by Sasha Wasley
‘In the caravan, yes.’
‘Not fit for rats,’ she said with a sniff. ‘How long are you in town for?’
‘I’m not sure.’ My voice seemed to be getting quieter as hers got louder, as if she were stealing volume from me.
‘Why aren’t you staying with your mum and dad? Have they thrown you out after your exploits?’
‘Pris,’ Mrs Brooker murmured.
‘What? You know I always speak my mind, Caroline.’ Pris brought her expectant gaze back to me.
I was going to smile and pretend I didn’t care but I remembered just in time that there was no faking allowed. ‘They didn’t throw me out. We just needed a bit of space.’
‘Have a scone,’ Mrs Brooker said, pushing the plate at Pris.
‘No, I’m watching my figure.’
Mrs Brooker offered them to me and I accepted, loading my scone with the fresh jam and cream. It was freaking amazing – the best, reddest jam I’d ever had. Pris watched me, her lips pursed, then gave in and reached for a scone as well.
‘Just one, I suppose.’ She put so much cream on hers it became unstable. ‘A pity about your young man,’ she added.
It took me a moment to realise she was talking to me. ‘Yes.’
‘Still, drugs – you know. You never heard of it happening when we were girls, did you, Caroline? Women didn’t even go into public bars back then. And there weren’t any drugs around at all.’ Angus put a teacup on the table before Pris, eyebrows raised in silent disagreement. ‘What’s that face, Angus?’ she said.
‘This is the sixties and seventies we’re talking about, right?’ he said.
‘I expect there’ve been drugs since there’ve been people,’ Mrs Brooker said.
‘Not like nowadays,’ Pris countered. ‘They’re everywhere today. Marijuana. Ice.’
She bit into her scone, silently daring one of us to argue that drugs weren’t everywhere today. None of us spoke.
‘Was it ice?’ Pris asked me. ‘That caused your young man to …?’
‘To die?’ I couldn’t help it; for someone who always spoke her mind, she was hesitating over the word.
Angus shot me a look of surprise. Pris nodded, reaching for another scone.
‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to talk about it,’ Mrs Brooker murmured.
‘It wasn’t ice,’ I said. ‘Jai was on prescription medication and he took a stimulant. Cocaine. The drugs interacted.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She double loaded her scone halves again. ‘Did he have a seizure?’
‘Pris,’ Mrs Brooker admonished.
‘It’s all right; Lottie will tell me if she doesn’t want to talk about it.’ Pris turned back to me. ‘It’s professional curiosity. I was in the medical auxiliary, so I have training.’
My head was suddenly full of the memory of Jai thrashing on the sparkling bathroom floor; the sickening sound of his head smacking against the tiles; limbs flailing, pink foam dripping from his mouth; a shod foot coming towards my face—
‘That’s enough, Aunty Pris,’ Angus said.
She bristled. ‘You’re not too old for a clip around the ear, young man.’ Pris stared him down. ‘What on earth do you look like, anyway, Angus Brooker? Your father would turn over in his grave to see you long-haired and wearing a beard like some sort of nasty reprobate.’
Angus didn’t reply. He simply ate a scone. No cream; just butter and jam. There was jam on the hair on his chin for a moment, then he noticed my gaze and wiped his mouth.
‘How much jam did you get out of those strawberries?’ Pris asked Mrs Brooker.
‘Hmm, I’m not sure. How many jars did we do, love?’
That was directed at me. ‘Twelve,’ I said.
‘Take ten,’ Mrs Brooker said to Pris.
‘Her jams are bestsellers,’ she told me. ‘I just wish people understood the quality of Caroline’s quince paste. But they all want the jam.’ She turned her attention to Angus. ‘Would you like to donate some honey?’
I remembered the night-time buzzing. Bees … of course.
‘I’ll get a couple of tubs for you,’ he said.
‘You sell jam and honey?’ I asked Pris.
‘It’s a fundraiser for the RSL,’ she said. ‘The Women’s Auxiliary holds a stall at the market each month, and we sell whatever we can.’
‘Do you sell second-hand stuff?’ I asked.
‘It depends on the quality,’ she said.
‘I have some things you can take if you want.’
Pris was cautiously interested. ‘What sort of things?’
