The Rules of Backyard Croquet

by Sunni Overend

  Dedication

  For Mum

  1956–2011

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgements

  An Excerpt from The Dangers of Truffle Hunting

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  1

  ‘It’s faulty.’ The woman pitched a jacket onto the polished counter, and it sailed off to land in a heap on the floor. Apple’s neat pile of receipts danced in the air, caught in the slipstream.

  ‘Urgh,’ the woman added. ‘And now it will be filthy.’

  ‘Never mind!’ Apple crouched behind the counter, a despairing laugh dying in her mouth. Her voice was high, forehead damp as she heaped the jacket back onto the counter. ‘Let me just . . .’

  She crouched again to gather up the receipts before a pair of pink-laced brogues appeared. Relief soared.

  ‘Hello,’ Jackson said.

  There was a beat, then Apple heard the customer reply, ‘You’re new.’

  ‘New as they come,’ Jackson said, and the humour in her voice made Apple smile. ‘Ella Jackson, but I go by Jackson.’

  ‘Apple usually helps me, thank you.’

  Apple stood, releasing a fistful of receipts onto the counter. Her smile hadn’t once faltered since the customer had entered the store and it didn’t now. Her feet ached from hours without a break, but her smile remained. ‘And it’s my pleasure to help, Eloise.’

  Eloise dropped five figures in the store every month, and this was Loom, where Apple was the manager, where she had never been anything but professional, and where her smile would remain until the sign read CLOSED.

  ‘Isn’t Apple helpful?’ Jackson said. She’d been out the back when Eloise had entered. It was 5.23 pm; they belonged to Loom for another seven minutes, but Apple had been out back too, watching Jackson twist a corkscrew into a Merlot, put the bottle to her lips then laugh out loud as she scoffed crisps – crumbs dancing to the floor of the unkempt rear room that looked nothing like the shopfront where they now stood.

  Here, dark-stained floorboards were polished and the silhouettes of silk, cashmere and Mongolian yak hair were lit by the soft glow of lights set in the floor, and plaited leather ropes held rods of oak from which garments swayed. The tinkle of the doorbell had called them from the back, and Apple and Jackson now stood side by side, the day’s last customer tense before them. Apple blinked at the faint burgundy wine stain on Jackson’s upper lip then hurriedly fiddled with the jacket Eloise had thrown down.

  ‘Well, Apple’s helpful, certainly,’ Eloise said. ‘But that doesn’t excuse the faulty zipper, nor does it excuse my ghastly day. Look!’ She stuck her leg around the counter, boot raised. ‘Dog excrement.’

  Jackson tremored with mirth and Apple swallowed, her smiling mask unmoved.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Just awful.’

  ‘I know!’ Eloise said. ‘The neighbour’s dog is squatting on our nature strip – again!’

  ‘Again?’ Jackson almost sounded like she cared.

  ‘Apple knows. It’s foul, isn’t it, Apple? They’ve done nothing about it, not a thing. Now look at my lambskin.’

  ‘I am looking,’ Jackson said earnestly, and Apple’s chest ached. ‘Look at that excrement.’

  ‘What are they feeding the foul creature? It clearly has diarrhoea, and it’s squelched right up the sides! No genius leather shampoo can get the fetid excrement from an unhealthy dog out of soft, pale leather.’

  ‘It’s just so very soaked in.’ Jackson gave the woman what she seemed to need.

  ‘And such an ugly dog! A mongrel with snarling little fangs over its lips. I swear it’s a rescue. Why retired billionaires wouldn’t get a purebred is beyond me. That dog’s revolting – marring the neighbourhood with its hideous face and faeces. Thomas and I want to poison it like we poisoned that tree that blocked our view.’

  Jackson disappeared through the organza drape behind and the sound of spluttering ensued.

  ‘Sounds contagious.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Apple’s smile remained, but Jackson’s choked mirth was contagious and Apple crouched, chest tight as she banged cupboards, quelling hysteria.

