Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  ‘What can I do for you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, just Saturday lotto, please. Eighteen-game.’

  I served her, wishing my mother was out the front instead of me. Gemma might just be a small-town community journalist, but she seemed hungry, like she thought I was her ticket to something bigger.

  ‘So sad about poor Mrs Brooker,’ Gemma said. ‘Are you staying with Angus?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You’re going back to the city then?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘You haven’t got any shows lined up?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘But you are getting back into show business?’

  I passed her some change. ‘Gemma, please.’

  She hesitated. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I know you want a story, but I have nothing for you. Anything you write, whether it’s that I’m staying, that I’m going back, that I’m healing or hiding or whatever, it’s only going to make me feel bad. I just want to do my thing. Could you please just let me do that?’ Gemma watched me, frowning uncertainly. ‘I’m yesterday’s news anyway,’ I added. ‘None of the magazines are interested any more.’

  ‘Maybe – maybe we could work together,’ she said. ‘I could write a positive story about you. Something about how you’ve gone back to your roots, found yourself, given back to the community by volunteering at the ball. You could even talk about what happened with Angus and the Olde Peach Tree. That’s got massive human interest. It would be a comeback story for you.’ She watched me, brown eyes bright with hope.

  ‘The last few months have been hard,’ I said. ‘I would really, really appreciate it if you could just let me get on with my life without trying to dig for information. It hurts when see myself in the media.’

  Gemma examined my face, her eyes pausing on my scar. ‘Fair enough,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled at her – a genuine smile. ‘If you change your mind and want me to do a story, I will. On your terms. I’ll take whatever angle you want me to.’

  ‘I really appreciate that.’

  She turned to go, then turned back. ‘Hey, is it true you were at the Olde Peach Tree with Angus when he did it?’

  I pressed my lips together and raised my eyebrows. Gemma took her lotto ticket and left. Hopefully she would win Saturday’s draw; then she wouldn’t need to write any more news stories, about me or anyone else.

  I thought about Mrs Brooker continually. Her soft blue eyes came into my head whenever I did little domestic tasks, saw a jam jar on a shop shelf or touched the ribbon on Big Bear’s neck. I heard her tinkling laugh and remembered her heat-resistant hands. Each time, that sharp ache came back into my throat. Her death made no sense: it was pointless; heartbreaking – but then, she had said she would rather go quickly. She’d said she would be happy to see Ted again. And she hated the loss of her faculties; so much that she wouldn’t even see a doctor. We lost her in a way that left the rest of us broken and guilty – and yet a quick death before her dementia took over was what Mrs Brooker wanted. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or bitter.

  The police called me into the station to question me over rumours that I had been with Angus on the night he cut the Olde Peach Tree down. Despite my anger towards him, I corroborated his story that he’d dropped me off at Brooker’s and gone to deal with the tree by himself. The cops probably didn’t believe me but they didn’t push too hard. Perhaps they figured I was just incidental to the crime. They tried to trip me up a few times but I never faltered, so they eventually sent me on my way. After the questioning sessions when Jai died, this was a walk in the park.

  Jo popped into the Rabbit’s Foot every few days to say hello and update me on Angus – like I wanted to know about him. A couple of weeks after the funeral, she invited me around for dinner. It was a pleasant night, eating Jo’s lasagne while the baby made a mess on her highchair tray. After the meal, Toby went off to watch TV sports with Amelie, so Jo and I had another drink together in the kitchen.

  ‘Angus had his court appearance on Monday,’ she said, relaxing back in her chair. There was a big pasta sauce stain on her T-shirt. ‘He pleaded guilty. His hearing’s on the twenty-sixth at the Wallabah District Court.’

  ‘That’s all happening fast.’

  ‘Yeah, feels that way, doesn’t it? Hopefully the magistrate will go easy on him. Suspended sentence, or whatever. Lots of the orchardists have swung round, you know. They say they support him, he did the right thing for the town, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Good. Is he …?’ I stopped myself from asking how he was coping but Jo understood.

