The Rules of Backyard Croquet

by Sunni Overend

  It was mid-morning and the sun was out. She slid on her shades and found that the back way to Ginny’s was quiet, no one up and about.

  Apple was turning down a one-way street when the car juddered. She accelerated and the shaking stopped. She kept on around the corner, but the juddering returned, so she floored it, disbelieving that anything could go wrong – she’d just had the car serviced the week before.

  She coasted down the narrow street, whispering a little prayer, but the car lurched and then the engine cut. She pumped the pedals, but it only rolled a little further before stopping.

  ‘Shit!’ She slammed the accelerator but nothing happened.

  Apple picked up her phone then thought again, deciding not to worry Ginny or Poppy until she had no choice. She called for a cab then waited until it appeared up the street.

  ‘I want to go to Balaclava,’ she told the cabbie. ‘Can we squeeze some chairs in the back? In the boot?’

  ‘Is that your car?’ He stared ahead. ‘Why’s it in the middle of the street?’

  ‘It’s broken down.’

  ‘You can’t just leave it there, it’s a one-way street.’

  ‘I’ll call a tow truck on the way.’

  ‘I can’t take those chairs – no one will. And you can’t leave your car in the middle of the road, it’s a hazard; even I can’t get through.’

  ‘I know—’ Apple began, but the cab was already reversing down the street. She considered running after it, but swore instead. ‘Fuck.’

  She thought about who else she could call. One name came to mind and she blinked it away. It returned and she smacked her head, trying again.

  Dads were for times like this she realised. Dads fixed things and saved the day, but Apple had no dad, nor did Poppy; they only had each other. But if it was the last thing Apple did, she was going to get her dress, herself and every damn chair to Poppy’s wedding.

  She tapped the number and held the phone to her ear, only remembering that Jill had said he was away as the voicemail clicked on. ‘You’ve reached Charlie Beauchamp, please leave a message.’

  ‘I . . .’ Apple wished already that she’d hung up. ‘My car needs a croquet mallet to the face, ha-ha-ha. It’s Poppy’s wedding . . . I’m in Windsor, on Rose Street—’

  She stopped herself, almost dropping the phone as she ended the call, her cheeks hot as she imagined Charlie somewhere far away with Heidi, trying to heal their relationship. Her trivial, stuttering plea replayed itself over and over in her head as she sank onto the pavement.

  She hid her shame in the car, snatching the bridal emergency kit from the glove compartment and wondering if this was the kind of emergency it was meant for. She found the nail file and began filing, humming anxiously as she considered calling Noah, then hated herself and threw the file on the floor, her nails clipped to a shortness that would surely disappoint the make-up artist.

  She wondered if a tow-truck driver would pick her up and take her and the whole car to Ginny’s, or whether she’d be forced to go to a garage . . . wondered how much that would cost.

  A mini-van was parked in a nearby drive. Apple eyed it then hurried over to the house. She pushed through the low gate and rapped the door knocker.

  There were whispers and giggling. ‘What do you want?’ The door opened and a little girl peered out.

  Apple tried to see down the hall. ‘Is your dad home? Mum?’

  ‘Dad’s not here. Mum’s asleep. Goodbye.’

  The door closed and Apple stared at the brass knocker. She turned to look down the street, one way, then the other, and gauged that everyone was probably inside, in their beds, in their own little world with their own little families.

  She glimpsed a cab at the end of the street and hope surged: the driver must have taken pity on her and returned.

  She leaped from the top step then fell, grazing her hand before she clambered up and ran, waving at the oncoming car. As she hurried forward, she noticed the shadow of a passenger in the front seat. The door swung open.

  Apple stopped still.

  Charlie was walking towards her, saying her name.

  Her graze was smarting, but there was Charlie, standing in front of her on the footpath. He was wearing sweatpants and a frayed college sweater, bed-hair flat on one side. He’d never looked so good.

  ‘Apple?’

  ‘I didn’t think . . .’ She choked and cleared her throat.

  He was staring down at her side. ‘Your hand,’ he said, and Apple saw blood dripping from her finger.

