by Sasha Wasley
‘Don’t you “that’s enough” me.’
Angus watched the dogs snarf their food, but I sensed contrition.
‘I’m knackered,’ he said and made for the house.
‘Angus!’ I snapped, but he kept walking. He climbed the back steps and went inside, sparing me the briefest of looks as he shut the screen door behind him.
Blue sniffed Bundy’s bowl and he gave her a warning growl. She backed off. I dropped into a crouch and rubbed Blue’s tawny ears, feeling utterly helpless.
I arrived at the St Edna’s church hall just before eight in the morning, bleary-eyed from broken sleep. The hot weather had broken during the night but I had woken up several times, thinking about Angus dicing with death at the beehives.
Pris was already in there, standing by a table where she had pulled an array of items out of a plastic crate.
‘I didn’t want to wait,’ she greeted me. ‘I’ve got too much to get through today. I had Greg – the father – bring the boxes out and put them on the table for me. My back.’ She tsked and said no more. Obviously, the agony of her back was so widely known there was no need to elaborate.
‘What can I do?’ I asked, putting down my bag.
‘You start on that one.’ She indicated the other box with her chin.
I looked over the stuff on the table as I unclipped the lid of my crate. ‘What’ve you found so far?’
Pris lifted her eyes to the heavens. ‘Rubbish, as expected.’ She prodded a couple of things: a bag of blank place cards; bundles of old flyers, folders, pens and pencils. ‘It ought to have been thrown away or stored properly after the last ball.’
‘I suppose no one expected there to be a twelve-year gap,’ I said.
Pris sniffed as if that was a poor excuse for showing lack of organisational skills. I lifted the lid off my own box and delved inside. The first thing to come out was the Peach King sash.
‘Huh,’ I said. ‘Why doesn’t Angus have this? Did he give it back?’
‘Goodness knows,’ Pris said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he never took it home. He probably left it at the ball.’
‘It doesn’t have the year. Could you use it for this ball’s king?’
‘We’re not having the Peach King contest this time,’ she said. ‘Toss it away.’
‘I’ll take it for Angus,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t you having the Peach King competition?’
‘It was an executive decision.’
I stared at Pris blankly.
‘Let’s crack on,’ she said, nodding at the box.
‘If I’m the publicity coordinator, I might need to know why you’re not having a Peach King,’ I said, keeping my hands at my sides.
She was clearly vexed, but relented. ‘If you must know, for the last few years of the ball we hardly had any nominees for Peach King. We always had plenty for queen, but fewer for king. There were only a handful in that final year. I discussed the matter with Charis Beam and we agreed it would be better not to bother with a king any more. We wouldn’t want to be in a position where we only had unsuitable men to select from.’
I couldn’t help a laugh. ‘So, farm boys don’t want to be Peach King. Who’d’ve thought?’ I dropped the sash on top of my bag.
‘This is silliness,’ Pris blustered, pulling out a pile of bright pink paper bunting printed with the words Harvest Ball 2008. ‘Why would they keep this?’
I had no rational explanation. I pulled a stack of old posters out of my box, uncovering sixteen cane baskets and a profusion of fake peaches, the fuzz wearing off so that dust coated everything underneath. They were nestled in among a mess of broken fruit-tree branches, spray-painted gold, as well as dozens of little raffia balls in gold and white.
‘What’s all this?’ I asked, showing Pris a couple of peaches.
‘They were the table centrepieces. Baskets of peaches and so on.’
‘They probably looked pretty good.’ I mocked one up, assembling a raffia balls and peaches in a basket and sticking a couple of branches in at strategic spots. ‘Do you think we could reuse them?’
‘I never reuse a centrepiece,’ she told me. ‘It’s shabby and looks cheap.’
‘But it was over a decade ago,’ I reasoned. ‘No one will remember. I didn’t.’
‘Someone will remember,’ she told me with utmost gravity. ‘Throw them away.’
I muttered about plastic waste but Pris had turned her attention to something she’d discovered. She dug it out.
‘Look at this, Lottie. Do you know what it is?’
I stared at the floral circlet. ‘That’s my … but how …?’ My Peach Queen coronet had fallen apart and been thrown away years ago, but now Pris held its exact duplicate in her hand.
