by Sasha Wasley
‘Definitely morning this time,’ I said. ‘What are the dogs called?’
‘That’s Blue,’ she said, pointing at the red one. ‘And that’s Bundy.’ The blue.
Classic farm dog names. ‘Mrs B, sorry to turn up like this but what you said about your caravan – I was wondering if the offer’s still open?’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’ ‘I have no income at the moment and nothing saved up, but I can do the farm jobs you mentioned. Could I work for my board?’
‘Yes, love, that sounds fair.’ She gestured. ‘Pop your car in the garage over there, if you like, then come through and I’ll show you the caravan.’
Mrs Brooker went inside, jaunty in her floral blouse and navy slacks, sensible maroon slippers on her feet. A farmer’s widow, vintage nineteen-forty-something. What on earth did she do out here all day? Probably pottered in the garden and made conserves. Plum jam, I suspected. Angus Brooker must run the orchards since his father’s death a few years back. I wondered if he’d bought a place in town with his wife, or if they had a house on another part of the property.
I moved my car into the old shelter. It must have been a smart wooden garage once, but now it was overgrown with white creeping roses, the timber stained almost black from decades of winters. I grabbed my gear from the car and hovered outside the screen door until Mrs Brooker reappeared in the hall.
‘If you don’t mind leaving your shoes outside,’ she said, pointing to a box of gumboots, garden clogs and trainers.
‘No worries.’ I removed my sandshoes and dropped them into the box, then followed her down the carpeted hall. ‘Are you here by yourself, Mrs Brooker?’
‘Yes, all alone. I’ll show you the caravan in a minute, but first let’s have a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
I couldn’t help but admire the sedate way she moved around the kitchen. There was nothing hurried about Mrs Brooker. My mother always rushed around as though she had a dreadfully important appointment to make, even if it was just with the television for post-dinner viewing. That was how I moved too, I realised. I must have learned it from her.
Mrs Brooker paused in the process of pouring hot water. ‘Do you prefer coffee, love?’
‘No, tea’s good.’
She brought me tea in a cup sporting a delicately painted fairy-wren.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’
I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. It’s not long since I had breakfast.’ She pushed the sugar bowl towards me and sat down. ‘You said you have jobs that need doing,’ I said. ‘I really want to keep myself busy while I’m here. What’s on the list? Fruit picking?’
‘Oh, goodness, I don’t know about a list.’ She lifted her tea carefully to her mouth. ‘There are hired workers who take care of picking and packing in season. But there are always things to do around the place.’
It seemed irresponsible of Angus to leave his poor old mother to run the farm on her own, even if she had plenty of hired help. But farm women were renowned as strong and hardworking – and who was I to make judgement calls on responsibility?
‘Do you mean gardening?’ I pressed her. ‘Or housework?’
‘I do my own housework.’ An edge of slightly insulted pride had come into her voice.
‘I can see that,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m just trying to work out how I can earn my keep. I might not be good at noticing things that need to be done.’
‘Just spend a day or two settling in. You’ll start to spot the little jobs as you go about your day.’
No way was I going to sit around twiddling my thumbs for days on end; I could have done that at home. Maybe one of the hired blokes would give me more direction. I sipped my tea.
‘How are your parents, love?’
‘Good, thanks. Busy with the newsagency, of course.’
‘And your …’ She trailed off, frowning slightly.
‘Oh – my sister? Elizabeth is doing well. She works in the city these days. She’s a nurse – surgical.’
Mrs Brooker’s eyes brightened. ‘That must be interesting. I wanted to be a nurse once, or a teacher. But my father said I mustn’t fiddle-faddle about with that sort of thing, since I would just end up getting married anyway. I did a typing course instead, and met Ted when I was eighteen, and we got married not long after. So, my old dad was right after all.’ She smiled at me rather sadly.
‘You worked at the school, though,’ I said. ‘For a long time, right? You were there during all the years I went to high school.’
‘Yes, I worked in the admin block. Angus always found that very embarrassing.’
