Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  Pris was shaking her head. ‘Cut down the Brooker peach tree,’ she said. ‘As if it means nothing – as if it’s just another tree.’

  ‘How about we leave this for now, Aunty Pris?’ Angus kept his tone even.

  ‘I don’t think so. I think we need to have it out, young man. What makes you think you’ve got the right to destroy our family’s heritage like that? You’re not the only Brooker left in town, you know. We have a standing in Bonnievale. I’ll protect that, even if you won’t.’

  ‘What?’ Mrs Brooker’s voice had risen in agitation. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Mum, it’s okay,’ Angus soothed.

  ‘It is not,’ Pris snapped. ‘She ought to know. Angus has been at loggerheads with Colin, Caroline – and many of the other farmers. He’s been going around telling people what to do, and saying they need to remove the Olde Peach Tree.’

  Mrs Brooker stared at her sister-in-law. Slowly, she transferred her gaze to Angus.

  ‘Mum, it’s not quite like that. I found spot on the tree while I was out there measuring it for Aunty Pris. Of course I recommended removing the tree. It’s the most effective method. As a Brooker —’ he shot a look at Pris ‘—I care about the orchardists in Bonnievale — That’s why I suggested removal rather than treatment. But at the meeting, the vote went to treating the tree.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Pris put in. ‘It’s a jolly good thing Colin was there to talk some sense into you.’ Angus didn’t look at Pris but I could practically hear him loathing her. ‘Cut down the Brooker tree,’ she repeated. ‘What’s next? Selling the town hall?’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ he said.

  ‘I’m outraged.’ She excised a chunk of lemon cake with her fork. ‘Outraged that a Brooker would even consider it an option. Edward would be turning over in his grave.’

  That lost look was coming over Mrs Brooker’s face again. I handed her a napkin and she just stared at it.

  ‘Dad understood the best method was tree removal,’ Angus was telling his aunt. ‘You, on the other hand, don’t know a damn thing about it, so how about being quiet now, Aunty Pris?’

  ‘I’ve lived among stone fruit orchards my whole life—’

  Angus broke in. ‘No. You lived here as a kid, and then you lived in town. You have never run an orchard, and you’ve never dealt with peach spot. You do not know what it’s like. You don’t know how bloody—’ Angus stopped abruptly, and I held my breath.

  Pris shook her head. ‘If only Edward were here.’

  ‘Well, he’s not, is he, Pris? He’s not here!’ Angus’s voice rose unexpectedly, making me jump.

  ‘Angus.’ His mother had somehow regained a little tranquillity. ‘It’s Aunty Pris’s birthday. Be nice, please.’

  He stared at the table for a few moments. ‘Happy birthday, Aunty Pris. I’d better get back to work.’

  He stood and left us sitting in silence. Pris managed a noise of annoyance before he got all the way out of the kitchen.

  ‘Always so angry,’ she said, her face bright with disapproval.

  Mrs Brooker called me from the back door while I pegged up washing in the morning sunshine. ‘It’s for you, love.’

  ‘What, the phone?’

  ‘Yes, the phone.’

  I hoped it wasn’t Pris – but it was worse.

  ‘Hi, Charlize! Gemma di Bortoli.’ She was as bubbly as ever. ‘I’m so glad I caught you. I know you’re busy, so I just have a super quick question for you.’ She dropped her voice to a more compassionate tone. ‘Everyone’s so upset about the peach spot coming back, aren’t they? Breaks my heart.’ She paused for my reply.

  ‘Is that your question?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh! No. I was just wanting to know – this fundraising effort – the Harvest Ball – is it for the peach spot? You know, raising money for the Orchardist Support Fund?’

  ‘Uh, the spot’s only just been discovered. The ball was always going to be a fundraiser for the Support Fund.’

  ‘Oh, really? I thought they must have been keeping the spot quiet for a while. I thought maybe the Brookers’ orchards had been hit with the disease.’ A pause. ‘Have they? Do the Brookers need financial help?’

  I choked on my silence.