‘Hah!’ She was triumphant. ‘I’ll bet you didn’t realise there were two Peach Queen coronets!’
‘Why?’ I said. ‘What’s the point?’
‘I’ll tell you why.’ Pris settled in a handy chair. ‘When I was just a girl there was an incident at the Harvest Ball. It was nineteen sixty-eight, the year Ellen Gately was crowned. Old Mr Dalgety – Colin’s father – he was the MC for the ceremony. He was quite the gentleman, perhaps more so than Colin, some might say, only he always had a cigarette in his hand. For the coronet that year they’d used quite a flammable material to make the blossoms, and somehow the cigarette caught one and whoosh! Up it went. The whole thing was reduced to wire and ashes in seconds. I only thank heaven it wasn’t already on Ellen’s head. Still, it was a disaster, and ever since that day there have been two coronets at each ball – the primary and a back-up.’
I leaned on the table. ‘Wow. I never knew that.’
‘I was on the committee the next year, and it was my idea to have a back-up coronet made. I made sure of it every single year.’
‘It was nice of you to be prepared for that kind of thing happening,’ I said. ‘It must have been upsetting for Ellen Gately.’
‘More to the point, it was disruptive.’ Pris obviously didn’t want me thinking her a nice person. ‘No one should have to fuss about with a second ceremony like we held for Ellen that year.’
She blew some dust off the coronet, then fluffed the flattened polyester blossoms. I watched her, trying to see her as a young woman on the organising committee. It had been easy during our condor sessions to imagine Mrs Brooker when she was young, but it was as if Pris had been born middle-aged.
‘Did you ever put yourself up for Peach Queen?’ I asked.
She paused. ‘I was always too busy organising to bother with that.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
She glanced at me and relented a little. ‘Well, I was nominated once by my good friend Susan, but it was very competitive in those days. Very competitive. Over a hundred nominations, usually. And between you and me, not very well judged. It was all about a girl’s appearance – not her other qualities. The Orchardist Association and Progress Association committees would select a King and Queen, and of course, those committees were all made up of men.’
‘Hm, typical,’ I said. ‘Colin Dalgety was always a judge back then, wasn’t he? He was notorious. If you won Peach Queen, it meant …’ I trailed off, remembering who I was talking to.
‘Meant?’ She watched me with eagle eyes. She knew.
‘It meant you’d have to put up with him giving you an unpleasant cuddle on stage,’ I said.
‘Unpleasant?’ she echoed.
‘His hands tended to wander down towards your bum.’ Pris snorted slightly but she didn’t seem surprised. ‘And then as part of your duties, he’d get you out to his golf club to make a speech and all these heavy-breathing, sweaty-faced blokes would bring you drinks and make saucy jokes and put their arm around you for a photo. And then you’d have to go to the Orchardist Association meeting and make a speech about what an honour it was to be elected. Then the real honours would begin. One month you’d be cutting a ribbon to open a new tennis court and the next month you’d be drawing the chook lotto at
bingo. Hopefully the role will be a bit more meaningful this year.’
‘Hopefully this year we’ll select a young woman interested in staying in her town and showing support for local causes.’ Pris was cutting.
Touché. ‘Who’s judging Peach Queen this time?’
‘It hasn’t been finalised as yet, but the other ladies are urging me to be one of the judges.’
I smiled. ‘Well, I know you’ll bring a discerning eye to the process.’
Pris wasn’t sure whether to be gratified or annoyed, and I wasn’t quite sure how I’d aimed the remark either, so I hurried on with my task. I tipped the remaining contents of my crate onto the table.
‘It’s all just peaches, gold sticks and raffia balls now,’ I said, sifting through the debris.
Pris heaved herself upright. ‘There’s a bin at the back of the hall.’
I swept it all back into the crate. ‘Are you going to use that coronet for this ball?’ I nodded at the crown in her hand.
‘This old thing! Goodness, no. I’ve been working on something else for next month’s ball. I’m bringing it this afternoon for the photos. Hold on a moment, Lottie.’ I’d started walking towards the door with the box but Pris’s voice arrested me. She eyed me appraisingly. ‘How are you finding it, living at Brookers?’