‘Some bedroom décor type stuff,’ I said. ‘Cushions, books, pictures, ornaments. Clothes.’
‘I’ll take a look,’ she said, rising. She carried her plate to the sink, giving the remaining scones a sour look. ‘I shouldn’t have had those. I wish you wouldn’t cook such things when I come,’ she shot at Mrs Brooker. ‘You know scones are my weakness.’ Pris came to a stop at my chair. ‘Whereabouts are these donations?’
I led her out to my car and popped the boot, opening one of the donations bags to show her my spoils. She fingered a pale-pink throw-rug and inspected a cushion decorated with a gold Eiffel Tower.
‘Hmm. Yes, I’ll take these things. Goodness, that’s a lot of nail polish.’
‘It’s second hand,’ I said.
‘Partly used.’ ‘That’s all right. It looks good enough to sell. I can take them now.’ Pris fished her car keys out of her pocket. ‘Angus! Come and help!’
Angus answered her shouted summons with resignation and we each heaved a bag out of the boot. Pris was making room in the back of her wagon and I dropped my bag to help her move an empty pet cage and toolbox.
‘My cat things,’ she explained, showing me inside the toolbox. It was filled to overflowing with animal brushes, collars, fur whiteners, eyedrops and other unidentifiable items. ‘I breed and show Siamese.’
‘Oh, right. How many have you got?’
‘Just the one, at the moment.’
Did that qualify as being a ‘breeder’? How did you breed with just one cat, anyway? Pris was complaining about the lack of saleable wares at most of their fundraising stalls while patting a spot for my donations. I heaved the bags into the wagon and went to shut my car – but Angus was standing there, looking into my boot. I went cold. It was worse than I’d feared: he had my portfolio in his hands, open to a big photo of me in the school play, looking whimsical under theatre lights in a Southern belle dress.
‘Not that stuff.’ I snatched it out of his hands, shoving it back into the bag and slamming the boot shut.
He raised his eyebrows at me wordlessly.
‘It’s for burning, not selling.’ I didn’t want him thinking I cared about those ridiculous photos.
Angus shrugged and followed his aunt into the house. I trailed behind, cheeks aflame.
‘Thanks for afternoon tea,’ I said to Mrs Brooker, wanting to get the hell out of there.
‘I’m cooking for Friday Feeds at the RSL tomorrow night,’ Pris informed me. ‘You can come along with Caroline and Angus.’
‘Um, no – thank you. I’m not a guest here, really – I’m just an interloper. I’m staying in the caravan in exchange for doing some jobs. I’m going to help Mrs Brooker sort out the spare room.’
‘We’re using something called the condor method,’ Mrs Brooker said, nodding.
‘It’s about time you sorted that room out,’ said Pris. She looked at Angus. ‘It’s good preparation.’
His jaw tightened.
Mrs Brooker stood up. ‘Come on, let’s box up the jam. Why don’t you get the honey, Angus?’
Mrs Brooker sent Angus to fetch me for Friday Feeds at the RSL the next evening. I declined.
‘Mum wants you to come.’
‘I can’t afford it,’ I said.
‘She wants to shout you.’
I tried to argue but Angus just waited for me to give in and follow him out to the Brookers’ station wagon. His mothe
r was already in the passenger seat.
The place was brightly lit and packed; Pris Brooker’s dinners drew a crowd, it seemed. My parents had always avoided the RSL scene and used to take Elizabeth and me to the Bonnievale Pub or Jimmy’s Burgers for the occasional meal out. I always ordered Fanta, but when I was fourteen Mum introduced me to lemon, lime and bitters and it had felt like the most elegant drink in the world.
Mrs Brooker insisted on buying me a glass of wine, so I went to save a table while she ordered. Angus brought our drinks over and sat down to watch sport on the big screen. Mrs Brooker got caught up chatting with a friend and I was joined by Nathan Dalgety, who I remembered from high school. He was of the Dalgety farming dynasty but a bogan at heart. I’d once seen him jump his BMX bike over a stiff, dead kangaroo. Nathan’s father Colin was a bigwig in town – if he wasn’t shire councillor, he was the mayor, or president of a committee somewhere.
