Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  ‘Do you have any jobs for me, Mrs Brooker?’

  ‘Why don’t you take things easy today? You’ll start to spot things that need doing as the days go on.’ She shot a quick glance at me and I got suspicious. Had my mother put Mrs Brooker up to this? Or even my dad? Was this stay at the Brookers’ farm supposed to give me some kind of mental health break?

  ‘I really want to do something useful,’ I said.

  ‘Well, then.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’m making strawberry jam today. You can help with that.’

  Conserves – I knew it. ‘I’d love to. I’ll do whatever. Pick strawberries, or whatever it is that needs doing.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all done. My sister-in-law was given a great big tub of strawberries. She brought them over for me to make the jam. It’ll be chopping and cooking today.’

  ‘Cool, can’t wait. Shout at me when you’re ready to start.’

  When she went back inside, I grabbed an old ladder and cleared leaves from the roof of the caravan. There were serious holes. If it rained, I would be in trouble, but heavy rain wasn’t likely at this time of year. I hung out with the dogs for a while, picking weeds out of the rose garden, until I caught sight of Mrs Brooker through the kitchen window – chopping strawberries.

  I knocked on the door frame as I went into the house. ‘Hello? Mrs Brooker?’

  ‘In here,’ she called.

  I joined her in the kitchen. There were strawberries soaking in a big bowl of water on the kitchen table, and clean, chopped pieces sat in a giant pile.

  ‘I’m ready to help,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, good.’ She nodded at a stack of wooden chopping boards.

  I washed my hands and grabbed myself a board and a knife, then joined her at the table.

  ‘I think I gave Angus a scare last night,’ I said, chopping. ‘He didn’t seem to know I would be in the caravan.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that so? He must have forgotten you were coming to stay. Dice a little smaller, love.’

  I compared my chopped strawberries to hers. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

  ‘Some like big chunks of fruit in their jam, but I prefer it even-textured. Angus has a lot on his mind, with harvest coming,’ she added.

  ‘Where does he live these days?’

  ‘Here, of course.’

  ‘Oh!’ I glanced at the fridge, checking for photos or artwork – no sign of grandchildren. Angus and whatshername might not have had any yet, or perhaps the little Brookers were off at boarding school. ‘I thought maybe he lived somewhere else. I haven’t seen …’ I floundered for the name of Angus’s wife, who’d been in a lower year at school – I hadn’t known her well.

  Mrs Brooker paused. ‘Bianca?’

  ‘Yes. Bianca.’

  ‘Angus hasn’t been married for a while now. Quite a while.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  She chopped on. ‘It wasn’t a successful marriage. Not at all.’

  ‘Right.’ I felt like a prize arsehole for raising the issue.

  ‘In fact, they stayed together less than a year after the wedding,’ Mrs Brooker said. ‘Bianca moved to Dunbury.’

  I chopped.

  ‘Ted had already put the farm in Angus’s name, you see. The court saw fit to award Bianca a large settlement, but of course, there wasn’t very much in the way of money, so we had to take out a mortgage on the farm to pay her out.’

  ‘Oh. Bummer.’

  ‘No use moaning,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s just how these things work. It was a tricky time, that’s all, what with the peach spot. But we got through, and the spot’s gone now. Three years gone.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s what I’ve heard, too.’

  Mrs Brooker’s eyes came to rest on my face. They wandered over it as though she was noticing me for the first time. Her gaze paused on the healing scar on my chin and my chest tightened. Will she ask?

  She dropped her eyes to survey our handiwork. ‘Good. Now, pop the chopped berries in that big pot, love. The one on the hook.’

  I fetched the big enamel pot and loaded handfuls of the diced strawberries into it. This pot was vast. The berries barely came a third of the way up its sides, even though there was an obscene amount in there.

  ‘Put that sugar in,’ she added, using her elbow to point.

  ‘How much?’ I asked, casting my eyes around for a cup measure.

  ‘All of it.’

  I stared. ‘All two kilos?’

  She nodded. Obviously modern nutritional knowledge hadn’t filtered through to Mrs Brooker. I poured it all in.

  ‘Shake the pot so the sugar really gets into the berries.’