‘It’s good.’ I adjusted the box in my arms. ‘I’m really grateful.’
‘How do you find Caroline?’
‘She’s fantastic.’ Why would Pris care what I thought? ‘So patient. You should see her with the Kondo method. She’s a master – puts me to shame. She really gets what sparks joy and what doesn’t.’ Pris gave a faint snort and I eyed her. ‘That coronet – you made it, yeah?’
She looked down. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Does it give you a spark of joy?’
Pris raised her eyebrows, but I waited. She considered the pink circlet in her hand.
‘Not in the least. It was fiddly and my hot glue gun stopped working halfway through, if I remember correctly.’
‘What about the joy of having created something pretty?’ The plastic box was cutting into my arms. ‘Or the honour of being in charge of a local institution like the Harvest Ball for so many years? Or the feeling of maintaining a tradition and leaving your mark on the community?’
Pris gave a short laugh. ‘I’ve never been sentimental. I don’t fawn over old things or dwell in the past. Who’s got the time? Anyway, for every good memory there’s a sad one. The year I made this coronet was the year the peach spot decimated all the farms in Bonnievale, after all.’ Having proven her point, she regarded me with grim satisfaction. ‘What’s past is past; it’s the here and now that matters.’
Balding plastic peaches rolled and collided in the bottom of the box as I carried it to the church door.
Mrs Brooker thought my morning condor session with Pris was enough decluttering for one day, so she got me pruning the vines on the front verandah. I did a bit more gardening in the backyard, Blue keeping me company, then went to read again.
Pris came to fetch me from my caravan just before six pm, the sun low but still bright between the tree’s branches.
‘You’re not ready,’ she said.
‘I’ve only got to put my hair up.’
She glared. ‘Angus is taking Olivia for a drive around the orchards so she can pick a good spot. He’ll be back for us shortly. Here.’ Pris thrust an armful of fabric through the caravan door. ‘Any of these dresses should work.’
‘Okay, give me five minutes.’
‘Be quick, please. Take this, as well.’ Pris passed me a white cardboard box and I checked inside. It was the new peach-blossom coronet – worlds away from the one I’d worn over a decade earlier. This was a profusion of soft silky flowers, rosy petals and verdant leaves, its wires and tape perfectly concealed. My old coronet was the equivalent of a day-old bunch of flowers from the supermarket compared with this rosebush in full bloom.
‘Holy crap, Pris,’ I said, staring.
She fought down her artisan pride. ‘Be gentle with it. It has to last until it’s presented at the ball. I’m still working on the back-up.’
In among the pile of dresses there was a floral chiffon number with spaghetti straps that I quite liked, but I went for a basic strapless sundress in the end, elasticated across the bust. It was white and had probably cost someone six bucks in Bali, but it would give Liv the clear shot of the neck and hair that she needed.
I was no stranger to rapid hairstyling. I brushed it well and went into the house to use the bathroom mirror, winding my loose ponytail into a messy-chic up-do. I used water on my fingers to create tendrils and wriggled the whole hairstyle to make it look charmingly natural, before fixing the pink-petalled coronet over the top. The thing was so beautiful I almost wished I could be Peach Queen again, just to wear it at the ball.
I inspected my face for the first time in a couple of weeks. My skin looked okay, despite not having seen any products lately: clear and slightly golden from the sun – a few freckles, but nothing worth fretting over. The coronet made me feel a bit like a fairy for hire – one of those girls who blow bubbles and sprinkle glitter at kids’ parties. I just needed wings. My eyes landed on my chin scar.
I went to find Pris and she examined my hair. ‘A bit messy, but it should come up all right in a photo, I suppose. The coronet hides the worst of it. Angus is here, waiting for us.’
I climbed into the back of his dual-cab ute. Pris got in the front.
‘Goodness me, Angus,’ she exclaimed, looking around the ute. ‘This is disgusting.’
‘It’s a farm ute, Aunty Pris. What do you expect?’
‘I’ll be covered in dog hair by the time I get out. Why on earth do you let the dogs ride inside the car?’
