The Love Apple

by Coral Atkinson

  Nights with Vanessa. The times neither of them could sleep and they would find themselves awake, facing over the pillows, looking into each other’s eyes. They always whispered then, not that there was any need. There was only themselves — and Sarah at a distance downstairs in the maid’s room by the scullery. And when they made love in the veiled darkness there was a mystery about it, a tenderness different from any coupling by day or lamplight. Afterwards Geoffrey would go to the kitchen and make honey sandwiches and cocoa. They would eat in bed, licking the sweetness off each other’s fingers; talking about childhood and Ireland and how one day, when Geoffrey’s cough was completely better, they would go home.

  Vanessa’s Book of Common Prayer lay on the table beside the bed, untouched since she died. Geoffrey hadn’t touched his own prayer book for a long time either. Brought up in the Church of Ireland, the Protestant faith of his fathers, Geoffrey had gone through a heady romantic enthusiasm for religion as a young man but its last vestiges seemed to have absconded, along with Vanessa. He had gone to church and taken the sacrament only twice in the last year, at Christmas and Easter. Neither occasion brought him solace; rather, he felt a hypocrite, for despite what the church preached, Geoffrey now felt that God, if He existed at all, was not to be trusted. The clergy weren’t much help either. When Geoffrey had tried to discuss his guilt over Vanessa’s death, his yearning for understanding and forgiveness had been met with embarrassed reassurances from the Reverend Carson that of course Geoffrey was not to blame, not at all.

  He flicked open Vanessa’s prayer book. A reading of the Psalms might calm him down. The book was old and the cover very ornate: crimson velvet with a brass clasp, the cross studded with glittering stones.

  Out of the deep have I called unto thee.

  The words swayed before Geoffrey’s eyes.

  Vanessa had bought the prayer book at a fair in Ireland the year after they were married: Bantry or Skibbereen, Geoffrey couldn’t recall which. They had gone there with the darkroom on the wagon to take photographs. Vanessa had wandered off to look at the stalls as he and the wagon man set up the camera. A group of urchins pressed around, the boys’ naked toes white in the muck and straw.

  ‘By Jaysis, what’s that?’

  ‘For the love of Mike, have you seen himself?’

  Geoffrey was under the cloth, just about to make the exposure, when one of the boys yelled, ‘Look behind you, mister!’ Without realising he was being had, Geoffrey withdrew his head and glanced back. Vanessa was walking towards him holding the prayer book she had just bought.

  Geoffrey faltered now over the words:

  If thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss;

  O Lord, who may abide it?

  Who indeed? The ornate language of the familiar psalm shrivelled in his mouth.

  He thought of Vanessa at the fair, that winter afternoon, the sun setting. Geoffrey remembered the flood of love he’d felt for his wife as she moved across the square. One crystal on the book cover had caught the lingering light. In his memory it seemed that Vanessa carried a solitary star.

  Outside in the street the sound of rain had dulled to a persistent lisp. Thank God for that, Geoffrey thought. He and Alf Bluett planned to set out in the morning for the Routledge. Geoffrey was looking forward to the journey, to days in the solitude of bush and mountain, and to using the new hand-held camera he had just got from England. No cumbersome outdoor darkrooms this time, he thought; instead he had followed the latest findings of British photographers. Carefully prepared glass plates, which he had painted with a gelatin-silver bromide emulsion and heat-matured, lay stacked in his gear. According to what Geoffrey had read, such plates would not only keep their light sensitivity, but once exposed would hold the image to be developed days later in the comfort of his own Hokitika darkroom.

  He was pleased to hear the rain ease. He had no wish to ride south in a downpour, even though chances were that they’d be drenched numerous times before getting home.

  Geoffrey was in the mood for a new project. He had taken no major series of photographs during the last two years, though the German postcard-makers who bought his images were constantly demanding new and spectacular views. Geoffrey’s vision of landscape had changed since Vanessa’s death. Gone was the desire to communicate the soft pastoral gaze of his early years in New Zealand. His intention now was to capture the harsh, unforgiving immensity of the scenery he photographed, imbued with his own desolation.