  ‘I mean, the oldest Brooker tree is infected,’ she went on. ‘Angus and Caroline must be devastated. Is it just their farm that’s been infected, or the Dalgetys’ as well?’

  ‘No, it’s only been found on the Olde Peach Tree, not on either property, as far as I know.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded dubious. ‘Okay, so when exactly did Angus find the spot? Has he known for a few weeks already?’

  ‘Gemma, I don’t know anything about fruit trees or orchards. I’m the wrong person to ask.’

  ‘No – seriously, don’t worry, Charlize. I’ve already spoken to Colin about the peach spot itself. I was just wanting to get a quote from you about how everyone’s pulling together to raise money for the Support Fund. Would you say it’s a bit of a special situation, given the Brookers are the founding family? That it’s fitting that the money goes towards helping them out?’

  There was literally nothing I could say that wouldn’t have made it worse. Nothing that wouldn’t sound like weak denial.

  Gemma plugged away. ‘The Brookers must mean a lot to you, for you to offer to be a patron of the ball – you know, an event that’s raising money for their farm. You’re close with Angus, are you? Would you call it a serious relationship?’

  I looked at the phone in my hand. Mrs Brooker was audibly searching for a pan in a cupboard, mumbling to herself in vexation. Would she see an article if one appeared in the Bonnievale Examiner? Would Pris bring it over and show her, if Mrs Brooker didn’t see it herself? Of course she would.

  ‘Charlize?’ Gemma finally seemed to comprehend that this interview was a bust. ‘Charlize, are you pleased to be able to do some good in your hometown community, after what happened with Jai Carradine?’

  I hung up.

  The phone at Brooker’s was busy these days. Angus’s mobile rang a lot too, or buzzed with text messages. Several farmers came over to visit, calling a hello to Mrs Brooker from the verandah before they cleaned their boots in a tub of antiseptic liquid and trudged up the orchard track to speak to Angus. I wondered if the Dalgetys were getting their own share of calls and visits from frightened orchardists.

  Angus didn’t mention the bacterial spot in front of his mother again and she seemed to forget about it. The hired picking crew finished with the peaches and plums, and a truck arrived to collect the first real harvest of the season. The Brookers’ nectarines still weren’t ready, so the crew moved on to someone else’s orchards.

  When Mrs Brooker trotted off to bed on Friday night, I found Angus seated in front of the television, half watching something and half messing with his phone.

  ‘Want a drink?’ I said.

  He looked up. ‘Will you have one with me?’

  I got him a beer and me a wine and sat beside him, trying to think of a way to open the topic of his mother.

  Angus launched unexpectedly into speech. ‘What Pris said about Dad rolling over in his grave about the tree, it’s bullshit. My father understood bacterial spot in the end. He knew we had to remove the trees – even our oldest, best-producing trees. He helped me fight until people finally saw sense – after they’d lost years of crops and the infection had spread through hectares and hectares of trees. It was tough for everyone but we voted and did what was needed in the end. Every last member of the association went out and removed any tree that bore even the slightest sign of spot. My dad talked people off the ledge all that week. They would call to say they couldn’t do it; they couldn’t bring themselves to rip out acres of trees full of fruit. I remember Sue Ludwig crying when she pulled out her first ever peach tree – a wedding present from her parents. Dad would sit them down, talk them through it, and convince them all over again that it had to be done.’ Angus drank. ‘Then finally, it was done. It too
k a long time and we all visited one another’s properties, making sure it had been done properly. Policing each other.’

  ‘What would your dad make of what’s happening now, do you reckon? With Dalgety?’

  Angus gave a soft snort. ‘He’d sort Dalgety out with the facts. Dad wasn’t a loud bloke like Colin, but he listened and thought things over. When he spoke, people paid attention. I’m still too young to get respect, or maybe too argumentative.’

  ‘You do get respect, actually, but it’s a shame your dad’s gone,’ I said. There was a subtle shift in Angus’s posture. ‘Did you get along with your father?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, mostly.’

  ‘Mostly?’

  ‘He was really disappointed in me when Bianca and I split.’