  I did a shimmy with the enamel pot. Mrs Brooker finished chopping the last of the strawberries and used the knife to scrape them into the pot. I shook it again.

  ‘Four lemons,’ she said. ‘Squeeze them over the mixture.’

  I stripped off my jacket and squeezed the hell out of the lemon halves, drizzling juice over the lumpy red berries and picking out errant seeds.

  ‘Okay, done.’

  Mrs Brooker rinsed the chopping boards. ‘Now let it sit for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s all right, love. We still need to sterilise the jars.’

  She spread a clean tea towel over the enamel pot and got me washing old jars in a sink full of soapy water. I rinsed them and placed them on a tray. There were all different shapes and sizes of jars, some still with scraps of labels on them.

  ‘Now what?’ I asked when I was done, and a good dozen or so jars sat waiting on an oven tray.

  Mrs Brooker regarded me with those bright blue eyes. ‘You remind me of Angus when he was a little boy. He would barely finish with a pruning job or picking, or netting – and he’d be asking, “What next, Dad?” He always had the next job in his sights, never willing just to sit and rest.’

  That didn’t sound like me at all.

  ‘You go and amuse yourself for a while,’ she added. ‘In a couple of hours, we’ll cook up the jam.’

  I went back out to the caravan and sat on the step, patting the dogs. It was mid-morning now, and heating up. I peeled off another layer of clothes and touched the scar on my chin. Without makeup covering it, it must be quite visible. Normally, makeup was part of my daily routine – as normal as brushing my teeth. I loved building up my eyes to make them look big and luminous against my pearly foundation, a faint blush of pink across my cheeks. Soft pink lipstick and nude gloss. I’d learned all the tricks from stage makeup artists, and my scar hadn’t been seen since the scab came off a month or so ago. I felt exposed – naked – without the power to design my face. But I’d thrown out almost all of my makeup in the bedroom declutter.

  It was only Mrs Brooker, anyway. And Angus – and look at him.

  I dug one of my mother’s books out of my bag and tried to read, but it didn’t hold my attention. Hell, this was as bad as being at home. It was over an hour before I saw Mrs Brooker back in the kitchen through the window. She was putting the enamel pot on the stove.

  I went back inside and Mrs Brooker gazed at me for a moment. ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Are we ready for the next stage of jam making?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. It goes on medium-low. Stir it, love. Get the sugar melted. It takes a while.’

  The sugar crystals dissolved slowly and the mass of strawberries transformed into a vivid red slush under my stirring. Mrs Brooker turned up the heat and the slush went fuchsia pink as the heat made it bubble.

  ‘It’ll stick to the pot if you stop stirring,’ she said. ‘Some say it only needs an occasional stir, but I find I forget about it if I don’t commit to constant stirring. It’s quite relaxing, anyway, just standing there looking out the window and stirring a pot with the strawberry smell wafting up, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very mindful,’ I agreed.

  The lines on her forehead deepened. ‘Mindful?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a new thing – focusing on something simpl
e as a way to relax. It’s therapeutic.’

  Mrs Brooker checked the heat on the oven. I could see the tray of clean jars in there. ‘That’s hardly new,’ she said. ‘What do they think crocheting and patchwork are all about? Nobody needs that many blankets.’

  I stirred until the gloop in the pot eventually began to bubble alarmingly. ‘Hey, this is going crazy.’

  ‘That means it’s almost ready.’ She took the wooden spoon off me and let the red syrup drip off it and back into the pot. The last few drops oozed like treacle. ‘Just right. Take it off the heat, love. We’ll let it settle for a few minutes, then we’ll jar it up.’

  ‘What would happen if it wasn’t ready?’ I was starting to feel a bit like a little girl visiting her grandmother on school holidays.

  ‘It would be too runny. I don’t use pectin,’ she said, a touch of pride coming through. ‘If you make it right, you don’t need it.’

  I was hot now. I’d been standing over a boiling pot for almost half an hour and the kitchen was warm from the oven. I wiped sweat off my face with my forearm.

  ‘Have a taste,’ Mrs Brooker said.

  I found a clean teaspoon and dipped it into the pot, then sucked the hot jam off it. ‘Oh, God, it’s so good.’

