her breaking and entering.

  The butcher, who had been delighted to find that the girl who used to hold his cat to ransom had turned into a woman happy to debate the finer points of pork versus veal mince, was eager to provide meat trays for a raffle.

  ‘You’re a doll, Brian.’ Evie handed over a neatly wrapped package. ‘I heard you liked pistachio macarons.’

  ‘Got a pork chop costume, too,’ said the butcher. ‘One of the boys can dress up, do a sausage sizzle.’

  ‘I knew I could count on you. Now, tell me about that lovely piece of rump in the window.’

  Softened up
by white chocolate and raspberry muffins – plus the purchase of four kilos of mixed lollies, most of which Evie planned to offload onto Mini D – Mr Zucker agreed to provide a fairy floss and toffee apple stall.

  ‘My brother runs an expo hire business.’ He wrote the details on the back of Evie’s very large receipt. ‘He’ll get you a good price on marquees.’

  Evie made notes in her journal as she walked out, sucking on another gobstopper.

  David had been put in charge of organising the rides and, as added punishment, the insurance and occupational health and safety. He was sitting glumly in the window of How Sweet It Is, rifling through papers and grimacing as he put his cup down. Evie knocked on the glass and gave him a twinkling smile around her gobstopper. David waved back with the air of someone being defeated by a bureaucratic style guide.

  Joy had acquiesced – for, really, she had no choice – when Evie asked her to organise the fashion parade, and was now acting as if it had been her idea all along. As Evie walked past Fancy Lady, Joy and Marie, wearing matching mullet skirts, were stripping the mannequins. Marie waved and held up a bedazzled vest that Evie thought was the most hideous thing she had ever seen.

  ‘Mmm!’ said Evie, giving two thumbs-up. She’d pay good money to see Therese having to wear that.

  Amy had sent her a text the night before to confirm that security was sorted. Once again, Evie wondered what Amy actually did; she seemed to know people everywhere. Maybe she ran a local chapter of the rural mafia.

  Three hours later, Evie’s baked offerings were almost gone and she had pledges, prizes and promises from every business on the strip, except two.

  ‘What am I supposed to give away?’ said the optometrist. ‘Free glasses?’

  ‘We do need volunteers,’ said Evie, still holding a package of lemon polenta slices.

  The woman leaned back in her chair. ‘Do you really think this is going to work?’

  Evie left, stuffing the slices back in her basket, her hands trembling. Once out of sight of the shop, she stopped for a few deep breaths. Amazing how one person could puncture her hard-earned confidence so easily. It was a good thing Evie had reformed; she’d be tempted to brick the window otherwise.

  ‘Come to nick another candle holder?’ said the man at the Rose Apothecary as soon as she opened the door. Evie walked straight back out again. Surely there’d be someone else who’d be able to provide a pony ride. Hopefully without any ponies related to Tuppence. The last thing Saint Sebastian’s needed was a lawsuit.

  *

  ‘Need a lift?’

  Evie looked up from trying to separate the meat and mixed lollies in her basket. ‘Well . . .’

  Nathan stuck his head over from the passenger side of Phil’s van. ‘Come on, Evie – we’re going your way.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Evie, suddenly glad she was wearing her second-best bra, ‘that would be lovely.’

  Because she was the shortest, Evie ended up sandwiched between Nathan and Phil. It was a manual, which meant that Phil had to try very hard not to elbow Evie’s second-best bra when changing gears.

  ‘Where are you boys off to?’

  ‘Fallow Halls pub,’ said Phil. ‘Parmie the size of your head.’

  ‘Doesn’t the Main Street pub here do meals?’ Evie put a hand on the ceiling as the van swung into the petrol station.

  ‘They have to as part of their liquor licence, but they really don’t want to,’ said Nathan. ‘You can choose from toast or baked beans. It’s a bad idea to ask them if they do eggs, though. Trust me on that one.’

  Phil pulled up at the pump and ratcheted the handbrake. ‘Don’t steal my car. I’ve heard about you two.’

  Evie and Nathan both made innocent faces at him.

  She heard the metallic clink of the petrol pump nozzle. ‘You two.’ They had been such a team. They were becoming a team again, side by side on the committee, flowers with mystery notes, dancing in the dining room. Evie let her leg loll just a little so it rested lightly against Nathan’s. He didn’t pull away, which was wildly encouraging.

  ‘How’s the planning going?’ said Nathan. ‘Can I help? Every time I ask Joy, she groans and walks off. I’ve written my opening address.’ He looked so pleased with himself.

  ‘It’s all under control. I’m really enjoying it, actually. I bought the newsagency out of notebooks.’ That last part wasn’t particularly hard; they only stocked four.

  ‘Everyone thinks you’re doing a wonderful job.’

  ‘I don’t know about “everyone”,’ said Evie. ‘But most people have been very nice.’

  ‘Most?’ His expression was so warm and open. It was very easy to tell Nathan things. Even so, Evie couldn’t bring herself to recount the optometrist’s parting shot.

