Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  Jo dropped the boxes and took Amelie off me, putting her down next to the bookshelf, where the baby immediately started pulling her books onto the floor. Jo opened the wardrobe wide and shot me a self-conscious glance. It was really full. Packed-to-the-limit-of-each-shelf full.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Jo took confidence from my manner. ‘The stuff she fits into at the moment is all on the bottom shelf. Everything else higher up has been outgrown.’

  I pulled out a stack of onesies from the top shelf and caught my breath. They were tiny. Minuscule. I couldn’t help cooing over them.

  ‘See?’ Jo’s eyes had brightened. ‘That’s why it’s so hard!’

  ‘Oh, this one with the tiny Pooh Bears!’ I stroked it.

  Jo sighed. ‘That was the outfit she wore home from the hospital. It was from my godmother – she sent it over from South Australia.’ She picked up a fuzzy brown onesie with ears built into the hood. ‘See this one? She looked like a friggin’ Anne Geddes teddy bear baby in it. I even wanted to lay her over a pumpkin to try to get one of those Geddes-style pics but all we had was half a butternut in the fridge.’

  I snorted with mirth and reached for another onesie. ‘Oh, wow, Jo – look at this one.’ It was sage-green and hand-quilted on the front: a little row of peaches.

  ‘Mrs B made that one for her,’ Jo said.

  I looked at Jo. ‘I can see exactly how hard this is now. I’d be having the same trouble.’

  There was something jubilant in her nod. I sat on the thin carpet and stared up at the shelves of the wardrobe, trying to come up with a strategy. Jo joined me.

  ‘Any ideas?’ she said after a long pause.

  ‘How about …’ I perused the shelves again. ‘How about we pack all the basic store-bought Bonds and K-Mart things into a box for your cousin and hang onto the ones that are special, like these? That’s a start.’

  She studied the shelves. ‘Yeah,’ she said slowly. ‘That might work. I could do that with all the functional stuff. Socks, Wondersuits, nappy pants. Oh, but the singlets.’ She jumped up and pulled down a handful of singlets so small they would fit snugly on my hand. ‘How can I throw these away?’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I sighed. ‘So tiny! But look, you’ve got about a dozen of them. Could you bring yourself to give most away and just keep one?’

  ‘Good idea.’ Jo put a singlet in the sentimental onesie pile and dropped the rest into the box. Her eyes widened. ‘Look at this! I’ve actually given my cousin something useful!’ She started pulling towelling onesies off the shelf, dropping them into the box and tossing tiny rolled socks in after them. ‘You’re a genius, Lott!’

  I went and got another two boxes and a marker to write the clothing size on each. Jo disappeared occasionally to tend to the meal, but the boxes got filled with baby clothing from 0000 to 0. Anything that held an especially fond memory was tucked up onto the top shelf.

  ‘By the time you’ve had one or two more kids, they might not be so precious,’ I said with a wink.

  Jo laughed. ‘Yeah, I’ll probably be shoving boxes of baby gear at you and Ango, saying, get this shit off my hands!’

  My face and neck went hot. ‘There’s nothing with me and Angus.’ It wasn’t a lie, but it felt a little bit like one.

  She gave me a funny look. ‘Does he know that?’

  ‘He knows it better than I do.’

  She ignored the warning tone in my voice. ‘Well, he sure looks at you a lot for someone who’s not interested. And don’t think I didn’t see that little mouth-kiss on New Year’s, or how red Ango went afterwards.’ She grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

  ‘Seriously,’ I said. ‘He’s got baggage. I don’t think he’s ready for a relationship. Maybe he’ll never be ready.’

  ‘Nah, mate! Go for it, I reckon. I haven’t seen Angus interested in anyone, like, ever – until now. I’ve seen chicks throwing themselves at him down the pub and he’s like a fucking monk. If you want him, you’ve got him.’ She sniffed suddenly. ‘Oh, shit, smells like the casserole’s sticking.’

  She dashed away. I finished packing the last items into the boxes and pushed them against the wall. She had two clear shelves in the wardrobe now. I looked at Amelie, who was gnawing on the edge of a board book, making the cardboard go soggy and ragged. I extricated the slippery book from her hand and put it back on the shelf, picking her up. She grabbed a handful of my hair and grinned at me knowingly.

