by Sasha Wasley
‘Um, sorry, Mrs B. I saw something that made me curious. I looked at it and that made me more curious, then I looked at other stuff. I have no excuse.’
She stepped into the room. ‘What made you curious?’
Face burning, I found the letter from the insurance company and handed it to her without a word. She perused the latter and looked back at me.
‘I’m not sure I approve of your looking at our letters. Angus would be upset, I think.’
‘I know. I’m so sorry.’
She perched beside me on the bed and looked back at the letter in her hand. ‘It was a dreadful time when Ted died. I’d forgotten all about his life insurance policy, but the payout couldn’t have been more welcome, I must say.’
‘I saw that you had to take out a hefty mortgage on the farm to pay out Angus’s ex-wife,’ I said in a low voice.
‘Yes, the court orders, and of course, the peach spot ruined the crops during those few years, so we had no money coming in. We would never sell the farm – it would have broken Ted’s heart – and Pris was very vocal on the matter as well. So we had to take out the loan. It was a very difficult time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘For what you went through and for invading your privacy.’
She nodded. ‘At least some good came of Ted dying. He’d been so miserable with the peach spot and us suddenly owing money to the bank after his family had owned the land for a hundred years, it was almost a – a …’ She stopped and I held my breath. Was she going to say it was almost a good thing when her husband died? ‘It was almost a release for Ted. I do wish he’d been around to see the end of the spot, though.’
I nearly didn’t ask – but I had to know. ‘How did he …?’
‘Heart failure.’ She sighed the words, then flipped the yellow envelope over. ‘We’re best off leaving Angus’s papers as they were, I think.’ I nodded and slipped them back into the envelope as Mrs Brooker looked around. ‘Goodness, it’s done! The spare room hasn’t been this tidy for, well, perhaps twenty years! Thank you, love, for helping me with that job. It had been playing on my mind – worrying me.’ She made a move to go but remembered the letter in her hand and studied it again. ‘I wish one could use the condor method with paperwork. This certainly doesn’t bring me joy.’
All afternoon and evening, I felt bad about what I’d done. I wanted to tell Angus but I couldn’t scrounge together the courage. Instead, I borrowed his laptop after dinner to write the media release Pris had demanded.
Bonnievale’s Harvest Ball is Back
The first Harvest Ball to be held in twelve years will take place on Friday 16 January at the Bonnievale Civic Centre.
The event will feature all the excitement of the traditional Harvest Ball – a sumptuous dinner, gala couture, the Peach Queen Coronation and, of course, a celebration of the region’s flagship fruit: the peach.
The Bonnievale Progress Association has pulled the event together at short notice, ensuring it falls at the peak of the harvest season, as it always did in the past. The timing also coincides with the region’s peak tourist season and it is hoped visitors to the town will take the opportunity to join in the much-loved local tradition.
‘We’re delighted to rejuvenate the tradition of the Harvest Ball, including awarding the Peach Queen crown to a worthy young woman who can represent Bonnievale,’ said Ms Priscilla Brooker, President of the Progress Association.
The event is not for profit, with all funds raised to be donated to the Orchardist Support Fund.
Tickets are available at Rabbit’s Foot News or the visitors’ centre. Those interested in applying for the Peach Queen Award can obtain nomination forms from the visitors’ centre website.
I finished it off with details of ticket prices, links and Pris’s contact details. I emailed it to Pris and she only wanted one change: she corrected Ms Priscilla Brooker to Miss Priscilla Brooker. She said she would send the release to the local newspaper’s journalist. I shut the laptop and thought about Angus’s yellow envelope again.
Was omitting the truth lying?
Yes, it was. I would tell Angus about reading his private documents. Tomorrow, when I’d thought of a way to explain it.
In the morning, the phone rang in the farmhouse and Mrs Brooker came to find me.
‘It’s for you, love.’
‘Me? Do you know who it is?’
‘Jenny, she said her name was.’
I went to the hall and picked up the landline receiver. It had a spiral cord, all tangled and curled in on itself.
‘Hello?’