  ‘He’s not exactly chirpy,’ she admitted, ‘but he seems to be getting on with things. Working his arse off for harvest, just like the rest of us.’ I didn’t answer and Jo observed me, twisting her mouth. I sipped my wine and flicked a crumb across the table, but she kept staring.

  I gave in. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you reckon maybe you might go see him?’ There was a pleading tone in her voice.

  ‘Jo, he doesn’t want to see me. He wanted me to leave.’

  ‘He’s just scared—’

  ‘Yep. Too scared.’

  Jo looked like she wanted badly to say something, but in the end, she just heaved a sigh. She reached for the bottle and refilled my glass. ‘Yeah, all right. He’s not very functional, I guess. I just – I love the stupid prick, you know? I want him happy.’

  ‘I can’t make him happy.’

  Jo nodded, staring at the darkened kitchen window, her eyes distant.

  I contacted the owner of the coffee shop underneath my old apartment in the city to ask if she had any jobs going for an inexperienced worker. Saskia guffawed at first, then I convinced her that I meant it. She lapsed into an extended silence.

  ‘You’re not my usual pick for reliable waitstaff, Charlize.’

  ‘Yeah, I get that.’

  ‘And all that crap that went down with that actor dude. Are you a user, or what?’

  ‘No, Sas, promise. What happened with Jai turned me off, one hundred per cent. I barely even drink.’

  ‘Well, you gotta smoke and drink if you want to work here.’ She laughed. ‘Look, Lulu’s going to Europe in April. Come see me when you get back to the city and we’ll have a chat. I’ll give you a trial and if you do okay, maybe you can take her shifts. Be prepared though. If you suck, I’ll sack you as soon as look at you.’

  I thanked her and, when I got to work, told my parents I had a job lined up. Mum frowned when she heard what the work was. ‘But you have skills you could use. You have a degree and years of performing experience.’

  ‘I can’t go back into acting. I don’t want that.’

  She scratched her ear. ‘Is that because I’ve been judgemental? About you and your career?’

  I lined up the newspaper delivery slips ready for checking. ‘I just don’t want to be faking it any more.’

  ‘It’s acting, Lottie, not faking it. You were always very real when you performed – it was the one time I really knew who you were. It seems a shame to waste that talent.’

  I nearly said something along the lines of, It would have been nice to hear this a few years ago, then the memory of the Maypole dance popped into my mind and I stopped myself.

  ‘Maybe I’ll use it again someday,’ I said. ‘Just not right now.’

  Mum was still frowning. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to mention it but your agent – Kelsey, is it? She called here the other day.’

  I met her eyes. ‘What for?’ ‘She wants to talk to you. She told us you’d ended your contract, so we supposed you were finished with her and wouldn’t want to talk. But I don’t know, Lott – maybe you should see what she wants. I don’t like to think of you throwing away your talent.’

  Dad made a weird noise and we looked his way. He was looking down at the new edition of Peeps Weekly he’d unpacked to place on the magazine rack. He held it out awkwardly and I saw a photo of me o
n the cover. Not a big one – just a small inset of me sitting on my own at Jo’s place after Mrs Brooker’s funeral, looking sad. The caption read: Charlize faces facts: ‘I’m yesterday’s news.’

  ‘Oh, for chrissake,’ I said.

  ‘It’s got to be Gemma di Bortoli,’ Mum said. ‘She’s been in asking about you a few times now.’

  I skimmed the story: ‘It hurts when I see myself in the media.’ ‘I just want to do my own thing.’ Gemma didn’t have a by-line, so she must be the ‘anonymous source’ the article mentioned; she’d sold my quotes and a photo to the magazine after our conversation. I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t even really upset. I met Mum’s eyes and rolled mine, replacing the magazine on the shelf.

  She gave me a half-smile. ‘Gemma reminds me of myself a bit, when I was a young journo.’ Mum went pink as she said this. ‘Driven, but a bit ruthless.’

  ‘Want me to pull them, Lott?’ Dad said. ‘We don’t have to sell this issue.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s a good seller, that mag. Let’s leave it.’