  ‘You’ve got attitude,’ I told her, grinning back. ‘Hold onto that.’

  Pris arrived at midday the next day and sat in the kitchen while Mrs Brooker and I prepared sandwiches. ‘Here’s Angus for lunch,’ she said, observing the ute trundle past the window. ‘I need him to go out to the Olde Peach Tree today.’

  ‘Angus might be a bit busy today, Pris,’ Mrs Brooker said. ‘He’s got a picking crew here.’

  ‘Measuring the tree won’t take him long,’ Pris declared. ‘And he said he would do it. He said he had to go out to Batich’s.’

  Mrs Brooker couldn’t deny it, considering she’d been the one to dob him in for the task. Angus came up the verandah steps and barely had time to step through the front door when Pris pounced.

  ‘I need you to measure the Olde Peach Tree, Angus,’ she called.

  He paused in the hall, likely to give himself a moment to roll his eyes. ‘I’ll head out there after lunch, Aunty Pris.’ He joined us, washing his hands at the sink.

  ‘Good.’ That matter managed, she looked around for some other object of criticism. ‘Caroline, what on earth are you doing? What a mess you’re making.’

  Mrs Brooker had been cutting slices of cheese but her chosen knife was unsuitable and it was only getting partway through the block before each thick slice disintegrated into chunks.

  ‘The cheese is too crumbly,’ she said, but she stopped cutting and assumed that lost expression I’d seen several times now.

  ‘Let me.’ Pris slid the board right out from under Mrs Brooker’s hands and tutted at the knife, fetching a better one from the drawer. Then she cut perfect slices of cheese with ferocious efficiency. Mrs Brooker’s face drooped.

  ‘Where can I find the piccalilli, Mrs B?’ I asked quickly.

  She didn’t answer and simply frowned at the fridge, then the pantry. I got it from the fridge.

  ‘You’ll need to help Angus measure the tree, Lottie,’ Pris told me. ‘I want it done accurately, the circumference taken at three points – close to the ground, in the middle, and just under the branches. And I need the height up to the first branches, too. Take a paper and pen,’ she added to Angus. ‘I’ll stay with Caroline.’

  So you can bully her a bit more?

  Angus read my mind. ‘Maybe you could come help me, Aunty Pris,’ he said. ‘Since you know exactly what you want.’

  Pris was outraged. ‘With my back? It’s been a strain just driving around town. You said you’d do the job for me, young man, and you can honour your word. I’ll stay with Caroline. You needn’t worry; I’m very capable.’

  I wished Pris would learn a bit of tact, but that would mean changing the habit of a lifetime.

  Angus and I set off for the Olde Peach Tree after lunch. We passed a front yard with a flagpole, the Australian flag aloft. It was shredded by weather and wind, torn ribbons rippling in the breeze. An image surfaced from the depths of my memory: ribbons attached to the top of a white pole. A routine memorised – weaving in and out of other girls in pretty dresses, our hair tied in winsome braids.

  A Maypole dance.

  How the hell had I become involved in a Maypole dance? It had been at Centenary Park: a medieval fair. I had loved it – I remembered that much. Real daisies were entwined in my braids. I wore a romantic white dress and skipped around that pole with complete focus, determined to make the performance perfect.

  Only a few little girls in Bonnievale were selected to take part in the audition. Knowing I was being judged, I skipped and wove my heart out
, a bright smile plastered on my face. I got a part. Mum brought me to the park for rehearsals with the other girls every few days, and she was the one who did my hair for the big day, poking in the stems of the daisies with a bamboo skewer.

  She must have been the one who signed me up.

  The thought hit me like a gust of wintry air. No matter what she thought – no matter how scathing she felt about a feminised tradition like a Maypole dance, she’d got me there. She helped me learn the dance and did my hair and filmed me on performance day. Knowing how much I loved to perform, she helped me get that part.

  When I begged for singing lessons, she let me do it. She paid for me to go and work with Melinda Sale, piano and singing teacher, every single week. She helped me get to my lessons and sat through the interminable six-monthly concerts to hear me belt out the latest R and B pop ballad – usually something slow and sensual about not being able to go on without a man. Against her own instincts, in the face of her beliefs, opposed to everything I thought was so cool, Mum still supported my passion.