  I thought about that. ‘Okay. Your parents are kind of old-school, so I can understand that. How old is your mum?’

  ‘Seventy-two next year.’

  ‘So she was, what – already over forty when they had you?’

  ‘Yeah, and Dad, too. They’d pretty much given up hope when Mum finally got pregnant.’ Angus had his gaze on the freshly framed wedding photo of his parents. ‘I suppose there are a couple of generation gaps between us.’

  ‘Our mums were pretty good friends, you know that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Mothers’ group.’

  ‘We played together – us two, and the other kids in the group.’

  He nodded. ‘Before we went to school and the boy-germs, girl-germs thing started.’

  ‘It’s strange that our mums are friends, don’t you think? Your mum’s old-fashioned and comfortable with being a farmer’s wife. My mum did everything she could to avoid being thought of as any man’s possession.’

  ‘It’s not that strange,’ Angus said. ‘Mum may be old-fashioned, but she’s strong. She’s not a doormat.’

  ‘What about your dad then?’ I said. ‘Was he old-fashioned? Obviously he didn’t like you and Bianca breaking up. Was it his pride? No splits in the Brooker family before you and Bianca?’

  ‘No, it was his fear of losing the farm, that’s all. He was pretty cool about the divorce until the financial orders. Then he seemed to age overnight. He knew it was going to sink us.’

  I watched him gazing at the photo. ‘You know, your father probably wasn’t disappointed in you. Maybe in the situation, but not you.’

  ‘You didn’t see the look on his face sometimes. He’d be going over the farm accounts and I would catch him staring at me.’ Angus stopped and pressed his lips together.

  I couldn’t deny that parental disappointment was a thing. I’d seen that same look on my mother’s face.

  ‘How did your dad die, exactly?’

  Angus was silent for so long, I thought he’d decided not to answer. At last he spoke. ‘He was on the same dose of medication for heart arrhythmia for years. Then it got a bit worse and the doctor changed the amount from two lower dose pills to one higher dose, but Dad took two of the higher dose and it made his heart stop. He died in bed.’

  Accidental drugs death – no wonder he had hesitated over telling me. ‘I’m sorry, Angus. I’d assumed he’d been sick.’

  ‘No. I mean, his heart was a bit dodgy but he wasn’t sick. Not seriously.’ He paused, then suddenly spoke again. ‘This no-faking thing. It’s harder than it looks. It changes you.’ He looked at me. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Definitely. It forces me to explain myself. It’s horrible sometimes. I can’t tell people what they want to hear any more. I wouldn’t last two seconds in the television industry.’

  Angus picked at the label on his beer. ‘I thought not-faking would mean I’d be angry all day – at everyone. But I’m not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Pris pisses me off. And Dalgety and his son are a couple of tools. But I don’t always feel jacked off any more. I thought I’d have nothing holding all that anger back once I stopped faking it, but when I take away the retaining wall, there’s not much behind it.’

  I made a noise of agreement and felt him studying my face. I waited.

  ‘Why’d you do it?’ he asked.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get rid of everything you cared about in your life?’

  ‘Not everything. Just the things that were meaningless.’

  ‘Did you love him?’ Angus asked. ‘Jai.’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Honestly, Lottie?’ ‘Honestly. I’d been seeing him for one week. I wasn’t even sure if I liked him.’

  ‘So you didn’t get your heart broken, but you still threw everything away,’ he said. ‘Your career was going well, right? You loved acting when you were a kid. You were in every school play. And last year, you got some TV work – yeah, it didn’t pan out, but you were on your way up. Your agent, she found another part for you, too. A good part – but you said no. Why?’

  ‘I don’t want that any more.’

  ‘But why not?’

  I flicked my wine glass with a fingernail and tried to articulate it. ‘I got tired of trying to be important to people who don’t even know me.’ Angus frowned and I sighed. ‘Every day I was inventing this persona, putting it out in public, and there was nothing real or – or distinctive underneath. Take my online fans – I had a bunch of followers from my decluttering project, a bunch more from my being in a relationship with Jai, and another bunch from being in Jack the Lad. And in the weeks after Jai died, those people were all pulling me apart, choosing which parts of me were me, and making up their minds whether those parts should be hated or loved. I felt out of control. I was all these different things to all these different people who didn’t know me, and I didn’t know what I was, either. I just knew that I’d made myself this way and I couldn’t deal with it any more. I had to do something to make it stop.’

