Saturday Story: Black Apples

 

It was too early to be awake. Beth knew that, but she was drawn to the window nevertheless. The apple tree in the back garden was veiled in mist, like a shy bride hovering outside the church, listening for the first notes of the organ to signal that it was time to walk down the aisle. She went downstairs and took the hurricane lamp from the shelf above the light switch in her larder, shrugged on her jacket and stepped into her woollen slippers. The garden was so quiet she was certain she could hear the caterpillars breathing. The tree stiffened at her presence and then shuddered its branches.

 

"It's only me." Beth pulled her jacket tighter around her and noticed gems of dew on her slippers. She turned on the hurricane lamp and slowly circled the tree. It was a ritual she had seen her mother and grandmother do, and she was determined to repeat it for as long as she was able. Having completed three turns about the tree, she stopped and waited. It was different every day, depending on the tree's mood. Sometimes it surprised her, sometimes it was gentle and sometimes it outright refused. This morning, a heavy branched dipped and proffered a single apple. She tugged at the branch, but the fruit would not budge. She tried the twist and pull action she had seen others do, but she may as well have tickled it with a feather for all the good it did. Finally, she gave up and took a bite from its dark flesh. Her blood rushed to her head, and she developed the kind of headache one gets after eating too much sugar. Her legs threatened to give way. She tried steadying herself against the trunk, and closed her eyes, determined to focus on her breathing. A gust of wind that felt suspiciously like firm hands against her chest pushed her over, and she was aware of lying in the grass. Her eyes closed, despite her best efforts, and she heard the rusling of leaves, a scream that might have come from her, and heavy footfalls.

When she opened her eyes, she was in her bed. The time had not changed since the last time she looked at the clock on her nightstand. She went to the window and saw the tree in the mist. Once downstairs, she gathered her hurricane lamp, jacket and slippers again. She rushed to the tree, and saw the black apple dangling from the branch. A bite with her teethmarks was missing from it.

"What is going on here? What did you do?" Her voice sounded frightened, and Beth was not entirely sure why. She turned her head in the direction of her house. There was someone ringing her doorbell. "I'll deal with you later," she said, heading inside.

"Are you Beth?" 

"Who is asking?" She regarded the man in a postal worker's uniform and wondered how he'd been tall enough to reach the doorbell.

"You took a bite of a black apple recently. I'm here to give you this." 

Beth took the envelope. It was thick, heavier than it looked, and there was a smudge over the postal stamp. 

He touched his fingers to his forehead and retreated down the path to the street.

"Wait! Who are you?" Her voice, along with the man, disappeared into the mist. She carried the envelope to the kitchen and used her knife to tear the seam open. A wad of paper slid out. At first she thought it was a letter, but then she noticed it was a sort of booklet that looked like a pamphlet. There was a deep purple ribbon sticking out of the bottom, and she let the booklet fall open to that page. 

It was a recipe for apple butter. Black apple butter. She noticed a scribble in pencil in the margin. Best recipe when sugar is halved. Beth placed the booklet on the counter and checked the envelope again. There was a card. Make the butter and you will have the answers you crave. Love, Mama.

"Nice one. I've been played." She looked around the kitchen, waiting for the presenters of the TV show to burst into her house and tell her she was the butt of a hidden camera joke. Her mother had been dead for five years, but she'd know that handwriting anywhere. Beth waited. The fridge hummed and the geyser burbled. The apple tree was swaying in a non-existent breeze. She was about to go into the garden to confront it when the doorbell rang. 

"Hey, Beth, I'm so glad you're up." Marjorie pushed past her and showed herself into the kitchen. "I've just run out of that divine lavender cheese you made, and I was hoping you had some more? I'm having some of Michael's colleagues around for a little soirée, and we're doing a cheeseboard to go with our wine. I'd invite you, but I don't think they're really your crowd. Except maybe for... But I'm sure you have plans anyway. So. The cheese?"

"How much do you need?" She stepped into the larder and turned on the light, making a mental note to put the hurricane lamp back after Marjorie had left.

"About three hundred grams should do it. If you can spare that much, I mean?"

Beth placed the cheese on her board and unfolded the cloth. She placed it on the scale. "Hmm. This is three hundred and fifty."

"Oh, perfect. I'll take it." She reached for her wallet. "Between you and me, I'm hoping this cheese will calm tempers. Michael says the board members are a volatile bunch that need to be made more amenable to his way of doing things."