  Until shit got real with the Jack the Lad photo shoot, anyway.

  ‘There’s no way I could let her live with Aunty Pris.’ Angus’s words interrupted my thoughts. ‘She makes Mum worse, somehow. It’s like she needs to make Mum feel feeble for some messed-up reason, and then she does feel feeble.’

  ‘I know. She does much better if we just reassure or distract her.’ I studied his profile. ‘Angus, do you love being a farmer?’

  He glanced at me. ‘Not especially.’

  ‘I was thinking. Your mortgage is paid out, right? If you sold up and moved, you’d be debt free and you wouldn’t have to work, at least for a while. You could get a house in town and look after your mum.’

  ‘Mum wouldn’t want that. She loves the place. And I’ve told you before, I can’t just walk away. It’s Brooker’s – the founding farm.’

  ‘Okay.’ I twisted my lips, thinking. ‘Then how about getting a live-in carer?’

  ‘We don’t have the cashflow. It’s a farm. I can’t just say to some carer, “Hey, I can pay you in February and November but the rest of the year’s pretty much shot.”’

  ‘Do you have any family who might be willing to keep an eye on her in exchange for free board? A cousin or something?’

  Angus shook his head. ‘The Brooker line stops with me. Thank Christ,’ he added, almost under his breath.

  I lost patience. ‘Would you stop that?’

  ‘Stop what?’ We’d reached the Welcome to Bonnievale – Home of the Olde Peach Tree sign and Angus brought the ute to a halt in the clearing.

  ‘The whole end-of-dynasty drama,’ I said. ‘The I-don’t-care-if-I-live-or-die thing. My life is so shitty, I refuse to carry on the Brooker name because it would be just as terrible for anyone else. You’re acting like a sulky kid.’

  Angus’s mouth set hard. ‘I’m trying to face it head-on, Lottie. Not everyone’s got the luxury of running away from their problems.’

  His words gave me a wrench of pain. Arsehole. I shoved open the car door, scrambled out and strode towards the scraggly remainders of the first orchard in Bonnievale. His door banged behind me.

  ‘Lottie!’ he called.

  I kept walking but when I ducked under a tree, one of its lower branches caught my hair, dragging me backwards.

  ‘Fuck!’ I clutched at my hair where it was stuck and endeavoured to untangle it, but it was already in a snarl around the rubbery, knotted twigs. Leaves and plums rained around me as I shook the tree. I yanked hard to escape and gasped, my eyes watering with the pain.

  ‘Wait!’ Angus jogged up behind me and I felt his hands in my hair, gently untangling me from the gnarled branch. Every time he pulled too hard, I hissed with pain and he apologised. I kept my eyes on the soft summer grass growing under the old trees, cheeks hot with the humiliation of the moment as well as anger over what he’d said.

  Jesus. What am I doing here? Angus was right – absolutely right. I was running. But I was running on the spot, getting nowhere, going nowhere. Giving everything up without a plan beyond that.

  ‘I think you’re almost free,’ he said.

  I moved my head tentatively and the last couple of hairs stretched, then snapped. I was, indeed, free. I smoothed my hair, unsure whether to resume my angry exit or just turn back and measure the goddamned peach tree.

  Behind me, Angus drew a breath. ‘Lottie.’ I didn’t answer. ‘Lottie, come on. Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said as pleasantly as possible.

  ‘Lottie.’

  ‘What?’ I snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’ Angus paused but I didn’t answer. ‘I don’t think you’re running away, actually. Or maybe you are and I’m fucking jealous. I don’t know.’ I listened. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’ Angus turned and loped back towards the Olde Peach Tree.

  I trailed him back to the main clearing and paused to read the plaque near the tree.

  The Olde Peach Tree is the first known

  stone-fruit tree in the Wallabah valley.

  Planted by Henry Brooker in 1887,

  the tree represents the birth of a

  renowned agricultural region.

  Angus had found a measuring tape in his toolbox in the back of the ute. I fetched a pen and paper from the centre console and hovered as he checked the trunk height under the branches.