Angus stuffed some receipts and a chemical safety mask into the door cavity. ‘Bundy’s too old to ride in the tray. He’s stiff in the hind legs – he might fall.’
The ride through the orchards was magical. I watched the trees bump by, sunlight falling through a jungle of vivid leaves. Most had fruit swelling on their branches, pale green or pink. How did Angus work among this without getting lost in its beauty? I’d be Instagramming all day long. I glanced at Angus and found his eyes on me in the rear-vision mirror. He looked away.
The ute drew to a halt near an open grassy patch where two separate orchards met. There, I got an in-the-flesh look at my high school best friend – the first in many years. Liv had cropped dark hair these days, and a slim figure with a little bit of tummy pudge beneath the camera she had draped around her neck. The reasons for the tummy were sitting in the grass nearby: two little girls building something from sticks and rocks. Liv had an edgy style – bohemian and smart in her peasant top, denim shorts and leather ankle boots. She even had a nose ring. Envy hit me for a moment. Look at Liv, with her career as a photographer, two adorable kids, a kind husband – and what did I have? I looked down at my borrowed six-buck Bali dress and touched the scar on my chin.
Pris called me to attention and I got out of the car. I wasn’t sure for a moment whether to hug Liv or not, but she didn’t make any move towards me. She just smiled and said, ‘Hey, Lottie.’
‘Hi, Liv.’
‘How’s the chicken?’
‘She’s doing well, thanks. It’s good of you to do the photos for us, by the way.’
‘No worries. It gives me a nice break from photographing kids with Santa at the hardware shop.’
‘It’s not the real Santa, Mum,’ one of her girls piped up. ‘He gets his helpers to go to the shops and meet the kids.’
Liv nodded at her. ‘This is Cressida and Minerva,’ she told me. ‘Cressie and Minnie. Say hello to Lottie, girls.’
‘Hello,’ said Cressida and the younger one shot me a furtive look. I greeted them in return.
‘The light’s perfect right now, so we should get started,’ Liv said.
She knew her stuff and so did I. It made the shoot easy and quick. She posi
tioned me so that sunlight dappled my hair and shoulders, moved my head until it was in exactly the right spot, then snapped some photos from above and below me, lying down on the ground to catch the right angle. Pris interfered, offering suggestions that Liv ignored, and Angus took the opportunity to thin fruit on nearby trees.
‘Let’s turn you around,’ Liv suggested after flicking back through the first lot of photos on her digital screen. ‘We’ll do the other side.’
I understood in an instant and my hand flew reflexively to my scar.
Liv grimaced, apologetic. ‘It shows up a bit more than I thought it would. I could photoshop it out but it might be easier just to shoot the other side of your face instead. Pris said you don’t want to be identifiable.’
‘No problem.’ I changed positions, allowing her to adjust the carriage of my head again. Identifiable. Like a fugitive: The suspect is a white female, blonde hair and hazel eyes, average height, identifiable by a scar on the left side of her chin. Members of the public are warned not to approach her as she is considered dangerous.
‘I’m bored, Mummy. You said this would be fun.’
‘Nearly done,’ Liv told Cressida, clicking rapidly. ‘Angus,’ she called. ‘Do me a favour? Could you put a little weight on that branch, so it drops down behind Lottie?’
Angus approached and did as Liv had asked.
‘Lottie, pull your dress down at the back. I want the neckline out of shot.’
I twitched it down a little.
‘A bit more?’
‘I can’t drop it any more without a wardrobe malfunction,’ I said.
‘Just one or two more centimetres,’ Liv urged me. ‘It’s nothing the world hasn’t already seen, right?’ She gave a short laugh.
I froze and Pris whipped her head around to frown at Liv.
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say,’ she said, her voice sharp.
‘Oh!’ Liv looked at me. ‘You’re not offended, are you Lottie?’
No lying. ‘I’ll survive.’
‘Oh.’ Liv went quiet.
‘Mummy, this is boring. There’s mozzies.’
I pulled my elasticated dress down as far as it would go without exposing my breasts and held still. Liv snapped a number of photos without speaking. Within minutes, the photoshoot was over and Liv looked through her images.