A voice launched into speech. ‘Hi, Charlize! It’s Gemma di Bortoli here. I’m a journalist at the Bonnievale Examiner. I got your piece about the Harvest Ball and I’d love to ask you a few questions.’
Panic bubbled up from low in my stomach, making me feel abruptly sick.
‘Pris Brooker’s the person you want,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes – Pris sent the statement to me but she said you wrote it.’
Jesus, Pris. ‘Um, what is it you want to know?’
‘Well, let’s see.’ She paused, obviously reading. ‘So, the ball’s being held on the sixteenth of January at the civic centre. It says here it’s a fundraiser. Can you tell me more about that?’
‘Well, um, any profit will go to the Orchardist Support Fund, which I’m sure you’d know all about. It’s a kind of donation centre to help out farming families if they’re in need.’
‘You mean, if their crops are damaged?’
‘Yeah. Or if someone dies or gets sick, and the family needs help.’ I breathed again. She hadn’t asked anything about me yet.
‘Right, so if the farmer gets cancer or passes away, or if a harvest gets wiped out, they can draw on this funding to get them through a tough spot?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Okay.’ Gemma was clicking on a keyboard as we spoke. ‘And the Brookers, they’re in need of support at the moment, are they?’
‘The Brookers?’
‘That’s where you’re staying, isn’t it?’
I was silent, heart flipping into a gallop.
‘Pris said you’re staying at the Brookers’ place, so I’m guessing you’re there to help out? Old Mr Brooker passed away a few years ago, didn’t he? Are they struggling?’
‘No, they’re fine. The ball is a fundraiser for the Orchardist Support Fund, but the Brookers have nothing to do with that and they don’t need donations.’
‘Are you seeing Angus?’
I was sweating now. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about the ball?’
‘Oh, sorry!’ Gemma gave a laugh. ‘I was just making conversation. The ball, yes. So, as the reigning Peach Queen, you’ll be awarding the crown to the next queen on the night?’
‘Yes. I was the last Peach Queen before the ball was discontinued when the bacterial spot hit. But now the orchards are clear, the Progress Association thought it would be nice to reinstate the tradition. If anyone wants to apply, they just need to go to the visitors’ centre website and fill out the form.’
‘Are you excited about being up on stage and handing over the crown, Charlize? I guess it’s all kind of old hat to you these days. You’d be used to being on stage.’
No lying. But my resolve went to jelly – how could I not lie to the press?
I evaded. ‘I think it will be a pretty special moment for the person who wins.’
‘And are you doing any other publicity? Online or TV? Radio?’ She paused. ‘Magazines?’
I kept my voice steady. ‘No. But being the only local newspaper, the ball committee thought you’d like to know about a big event like this happening in Bonnievale.’
‘Have you offered a discounted appearance fee?’ Gemma’s voice had gone from bubbly to slightly hard. ‘I would have thought you’d be pretty set after all the publicity in recent times.’
‘I’m doing this for free.’
‘Why? Are you trying to clean up your image?’ She gave a quick la
ugh to show me that ship had already sailed.
I put the phone back in its cradle and stared at the pale-yellow wall. Mrs Brooker was humming in the kitchen and, up in the orchard, Angus’s tractor quietly chugged.
Pris came by during the afternoon. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’ she demanded.
I was obliged to tell the bunk story. Her dark eyes glittered with satisfaction.
‘I told you that caravan was a death-trap. Angus ought to be ashamed, letting her put you out there.’ She nodded at the back of Mrs Brooker, who was checking a batch of scones, oblivious to Pris’s insinuations. ‘It’s only a matter of time before someone gets seriously injured.’
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ I said. ‘Gemma di Bortoli rang here.’
‘Oh, good, she got hold of you. Did you answer her questions?’
‘I didn’t want to, but I did.’ I filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘Why did you tell her she could reach me here, even after I said I didn’t want to be in the media?’
Pris looked complacent. ‘She wanted to speak to you, and it’s no secret you’re staying here.’