"I've told you before, Marjorie, my food doesn't have special powers. It's just cheese."

Marjorie touched her nose. "If you say so, sweetie. Besides, those cream puffs you made for our anniversary..."

Beth threw her a look and continued to bag the cheese.

"Well, let's just say they did wonders for our marriage in and out of the bedroom." Marjorie's laugh bobbed in her throat.

"Cream puffs don't have that kind of power. It might be the dark chocolate; it's a known aphrodisiac." She handed a paper bag with the cheese to Marjorie.

"Michael's allergic to chocolate, so these were cream only." Marjorie handed her the money. "I don't know why you're so modest about your food. Everyone knows that if it comes out of this kitchen it's going to be nothing short of amazing. And don't tell me your business didn't pick up after I told everyone about your cream puffs."

"I've always relied on word-of-mouth referrals."

Marjorie raised her hands in defeat. "Thanks for the cheese, sweetie. I'll be sure to tell everyone where they can get more." Marjorie smiled. "I'll show myself out. Have a good day."

Beth was about to collect the hurricane lamp from the garden when she heard voices outside the front door. Marjorie was telling someone that if they wanted any more of the lavender cheese then they were too late because she'd just scored the last of the batch. There was another chuckle, and then a man replied that he preferred normal Cheddar anyway. Beth opened the door just as he pressed the bell.

"May I help you?"

He held up a newspaper. "Hi, I'm Andrew. Drew for short. It says here that you're looking for someone to help you pick apples? I brought my ladder and some baskets."

She took the newspaper from him and read the section he'd circled. It was as he said. She had no memory of placing the advertisement. And the money that was offered was slightly less than what Marjorie had just paid for the cheese.

"I hope you don't mind me just showing up like this. I would have called, but the ad only had your address."

"No, no, it's fine. Drew, was it? You can bring your stuff to my garden through there." She pointed at the side gate. "I'll go and open it for you."

"Um, sure. But, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name?"

"It's Beth." She fiddled with her jacket, suddenly aware that she was still in her nightie and slippers. "I'll go and open the gate now."

He nodded and walked back to his pickup.

Beth opened the gate and then dashed upstairs to change. She watched him through the window. He certainly seemed to have the right tools for the job. He picked up her hurricane lamp and took it inside. She joined him in the kitchen just as he was looking for somewhere to set it down.

"Thanks, I meant to put that away earlier." She took it and returned it to the larder. "Could I offer you something to drink?" Beth turned around and saw him reading the recipe booklet on the counter.

"I'm all right, thanks." He looked up. "Black apple butter?"

"Yes, I think it's a family recipe."

"I didn't know they existed. Black apples I mean. Is it some kind of genetically engineered fruit?"

"No, they usually grow in Tibet. And the name is a misnomer, actually. They're more of a deep purple that looks black from a distance." She led him to the back yard. "But this tree of ours has always been unpredictable. Last year we had green apples. The year before they were heirloom apples -- you know, the ones that look like they're blushing on one side. This year..."

"They really are black." Drew laughed. "Looks like someone already had a bite."

"That would be me. These apples do not want to be picked, and I needed to know if they were any good."

"So, that's where I come in."

Beth smiled. "Are you up to the task? I need about ten kilograms of apples for the butter."

Drew looked up. "This tree is huge, so I'd say you have about thirty kilos based on the yield. It should be no problem to collect enough."

"Just... Be careful. This tree is old and temperamental."

"You mean like the Whomping Willow in Harry Potter?"

"Something like that. This one smells fear and sometimes withholds the fruit."

"You're joking." Drew's face fell. "You're not joking."

"This tree is old. That's all I'm saying."

"Then I'll show the respect it deserves."

"Thank you. I'll bring you some lemonade in a bit."

It was the care with which he approached the task at hand that made Beth take an instant liking to Drew. He was methodical, snipping the apple stems with his knife and placing, rather than throwing, them in to the basket strapped around his body. Half an hour later, and he delivered the first load. 

"That should be about ten kilos."

"Great, thank you. Just dump them in the sink so I can wash them." 

His skin smelled like dew and bark, and she was struck by the violet tinge in his eyes. "Can I interest you in some lemonade?"

"Thanks." He took off the basket. "Is there somewhere where I can wash my hands?"

She directed him to the guest toilet. She added a sprig of mint to the lemonade while she waited. Her mother always said that mint would help to give a fresh perspective, and the lemonade would show her if the drinker's intentions were good.

