Pink Lady

Annie almost made it out the back door of her grandfather’s farmhouse.

              She actually had the previous morning, as far as the porch steps before she heard the old man’s voice carry like a horn.

              Annie paused, hand on the doorknob.

              ‘Don’t pick the apples,’ he said. ‘It isn’t time yet.’

              Sighing, she turned. ‘It’s harvest season. And I’m hungry.’

              ‘You just had toast.’

              ‘I hate bread,’ Annie said matter-of-factly. ‘I spat it in the bin because I hate it so much.’

              The old man made a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You’re too pure a little girl to hate anything. Wait until you’re older and the world gives you a good reason. Trust me, it won’t be bread.’

              ‘What about a boy?’

              The old man nodded. ‘Sure. One day.’

              ‘I hate Jazz,’ Annie said.

              Her grandfather arched an eyebrow. ‘Jazz music?’

              Annie shook her head, confused. ‘No, Jazz. The boy from Penrose. He comes—’

              ‘Shane’s son, the smart aleck.’ The old man adopted a smirk. ‘Could be that you like him more than you want to admit. We don’t choose the one’s we love. We can only hope they’ll choose us.’

              Annie’s face grimaced and she shook her head wildly.

             ‘Anyway, he’s a little monster.’ He gave her a stern look. ‘Picks my apples.’

              Annie made tiger claws with her hands. ‘Roar!’

              Her grandfather’s face went panic-stricken as he backed away. ‘Who are you?’ he stammered. ‘What have you done with my granddaughter?’

              ‘I’m Jazz the stupid monster,’ Annie said in her best scabby voice, ‘and I tore her up. She was shredded like leftover apple peels before I swallowed her. She tasted like a juicy apple, too.’

              ‘Scary stuff,’ her grandfather said. ‘But you’ve made a rash mistake. A monster like you could never keep down something as sweet as my granddaughter.’

              Annie’s face contorted comically. ‘Sweet? SWEET!’ She shook dramatically and fell to the floor.

              After a moment of poetic silence, her grandfather applauded.

              Annie rushed to her feet and took a string of bows. Her grandfather retreated into the kitchen and returned with a rose. He threw the flower at her feet and continued to clap, smiling his brilliant smile. Annie picked the rose up, observed it, smelt it, then widened her mouth as if to say one bite was all she needed.

              Disappointment flickered over her grandfather’s face. ‘Still hungry, huh?’

              Annie nodded.

              ‘One apple,’ the old man affirmed. ‘But we’ll need to be extremely careful.’

              ‘Because of the Pink Lady?’

              A firm nod. ‘That’s right.’

              The day was warm and dry, ideal for picking. Though according to Annie’s grandfather, it wasn’t yet harvest season. He made that crystalline clear, spieling on steadily about how the right time to pick an apple was after a frost. It made apples most sweetened and easy to store. But it was all one big soliloquy to Annie, really. She knew the truth, a truth so true it couldn’t have been truer: Her grandfather was awaiting the Pink Lady.

              You had to think about these sorts of things. First, there were hardly any frosts in NSW. They were most common in Central and Southern Australia.

              Secondarily, she first heard about the Pink Lady from Jazz. Despite the boy’s shrill presence, he was full of secrets. He entertained that he picked them from his garden, which might have been the most cock and bull story she’d ever heard. Notwithstanding, his secrets were always true.

              Thirdly… Well, what more was there to think about? Jazz told it, and the boy was never wrong.

               Annie’s grandfather might have been old, but he moved like a mature cat. It was hard to keep up sometimes. They made a beeline for the apple orchard. The sun shone, coating each tree with golden glitter. He eyed each apple carefully like a stubborn store clerk, his face tight with solemnity.

              The whole manoeuvre took a few minutes before deciding on a tree. Next was the apple. Her grandfather went quiet, so quiet that even the silence sighed. Annie performed patience by sitting and meddling with leaves and twigs in the same way a bellyful child plays with her food out of sheer boredom. A short wind gusted around her, swirling her hair, and rattling the grove. Her grandfather ran a finger across each apple, gentle as stroking a kitten, then looked down at Annie with a glimmer in his eye.