  ‘A few people haven’t forgiven me yet.’

  ‘Everyone deserves a second chance.’

  ‘Tell that to the guy who runs the Rose Apothecary.’

  Nathan gently touched her arm. ‘Any community would be proud to have you. You should have a little more faith in yourself.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’ She shifted the basket on her lap.

  He ducked his head forward to meet her gaze. ‘No one is beyond God, Evie.’ That strange light, again. ‘Everyone can be saved.’

  As she stared at him, a tiny voice spoke up in the back of Evie’s head. But what if I don’t want to be?

  Phil opened the door. A bubble of relief burst in Evie’s chest. The ship had righted itself.

  ‘I still need to organise a generator,’ said Evie, focusing on the dashboard. ‘For the carnival, I mean. If you know of anyone . . .’ She trailed off as Nathan pointed past her to Phil.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Phil.

  ‘Ask and it shall be given to you,’ said Nathan with a wink. ‘Seek and ye shall find.’

  ‘Book of Evie, Verse Seven,’ added Phil.

  The van bumped out of the service station driveway. Evie held on to her basket as they swung back onto Main Street. As long as no one got bitten by a horse or flung off a Ferris wheel, everything would be just fine.

  With a snap of the blades another shrivelled head thudded into her basket.

  Father Reid had been more than happy to let Mary look after the old rose garden next to the church. Faced with head-high overgrowth, she had unleashed her loppers. As branches were chopped and runners ripped out, the original layout began to emerge – a spiral culminating in an old stone seat directly in the centre, a maze with no wrong turns.

  The roses were the old style, with heavenly fragrances and petals like tissue paper. With the help of Mrs Beadles’s library, Mary played botanical bingo, identifying different species. When she pointed out a lamarque that climbed up the stone steps, Mini D said she was becoming geekier than Travis.

  Mrs Beadles also donated a brand-new hose, now bolted to the wall. It was long enough to reach the whole way around the church. It also weighed a tonne. Mary was starting to develop biceps.

  She tucked the rose heads in her hair. As she worked the perfume of the collapsing petals drifted about her.

  Sweet Meadow was Sunday-level quiet, broken only occasionally by someone doing a burnout on Main Street. She continued methodically checking each branch, singing under her breath. Mrs Beadles told her that plants responded well to music, which made sense – they were living things, after all. It probably depended on the music, though; My Bitter Tears would definitely stunt their growth.

  Her father had texted a picture from New York, an Empire State selfie. The city was over his shoulder, hazy in the daylight. He was wearing his favourite skateboarding T-shirt, a screenprint from a tiny shop in Spain. He looked far happier than he had a right to be.

  It must be great to be able to get away with things because you were good-looking. People flocked to you, regardless. She’d fallen for it herself, being furious at what her father had done, at how weak he’d been, and then he’d ring and she’d act like nothing had happened. She wanted his approval and att
ention anyway, and she loathed herself for it.

  Evie was beautiful, and she was still being punished for her childhood. She hadn’t broken up a family. It was men, Mary decided. Good-looking men could get away with anything.

  Spying a sucker snaking up the base of a Rosa mundi, Mary extinguished it with her blade. She stood up and found a black sneaker at eye level. Mary followed the leg of tight black jean up the wall until it ended in the whole of Zach. She immediately regretted her floral wreath and her gardening shirt with the rips in it.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’ She continued clipping, gripping the secateurs.

  ‘You like gardening, huh?’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  Zach swung his legs, his sneakers moving like pendulums. ‘Going to the carnival?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you there.’

  He held her curious gaze. Again, her mind was working at half-speed and had taken her speaking ability with it. Before she could work out whether his comment was an invitation or not, he said, ‘See ya,’ and swung around to drop back into the park, leaving behind a faint whiff of sea water.

  Some time later Mary walked home, her thoughts addled by a set of coffee-brown eyes, until Evie’s cry of alarm brought her round.

  ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’

  Long scratches clawed across Mary’s wrist were leaking tears of blood. Evie pulled five thorns out and fussed.

  Mary, cleaned and patched, spent the rest of the afternoon staring blankly at her homework and thinking about Zach.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Travis stood at the mouth of the park. The spring carnival was in full swing, and the noise was astronomical. He would never have guessed that this many people wanted to spend their weekend looking at handicrafts or eating soggy doughnuts. Most had dressed up, dusting off hats and boots. More than one woman was already tiptoeing awkwardly through the grass with her high heels in hand.

  Along the central strip, he evaded handbags and prams. Opposite a Fallow Halls winery, already doing a roaring trade despite the early hour, was a petting zoo where children could discover just how bad a sow smelled, or how hard you could pat a goat before it bit you. Travis turned away from the backs of the people crowding inside, pigs in a poke, and slipped behind the row of tents, climbing over the roots of the oak trees behind the sheets of white vinyl. He emerged, hair askew, by the stage.