  ‘Eighty-six high.’

  I wrote the number. ‘You know your policy is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard?’

  He didn’t look up. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yep. Maybe I’m running away but at least I haven’t made up my mind that my entire future is impossible to salvage.’

  He met my eyes. ‘Hold this.’ I held the end of the tape and he wrapped the strip of metal around the trunk at ground level. ‘One-eighteen around the base,’ he said, jiggling the tape free of my hand.

  I wrote it down. ‘You think the weight of responsibility for this town rests on your shoulders. But it doesn’t. So what if the Brookers started everything? There are other families in the region now, you know. They have their own successful farms and they don’t need Brooker’s in order to thrive.’

  ‘Hold the end.’

  I held it. ‘You aren’t just a Brooker. You’re also Angus, and you deserve some kind of life.’

  ‘One-oh-seven around the middle.’

  I released the tape and wrote it down. Angus measured the point where the trunk split into two branches.

  ‘You owe it to your mum,’ I added.

  He stopped. ‘I owe it to Mum?’

  ‘Yes. You assume she needs Brooker’s to be happy, but she doesn’t. All she wants is for you to be happy. I helped her clear out a lot of memories. I saw the things that gave her joy and the things that didn’t. Your happiness gave her joy.’

  Angus’s eyebrows were pulled down in a deep, pained frown. He focused on measuring. ‘One thirty-six.’ The tape shlocked back into the metal casing. I wrote down the number. Angus still wore that frown. ‘If I take her out of the place she knows, it will make things worse,’ he said. ‘She’ll be even more confused.’

  ‘Have you taken her to the doctor? There are medications she could be on that might slow things down.’

  ‘She refuses to go. She says she’s “perfectly well”. Last time – last time I tried, she got really angry at me. She shut herself in her room and accused me of …’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of trying to get her “locked up”.’ He shot me a swift look. ‘It was the illness talking obviously, but I had to promise her I wouldn’t make appointments without her knowledge again.’ Angus pocketed the measuring tape. ‘I even arranged for a mobile doctor to come once. Mum lost it completely that time – ordered the poor woman to leave or she’d call the cops.’

  I thought about that sharp look in Mrs Brooker’s eyes when I’d tried to get out of taking the nets up to Angus. All my suggestions melted away into futilit
y and I leaned on a low branch, feeling helpless.

  ‘I just have to deal with this,’ he said, his deep, dark brown eyes on mine, full of sorrow; then, despite the horrendous timing, I was thinking about that kiss in the big shed.

  But Angus’s forehead creased suddenly and he moved past me, seizing a leaf and holding it close to his face. He sucked in a breath. ‘Oh, no. Christ.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, startled.

  His gaze never left the leaf. ‘Peach spot.’

  Founding father Henry Brooker had relocated after planting his first orchards back in 1887. He’d found a better position on the sunny side of the valley, less susceptible to frost and with better drainage, where the Brooker farm now sat. The property adjacent to the Olde Peach Tree and its aged rows of neglected fruit trees was currently owned by Colin Dalgety.

  Angus phoned Colin while we were there. I could hear the older man’s voice shouting into Angus’s ear from where I stood several metres away. Angus was forced to describe the state of the leaf in detail, as though he could somehow be wrong.

  ‘Look, Colin, I’m not ringing you because I like talking to you,’ Angus shouted back at last. ‘There’s fucking peach spot on the Olde Peach Tree. Get your arse out here and take a fucking look yourself!’

  I sat on a rock and waited. Angus used his phone to take photos of leaves and then wandered a short way into the old orchard, checking the trees. A shining red Hilux arrived after about ten minutes, drawing Angus back. Colin Dalgety heaved his big belly out of the vehicle and his son climbed out the other side. Nathan took a long, not very respectful look at me, then turned his attention to Angus.

  ‘Colin.’ Angus shook the older man’s hand. ‘Nathan. Take a look.’

  They inspected the leaves of the Olde Peach Tree in silence. Nathan kept checking his father’s face. Maybe he thought he would have to back his dad up if the old man decided Angus was wrong. Or maybe he was worried Colin would have a heart attack. At last Colin stood back, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his sweating face. Clearly, there was no possibility Angus had got it wrong.