  There was a photographic competition in London he intended entering and he hoped that shots of the Routledge would provide the pictures he needed. Doubtless the subject would be popular; those safe and comfortable at the centre of empire enjoyed contemplating the exotic wilderness and solitary dangers of the colonial fringe. The Routledge Range, several days’ ride south-east of Hokitika, was increasingly discussed in the bars and billiard rooms of the town. Surveyors and the more intrepid travellers who had begun to penetrate the wilderness of south Westland reported it as a particularly scenic region of glaciers, high snow-clad peaks, enormous waterfalls and a circle of hot pools. Tales of these freakish springs, which oozed boiling water out of an icy, glacier-fed river, added to the region’s allure. Some talked of the hot pools opening up an entirely new bonanza for the West Coast. The genteel envisaged a spa hotel with potted palms and small orchestras, while wilder entrepreneurs toyed with the idea of the Sulphuretted Mountain Hoo, a luxurious bathhouse offering the additional pleasures of dancing girls, strong drink and faro gambling. Those of a less adventurous disposition dismissed all such speculation as nonsense, pointing out that with not even a serviceable dray road heading south, the current difficulties of getting to the hot pools made any such undertaking unlikely.

  There was no disagreement, however, about the beauty of the place. Everyone said the area was magnificent, and expressions like ‘solemn’, ‘awe-inspiring’ and ‘incredible’ were frequently used. The Routledge sounded like the inspiration Geoffrey sought.

  The McIntyre Bait and Livery Stable was a lively place with a steady traffic of horses, gigs, buggies and freight wagons. There were always children there, hanging about, hoping for a farthing for helping to unload incoming wagons, walking with arms outstretched on the rails of the corral around the back or getting in the way as hay was winched off the carts into the hay loft. The large horse-drawn schooner wagons bound for various parts of the West Coast and Nelson left from McIntyre’s and their comings and goings created noise and excitement.

  Joe McIntyre, the proprietor, was a genial man with a love of horses. Woe betide any carter or drunk farmer who left his beast tied and neglected for too long in the neighbouring streets. McIntyre would send one of his lads to bring the unfortunate horse in to be fed and watered and the owner would receive a dressing down when he finally fronted up at the office door. To call it an office implied a commercial dimension the room didn’t really possess, being only a space partitioned off at the end of a half-verandah. There was certainly a desk littered with papers but there was also a table and chairs, a deck of cards, newspapers and a set of tumblers on top of a red wooden gin box. The room also served as unofficial men’s club. Customers waiting for horses read newspapers, drank nips of McIntyre’s whisky or convivially played a hand of cards at the table below the clock.

  It was before six in the morning when Geoffrey arrived and even at this early hour the place was active. Six horses were being hooked up to a schooner. The leaders obediently took their places at the front, ready to be coupled together. A big bay backed in beside the handles, a chestnut took the centre under the whip and a strawberry roan moved in on the off-side. The horses were attached to the chain and the teamster climbed onto the seat and whistled up his dog. The wagon set off amid shouts, the sound of hooves and a throaty rumble of wheels.

  Geoffrey, who kept his own horse, Tsar, at the stables, had hired other horses for the trip south.

  ‘We need five,’ Bluett had said. ‘Three for pack, one for me and
one for the cook.’

  It didn’t occur to Geoffrey to inquire about the cook. The mechanics of hiring them was not something he had had much practice with. Cooks, like all servants, were just there: employed, directed and complained about by other people, usually women.

  Geoffrey was standing reading the Grey River Argus, with Champ at his feet sniffing a verandah pole, when Alf and Huia Bluett came down the street. Alf Bluett pushed a loaded handmade barrow and Huia, once again wearing a skirt over trousers, carried an axe, two blanket rolls and what appeared to be a horse’s nosebag stuffed with clothing.