  Jackson returned, neatening her coiffed, cropped hair, rubbing her throat, eyes moist. ‘Just a tickle.’

  ‘So anyway,’ Eloise continued, ‘I stepped in the excrement, slid over, and the newspaper I’d gone to collect fell in the gutter – down the drain! I’m not joking! I had to call a cafe to see if they could deliver a newspaper via a car service and they said they would but I’d have to order food. Thomas hates reading the paper online, and I was too tired to get the car out of the garage, so I had to order breakfast just to get the newspaper, and all because the neighbour’s rescue dog did its foul business out the front of our house – again!’

  Jackson’s hand went to her heart. ‘I honestly don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then I get ready to go out – and this.’ Eloise flicked at the jacket. ‘Five thousand dollars of fur with a zipper that’s as ragged as that vile dog.’

  ‘I can barely believe it.’

  ‘Thank you. Most just don’t want to listen! I’m having the worst day and no one cares!’

  ‘We care,’ Apple and Jackson droned.

  Eloise was tapping her phone. ‘See there in the photo! The dog’s squatting in plain sight! Do you have any idea how much we spend on that nature strip?’

  Jackson peered close, Eloise nodding, cheeks pink.

  ‘Zoom in! It’s right there, our perfect turf with a rat on it. And there! The neighbour’s dawdling off like nothing’s happening. “Do your dirty business on Eloise and Thomas’s lawn,” she’s saying. Isn’t it a mangy mongrel? Shameless!’

  ‘I’m speechless.’ Jackson returned the phone. ‘Speechless.’

  ‘So am I!’ Eloise was almost trembling. ‘And then the jacket!’

  ‘I can barely believe it,’ Apple said. ‘We’ll do everything we can.’

  ‘Thank you. Because you know I wouldn’t want to revoke my custom.’

  ‘Goodness no.’ Apple was already tapping the computer. ‘Would you like a credit or a refund?’

  ‘A credit, I suppose.’ Eloise sighed.

  ‘And here’s a note for ten per cent off, for next time.’

  Eloise tried to seem surprised. ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘It’s our pleasure.’

  ‘Are these new?’ She took a step towards a small stack of sweaters, and Jackson strode to the door, yanking it wide.

  ‘Would you look at the clock!’

  Apple glanced animatedly at her watch. ‘Closing time? Already?’

  ‘Is it?’ Eloise said vaguely, inching her way back to the counter to take her credit note. ‘Oh well . . .’ She moved slowly to the door via a rack of clothes, and Jackson
stood like a post, letting the cold flow in.

  When Eloise reached the threshold, she smiled magnanimously, fanning a wave. ‘Bye, girls.’

  Apple and Jackson watched as she cruised out onto the footpath then Jackson slammed the door, fumbling in her haste to spin the sign.

  She slumped against the glass, shoving a hand through her hair, eyes vacant.

  ‘This is my actual life.’ She stared at Apple across the room. ‘I sell four-figure clothing in exchange for photos of strangers’ neighbours’ dogs’ arseholes.’

  The laughter finally tumbled out but it wasn’t as violent as Apple had imagined. She wheezed, folding herself over the counter.

  Jackson returned, patting her back. ‘At least you still look good.’

  Apple wheezed again.

  ‘You do. It’s weird.’

  ‘My face’s sweaty and my hair’s stuck to it.’

  ‘Your blonde pony’s tight as a drum, legs long, shoes like new.’

  ‘Should legs get less long across the day?’

  Jackson grinned, tidying receipts. ‘I wish something would get less. I look like a mangy horse.’

  ‘Horses are regal.’

  ‘Guess that’s not my animal, then. But for real, we should get paid a shrink’s wage; it’s ninety per cent of what I do here all day.’

  Apple tapped mechanically on the computer to close. Collins Street was dimming outside. The bright pendant lights inside the shop felt warm and she glanced up to check that the garments were all in place, shelves dusted, boards swept.

  ‘Shop looks good. Thanks.’

  ‘Doing my job.’ Jackson yawned.