I smiled. ‘I bet. There’s nothing more embarrassing than having a parent at school. Liv was the same – Liv Parnham, my best friend. Her mum was one of the teachers.’
‘Oh, yes, Valerie Parnham. Social studies.’
‘That’s her.’
We chatted about the good old days at Bonnievale District High School, and when we finished our tea Mrs Brooker offered to show me the caravan. I went to grab my shoes, but she waved me towards the back door.
‘Just slip on some of the boots from the patio, love. Shoes live on rotation between the front and back doors around here.’
There was a pair of worn green gumboots on the patio, and another in bright clean lilac. I chose the too-big green ones. I didn’t want to look like a little kid, dressed to jump in rain puddles, if we bumped into any of the hired workers. Mrs Brooker, having swapped her slippers for garden clogs, led the way down the steps and through the backyard.
Blue and Bundy joined us from around the front, both up for a jaunt across the lawn. Bundy was an old dog, greying around the muzzle and eyes, and stiff in his movements. The female, Blue, was bouncy and lithe. She danced around us as we passed the outdoor washhouse and toilet, both of which were nestled under dense grapevines that appeared to be holding up an iron trellis. Beyond these sat a caravan.
Oh, dear God.
It was dirty white with two horizontal orange stripes, bent and battered on every visible panel. The misshapen roof was laden with rotting leaves and debris and seemed to have split away from the caravan’s sides in some spots. I panicked as I followed Mrs Brooker. There must be another caravan – perhaps hidden behind this dilapidated, holey tin-can on wheels.
‘Here it is, the old caravan.’ She paused at the step to regard it fondly. ‘We had many a wonderful family holiday in this old thing.’ She turned the door handle and it shrieked in protest. ‘Needs oil.’
The door made a sound like Velcro when she pulled it open. How long since anyone had been inside? The dust and cobwebs on every corner and surface answered my question.
Mrs Brooker coughed and puffed. ‘Goodness, it’s a little musty! Let’s open some windows.’
The metal stairs rattled alarmingly as Mrs Brooker climbed inside. The tattered curtains actually ripped as she pulled them open, falling apart beneath her touch.
‘I must repair those,’ she murmured.
Repair? The fabric was little more than dust held together with nostalgia.
She tried to slide open a smeared window but it wouldn’t budge more than a couple of inches. Some daylight spilled in, further illuminating the dust and decay. I stared at Mrs Brooker, but she was still wrestling with the windows. Was she pranking me?
‘I probably should have warned you there’s no power,’ she said, throwing me a smile. ‘But don’t worry, we can run an extension cord from the washhouse.’ Mrs Brooker choked on dust for a moment, then looked around. ‘I love this old caravan.’
She went back down the steps and I gazed around myself. Everything was covered in the kind of dust that only happens over extended periods of time. It was like a layer of sediment – archaeological.
A bang behind me made me jump. Mrs Brooker had tossed the head of an extension cord through the crack she’d managed to open in the window. I hurried over and caught the plug, pulling the extension cord through.
‘There you go.’ She gave me a ple
ased smile, panting slightly. ‘Now you can have a light and a cup of tea in the morning. Or even a hair dryer!’ She chuckled at her own extravagance, then paused. ‘Do you have a hair dryer, love?’
‘I don’t need one,’ I heard myself say.
‘Oh, good. What about a kettle? Actually, I think I have a spare. I’ll go in and check.’
Hairdryers and kettles were the least of my worries but Mrs Brooker trotted off on a mission. I looked around. This was going to take serious elbow grease.
A bed? There seemed to be a couple of foldaway bunks. A sink? I tested the tap but nothing happened. What about showering? I went outside and stuck my head into the washhouse – there was no shower, just a big cement trough. I tried the tap there and was thrilled to see a thin, cold trickle. I checked in the next door along – the toilet. An enormous, pine-green frog stared at me from its spot atop the cistern.
Mrs Brooker either couldn’t find a kettle or got distracted. Whatever the case, she didn’t reappear, so I went to my car in search of supplies. I grabbed a salty beach towel from the floor, left there from a girls’ weekend at the beach back in October.