  ‘Good morning,’ called Geoffrey, somewhat surprised to see that Bluett had brought his daughter.

  ‘Morning,’ said Bluett. Huia said nothing.

  ‘Capital morning,’ said Geoffrey, looking across the street at the wide blue sky, which hinted at a perfect day. The rapid changes in Hokitika’s weather still astonished him. There was something melodramatic about the speed and totality with which a torrential downpour, such as that of the previous night, could be replaced by glittering sunshine.

  ‘Day’s good enough,’ said Bluett, leaning the barrow against the verandah steps. Huia continued to ignore Geoffrey. She just dropped her load on a convenient chair and immediately went to the open stable door, where one of McIntyre’s hands was adjusting the buckles on a harness.

  ‘I’ve checked the supplies,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Everything’s here. I suppose we’re ready to go once we’ve loaded up and the cook arrives.’

  ‘Cook?’ said Bluett. ‘The cook’s my girl, Hu. Thought you knew.’

  ‘Miss Bluett,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Well …’

  ‘Got an objection?’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey, watching Huia and thinking of her swearing at him in the back yard. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to spend several days upcountry in her company, or that her inclusion in the party was entirely appropriate, but it seemed too late to make changes and he had no desire to alienate her father. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘The girl’s a fair rouseabout and she knows how to ride. Brought her up to be useful, no mollycoddling for that one. And she can make a camp stew or a damper as good as the next.’

  They got to Ross for a very late breakfast. This town, scattered about hills, had always reminded Geoffrey of a northern Italian village. It had the same random appearance, with houses seemingly thrown about the hilly terrain. Like all West Coast settlements it had an air of improbability. The surrounding ranges were densely covered with bush, like the dark pelt of some animal, and in the midst of this gigantic primeval forest humans had made their small, pathetic mark. The township itself was a cleared area of burnt tree stumps, mining tailings, streets, buildings and the giant sluicing machines. A cankerous patch in a solidly green landscape. To the west lay a swampy foreshore and the sea.

  Ross was a gold town and unlike Hokitika, its larger neighbour, its preoccupation was still with acquiring the precious metal. There was an air of single-mindedness about the place, a feeling of outpost and frontier. Beyond Ross, the road led south, becoming (like the scattered farms and settlements it served) increasingly tentative the farther one went.

  The three travellers had ridden the twenty miles from Hokitika in almost total silence. At first Geoffrey made a few general pleasantries about the weather and the state of the road, but as these conversational offerings met with grunts from Bluett and single-word answers from Huia, he did not persist. Geoffrey found the social nuances of New Zealand difficult to negotiate. The old hierarchical order of master and servant instilled in him since his boyhood was inappropriate in this place. Its colonial alternative was more subtle and difficult to fathom. Respect was earned rather than assumed, and though as an employer one was expected to take the initiative, there was still the suggestion that those who worked for you did so on their own terms. Geoffrey was even uncertain what to call his guide: Bluett, Mr Bluett, Alf — none of them sounded right and could well cause offence, so he decided he would try to get by with using the man’s name as little as possible. The girl had told him to call her Huia or Hu, but this suggested an intimacy or superiority that made Geoffrey uncomfortable.

  Sometimes Huia rode alongside him, sometimes in front. A woman riding astride was a novelty for Geoffrey. He found the expanse of bare female leg revealed between rucked-up trousers and boots both exciting and embarrassing. He wished Huia had been more conventionally mounted and more modestly dressed. However, she was a surprisingly good horsewoman, displaying none of the lumpish, sagging quality normally associated with inexperienced riders, or the nervy tension that Vanessa had never lost. Huia’s body rose and fell with her mount as if girl and horse were a single creature.