  Sissy, the merchandiser, had installed a new autumn harvest window that morning, and outside a passer-by paused to admire the rope swing, leatherbound picnic hamper, and vintage crates filled with produce on a plaid rug. They’d spent a good part of the day trying to elegantly position the mannequin on the swing and now her artificial legs pointed skyward, thigh-high silk socks rising from lace-up boots.

  Apple switched on the display lights and heard a sound by the door.

  ‘Here she comes,’ Jackson muttered.

  The owner of Loom swung the door wide then closed it carefully behind her, frowning. Her grey bob was cut blunt and her seventy-year-old frame was slender in tailored black, her lime green smoking flats bright on the dark floorboards.

  ‘God, I hate mothers. Don’t they have eyes? Don’t you? There are fingerprints, right there.’ She made for the window, dodging ornamentation to crouch, fogging the glass with her breath as she rubbed, vigorously. ‘There’s about fifty grubby little marks.’

  ‘Evening, Veronica,’ Jackson said. ‘I did see a tot at some point, didn’t see it in the window though, sorry.’

  Apple noticed that a jumper had become partially unfolded, angora lolling from an otherwise streamlined stack. She hurried forward to fix it.

  ‘And there?’ Veronica said, but Apple had already seen it and was moving, deftly upturning the cuff of a jacket that they’d agreed to style that way. Veronica sighed and Apple sensed her boss’s relief that Apple understood how things should be.

  ‘Parents would never have brought their children in here when this was my mother’s store. Where’s the respect?’ Veronica looked high and low until her gaze landed on the two women behind the counter. ‘Drinks, then?’

  ‘We already opened a bottle, out back.’

  ‘Before close?’ Veronica frowned, and Jackson grinned, insouciance unmasked as she glanced at her watch.

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘Do not do that.’ Veronica didn’t smile.

  ‘Do you want some or not?’

  ‘Some ten-dollar cleanskin? No thank you.’

  ‘Snob.’

  ‘Exactly. Come on, we’re going out.’

  Apple locked the door as Veronica strode onto the pavement and the three fell into step as they tramped across the street on their way to Pellegrini’s. Apple admired Jackson’s long neck and clear pale skin, the narrow trousers cropped above brogues, and the woollen T-shirt Jackson wouldn’t have chosen were they not required to wear Loom.

  ‘I’m certainly not averse to the way you’ve styled yourself.’

  Veronica had spoken and Jackson asked, ‘Who?’

  ‘Apple. I hadn’t pictured that olive-green knit with our apricot skirt. It’s rather excellent.’

  ‘On her,’ Jackson said. ‘Pretty blondes can wear anything.’

  ‘No, pretty blondes have to work to not look tawdry. Apple knows how to work.’

  Apple cleared her throat. She wasn’t used to compliments from her boss. She glanced uncertainly down at herself, smoothing her skirt.

  ‘Did you sell any of them?’ Veronica asked.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘The skirts. And the knits.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Apple said. ‘Two of each.’

  ‘See?’ Veronica gazed at Jackson.

  ‘What? Apple looks gorgeous, I know.’

  ‘We also sold three of Jackson’s T-shirts,’ Apple said.

  ‘Yes, well, she looks nice too . . . I suppose.’

  Jackson snorted.

  ‘What do you think of Sissy’s window?’

  ‘I like it,’ Apple said.

  ‘I think it’s eye-catching,’ Veronica mused. ‘The food component might be a bit much. The last thing we need is for clientele to stroll by after dinner and see our resident rodents gorging on apples and bread beside the three-thousand-dollar cardigan they once fancied.’

  ‘I’ll get rid of it,’ Apple said. ‘But we already sold eight boxes of the thigh-high socks. People did ask if we sold the boots though . . .’

  ‘I knew that would happen. God, I hate sending customers away – for anything. Shoes are next, Apple.’

  They took up seats at the bar.

  Jackson pulled out a cigarette and Veronica frowned.

  ‘Do you fancy sagging skin like mine?’

  ‘Me? Not particularly.’