              ‘Would you like to pick it?’ he said.

              A grand circus took refuge on her face, and she nodded like a bobble head. 

              Her grandfather lifted Annie onto his shoulders and pointed directly at a bright red apple. ‘That one.’

              Annie reached out carefully and picked it. ‘Can we call it Appy?’

              Her grandfather mulled over it. ‘Straightforward. I fancy it.’

              She immediately bit down, and juice ran down her chin. There was nothing like an apple to stave off hunger. Nothing so charming and sweet.

              The old man put Annie down and rubbed at his back with a grimace. ‘You’re getting plump,’ he said. ‘Soon there’ll be nothing left to grip onto.’

              ‘Like a ball,’ Annie said mid-chew.

              ‘Except you don’t let people kick you around.’

              ‘A ball with spikes,’ Annie said, ‘like an echidna.’

              ‘I suppose so.’

              There was a moment of silence as her grandfather looked around the orchard. She saw many apples, each bright with blush. Annie took a final bite of the apple and handed the last quarter to her grandfather. He accepted it with a beam and gobbled the rest.

              ‘Are you waiting for the Pink Lady?’ Annie said.

              Her grandfather’s face warped with confusion.

              ‘Is it true the Pink Lady will poison the orchard if anyone tries to pick her?’

              The old man’s brow frowned a bit. ‘Did Jazz tell you this?’

              Annie nodded.

              He made the same regular dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Bunch of bulldust. The Pink Lady is as sweet as the dusk sun.’

              ‘Jazz’s secret says that the Pink Lady used to be a candy apple. She met a boy who ate her sugar candy coating and threw the rest of her away.’

              Her grandfather blew a raspberry. ‘The day that boy’s pants light on fire I’m going to do a little jig, I swear.’ He stretched his back at an awkward angle, grimacing. ‘Tell you what. You invite that boy over tomorrow, and I’ll set the fib straight.’

              Annie frowned. ‘Do I have to?’

              ‘No,’ her grandfather said. ‘But a rumour whispered is a half-truth twisted, secrets being what they are.’

              For a moment it looked like her grandfather had something to prove, but his eyes said something else.

              He was distant, and for a moment the orchard paled.

Peter fell in love in the Autumn of 1956, and he was adamant on telling the world. But first things first, you had to earn your lover’s story and be as patient as stone if you wanted any part in it.

              Peter was a loud person who lived a quiet life. He preferred his regular pastime of fruit picking over the social extravagance of dancing and booze. Granted, he could dance. He was like the wind. But what did it matter? Manon never noticed him. Not until the night he slipped on some beer and corked his rump so bad that he thought he’d never sit right again.

              Manon was the only one who’d rushed over, her eyes bright with laughter. ‘Are you okay?’

              Peter was dazed with both pain and affection. ‘Can’t say it doesn’t hurt. I think I bit my tongue at some point… I can taste blood.’

              ‘Falling or dancing?’

              Peter tittered. ‘You noticed my dancing?’

              ‘Who hasn’t?’ Manon said. ‘You’re the talk of the pub, Busy Butt.’

              How lovely it was, to fall for a woman like Manon. You didn’t pick someone like her. Attraction was not a choice. You simply did your best at giving them the opportunity to pick you.

              There were others who had tried to captivate her and failed. So, he resisted showing her how he truly felt, knowing that too much truth was a blockhead’s game. But in the end, she was the one who picked apples with him, and she was content to spend the last year of her life with a man who was every bit as shy and nervous as she had first been.

               It was 1957. The autumn was ending, and they were picking apples.

               ‘My oncologist says we’re looking at a year or two—tops,’ said Manon.

               Peter gave it a long moment’s thought, but his words abandoned him.

               ‘One year,’ Manon continued, her voice oddly calm. ‘How many apples do you think we could pick in that time?’

               Peter said nothing.

               ‘Ah, Earth to Peter, the only survivor of the end of the world. Do you copy?’

               ‘Hey,’ Peter said, ‘you’ll beat this thing.’

               Manon sighed. ‘I don’t think so, darling.’ 