"All clean." Drew held up his hands and took the glass from her. "Cheers." He drank the contents in one gulp. "Hmm." He was chewing on the mint. "That has to be the most delicious lemonade I've ever had. It makes me feel like I'm young and about to start my summer holidays."

"Another?" She raised the jug, ready to pour.

"Thank you." He held the glass in front of him. "By the way, I see what you mean about the apples being more purple than black. They have a rare beauty. Like something from a fairytale."

You don't know the half of it. "As I said, our tree is very unpredictable. One year a picker was knocked off his ladder by one of the branches."

"That sounds like the peach tree that grew in my grandmother's yard. The story went that a travelling salesman had been murdered on the property and a peach tree sprang up where he was buried. Well, the cops dug up the whole garden and all they found was an old coffee tin with a dog's ashes and a gas line that was closer to the surface than it should have been. Anyway, every year the tree bore fruit that looked liked something from an advertisement, but it tasted horrible. As children we called it the poison peach tree, and I've not been able to eat peaches since trying one of those." He sipped his lemonade. "So your apples are destined for butter?"

"Yes, that's the plan. I may have enough to give you some, if you're interested, I mean."

"Sure. Thanks. I've never eaten apple butter."

"It's like apple sauce or apple mousse, but better. The flavour is more intense. It's like the difference between sugar and caramel -- the longer you cook it, the better it gets."

Drew drained his glass. "I'd better get back to work."

"Me too. There's a lot of peeling of fruit in my future."

"Not a bad way to spend a Saturday." He put his empty glass on the counter next to the sink. "Oh, is that you?" He pointed to a copy of her first business card on the fridge. It kept changing magnets, so she had a hard time finding it sometimes.

"The very same."

"Everybody talks about your food like it's magic. They always say it was the best they've ever eaten. I was painting some garden furniture at Marjorie's this week, and she kept going on about these cream puffs you gave her for her anniversary. She spoke with the fervour of a fanatic. What did you put in those cream puffs?"

"Butter, egg, flour, sugar and salt. The same as every other baker."

"Not according to Marjorie."

"Well, I'm always glad to hear that my customers enjoy what I make."

"All I'm saying is that if you can do that with cream puffs then I can't wait to taste this apple butter." He chuckled, picked up his basket and headed back to the garden. 

It was easier to deny the things she did with food. When her great grandmother Bessie had admitted to her closest friend Mary that their food was magic, the whole town had denounced her as a witch. Time may have moved on, but people still believed the story, and while that was good for their catering business, it meant that Beth, like her mother and grandmother before her, had learnt to keep people at arm's length. Nobody could or would understand that what they did with food wasn't magic, and it certainly wasn't intentional. It was just the wisdom that came with understanding how food related to each other and which properties they could activate in their ingredients to ensure specific outcomes like honesty, kindness, calm, frugality, forgiveness or love. 

What Beth would never confess to Marjorie, or anyone else, was that it was three drops of vanilla and three drops of almond essence in the cream puffs that led to the fireworks she had described. Or that the lavender in the cheese did, in fact, calm people, but that it also helped them to have dreams in which they received answers to problems or questions. Lemonade revealed people's intentions. Mayflower and honeysuckle cordial made people friendlier. Onion and fennel quiche helped families and friends forgive each other, and dragonfruit jam softened bitterness. And black apples, when they were available, had two key properties: illuminate the future and reunite lost loves. In butter form, the power of black apples was most potent. Beth knew she didn't have a lost love, so clearly her mother wanted her to glimpse the future. 

She washed the apples thoroughly and began to core and peel them, her hands soon tainted with pinkish juice. The skins came off in one coil, so she coated them in cinnamon sugar and roasted them in the oven until they were crisp. The apples were diced and boiled with a cinnamon stick in her grandmother's catering pot until they were soft. She was covering the softened apples with more cinnamon, sugar, cloves, salt and a blob of butter in her slow cooker when Drew brought two more baskets into the kitchen.

"That's the lot of it."

"Thank you so much."

"Do you want these in the sink?" When she nodded, he repeated the process of earlier and submerged all the apples. He began washing them.

"Oh, you don't have to do that." 

"No, I want to. Then I can say I made the apple butter."

Beth smiled. "I think you've done enough hard work for one day. Tell you what, why don't you have some more lemonade, and then bring up the tray of mason jars I keep in the cellar. You can supervise me, and I'll be sure to tell everyone that you made it. How does that sound?"