  She instantly held her hand aloft, and Charlie produced a tissue. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, blushing and flicking the blood into the air. ‘Don’t. It’s okay. I’m okay.’

  She stopped as he took her hand, his fingers pressing against hers.

  ‘I brought my mallet,’ Charlie said. ‘I should have brought a Band-Aid.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called, I . . .’

  There were so many words, so many that needed to be said, but she’d promised herself she’d never see him again.

  ‘I thought you were away,’ she said.

  ‘I was.’

  He went back to the cab and returned with a croquet mallet. She followed him to her ute.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled as he reached inside and popped the bonnet.

  ‘Don’t thank me yet,’ he said. Apple watched, transfixed, knowing that he knew nothing about what he was going to do, but that it would work. She had complete faith in Charlie Beauchamp – mallet in hand.

  ‘Do you remember where you hit it that day?’ She peered at the old engine.

  ‘Nope.’ He brought the club down with a resounding clang.

  ‘We need another ice cream van.’ She smiled nervously.

  Charlie didn’t reply. Apple climbed in and turned the key. Nothing happened. She heard the tapping of mallet on steel, another clang, but still nothing.

  ‘Heap of British rust,’ she heard Charlie say, before he hit it again and then the engine shuddered, rumbling as it came to life.

  He slammed the bonnet down and came around to the window.

  ‘No way,’ Apple breathed. ‘You are magic.’

  Charlie smiled for the first time and Apple’s heart ached.

  She glanced back at the cab still idling behind. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Wouldn’t budge this morning either. Hasn’t been driven in a while, I guess. Damn mother country. You and I could both do with some German engineering.’

  She guessed she should laugh.

  ‘Apple, I’m sorry for what happened.’

  He was leaning on the window frame, and Apple noticed the time. ‘Oh shit, I should . . .’

  Charlie stepped away to allow her to leave. She wanted to draw him back, but knew she could never draw him anywhere again, for any reason.

  ‘I shouldn’t have called. I’m so sorry, Charlie, I’ve just—’

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, expression complex, and Apple’s heart twisted before her phone rang.

  She pressed it to her ear. ‘Shit, sorry, Poppy.’

  ‘Where are you? The make-up lady’s finished. You’re next!’

  ‘I can do my own, it’s fine.’

  ‘I don’t want you to. Where are you?’

  ‘Almost there.’

  ‘Hurry, you’re stressing me.’

  Apple dropped the phone into her lap.

  ‘Good luck,’ Charlie said. ‘I hope it’s a beautiful wedding.’

  ‘Charlie,’ she began, but he was already walking away. When his cab started reversing, she slammed the Morris into gear and sped off in the other direction.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  23

  Until the last twenty minutes before Poppy walked down the aisle, everything seemed to be in fast forward. It was a blur of white ribbons, flowers, shins knocking against tightly packed furniture, smiles on all the familiar faces at the gathering.

  When the guests started to take their seats, Apple s
lipped into Ginny’s room, Ginny in tow.

  Poppy was perched carefully against the dresser, the bodice of her gown clinging, her posy on the bed.

  ‘Oh,’ Ginny said. ‘Oh, oh darling, you look beautiful.’

  Poppy’s smile was reserved but her eyes were alight. ‘I’ve never fantasised about being a bride.’ She slowly turned to look in the mirror. ‘But Apple, this dress.’ She turned back to gaze down at it. ‘It makes me feel . . . ethereal.’

  Apple felt swollen with pride. ‘It would be nothing without you in it.’

  ‘I wish that were true. It’s a masterpiece,’ Poppy said. ‘It really should be in a museum. I’m certainly not worthy of it.’ She laughed a little, sinking her hands into the downy rabbit fur in the opening in the front. ‘Look at me. Look at it.’

  Apple folded her arms, seeing nothing about the dress that she would change.

  ‘I feel strong in it.’ Poppy’s hand followed the structured waistline. ‘Invincible. It’s like something a queen might fight in . . . if queens were allowed to fight.’