               Peter sighed. ‘That’s not fair.’

               ‘I can’t speak for my disease,’ Manon said, ‘but I’ve won the historical lottery and lived a charming life. What wouldn’t be fair for the both of us is for you to leave my side. Even if you’ll be there, there’s a chance you won’t be, you know?’

              Despite feeling like a drenched dishcloth, Peter feigned a smile. Manon’s golden hair beamed beneath the sunlight. She smelt of cinnamon and rosewood. She ducked under a low branch and picked an apple from the next tree. She took a bite and pressed it against Peter’s mouth, forcing Peter to sink his teeth in and bite off his share. The apple was crisp and sweet as song is to clever ears.

              ‘Pink ladies,’ she said, ‘are definitely my favourite.’

              ‘They’re very fizz-like,’ Peter said. His face went serious. ‘We didn’t catch its name.’

              ‘Apple-ly,’ Manon said. ‘Apple-ly ever after.’

              ‘Clever,’ Peter said. ‘I fancy it.’

               Manon paused. Her face went stiff with an earnest curiosity. ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’

               Peter shrugged. ‘Never thought about it.’

               ‘Do you think I’d make a great apple?’

               ‘If reincarnation does exist, I’d think you’d make a fine apple.’

               ‘They’d call me the Pink Lady,’ Manon said proudly.

               ‘If so, I’ll come back as an apple, too, and go by the name of Apple-lause.’

               ‘Why, because you dance?’

               Peter gazed at her. ‘You make an autumn day blush, you know that?’

               Manon grinned. Then she began to cry.

‘I don’t care what your grandpa thinks,’ Jazz said. ‘My secrets are always true.’

              Annie scowled. ‘He says he can’t wait to see your pants on fire.’

              ‘Whatever.’ He pointed an accusatory finger at Annie. ‘You go on ahead and tell the fossil that my garden never lies, and that the only thing on fire is his wrinkly temper.’

              A pale, clenched fist. Annie made her short way back home.

              Morning trickled into noon, and hunger befell Annie again. Her grandfather was outback minding his own business, fighting things in the shed, complaining to the half-deaf dog. Annie searched the pantry, grabbed a tin of biscuits, and went with three Tim Tams. Each one melted in her mouth, and she felt herself dance a bit.

              A knock at the door.

              Her grandfather was busy, so she stood upright, put on her best dutiful face, and marched down the hall. She immediately spotted Jazz through the screen door, idling like some stubborn statue.

              She opened up. ‘What do you want?’

              ‘The garden told me another secret.’ He fell into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘One about the Pink Lady.’

              Annie heard the backdoor. ‘Your garden is full of cow poop.’

              Jazz shook his head. ‘For every lie there’s a flower dead, and our garden protects its flower bed. That’s what my dad says. Means it’s not going to lie.’

              ‘Is that Jazz I hear?’ her Grandfather called. He came down the hall, taller than usual.

              ‘Hi, Peter,’ Jazz muttered. ‘Mum says thanks for the fruit.’

              ‘She’s welcome to it any time,’ Peter said. ‘Say, why aren’t your pants on fire?’

              Annie giggled. Then stuck her tongue out at the boy.

             Jazz crossed his arms and raised his chin. ‘My garden doesn’t lie.’

             ‘And what’s all this talk about the Pink Lady being tossed aside like some threadbare rag doll or jilted lover?’

             ‘The Pink Lady’s sugary coating was eaten by a boy,’ Jazz regaled, ‘and she was tossed aside into an apple orchard. One day she met a man whose apple orchard she’d been residing in for some time. He fell in love with the Pink Lady and promised that she’d have her very own tree. But he never returned, and the Pink Lady began to rot. Birds pecked holes into her, field mice took their titbits. Feeling betrayed, the Pink Lady vowed that one day she’d return as a big orchard and poison anyone who dared pick her before her man returned.’

              ‘Come on,’ Peter said with a knowing grin. ‘Let’s go apple picking.’

On the morning of August the 12^th, 2017, Peter died of natural causes. He was ninety-three and picked apples up until his death. He was buried in his orchard.