"At least let me help with the cutting and peeling? My mother taught me well, I promise."

"All right, but have a drink and get those jars first." She started washing the apples, unable to stop grinning. 

Beth had not enjoyed working with someone in the kitchen that much since before her mother died. Drew seemed to pick up on her rhythm, and they worked together, talking and joking, until all the apples were ready to boil. She checked the slow cooker. "This will need a few hours yet. But maybe you can load the jars into the dishwasher for disinfection?"

"On it."

Having packed the jars into the dishwasher and set it going, the only thing left for Drew to do was wait. 

"You don't have to stay, you know. You could come and pick the butter up tomorrow too."

"No, it's all right. I sort of want to see the process through to the end, if you don't mind." He checked the time. "But I will pack up my stuff so long. Before it gets dark, I mean."

Beth tried not to frown. Dark was a long way off, but it was lunchtime, and her stomach rumbled a reminder that it needed feeding. "Sure. Why don't you park in my driveway so that you can keep an eye on your things. And I'll make us something to eat. I think I have a chicken pie I could warm up."

"Sounds great." He made as if to leave when he said, "Is that the chicken and mushroom pie I've heard about that makes people feel like they've known each other for decades even when they've just met?"

"No, it's just a regular chicken pie. With, well, yes, a mushroom gravy. But I don't know that it does much more than fill the stomach."

Drew grinned. "I don't think I need a pie to feel like I've known you for ages. I already do."

Beth's heart juddered. She tried to distract herself by warming up the oven for the pie, setting the lunch table and mixing more lemonade. The bubbling apples seemed to serenade her. She loved watching the pink foam swirl when she stirred the mixture.

"Something smells good." Drew ducked into the guest toilet to wash his hands. He returned to the kitchen to find Beth checking on the apples in the slow cooker.

"Taste this." She handed him a spoon. 

"Should I be worried?"

"It's thickened apple sauce from fruit that you picked. I'm sure you'll be fine."

He raised the spoon to his lips. His face moved from surprise to delight, and then he began coughing. 

"Oh my goodness!" Beth rushed to get him water and pat his back.

Drew's coughs turned into guffaws. "Gotcha."

"Don't do that! You had me worried."

"Sorry, sorry. I won't do it again." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and his grin disappeared too. "It's unlike anything I've eaten before, but it's delicious in a comforting way. And somehow I feel like I know what I need to do, even though I have no idea what that means." He chuckled. "I didn't mean to scare you, though. Sorry about that. My brothers and I always did it to my mother when she made us taste her cooking. But only because it really was horrible."

"I think the pie is ready."

He was entertaining, and his life experience was as far removed from hers as the Earth is from the Moon. Much to his father's chagrin, he'd given up a job as an accountant at a Big Five firm to do odd jobs. He was a Mr Fix-it who relied on referrals, he said, and he was happiest when he was outside or when he was working in the orchards of the Loevenhof Estate, a mansion which was also heritage site that was open to the public. Drew described how to access it by driving to the north of the city. 

"It's got such lovely grounds," he said, "and I've never seen the prince who is rumoured to own it because the owner is never there. I don't even think the groundskeeper has ever seen him. He gets all of his instructions from the butler who believes in keeping mum on everything anyway." 

Beth grinned. "I wouldn't mind having a butler. It must be nice to have someone brng you tea in bed every day."

"So you're not married, then? I got the impression from Marjorie that you were."

"I was, yes. He died."

Drew looked at his hands. "Didn't he bring you tea in bed."

"No. He offered to make me coffee or nothing. He thought tea was like gnat's urine."

"You must miss him."

"And your partner must be wondering where you are."

"I don't have a business partner. I work alone."

"I meant..."

"I know what you meant. I can sidestep questions too."

"Point taken." She stood and began clearing the plates. 

"Let me," he said. A tinny tune came from the kitchen. "I'll even unload the dishwasher and repack it for good measure."

"Thanks, but you don't have you."

"I want to. Now scram. The apples need you."

She surrendered and returned to the pots on the stove. She drained the water from both and covered each batch with sugar, cinnamon, cloves and salt. She added a nub of butter for good measure and covered the pots with their lids. The mixture in the slow cooker was as buttery as the recipe said it ought to be. Behind her, Drew was retrieving jars from the dishwasher. 

"Could you bring two to me?"

