Peaches, being a woman, and other offenses
A Saturday not too long ago, APPI (our ghost hunting group) got to return to Old Government House in Parramatta. It’s the oldest public building in Australia, and the kind of stately heritage site where you’d expect the ghosts to at least be polite, or perhaps scandalous and frank.
Instead, we got… yelled at? I think?
To be fair, it was two of our guests that got yelled at actually… during an Estes experiment. We try and give people hands-on experience so next time they watch Ghostbusters they can understand what fluffy fiction it is 😂.
Now that said, our “Estes” is not a proper Estes (which would be under more controlled conditions). In our version, guests wear noise-cancelling headphones and listen to a spirit box (a radio with the tuning cable cut and earthed so it continually scans a set range of frequencies for the guests to listen to), while the rest of us ask questions. Sometimes what comes through makes sense. Sometimes it sounds like a badly tuned podcast in a snowstorm. Occasionally, it gets… spicy.
This particular session was about halfway through our second rotation (we do a small round-robin type group split) and two young women were listening to the box. They started with a woman’s name — “Sonia” or “Sonya” — followed by a quick “yes” when the rest of us asked if that was their name. Then both guests jolted in their seats and shared wide eyes at each other; “Did you just hear that?!?”, “Yes! What the hell was that?!”.
When their time was up, they took off their headphones and said, “We just got yelled at by some angry old guy! Like ARRRRRRGH!”
They weren’t scared, more confused and incredulous. So we tried to all more questions to see who was yelling at my guests.
Over the next few minutes we heard:
Children. Pain. Bridgette. Jo. Single. Right now. Doctor. Lady. Peaches. Still mad. It happens. 1930.
Also: Die. F*. Thanks. Be home.**
(Spirits, I’ve discovered over the last almost-decade, are not always genteel.)
“Peaches” stood out. So did “still mad.” and curiosity got the better of me; I started searching on Trove — ghosts, Parramatta, doctor, peaches, that sort of thing. And buried deep in the fruit basket of history was this absolute gem of a newspaper article from 1850, in which a twelve-year-old named Phoebe Rose was charged with stealing — wait for it — four dozen prize peaches from the garden of a Mr. Champion on Church Street.
The article is a masterclass in 19th-century melodrama or a really badly written stage play from someone who honestly was wasted on local legal bulletins.
My favourite line being:
“Fruit has ever been mischievous, and brought skaith on womankind, from the days of great dame Eve until this last recorded instance, exemplified in the case of Phoebe.”
I mean… skaith? Great Dame Eve? Literary genius that I wish I had when writing my reports at work!
Apparently, 12/13 year-old Miss Rose had already done time in the Gaol for unrelated activities (at 12 though… what does a 12 year old do that deserves Gaol time?), and had only just been released when her “horticultural studies” led her to Mr. Champion’s peaches — specifically, the ones he was planning to enter in the Society’s next exhibition. The ones “with shine and blush and kernels that feared no rival”.
The article continues:
“She had helped herself to a few! (only four dozen) peaches… that would have taken the shine out of all other peaches, and made them blush pale.”
I don’t know if this is journalism or fruit-based fan fiction. Either way, I loved the image of a 12-year old girl somehow stealing FOUR DOZEN peaches!
Pheobe didn’t say much in her defense — just cried — but the judge was unmoved and sentenced her to a month in Gaol, with this glorious bit of judicial logic:
“By which time the peach season being pretty well past, she will run no risk of again experiencing a fresh attack of the collywobbles through a too plentiful indulgence in fruit.”
(Legally speaking, he was implying the only cure for fruit theft is a peachless calendar spent in Gaol.)
So was it Phebe who came through the spirit box that night, then perhaps Mr Champion? Was she mad about her reputation? Or was the ghost of Mr. Champion, still bitter about his lost peaches?
Hard to say… but someone is still very, very mad about the peaches.
Needless to say - this Saturday we’re back at Old Government House, and you can bet your pretty floral bonnet that I’m bringing fruit!
I’ll let you all know how it goes!