  ‘Let’s get those jars out of the oven, love.’

  Mrs Brooker handed me a soup ladle and I tried to spoon the hot, shining red mess into the jars without spilling any, with limited success. Mrs Brooker pretended not to notice the drips and dribbles all over the tray.

  ‘Cover them up with baking paper to protect the jam,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘We need to let them cool right down before we put the lids on.’

  My first morning at Brooker’s and I’d already been taught how to make old-fashioned strawberry jam. I’d be invited to join the local CWA at this rate.

  ‘Come with me, love,’ she said. ‘You can help me find labels for the jars.’

  She led me down the hall to what must be a spare room. There appeared to be a bed but it was hidden beneath piles of clothing and papers. The floor was littered with old suitcases, chests, tins, a pedestal fan, a kerosene heater and a metal filing cabinet. There was a large wardrobe against a wall with glass doors and sliding mirrors. It gave a faint, vibratory chime every time we moved.

  Mrs Brooker waved me in. ‘Excuse the clutter, love. I must sort it all out some day.’

  ‘I did a declutter in my room this week,’ I said. ‘It felt good. I got rid of heaps of stuff I didn’t want any more.’

  ‘I ought to do that in here.’ She pointed at the filing cabinet. ‘If we have labels, they’ll be in there.’

  Mrs Brooker left me to search. The top drawer contained a mess of envelopes and assorted stationery. I pushed the curtains open so I could see better and flicked through. There was a big yellow envelope marked with the word Policy. I checked it for jam labels but all it contained was a hodgepodge of photos and paperwork: letters from insurance companies, the bank and a divorce certificate for Angus Brooker and Bianca Brooker nee Carton, dated nine years ago. There was also a court document marked Final Orders. Mrs Brooker had said it was a large settlement …

  I closed the envelope and pushed it aside. Further down, I discovered a sheet of large printer labels. Maybe we could cut them up to fit the jam jars. I kept looking in case there was something more suitable and right at the bottom found some loose photos, scratched and gritty. Angus in his primary school uniform; Angus graduating from high school, standing out the front of the school between his proud parents, a big smile on his young face; Angus on the tractor, grinning. In every photo he looked neat and responsible – a world away from the wild caveman look he had going these days. The last photo was Angus and Bianca on their wedding day. I looked closer. Bianca was pretty, with smooth dark hair and pink cheeks. She and I never moved in the same circles. She had been super straight, while I’d preferred the fun crowd. The date printed on the photo showed that Angus got married before he even finished his teens. No wonder it hadn’t lasted. Another photo was from the Harvest Ball – Angus looking awkward as he was awarded Peach King. He was on stage, shaking Councillor Colin Dalgety’s hand, a woman from the organising committee standing ready with a painted crown. I saw myself in the crowd, smiling up at Angus. I was yet to be announced and crowned, although I’d been pretty sure it would be me standing up there beside him. The organisers had given it away by triple checking I’d be at the ball.

  ‘Any luck?’

  I nearly dropped the photo. In her silent maroon slippers, Mrs Brooker had crept back into the room and caught me riffling through her private stuff

  But I’d given up lying, so I told her the truth. ‘I found some labels,’ I said, showing her. ‘But I got distracted by these photos.’

  She brightened when she saw the photo and took it from my hand. ‘Oh, look at that. Our Angus, the Peach King.’ She laughed softly and held the photo up to the light. ‘Goodness – that’s you there in the front, isn’t it, love?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I pushed the top drawer shut and pulled out the next. It was full of vertical files. I tried the bottom drawer and it was almost empty, except for a packet of jam labels – they even had little berries around the edges. ‘Oh, here we go!’

  Mrs Brooker was still looking at the Harvest Ball photo. ‘I ought to put this one in a frame. Angus looks so innocent and young. He got quite a shock when he got called up on stage. Bianca nominated him, but she didn’t dare tell him. Of course, we expected she would win Peach Queen, but …’ She trailed off and smiled at me.

  Great. I’d robbed the young couple of a special moment. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Wasn’t meant to be.’ Mrs Brooker looked around the room and sighed. ‘So much to go through.’