  ‘Then put that poison crap away.’

  Jackson put the cigarette in her mouth.

  ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ the bartender said.

  ‘Does it look like I’m lighting it?’ Jackson raised a tattooed arm.

  ‘Nope.’ The bartender grabbed the cigarette and shoved it in ice.

  Jackson laughed and the man grinned, strolling away.

  ‘Kinda cute.’

  ‘Was that flirting?’ Veronica said. ‘I can barely tell these days.’

  Jackson eyed the man. ‘He wants me, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Speaking of cigarettes, one of my friends died today.’

  ‘Oh,’ Apple said with concern.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Veronica said. ‘Half of my friends are dead and this one wasn’t a surprise.’ Her aperitif arrived and she swirled the ice. ‘I don’t feel sad, I just . . . you know how I feel?’

  ‘How?’ Jackson said.

  ‘I think I feel like sex.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Jackson pulled out another cigarette and Apple pressed her cool glass against her forehead.

  ‘So I’m going out tonight.’ Veronica slid an invitation onto the bar and they watched it soak up a ring of wet. ‘You can both come, it’s some car launch . . . thing. I get invited to this rubbish all the time and usually can’t be bothered, but I feel like meeting someone. I hate husbands, but I like men and I haven’t had one in a while. I want to live a little.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Jackson said. The bartender returned to stub out her unlit cigarette and she laughed. ‘I love how handsy you are! But you’re going to pay for those.’

  ‘You gonna make me?’ He served someone else.

  ‘God, he’s sexy.’

  Apple’s phone binged. Raincheck on dinner, sweetie? I have a headache and feel like I’m ready for bed already. So, so sorry, I was looking forward to it. Mum xx

  I have a sore head too. Apple typed. I’ll miss you. Feel better xx

  Why do we always get headaches toge
ther? Soul sisters. Love you xx

  ‘Jackson.’ Veronica waved for another drink. ‘I thought you were gay.’

  ‘A bit. Pansexual?’

  ‘What the hell is that? Why do millennials have to label everything? So you can hashtag it? It’s pathetic.’

  Jackson went to pull out another cigarette, pausing as a four-wheel drive pulled up out front. ‘Hey look, it’s my sexy ride.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There – there’s m’girl.’ Jackson grinned as leather-clad legs slid from the open car door.

  The woman strode towards them, hair and legs long, and Veronica grunted, ‘I can see why.’

  ‘Yeah, I feel like a dirty old man with my leggy blonde.’ Jackson pulled the woman in for a kiss and patrons shifted to admire them. ‘This is Arabella.’

  ‘Heya,’ Arabella said.

  Veronica looked her over, sighing. ‘Hello. So who’s going to chaperone me tonight?’

  ‘Veronica’s looking for sex,’ Jackson told Arabella.

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘But I’d like some wing-girls, I mean wing-gals, I mean wing—’

  ‘Wing-women?’

  ‘Another pathetic term.’

  Apple had been looking forward to a hug from her mother, an autumn soup made with something organic grown in her garden, to sitting in her tiny backyard, watching the hens. She could do with some eggs.

  But dinner was cancelled, and her sister wouldn’t be at the apartment when she got home.

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘We’re free,’ Arabella said. ‘We’ll come.’

  Jackson sighed. ‘I want to go home first. I want a shower, to wash off the store filth.’

  Veronica frowned. ‘My store’s pristine.’

  ‘Because I clean it.’ Jackson winked at the bartender as she made to leave. ‘Bye, babe.’

  Apple and Veronica watched them go.

  ‘Do you need a shower too?’ Veronica eyed Apple.

  ‘If I can,’ Apple said, and Veronica glanced at her watch.

  ‘You have two hours.’

  Apple was about to walk back past work on the way to the tram and hesitated by the old heritage building with the gold lettering that read ‘Loom’. Her eyes flicked over the scene in the shop window before she impulsively put her key in the lock and hurried inside. She gathered the picnic food from the window and gave it to the lidded bin out back.