At first, Nathan just made small talk, but when he got it out of me that I was thinking of selling my car, his eyes lit up. He launched into an enthusiastic recommendation of a ute he was trying to sell.
‘It’s a bewdy,’ he said, his eyes bright. ‘And it makes sense to have a ute out here.’
‘You think?’ On an empty stomach, my glass of wine had kicked in quickly.
He nodded at me like he was trying to get something out of his hair. ‘Shit, yeah. You don’t want anything pretty. It’ll just get covered in mud and crap. And this one’s an absolute bewdy. Never gets bogged, tough as nails.’
‘I don’t know. I’m used to smaller cars.’
‘You’re in the country now, mate.’ He winked.
‘Is it a four-wheel drive?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
I was a little relieved. ‘It would be wasted on me. I don’t even know how to drive them.’ I reached for my glass. Empty.
Nathan stood. ‘I’ll get you another. What’s your poison?’
‘The house white, thanks.’
Nathan headed for the bar. Angus was watching me, I realised, looking grumpy.
‘What?’ I said.
He kept looking at me. Maybe he wasn’t grumpy; it might just be resting bitchface.
Nathan was back fast with a big glass of wine. At the RSL, they always filled your glass right up. None of this 150mL in a giant glass that you got in city bars. I’d only had one drink, but it was the equivalent of three, and Nathan’s face looked slightly fuzzy around the edges as he seated himself beside me again. ‘Thing is, four-wheeling’s a piece of piss. I can teach you. Great for the muddy roads, come winter.’
‘I just don’t think I’d have any use for it. I’ll be sticking to sealed roads.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll do a straight swap with you. The ute for your little matchbox-car. Simple transfer. I’ll shout you the stamp duty and take care of the paperwork, run you through the gears, no dramas.’
I considered. The idea of getting rid of my car and finding a replacement so easily was appealing.
‘Whaddya reckon?’ Nathan gave me a grin, revealing a chipped bottom tooth. ‘No brainer?’
‘Her car’s worth at least twice what your ute’s worth.’
Angus’s interjection made us both stare.
‘Bullshit!’ Nathan blustered. ‘You don’t know shit about cars, mate.’
‘Is it worth more, really?’ I asked Angus. Maybe this was a weird way of teasing Nathan.
There wasn’t a trace of humour in Angus’s manner. His face was a hairy blur but his eyes were in sharp focus.
‘Your car’s worth more,’ he said to me.
His eyes were the dark red-brown of fresh-cut jarrah, sap bleeding. Nathan was still blustering but I couldn’t even hear him. When the hell did Angus get eyes like that?
Shit. I’m drunk.
Nathan had his phone out, finger poised above it. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Huh?’
‘Gimme your phone number and we can have a chat about it tomorrow.’
‘I don’t have a phone.’
Nathan laughed. ‘Bullshit.’
‘No, really.’
‘In for repairs? Well, gimme the number where you’re staying and I’ll try you there.’
He waited. I glanced at Angus, but he was looking down into his beer.
‘I’ll take your number,’ I told Nathan, suddenly thinking more clearly. There was an abandoned betting card and pencil on the table. I pushed them towards him. ‘Write it down, and if I decide I want a four-wheel-drive ute, I’ll call you.’
Nathan wasn’t pleased but he wrote down his number in a boyish hand and receded, glancing once at my wineglass as though he regretted the five bucks I’d cost him. That left me on my own, except for Angus – and he wasn’t talking. It was a relief when his mother joined us.
‘Pris says dinner’s ready. If we line up now, we’ll get in first.’
We had received tickets to exchange for a plate of food. I followed Mrs Brooker to the servery window. Knowing we had inside information, a queue of patrons formed rapidly behind us, then the window swung open and Pris rang a bell. I felt bad for the old men and women who were further back in the line but when I murmured something about letting other people in front, Mrs Brooker shook her head firmly.
‘Don’t be silly, love. Family of the cook always get in first. It’s a tradition, and a right.’
I could have pointed out that I wasn’t family, but I stayed graciously silent. We were expected to collect a plate of dinner and bowl of soup simultaneously – quite a feat. I had visions of stumbling and sending my soup flying and asked for dinner only, but Pris insisted I have soup.