I climbed back into the caravan and assessed all the jobs that needed doing. My beach towel, if dampened, might remove the layer of dust off everything. Then window cleaning, a brush out, scrubbing, disinfecting … Every time I needed to rinse my towel I’d have to go to the washhouse. Hell, every time I needed water for anything, I would need to go to the washhouse.
I sank onto the flimsy bench seat and cast my eyes around the dank innards of the caravan, weirdly excited by the challenge before me.
I only saw Mrs Brooker a couple of times that afternoon. At one point, she brought me some tea towels, sheets and a jar of fig jam.
‘What’s your name again, sorry, love?’ she asked as she handed me the booty.
I was slightly taken aback, but remembered that lots of people in Bonnievale didn’t know whether to call me Charlize or Lottie now.
‘Lottie,’ I said.
‘Lottie. I have a dreadful memory for names.’ She looked around. ‘I hope you’re all right out here. Do you have a lamp for when it gets dark?’
‘No, but I can probably sort one out tomorrow.’ I supposed St Edna’s might have one going cheap.
‘Let me see what I can find.’
Once again, she disappeared for hours. It was sunset when she came back outside to feed the dogs. I was hanging my trusty beach towel on the line, having spent all afternoon wiping things down as best I could with just the towel and water. Mrs Brooker waved, stepped back inside, and came out again with a gas lantern and box of matches.
‘Take care when you’re lighting it,’ she said. ‘And don’t leave it too near anything flammable.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you have anything for dinner?’ she asked, perusing my dusty T-shirt.
Cold beans. ‘Yes, thanks.’ I smiled brightly.
‘You could join—’
‘No, thank you. I’m absolutely fine.’
‘All right.’ She gave a brief nod. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
She left me to it. I couldn’t work out how to light the gas lantern but I didn’t want to disturb Mrs Brooker. The moon was bright and full, and I could surely handle one evening without lighting. A vehicle rolled past the house from the direction of the orchards, the sound making the dogs bark. The hired hand leaving for the day, I guessed. I located a fork in the stiff drawer beneath the sink and took advantage of the moonlight shining through a smeared window to open my tin. The cold beans tasted surprisingly good.
This was like being a hermit. My own little solitary cave.
There was nothing else to do so I turned my attention to organising a bed. The bottom bunk was stuck fast, and after tugging on it for a while I gave up and opened the top bunk instead. The mattress, sitting at eye-height on the flimsy bunk, was the thickness of a cheese sandwich. Mrs Brooker’s sheet went over the aged foam, followed by my sleeping bag. I ventured out to the washhouse in the cool evening air and used a flannel to clean the day’s sweat from my underarms and neck.
The climb into bed was yet another challenge. I had to put one foot on the cabinet beside the bed and heave myself up onto the top bunk. Then I was obliged to climb back down in search of a pillow. I settled on using my jacket and jeans. Back up I went, squirming noisily into the nylon sleeping bag. I would get cold in the early hours. I sat up to check the shelves alongside the bed and found a crocheted rug and a seat cushion I could use instead of my jeans-and-jacket pillow. It all smelled like what it was: old linen in a mouldering caravan. I lay down, more comfortable now, and looked out of the window alongside my bunk. A humming noise sat beneath the evening quiet, like a refrigerator or an electric motor. Maybe the Brookers had a bore somewhere nearby, or an old chest freezer in a dark corner of the washhouse.
Sleep wouldn’t come. I watched the stars for a long time, and when it got cold I tugged the protesting window shut. The moon cast a silver light over the farmhouse, bright as sunrise. There was a light on inside the Brooker house, but all seemed quiet. Wind chimes tinkled and the Hills Hoist turned slowly in the light breeze. There was a rustle and thump – probably Blue or Bundy settling on one of their hessian beds for the night.
Then footsteps rose and a bushranger went past the window.
I froze. Had I really seen a bearded Ned Kelly, complete with wild hair, billowing shirt and boots – carrying a gun? The footsteps stopped outside the caravan door and I sat up, heart hammering. The door flicked open, the caravan steps ker-thunked, and suddenly I was blinking into searing torchlight, the rifle trained on me. I shrieked and pulled the blankets up to my chest as if they would protect me from a bullet.