  ‘I did that Kondo thing,’ I blurted out.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That tidying method where you go through your things and if something brings you joy, you keep it; if it doesn’t, you thank it for its service and get rid of it.’

  She tipped her head. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Anything. A vase. A guitar. A pair of socks.’ I looked around. ‘This, for example.’ I bent down and seized a gunmetal-grey desk lamp, circa 1965, and held it out to her. ‘Hold this.’

  She handed me the photo of Angus and took the lamp, her eyes dancing.

  ‘Does it give you a spark of joy?’ I asked, attempting to maintain my dignity.

  Mrs Brooker stood in her teal slacks, floral top and maroon slippers, holding the lamp and looking highly entertained.

  ‘Well, this was Ted’s lamp. His eyes weren’t good in the evening, and when he went over the farm accounts he’d set this up on the kitchen table. Whenever he brought it out, I knew there’d be plenty of sighs and grumbles. Numbers were not Ted’s strength.’ She was quiet for a moment, swinging the lamp rhythmically from side to side like a pendulum.

  ‘No,’ she said, after some time. ‘It does not bring me joy. Thank you for your service, lamp.’ Mrs Brooker looked up at me. ‘Do you need a light for the caravan, love?’

  ‘That’d be great, actually. I couldn’t work out the gas lantern you loaned me, and this will save me a trip to St Edna’s.’

  She handed it over. ‘I like this method.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s good.’

  ‘Would you help me clear up this room?’ she asked. ‘Using the condor method?’

  I didn’t correct her. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Wonderful. Let’s finish making the jam today, and we’ll be condors tomorrow. I’m putting on some scones because my sister-in-law is coming over soon. Pris – Pris Brooker – do you know her?’

  The woman outside the Peach Pit – I recalled her name now Mrs Brooker said it. I knew her. Everyone knew of Pris. Fundraiser extraordinaire, Women’s Auxiliary, Shire Council secretary, Progress Association president – Pris Brooker had done it all. She even headed up an odd little group where teenage girls could learn to knit and sew quilts and be surrendered women.
Dad used to call her the wheel that kept the cogs of Bonnievale moving; Mum said Pris was addicted to the rush of feeling necessary. I would make myself scarce while Pris was around, I decided. She was bound to know every sordid detail of my recent past. Mrs Brooker took back the photo of Angus and I closed the filing cabinet.

  ‘I’ll get a little frame next time I’m in town,’ she said.

  I hid in my caravan for the afternoon. The smell of baking scones drifted out of the Brookers’ kitchen window, making me ravenous. I ate another muesli bar and tried to read, but Mum’s book wasn’t grabbing me, especially with the caravan heating up like a crumpled soft-drink can in the sun. A car arrived at the side of the house, and I heard a loud female voice over the dogs’ barks. Angus came back in his ute too, the metal door groaning as he swung it shut.

  A few minutes later, the bushranger came past my window again, sans shotgun. He stood at the screen door.

  ‘Mum says to come and have afternoon tea with us.’ Angus’s shaggy hair had a leaf caught in it and his eyes glittered with stern dislike.

  ‘That’s very kind of her but no, thank you. You’re having a family thing.’

  ‘She wants you to come. Pris does, too.’

  I hesitated. That felt like an invitation, but Angus looked so pissed off at me. He pushed the screen door open before turning back to the house. Clearly I was being officially summoned.

  Pris was sitting at the kitchen table with Mrs Brooker. She made no secret of examining me closely, running her eyes over my hair, face, T-shirt and shorts, right down to my bare feet.

  ‘Pris, you remember …’ Mrs Brooker frowned at me.

  ‘Hello, Charlotte,’ said Pris. ‘Or do you prefer Charlize?’

  ‘Lottie,’ I said. ‘Hi, Miss Brooker.’

  ‘You may call me Pris.’

  Angus switched on the kettle. ‘Tea, Aunty Pris?’

  ‘Well, it’s hardly the time of day for me to have a coffee.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘You know I can’t sleep if I have coffee after noon, Angus.’

  Out of her line of sight, Angus rolled his eyes and reached for the tea cannister.

  ‘Staying in that old rust bucket, are you?’ Pris directed this at me.