‘It’s chicken and corn. Don’t you like chicken and corn?’ she demanded in such a loud voice that I took the bowl just to deflect attention.
There was so much food on my plate that my wrist wobbled all the way back to the table. Angus carried his mother’s dishes and returned to the servery for his own.
‘Only Pris.’ Mrs Brooker puffed a little and chuckled as she took a seat beside me. ‘Only Pris would do soup and a full roast dinner with Yorkie puds.’
I fetched our cutlery and we ate. I sipped wine and ate the soup and beef and everything else. It was old fashioned and full of butter or lard, or whatever it was that the women of Pris’s generation used to cook roast dinners; but the huge meal didn’t sober me up like I’d hoped it would.
Angus got up for a beer and came back carrying a fresh white wine as well. He put it in front of me and resumed his seat.
I was shocked. ‘Thanks!’
‘Wasn’t me.’ He looked disgruntled that I’d assumed he had any regard for me. ‘Bev at the bar. She reckons you’ve had a tough time lately.’
I swung around to look at Bev, who had often helped with costume sewing for school productions. She stood behind the bar, waiting for me to acknowledge her, face bright with anticipation. Christ. I raised my glass to her. She went pink and waved, and I wished I was back in the caravan at Brooker’s. Angus’s eyes held a glint of curiosity.
‘That’s kind of Bev,’ said Mrs Brooker. ‘If perhaps a little insensitive.’
Pris took a short break between serving dinner and dessert to demand our feedback on the food.
‘You outdid yourself as usual.’ Mrs Brooker looked at her plate and sighed. ‘I hate to waste food but it’s just too much.’
‘Amazing meal,’ I agreed.
Pris lapped it up, pretending she didn’t care. ‘I don’t like to leave people hungry. It’s very good value, the Friday Feed, but you don’t want to let people go home peckish.’ She glanced around herself to ensure no one was listening. ‘The pasta night Hilary Cotton put on a few weeks ago – Olga Addis told me her Gary came home so hungry she had to cook him some chops at nine o’clock at night. I couldn’t sleep if I knew anyone went home and had a second meal after one of my dinners!’
‘No danger of that,’ I said, and Mrs Brooker nodded.
‘I’ll bag up the scraps for the chickens,’ Pris
went on. ‘Now, listen to this, Lottie. We’ve been talking.’
‘Who has?’ Mrs Brooker asked.
Pris was only slightly outraged at the interruption. ‘The Progress Association.’
She tilted her head towards the kitchen, and I tried to focus my tipsy eyes on the faces. There were a few women I knew from the school P&C, although their kids were too grown up to be at school nowadays. The Progress Association must be where women with excess energy went when they became empty nesters.
‘It’s time.’ Pris’s voice was strung tight.
‘Time?’
‘The Harvest Ball. It’s time to reinstate the tradition. The perfect time. The peach spot’s gone from the orchards. We need to promote Bonnievale as the stone-fruit capital, start getting tourists back into the region so the local businesses can pick up again. We can bring it all back – the Peach Queen – everything the ball always was. It’s the perfect opportunity to restore the public’s confidence in our fruit.’
I glanced at Angus for some signal – something to confirm this idea deserved every bit of astonished disagreement I could summon – but he seemed immersed in the sports channel.
‘It came to me a few minutes ago.’ Pris barely concealed her triumph. ‘I looked over here at you and Angus, and it felt like just yesterday that you two were on stage at the civic centre, getting crowned king and queen. It’s the right time to celebrate again. Three years clear of the peach spot. And you’re back in town, Lottie. You can be involved.’
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good—’
‘I know – I know what you think.’ Pris spoke over me. ‘You think being involved would be inappropriate after what went on with your boyfriend, and the photos, and the press and all.’ She smiled at me – something between kindness and deep pity for an inferior being so easily tempted off the track of the righteous. I bet she was disappointed she’d never had a chance to show me the light in her Sunday School Girls club. ‘I’ve been managing events for fifty-odd years, Lottie, and no one knows better than me that a little notoriety can be helpful when trying to garner publicity.’
Angus was listening now, his eyes no longer on the television screen, but trained absent-mindedly on a barstool. Was it possible he didn’t know about my misdemeanours? That won’t last long, I thought glumly.