‘Get out! Get out!’
The bushranger dropped the muzzle but kept the torch on my face. Was he a squatter, secretly using the old caravan right under Mrs Brooker’s nose? Maybe I’d stolen his digs. He shone the torch around the caravan and, although my eyes were still dazzled, I realised he wasn’t a bushranger after all. He was just an unkempt, bearded man wearing a faded shirt and jeans.
Thank Christ. I could handle a normal squatter – a cosplay squatter was a whole different matter.
‘What are you doing in here?’ he said. ‘This is private property.’
‘Mrs Brooker said I could stay here,’ I said, voice shaking.
The man was silent for a long moment.
‘Fuck,’ he said at last.
He stepped closer and I went into a fresh panic, blinking in a desperate effort to regain my full eyesight. The moonlight coming through my window fell onto his face.
‘Angus? Angus Brooker?’
‘What do you mean, Mum said you could stay here? When?’
‘I saw her outside the Peach Pit the other day and she offered me accommodation.’
His frown deepened. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. She said she had some projects for me.’
He hovered for a few moments. Had clean-jawed, popular Angus Brooker really let himself become this wild, snarling bushranger? He turned away and clumped down the caravan steps, slamming the door behind him. I craned my neck to peer through the window after him, trying to slow my breathing as he went into the house.
Jesus. My Peach King had turned out a psycho.
The sun cut through my window. A ridiculous amount of birdsong was going on out there: wattlebirds, honeyeaters, butcherbirds. My mother liked birds and had often pointed them out to me when I was little. I hadn’t realised how much of the knowledge had stuck.
The farmhouse door banged open and a voice rose above the sounds of dawn. ‘Have you got your hat, Angus?’
‘Yep.’
‘What about lunch?’
‘Got it. I should be back by early arvo. What’s the time now?’
‘Let’s see. Quarter to six, love.’
‘Right.’ Angus’s voice dropped in volume. ‘I’ve got my phone. You know where I am if you need me.�
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‘Don’t forget to eat.’
I peered out through the threadbare excuse for a curtain, just in time to see Angus shoot a baleful glance at the caravan as he crossed the backyard. Moments later, an engine choked into life and his ute crunched past, heading off in the direction of the orchards. Blue climbed up onto a garden bench and watched until the ute was out of sight, then clambered down and wandered the yard. Old Bundy had found a shard of sunshine and lay stretched out on the dewy lawn, his eyelids drooping as he soaked up the warmth. Mrs Brooker appeared at the kitchen window to use the tap, then moved away.
Who seriously got up this early?
The edge of the bedside cabinet was icy when I found it with my foot. I made an ungraceful descent and stepped outside. It was almost the same temperature as inside the caravan and my tracksuit top did nothing to help. I watched the big green frog in the outhouse the entire time I peed. He didn’t move, thank Christ. I washed my hands and face then brushed my hair, but there was no mirror, so I had no idea what I looked like. I returned to the caravan and grabbed my cat notebook, crossing off ‘Appearance’. Maybe it was a little premature of me – but you couldn’t care about what you couldn’t see.
I was freezing my arse off, so I stacked on jeans, a T-shirt and hoodie with a denim jacket over the top, then thick socks and the splendid green gumboots. I sat on the caravan step and ate a muesli bar in the brightening daylight. The back door squeaked open and Mrs Brooker emerged with a basket of washing, which she plonked into a laundry trolley with a slight grunt.
‘Good morning,’ I called.
She turned sharply and stared at me for several moments. ‘Oh, hello, love! You’re up already.’
‘Farm hours, right?’
She smiled. ‘Did you sleep all right?’
I opened my mouth to pretend I had, then remembered: no lying and no faking. ‘It’s always a bit funny sleeping in a new place for the first time.’
‘Very true.’
She started pegging up black woollen socks, and I stuffed the remainder of my breakfast into my mouth to go and help.
‘Oh, thank you, love.’