  He didn’t answer but took another drink and stared at the television, actors on the late chat show mouthing their stories, with the volume set low.

  ‘Is it better now?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Having other people decide who you are, being out of control of your identity – has it stopped?’

  ‘It’s improved.’

  ‘So why are you still hiding out here at Brooker’s?’

  ‘I’m not hiding. Everyone knows where I am. I’m taking time out. I told you before, I want to live more authentically.’

  ‘You can be authentic as an actress, you do realise that? You don’t have to shed everything about yourself, especially things you love or are good at. I mean, you should live your life, not hide from it.’

  ‘You can talk.’ It came out colder than I’d planned and Angus blinked. ‘You’re so gun-shy after your last relationship, you have a policy. A policy, for chrissake! Because you’re cursed. Not scared you’ll get hurt or make a mistake – just cursed. How long are you going to be terrified of it going wrong again? For the rest of your life?’

  Angus frowned, returning his gaze to the television, and neither of us spoke for a long time. I finished my wine and put down the glass, ready to go to bed – to let him stew on my words – but it felt as if he’d won this round and I couldn’t leave things like this. Ding-ding. I opened my mouth to continue the argument.

  ‘When are you planning to leave?’ he asked.

  I stopped short. I couldn’t read his tone. ‘You want me to leave?’

  ‘No. I just need to prepare.’

  ‘I don’t have plans to leave. I was thinking, actually – maybe I could be useful.’ I started to regret the poor timing of my rant about his policy. ‘I could be your mum’s carer in exchange for board and meals.’

  ‘For how long?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, indefinitely?’ I held my breath.

  ‘You want to do that?’ Angus’s dark eyes bored into mine. ‘Even with Pris interfering and Mum getting worse every day?’

  ‘I don’t know how qualified I’ll be to care for her if her needs change,’ I said. ‘But I like looking after her. Maybe if things get a l
ot worse we can reassess then. But I could help with running the house, keeping her safe, taking her to appointments or into town, stuff like that.’

  ‘Won’t you get fed up?’

  ‘I haven’t felt that way at all, not once in the what –’ I calculated ‘– five or so weeks since I came to stay.’

  Angus wasn’t moving and had his eyes on the floor. ‘I can’t believe you’d do that for us.’

  Joy welled inside me. ‘It would be an equal deal, I think. I need somewhere to live and something to eat. You need a carer for your mum.’

  ‘It’s not equal. Not by a longshot.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Could I try to take her to the doctor? Are you okay with that? I might be able to find some creative way to get her there. I’d love to slow down the progress of the dementia if it’s possible.’

  He nodded and cleared his own throat. ‘Yes, that would be good. See what you can do. I’d be really happy if you could get her to see the doctor.’ He paused. ‘And if you need time out from looking after her, just say. Me or Pris can hang around with her for a day, or a couple of hours, or whatever you need. My work is seasonal so it’s really busy at harvest, but not so bad at other times of year.’

  It was decided. My heart beat fast with hope. I’d found a place to stay and a meaningful task to keep me busy. Angus could feel more secure about his mother. I’d made him happy – or at least given him some comfort.

  Angus finished his beer and picked up the remote. ‘You watching this?’

  ‘No.’

  He flicked off the television. I stood up, but before I stepped away I felt my fingers caught in a big, warm hand. I turned back, startled. Angus held my hand for a few seconds and opened his mouth but no words came out. He dropped his eyes and stared at my fingers clasped in his as though they were not what he’d expected – like he’d reached for my hand and found a hairy, taloned paw. He let it go.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  I was silent.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ He jumped up and strode away.

  I went straight to my bedroom. There, I lay in bed, reliving our kiss in the big shed and the feeling of his warm fingers on mine.