  Apple gave a slow smile.

  ‘It’s powerful the love you’ve sewn into this, Apple, but it’s more than that – you made it for me, and though it feels beyond me, too much for me, it still feels right, like this is how my wedding dress was always going to be.’

  ‘Look at the tips of you fingers, all red and smarting from the sewing.’ Ginny tut-tutted, taking Apple’s hand. ‘What happened here?’ She noticed the sticking plaster on Apple’s graze.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Apple looked back to Poppy, who was eyeing their mother.

  ‘Even you look like a real person today, Mum.’

  Ginny touched the usually messy curls that had been tamed against her head. ‘I feel a bit silly to be honest,’ she said, and the three stood smiling at each other. ‘God, I’m proud of you two.’

  ‘We’re proud of you, Mum,’ Poppy said.

  ‘I . . .’ Ginny began. ‘I’m sorry that your father wasn’t the man he should have been. I’m sorry I didn’t choose a father for my children who could be there for you at special moments like these, but I’m not sorry for anything else. I’m not sorry that I get to hog you, that while your lives may not have been perfect, you are both perfect, two perfect women. You’re a pair of smart, capable, driven humans with everything going for you, and you’re mine. I made you. I did it.’ Tears sprang out. ‘So today is my celebration.’ She grinned. ‘But, of course, it isn’t. It’s yours, Poppy. You’ve picked a kind, loyal man and I’m happy for you, and so proud.’

  Poppy blinked the tears away, bundling them together in a hug. ‘I love you both so much.’

  ‘I think everyone’s ready,’ a friend whispered through the door.

  ‘This is it,’ Apple said.

  ‘This is it,’ Poppy sighed.

  Ginny wiped away another tear. ‘Girls, this is only the beginning.’

  Apple led the way down the short runner in the narrow garden then took her place at the side. When the bride appeared, the crowd gasped. Glee and disbelief were plain on Poppy’s face as she seemed to float towards them.

  A gentle breeze ruffled the soft fur of her dress and sent petals from her overripe posy tumbling down her skirt into the garden. The crowd’s awe was audible.

  ‘What did I do to deserve her?’ Apple heard Lachie say, and she smiled without looking away from her sister.

  Poppy’s dark locks shimmered in the sun, and the look in her eyes was less hopeful than it was knowing – knowing that this was her time and that all of this she had chosen.

  The celebrant began to speak, the vows were exchanged, and when Lachie kissed his wife, the congregation erupted, swarming around the newlyweds.

  Apple huddled out of the way, observing, until eventually the throng drifted out onto the street, and she watched with pleasure as Poppy’s dress sailed up their childhood pavement into the park.

  Poppy reached the mouth of the small marquee and glanced back, eyes searching the crowd until she found Apple. She smiled, mouth moving, ‘I love you.’

  There was a knock on Apple’s front door.

  She turned the stove down and hurried across the old parquetry, wiping a hand on her apron before turning the door handle.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Jackson gave her a disapproving once-over, taking in Apple’s apron and the spatula she held aloft.

  Apple threw her arms wide, feeling like she hadn’t seen someone she loved in a while. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was bored.’ Jackson strode in, takeaway coffees in hand. ‘Here’s some rank almond chai sludge. What’s with the apron? Why does it smell so good in here?’

  ‘Pancakes.’ Apple led the way to the kitchen.

  ‘You’re eating pancakes alone? That’s sad.’

  Apple flipped a golden round, and it sizzled in the pan. ‘They’re not for me, they’re for the guests.’ She gestured to Poppy’s old room.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Jackson took off her coat and threw it over a bar stool then sat on it. ‘So this is what you do with your days now? Run a frigging hostel?’

  After Poppy had departed for her honeymoon, Apple’s life had become noticeably quiet. The buzz from the big day had faded, the soft, grey cloud of wedding dress had gone from her life, and in its place all she saw was a cloud of uncertainty.

  ‘Poppy and Lachie have left the country,’ she said. ‘Things feel suddenly quiet. It’s nice to have something nice to do for people.’