  Later that night, my mother gave me a slip of paper. It said, Kelsey Hannan and had her phone number. Mum gave me a meaningful look.

  ‘All right, all right,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what she wants and tell her to leave me alone.’

  She smiled and left me to it. Kelsey shrieked in my ear when she found out who was calling.

  ‘Oh, my God, Charlize! I thought you’d never call me back!’

  ‘I only just got your message,’ I said. ‘But you know I’m finished, don’t you Kels? I really mean it.’

  She ignored that. ‘I saw you in Peeps Weekly. Shocker of a story. Who was the source?’

  ‘No one important.’

  ‘I know I’m not your agent any more, but please make sure you insist on seeing anything they write about you beforehand, if you possibly can. It’s so important. I can’t emphasise it enough.’

  I was blunt. ‘Is that why you wanted to talk?’

  ‘No, honey. Listen, I don’t want a cut, I just saw this and thought it would suit you. Garth Tucker is doing a new interpretation of Hedda Gabler set in nineties gangland Melbourne, and you were so great in that play a few years ago. God, I feel like this is just perfect for you, especially if you’re wanting to back off from the screen at the moment. Such a strong role, Charlize. And I know Garth. I think I could get you an audition.’

  ‘Why?’ I barely kept the suspicion from my voice.

  ‘Because I care about you.’ Kelsey sounded honestly hurt.

  I softened. ‘That’s really kind, Kelsey. But I’m not ready and I don’t know if I’ll ever—’

  ‘No, wait – you’ve got a couple of months to think about it. It’s all through the grapevine at the moment: no announcements, no audition calls. I have inside info, that’s all. And if you give me your number, I’ll call when it’s happening and you never know, you might be ready. If you’re not, that’s cool. I’ll leave you alone.’

  It seemed unnecessarily stubborn to refuse. I gave her my number.

  ‘Are you coming back to the city?’ she asked.

  ‘I was hoping not to,’ I said.

  ‘Bummer.’ She sighed. ‘Are you anywhere near Wallabah out there?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s about forty-five minutes away.’

  ‘Oh, well – take a look on the Arts Jobs website. I saw something listed for Wallabah this morning. I thought of you.’

  I thanked her and, out of curiosity, used my parents’ computer to check the Arts Jobs website. I found it fast – it was the only job on that site for Wallabah: Children’s Tour Leader for the museum. I read it through. They wanted someone with dramatic experience to run history tours for school excursions. Immersive tours. The candidate was expected to dress and act as a variety of characters from history, including convicts, free settlers, bushrangers, the governor, fine ladies and sailors. It was only a part-time role, but there was potential to expand into an adult market, telling grisly stories of the region for evening tours.

  My imagination fired. I applied immediately and on Monday the museum’s operations manager called and asked me to attend an interview. I went and saw Angela and her colleague at St Edna’s to buy appropriate interview attire: a dark pencil skirt and pale blouse. On Wednesday, I did the hour’s drive to the big town of Wallabah for my appointment. On the way out of Bonnievale, I came across the site of the late Olde Peach Tree. I was running far too early for the interview, so I stopped to take a look.

  This was the first time I’d seen the stump in daylight and the clearing looked bizarre without the massive, familiar tree. A big chunk of the old Henry Brooker orchard had also been cleared. I passed the stack of burned-out branches, coals and ash as I crossed to the stump, where I reviewed Angus’s axe-blade graffiti. In the sparkling morning light, it looked so deliberate and so savage – the cutting and the poisoning. The fierce end to the long Brooker line. Just like Angus’s policy.

  It was a good thing, I realised, that he broke it off. The thought gave me a wrench and I had to fan my face not to cry. I couldn’t be with someone so self-destructive that he wanted not only to remove his own chances of finding love and having a family, but the entire lineage. Thank God Angus ended it before I got horribly hurt.

  More horribly hurt.

  When I arrived at the museum, I was met by a young man in a geeky T-shirt with his hair gelled up like Tintin’s. He led me through several sets of doors before we finally arrived in a waiting room.

  ‘You’ve got guts, going for this job,’ he said. ‘Have you acted before?’