I’d been trying to stay calm but now anger surged inside me. ‘I’m supposed to be helping behind the scenes. That was our agreement.’
‘Everyone knows a bit of notoriety can help publicise an event, Lottie. How hard is it for you to give the reporter a couple of juicy titbits to get the ball in the news?’
I gaped at her. ‘That’s so unfair. I said I’d do the poxy handover of the coronet at the ball, but I didn’t want to be in the public eye. I made that totally clear.’
‘No swearing,’ Pris said sharply. I tried to work out which word she considered a swear word.
‘These blessed things aren’t rising.’ Mrs Brooker was still at the oven. ‘Did you put too much milk in, love?’ she asked me.
I hadn’t even helped her mix the scones but I went over to take a look. They looked fine to me. Yeah, okay, they hadn’t cooked at all but …
Oh. The oven wasn’t on – only the light.
‘Oops, the heat was off,’ I said, pulling out the tray and dialling the oven up to 200 degrees so it could preheat. ‘Maybe I accidentally turned it off,’ I added, knowing perfectly well I hadn’t. ‘Sorry, Mrs Brooker.’
She laughed. ‘Never mind. You’ll have to wait for your afternoon tea I’m afraid, Pris.’
Pris had observed the entire interaction with raptor-like attention. ‘It’s a good thing it wasn’t the other way about,’ she said sternly. ‘Imagine if you’d turned it on and forgotten about the scones. You could have burned the house down, with you in it.’
Mrs Brooker looked at her sister-in-law in surprise. ‘What do you take me for, Pris?’
I still wanted answers and jumped in. ‘Did you hook me into the ball committee purely because of what happened in my life recently? Because you knew it would get attention?’
‘I didn’t hook you in,’ said Pris. ‘You were quite forthcoming with offers of help that night at the RSL. And yes, I accepted your offer because you have celebrity standing.’
‘I can’t do it any more,’ I said.
She bristled. ‘It’s very shabby to back out of one’s commitments.’
‘It’s pretty shabby to drop someone in the deep end when they specifically state they do not want to speak to the media.’
Mrs Brooker had joined us at the table, her eyes flicking back and forth between us. ‘What’s this all about?’ she asked.
‘Nothing for you to worry about, Caroline,’ Pris said.
‘I said I didn’t want to talk to the media,’ I told Mrs Brooker. Not-lying was becoming as natural as breathing. ‘But Pris told the local journalist where she could find me.’
Mrs Brooker turned to Pris, who looked outraged. ‘Lottie offered to help with publicity for the ball!’
‘On the condition that I wasn’t the one who would be in the spotlight.’
‘You were in a girly magazine.’ Pris glared at me. ‘Being in the spotlight’s what you wanted, I’d say.’
I was so angry I couldn’t reply. Mrs Brooker had been watching us keenly, then a blank moment wandered over her face and when she came back to us, she was no longer part of the argument. My fury ebbed. She saw the tray of scones waiting for the oven to preheat.
‘Oh, bother. We forgot to put the scones in.’ She jumped up and shoved the tray into the semi-heated oven. Pris gave me another knowing look.
‘You shouldn’t have given a reporter my contact details,’ I said, hating her smugness.
‘Didn’t your mother teach you not to hold a grudge?’ Pris blustered.
‘My mother taught me that I deserve respect.’
Pris stopped and gave me a cynical look. ‘Did she, indeed? Perhaps she should have taught you to respect yourself.’
It was a perfect parting shot and she took advantage, despite the prospect of fresh scones. She rose and passed me a large envelope before making a dignified exit.
I slipped a glossy A3 poster out of the envelope. HARVEST BALL appeared at the top in loopy pink writing. Then the peach blossom coronet, my hair glowing golden in the afternoon light, surrounded by a blur of verdant green orchard. My face, turned side on. Positioned high above my shoulder, the camera had caught a racy hint of cleavage above the strapless white dress.
It was obviously, unmistakeably, shamelessly me.
Strong white font: The event of the year is back! Friday 16 January. Tickets now available from the Bonnievale Visitors’ Centre or Rabbit’s Foot News.