               Annie and Jazz sold the farmhouse and used the money to start up an organic grocery store in Sydney. Business bustled. They were young, ambitious, and in a position to welcome the prospect of children.

              On January the 9^th, 2020, Annie made Jazz squeal. She was pregnant, and they decided to visit Jazz’s parents in Penrose, mid-autumn, to share the good news.

              It was late Autumn by the end, and they spent their last day in Penrose lying about the house like rugs.

             ‘I miss home,’ Annie said. ‘I miss him.’

             ‘I know,’ Jazz said. ‘Me, too.’

             There was a stretch of silence between them.

             ‘Want to hear something funny?’ Annie said.

             ‘Sure.’

             ‘I couldn’t stand you once upon a time. But Grandpa always said we don’t pick ‘em. They pick us.’

             Jazz rubbed at his chin speculatively. ‘If that’s the theory, then who did the picking?’

             Annie shrugged. ‘Well, I like to think we both did.’

             ‘You know,’ Jazz continued, ‘I tattled with the garden yesterday.’

             Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. What secrets, I wonder…’

             ‘The apples have rotted this fall,’ Jazz explained, ‘all but two. One of them so happens to be the Pink Lady, the other goes by name of Apple-ause.’

              Annie giggled. ‘Clever. I fancy.’

              ‘You should visit him,’ Jazz said. His face was serious.

              Annie thought about this. ‘I will.’

              It was two in the afternoon, and the sky was bare blue. Annie walked along the dirt track that lead up to the old farmhouse. Her childhood corner of the world had changed, though a certain virginial finality lingered. Some old cottages had been modernized, their charming chimneys and petite fences mutated into what the oldies described as a certain four-letter word. Now they were big blocks of cement with entry points. You did not tend their gardens or light their fireplaces. You came home and frittered away time, seeking beauty through a bright rectangular screen. The autumn was lacking, dead as ditch water. Most trees were either cut down or utilised to hang small business signs from.

                                               DAVE’S APPLE ORCHARD

                                          ORGANIC APPLES $3:00 A KILO

Annie’s eyes went distant for a moment, then she returned. She strolled up the dirt road, recalling her childhood fondly. She reached the old farmhouse. Three children were playing out front as Dave sorted through a large tin bucket of apples. He was muttering to himself, his face foiled with frustration.

              ‘Hey, Dave.’

              Dave bolted upright and used one hand to shade his eyes from the sun. ‘Annie!’ He stood up. His face riddled with enthusiasm. ‘Look at you, you’re like a potbelly stove, and for good reason.’

              Annie gave an operatic bow. ‘The house treating you well?’

              ‘Brilliantly.’ His face fell flat as a spade. ‘Up until this season, at least. If you’ve come for apples, you’re dung out of luck. The orchard’s dead, and the apples have rotted. All but one.’ He pulled an apple from his pocket. ‘Nice bright Jazz Apple. You hungry?’

              Annie’s chest fell heavy, though she clung to her stomach. She nodded.

              Dave handed her the apple.

              ‘Thanks,’ Annie said. ‘And I’m sorry to hear it. Though actually, that isn’t it. Do you mind if I wander through the orchard a bit?’

              ‘That’s fine,’ Dave said. ‘Something you need?’

              ‘My grandfather—.’

              Dave raised a hand, slightly embarrassed. ‘How stupid of me. Yes, of course.’

              The orchard had an air of quietus to it, and a moment of appreciation. It reminded Annie of her grandfather’s funeral, a time for both grief and grace. Memories cuddled her mind, warm as a blanket; a time when she sat by her grandfather’s feet, awaiting the right apple. But never the Pink Lady, he always said. Not until I’m ready.

              She saw it. A bright pink apple hidden amid blades of grass tall as her shins. It fluoresced like a ruby, bright and precious as a full moon. Annie sat and placed the Jazz apple Dave had handed her beside it.

              ‘Annie?’

              She turned, and Jazz knelt beside her. He kissed her on the cheek.

              ‘Hey, Peter,’ Jazz said.

              She laid her head on her husband’s shoulder and smiled her grandfather’s brilliant smile. ‘Hi, Grandpa. Hi Grandma.’