  I was glad he didn’t recognise me. ‘Yes, mostly on stage.’

  ‘That’s exciting!’

  ‘Not exciting at all.’

  ‘Well, I do exhibition design,’ he said, making a face. He was quite cute, with a shyness that didn’t match the funky hair. ‘Sounds exciting too, but it’s mostly gluing stuff together and hiding cables.’

  I smiled. ‘Do you like working here?’

  ‘I do. I mean, it’s got its workplace politics, but what self-respecting not-for-profit doesn’t?’

  ‘It’s not a job if there aren’t workplace politics,’ I agreed.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ he offered. ‘A water, maybe?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  He nodded and that should have been the end of our conversation, but he hovered. Ah. He was interested.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ he said. ‘If you get the job, I’ll give you the lowdown on the best coffee places within walking distance.’

  ‘Thank you. And wine bars. Don’t forget the wine bars.’

  He gave a delighted laugh and withdrew into the maze of offices. The manager and exhibitions director came out to meet me a couple of minutes later. They brought me into their meeting room and I sat down at the table, smoothing my skirt and maintaining an appearance of calm. I was able to truthfully say I had worked with children before. My Wizard of Oz shows had included a lot of kids playing Munchkins. They got me to read some scripts, doing voices and a little physical acting. I knew I’d nailed that bit because I made them laugh with a couple of improvised lines.

  ‘You’ve done a lot of stage and screen,’ the manager remarked, glancing at his notes. ‘Why are you interested in this job?’

  ‘Stage and screen are fickle,’ I said. ‘I gave it my all for twelve years and the industry didn’t take me where I wanted to go. Or it turned out that the place it was taking me was not where I wanted to go …’ They seemed to be following this convoluted explanation so I went on. ‘I ended my contract with my agent in December. I need something more substantial – something that will keep me grounded.’

  They exchanged a glance and the exhibitions director leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’m sorry about this, Lottie, but I must ask. You were involved in some rather unsavoury events last year. A drug death and some nude photographs. While we can see you’re good at what you do, we’re a little concerned that your lifestyle might
compromise the goodwill of the museum with the community.’

  I looked down, cheeks burning. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Can you give us any reassurance?’

  I should just walk out right now. Nothing I said would change what they knew about me. But then I would be giving up before I even tried, too scared to take a risk. I would be like Angus with his policy.

  ‘I won’t lie.’ I looked at their faces in turn. ‘I can’t erase what happened. Being there when Jai died was a shock. It forced me to reassess how I was living and who I was spending time with. I’m not sure I would have made the same choice to pose for the Jack the Lad shoot after that, but it had already been done and the magazine chose to publish the photos that week. I’m not saying I was an innocent party, but part of it was bad timing and simply not being savvy enough to play the industry. Instead, I got played. I guess the important thing is that I will do this job well. You can trust me with children, and I’m not living my old way of life any more. I won’t embarrass the museum.’ I paused. ‘And if you’re hoping to raise the museum’s profile with these history tours, well, sometimes – sometimes a little notoriety can be helpful.’ I smiled at them, imagining Pris’s face.

  They both gave polite, cautious chuckles and exchanged another glance. Oh, well. At least I’d given it a shot. And waitressing in the city might not be so bad.

  The museum’s manager called the next day to tell me I could have the job on a trial basis for three months. I guessed that meant the job was mine, provided I didn’t pop up in any men’s magazines over the next twelve weeks. I would be needed for three or four sessions a week, and the pay was decent – around the same as if I worked full-time as café waitstaff. I accepted, surprised but happy. I’d be starting in two weeks, which would hopefully give me enough time to find a rental in Wallabah and move in. I sent off enquiries about units for lease in the regional town.

  I was serving a customer at the Rabbit’s Foot one morning when Angus came in. My mind promptly went blank and I had to ask my customer all over again what sort of lotto ticket she wanted. Angus had shaved and he wore a clean T-shirt. He pretended to look at newspapers until the customer departed, then approached the counter. I looked for Mum, hoping she would serve him, but she was miles away in the corner of the newsagency, creating a display.