Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  But she just blinks and flicks her hair over her shoulder. ‘Loser,’ she mutters and stomps off, leaving Pilar behind.

  Del laughs. ‘Loser? That’s it? Someone give that girl a comedy award.’

  ‘It wasn’t much of a comeback, was it?’ I say and laugh too, relieved. I’m not sure I’ve beaten Donna, but I think I’ve managed to swat her away for the time being.

  Pilar is biting away a smile. ‘You’ve upset her,’ she says.

  I shrug.

  ‘You’re back at school then,’ Pilar goes on.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I say.

  ‘That’s good,’ she says.

  ‘Pilar, aren’t you coming?’ Donna screeches from halfway down the corridor. Her face is all scrunched up.

  ‘You’d better run along,’ I say.

  Pilar rolls her eyes. Maybe she wants to be friends again, but she’ll have to wait. And she’ll have to say sorry for ditching me in the first place.

  ‘We’ve got to go anyway,’ I say. I turn away.

  Del throws his arm over my shoulder and we march off.

  In English, Mr Gaydon stops by my desk while everyone else is working. ‘Nice to have you with us again,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I read the poems you emailed to me. All I can say is . . . wonderful.’

  ‘What poems?’ Del asks.

  ‘None of your beeswax, Mr Holloway,’ Mr Gaydon snaps.

  Del shrugs and continues writing.

  ‘And I wanted to give you this, Apple,’ Mr Gaydon says. He hands me a flyer with the words POETRY COMPETITION splattered across it in neon yellow. ‘Each school can submit one poem. It’s a national award and I once had a student who won a bronze medal. I’m hoping for a medal this year too. Maybe a gold. And I was also hoping you’d let me send in one of yours.’ Mr Gaydon is not a shy or easily embarrassed person, but his neck is pink.

  My own face flushes. Teachers never pick me for anything except cleaning-up duties.

  ‘Could we choose the poem together? Or maybe I could write a new one,’ I say. I think things in my life will be different now. I want to write about how different they are.

  Mr Gaydon smiles. ‘Of course. Brilliant. Yes, Apple, you should write a brand new one especially for the competition. I can help you edit it.’

  Del isn’t meant to be listening, but when Mr Gaydon goes back to his desk, he nudges me. ‘Boffin,’ he says. He isn’t being mean or jealous. He is grinning because he is happy for me.

  ‘OK, you lot,’ Mr Gaydon says. ‘The last poem in this unit is a portion of ‘‘The Great Lover’’ by the very handsome Rupert Brooke.’

  Sharon Bowerman gives Mr Gaydon a thumbs up.

  Jim Joyce wolf whistles.

  ‘Have you all written your responses to it for homework?’

  There is uniform nodding.

  ‘Shall I read the poem aloud, sir?’ Donna Taylor asks. She must have made up with Mr Gaydon while I was away.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Donna. But you know what, I think I’ll do it,’ Mr Gaydon says. He cracks his knuckles and reads. He has a voice like the ones you hear on the radio. We all stare. Even the boys.

  ‘“The Great Lover” by Rupert Brooke,

  ‘These I have loved:

  White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

  Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;

  Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust

  Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;

  Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;

  And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;

  And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,

  Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;

  Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon

  Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss

  Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is

  Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen

  Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;

  The benison of hot water; furs to touch;

  The good smell of old clothes; and other such –

  The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,

  Hair’s fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers

  About dead leaves and last year’s ferns . . .’

  I listen until the end of the poem with my eyes closed, picturing every one of the things that Rupert Brooke loves.

  When I open my eyes, Mr Gaydon is watching me. He smiles.

  ‘It’s a pretty moving piece, don’t you think?’ he says. If anyone disagrees, they don’t say so.

  Mr Gaydon turns to the board and starts to write on it. ‘The poet Seamus Heaney wrote the poem “Blackberry-Picking”, which you all read earlier this term,’ Mr Gaydon reminds us. ‘And Heaney once said that he believed in this.’ He stops writing and stands back so we can read what’s on the board:

  poetry’s ability – and responsibility – to say what happens

  ‘And that’s what I hope you have all done this term in your homework. It isn’t easy, but telling something as it is, telling the truth, always seems more beautiful and poetic than anything else,’ Mr Gaydon says.

  I think of all the lies I’ve written and passed off as true. I don’t feel any regret about it, it was self-preservation, but it was such a waste of time.

  ‘I’m probably hoping for a miracle,’ Mr Gaydon says, scanning the classroom, ‘but I don’t suppose any of you would like to read out your poems? Anyone willing to tell us what they’ve loved over the course of their lives?’

  The room is silent. It’s probably the most personal thing Mr Gaydon has ever made us write. The thought of reading it cold to the whole class is scary.

  I glance at my poem. Could I risk sharing it? Do I have the courage?

  I raise my hand and everyone stares at me for the second time that day.

  ‘Apple? You want to read your work to the group?’ Mr Gaydon asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘And is what you’ve written true?’

  ‘Well . . .’ All eyes cling to me. ‘Emily Dickinson is a poet and in one of her poems she says that when you tell the truth, you tell it slanted. So it’s true. But it’s not in-your-face true,’ I say. ‘Is that OK?’

  Mr Gaydon looks like a proud parent – or what I im­­­agine a proud parent would look like.

  ‘Please read it,’ he says, and I do.

  ‘“These I Have Loved” by Apple Apostolopoulou,

  ‘These I have loved:

  Pork with apple sauce; tea in a heavy mug;

  The smell of new books, and musty ones;

  A girl with red coils for curls

  – Her scream – Her smile;

  The slap of a blonde dog’s tongue

  Against my face; and an old face – Nana’s;

  A broken fence – a secret pathway between two houses;

  The sinking into a familiar bed,

  Sheets white and crispy clean;

  The return of a woman in a green coat –

  Imperfect and human; The sound of poetry;

  And of pencil lead scuffing the page as I write;

  Made-up stories; and Truth.

  These I have loved.’

  The classroom is so silent I can hear the wall clock ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock. For what feels like a full minute. I breathe through my nose, and Del holds my hand.

  ‘Bloody hell. You got good at writing poems while you were away,’ Jim Joyce says loudly. He doesn’t follow this up with a joke. He just gazes at me. And so does everyone else.

  ‘Thanks, Jim,’ I say.

  Mr Gaydon raises his arms. ‘It’s like I told you all: poetry is transforming,’ he says. ‘Right, Apple?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say, and slip the poem between the pages of my special grey exercise book.

  I have been transformed.

  Acknowledgements

  Special gratitude is due to Julia Churchill, Ele Fountain, Emma B
radshaw, Helen Vick and Ani Luca. Thank you also to everyone in the teams at Bloomsbury, RepForce Ireland and Combined Media.

  Finally, thank you and much love to my family and friends for their continued patience and support.

  Sarah Crossan grew up in Dublin and London, where she spent most of her time writing poems and stories and making her own books. When she got a bit older she studied philosophy, literature and creative writing at university. Her first published novel, The Weight of Water, has won lots of awards and was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal. Sarah worked as a rather overexcited English teacher for many years but has given that up to focus on words, green tea and biscuit dunking. She now lives in Hertfordshire, England, with her family.

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in August 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

  This electronic edition published in August 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  www.bloomsbury.com

  Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © by Sarah Crossan 2014

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  Extracts taken from Opened Ground © Estate of Seamus Heaney

  and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd

  The publishers are grateful for permission to adapt ‘Stevie

  Scared’ from The House That Caught a Cold, first published

  by Puffin Books, © Richard Edwards 1991

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4088 2945 5

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