  ‘Oh, doll,’ Jackson cooed. ‘That’s tragic.’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s fine. It’s just strange, the change, you know?’

  ‘Do I know? Last time I checked, you and I jumped off the same burning ship. My hands have been idle for over a month now and I even baked Arabella cookies yesterday. I’ve been baking, for God’s sake.’

  ‘That is creepy.’

  ‘And now I come round here and see that you’re in an apron straitjacket and it makes me want to die.’

  Apple slid pancakes onto a plate then into the warm oven. ‘The travellers are so grateful when you make them breakfast; it actually makes me happy. Plus I get a good review.’

  ‘Can you hear yourself right now?’

  ‘You’re the one who wanted to start a B&B – isn’t that what you and Arabella have been saving for? Your muso’s drop-in?’

  ‘I’m not effing cooking, I’m not changing sheets. I’ll just be hanging around the bar being attractive and recommending cocktails. I hate being hospitable.’

  She took a draught of coffee. ‘It’s never going to happen anyway. Our savings are dwindling while I try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do next.’

  Apple flipped a pancake onto a plate and slid it towards Jackson, along with a bottle of maple syrup. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘For what?’ Jackson tore off some pancake and stuffed it in her mouth.

  ‘Making you leave the store.’

  ‘You didn’t make me do anything. If anything, you set me free.’ She popped the syrup lid then doused her plate. ‘Have you heard from her? Veronica?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. God, she’s weird. I saw a picture of her at some event the other day, holding court among a group of men. I actually admire her, to be honest. She’s a septuagenarian and still killing it on the social front, on the business front too.’

  ‘I admire her too,’ Apple said. She sank her ladle into the batter before pouring it to pool and hiss in the pan.

  ‘She’s a dick for being such a dick, though. How are you feeling about it all after some distance? I’m fine, I was just cruising through to save a buck. But you put years into that place, for nothing. It’s kind of depressing.’

  Apple stared, hypnotised as bubbles formed in the batter. ‘For the first time,’ she said, looking up, ‘I feel okay.’

  Jackson laughed, quick and dubious. ‘Your boyfriend punches your other boyfriend in the face, you lose both of them, lose your job, lose your sister to wedded bliss, you’re lef
t flipping pancakes for undeserving backpackers, and you feel . . . okay?’

  A small smile appeared on Apple’s face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  She was the most misplaced she’d ever been. She missed Charlie desperately, even Noah at times, and she missed Loom, missed Veronica’s nipping and hubris, missed her desk in the warehouse, being with Jackson at the store. It felt strange knowing she’d never set foot in there again; it had meant so much to her for so long. But at the end of it all, there was at least the empty comfort that surely, surely something had to begin . . .

  ‘I think I’m going to register for crowdfunding,’ she said.

  Jackson frowned.

  ‘Where you pitch a business idea and people invest?’

  ‘I know what it is. Arabella and I tried it when we wanted to start the B&B. It’s not as easy as it sounds. You think people are going to throw money at you. They don’t.’

  ‘I don’t expect people to throw money at me.’

  ‘They won’t. You need an awesome pitch, and even then it could take for fucking ever, if it ever even happens.’

  ‘I know. Ouch.’ Apple had burned herself. She stuck her wrist in her mouth.

  ‘Need ice?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  They shared another pancake, then heard the mailman’s scooter before the mail chute clicked.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Jackson got up. When she came back she was holding a square, textured envelope. ‘Another wedding?’

  Apple took it from her, leaving sticky marks as she retrieved the card inside. ‘I don’t know anyone else getting married.’

  A floridly embossed card was printed with small serif lettering: ‘Mary Huntington Foundation Annual Fashion Fundraiser’.

  Apple frowned at it.

  Please join us at Clement Hall for our annual Mary Huntington Foundation Fashion Fundraiser.

  ‘Mary Huntington?’ Jackson said. ‘Isn’t that Heidi’s foundation? With Charlie?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Apple said slowly.

  ‘Are they back together?’ Jackson snatched the invitation.