And in more loopy pink at the bottom, prominent and bright: Hosted by the reigning Peach Queen, Charlize Beste.
That night, when Mrs Brooker was settled in front of the television after dinner, Angus asked if I wanted to go with him to burn off more farm rubbish. It sounded like an invitation to talk.
We took the ute up to the dam, the dogs in the backseat.
‘Your mum got a bit muddled with the oven today,’ I said.
He slowed for a rabbit that was sitting in the middle of the track. It skittered off into the trees. ‘What happened?’
‘It wasn’t a big deal. She just forgot to put the heat on and couldn’t work out why the scones weren’t cooking.’
Angus kept his eyes on the track, but I detected a tightening of his facial features. ‘Sixty-odd years of putting the oven on to make scones and then it just vanishes,’ he said. ‘This thing – the dementia – how does it make you forget things that used to be so easy? Things that were second nature to her?’
I didn’t have the answer. Angus parked and we climbed out, the dogs trotting over to the dam for a drink and to cool their paws. I stood and watched as Angus tidied the pile of deadfall and stuffed a little dry leaf matter beneath the few scorched branches that remained from the other night. Our stump-seats were still there, too. Angus lifted one as if it weighed nothing and placed it for me, brushing off the top, then seized another for himself. When he held his lighter to the pile, it caught like it had been holding its breath, waiting for us to come back and finish the job, no petrol required. Bundy settled down on his side with a groan and Blue sniffed around at the dry tufts of grass.
‘What if someone dobs us in?’ I said. ‘You know, over lighting a fire in summer?’
‘The permit’s still valid,’ he said.
We took our places and sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the fire consume the dry tinder before turning its attention to the thicker branches. I shuffled my stump a little closer.
‘I need to tell you something,’ I said. Angus turned towards me and I forced out the words. ‘Your mum caught me snooping in your paperwork while I was sorting through the filing cabinet yesterday.’
Angus straightened his back. ‘Snooping?’
‘There’s a yellow envelope. I was just going to file the papers in it, but I noticed an insurance document about your father. I read it.’ Hopelessness was building inside me with every word. He was sure to chuck me out after this.
‘Your mum had told me Bianca got a big settlement when you got divorced, and you had to mortgage the farm. I was interested in that, I suppose, and I checked to see if your dad’s payout covered the mortgage.’
I waited for the explosion.
Angus exhaled slowly. ‘Right.’
‘And now I’m telling you, because if I don’t, your mum might,’ I added because he obviously didn’t have enough fuel to build the expected inferno of resentment.
Angus studied me. ‘Really? That’s why you’re telling me?’
‘I – I don’t know. That and because of, you know – no faking. And I feel guilty that I did it.’
He didn’t back off from his examination of my face. ‘My father’s life insurance payout saved us. After ripping out half the orchards, we made nothing but debt for a few years, and taking out that mortgage meant we had to try to meet repayments. We were fucked. Completely fucked, sinking deeper every day. Then Dad died. The bank froze the repayment schedule while the insurance claim got sorted. We got the insurance money and paid our mortgage out, closed it off and had enough left over to keep us afloat until the farm started making money again. We were lucky.’ He paused. ‘Lucky my father died.’
I nodded. My eyes were starting to water from meeting his gaze.
‘Don’t touch the stuff in that envelope,’ he added.
‘Yeah, your mum already told me not to mess with your papers.’
He nodded and looked away at last, rubbing an eyebrow. ‘This no-lying thing of yours – it’s hard to get used to. Everyone lies. I mean, if anyone else had looked at my papers, they would have said they accidentally saw the letter when it fell out of the file, or whatever. They would have sugar-coated it. But you told me straight. You looked at our stuff and Mum caught you.’
I shrugged. ‘Think of me like someone on the spectrum.’ He snorted a laugh. ‘You said you wanted to give it a go, Angus. So, give it a go.’
‘I’ll try.’
I tested his resolve. ‘Do you want me to leave? I could go back and stay at my parents’ place. If you want me to go, I will.’