She carefully scooped the butter into the jars, pressing the mixture down with her spatula to squeeze in as much as she could. There was a little left in the slow cooker which neither jar had room for. She fetched the crust of her loaf of bread and spread the butter on it liberally. Drew reached for it, and she slapped his hand.

"It needs to cool a bit. When you're done packing the dishwasher it will be ready." 

He nodded, and continued until all the dishes were ready for the next washing cycle. Beth, meanwhile, dumped the remainder of the apple mixture into her slow cooker and just managed to fit it all in. She turned the heat to the lowest setting so that the butter would be ready by the time she went to bed.

She cut the crust in half and put it on a tray with some glasses and lemonade. "I thought we could have our dessert in the garden." 

Drew followed her on to the patio. The sun was behind the apple tree, and it looked glorious, backlit in golden light. She handed him a wad of cash.

"Oh, no, I can't accept that. Not after you have fed and watered me and let me interfere in your apple butter recipe."

"I would expect to be paid for services rendered. You picked almost thirty-five kilograms of apples this morning. Take it. Please." Her voice became gentler. 

He took the money and peeled off two notes. "For the butter and lunch. I insist," he added before she could protest.

Beth pursed her lips. "Thank you. Although it isn't necessary." She pushed the plate in his direction. "Ready to give it another try?"

He didn't need encouraging. He bit into the crust and closed his eyes. They remained closed for so long that Beth thought he might have fallen asleep. She was about to reach over and take the half-eaten crust from him when his eyes flew open. 

"It's incredible," he said. "I feel utterly transported." He looked at the plate and saw that her share was still there. "Go on; you try it."

She bit into the crust and began to chew. A gust of wind that felt suspiciously like firm hands against her chest pushed her back into her chair. She heard the rustling of leaves and heavy footfalls followed by a sound which might have been her screaming. She felt as though she was both heavy and floating. Arms were guiding her through a tango she wasn't aware she was dancing. Starbursts swam in front of her vision. Beth took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Drew was frowning at her.

"Are you all right?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"You seemed in pain, and you kept calling for your mother. Maybe you shouldn't have any more."

She noticed that he had placed the remainder of her crust on the plate. "I don't remember any of that. But you are right, I do feel transported." She picked up her crust. "I want to try it again. I think I was scared last time."

"I don't think it's a good idea," said Drew. "Maybe you're having an allergic reaction to the apples."

"There's only one way to be sure." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and bit into the crust. She swirled the apple butter in her mouth. She was floating, and there were starbursts again. But then she was aware of being in water, swimming. There were dolphins around her. And turtles. She felt happy. Next she was lying on her back in a field of barley. It was a picnic and the heads of barley nodded at her as she looked for faces in the clouds, while the person lying next to her pointed and joked. Then she saw herself sitting on the chair on her patio, and she was talking and laughing with someone. 

Her mother stepped out of the shadows and said, "The future is whatever you want it to be, Beth. You can't make a wrong decision, but just make sure you have fun along the way."

Her mother retreated into the shadows, and she could see the other person on the porch. It was Drew. She willed her eyes open. He was still looking at her.

"I saw my future, and it was beautiful." 

"Really?"

"Yes, I went swimming with the dolphins."

"I've always wanted to do that."

"Me too. And I had a picnic in a barley field."

"And you watched the clouds to see if you could find any faces."

"Exactly! Then I ended up back here."

"I was there too, wasn't I? And the woman who said that your future is whatever you want it to be... Did she speak to you too?"

Beth's eyes welled. "You saw her? You saw my mother?"

"Was it your mother? She told me that I couldn't make a wrong decision but that it was important for me to have fun along the way."

Her hands went to her mouth. "Incredible. She said the same thing to me."

"Didn't I see a note from your mother on the counter."

"Yes, but it must have got lost in the post. It arrived today but she's been gone for five years."

Drew didn't speak for a while. "So, what did you think of it?"

"Of what?"

"Us. Here. Together."

"I think we both know it doesn't take eating a chicken pie to feel as though we've always known each other."

"Agreed. But where to from here?"

Beth smiled. "There's more apple butter to bottle. We can start with that."

Drew nodded. "Right. And who knows where we'll end up? Although, I have a feeling we might find ourselves back here."

Beth stood. "As my mother used to say, you're only one decision away from a completely different life."

"Hear, hear."

The apple tree shuddered at the bottom of the garden.

"Well, good to know you approve," said Beth, laughing. "Come on, Drew. That butter won't bottle itself."