  ‘You ride very well,’ he said to her as Ross came in sight.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Huia. She smiled as she spoke, losing the sulkiness that had dogged her all morning. ‘Learnt off my nanny. She had an old pony we rode bareback. Taught myself tricks, too. Hey, watch.’

  She kicked her boots out of the stirrups, gathered her whole body onto the saddle and stood up on the horse’s swaying rump, arms outstretched. Then, as deftly as she had sprung up, she turned a somersault over the animal’s tail and landed on her feet on the ground.

  ‘Bloody cut that out,’ said Bluett, reining in his horse and looking furious.

  Huia caught her swinging hair in her hand and remounted. She put her heels to her horse’s flanks and galloped ahead of them towards the town.

  ‘Needs a damn good hiding, which I’ve a mind to give,’ said Bluett. ‘Apologies, Mr Hastings. Never known her do that sort of thing around strangers before. Bleeding showing off.’

  ‘Please forget it,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Nothing wrong with high spirits, and she’s good. I haven’t seen that sort of stunt outside a circus.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Bluett, giving a vicious tug on the reins of the lead packhorse, which followed behind.

  They were watering the horses at one of Ross’s public troughs when Geoffrey noticed a commotion up the street outside the Empire Hotel. A large group of people was surging around on the pavement and there was the sound of a woman shouting.

  ‘Just see to the horses and keep an eye on Champ,’ said Geoffrey to the others. ‘I’m going up there.’

  ‘Haven’t they kilt him, haven’t they kilt me darlin’, the bloody conniving bastards, and youse let them do it!’

  Geoffrey couldn’t see the woman but he could hear her. She sounded very drunk and very Irish. The crowd sagged and spewed out onto the road, as if falling back in front of her.

  ‘For God’s sake fetch the constable before she pots someone,’ a man said.

  ‘Larkin’s already sent his lad round to the station,’ said another.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Geoffrey, shouldering his way into the group of miners.

  ‘Roaring Bridey Coulaghan’s at it again,’ said the man at his elbow. ‘Every month or so she comes in from her claim and has a few over the eight. Makes her as mad as a meat axe, though I never seen her armed before.’

  Poor-looking and middle-aged, Bridey Coulaghan was stumbling about the entrance to the hotel with a revolver in one hand and a smaller pistol in the other. She wore a dress that ended just below the knee, and a shawl tied over the top of a bonnet. One toe protruded from her mud-covered work-boot.

  ‘Come on, Bridey, you show them tikes in Wellington!’ a boy shouted. There was laughter.

  ‘Bastards, the lot of youse!’ she said, lurching forward. ‘Letting me poor Patterson hang. Aren’t I heart-scalded?’

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Her fancy man got stretched for doing away with some sheila or something. Happened years ago,’ said the miner at Geoffrey’s side.

  Suddenly Bridey’s attention was diverted and she appeared to recognise someone up the street. The crowd turned, following her gaze. Huia and her father were walking toward the hotel.

  ‘Will youse look at that, will youse look
at that! If it isn’t rotten Alice Dempsey, flaunting herself about, bad scrant to her anyhow,’ Bridey shouted, waving her guns. ‘I’ll larn her good and proper, little whore.’

  ‘Alice Dempsey was the bint that got murdered,’ the miner said to Geoffrey. ‘When old Bridey hits the bottle she always mistakes someone for Alice.’

  ‘Run, girlie!’ a man shouted at Huia. ‘The old lady’s after you.’

  The onlookers were enjoying the spectacle. Geoffrey took one look in Huia’s direction, saw her bewildered, frightened face and knew he had to act. He had no plan, no notion of what he would do next; he just pushed through the crowd towards Bridey, who was now raging incoherently, and stepped into the empty semicircle that surrounded her. It felt like a fighting ring and he could sense the crowd’s eagerness for a show. Geoffrey, who had recently thought so indulgently, so longingly about his own death, was overcome simultaneously by fear and a fierce desire to live. Terrified, he wondered why he had exposed himself to this dangerous, drunk, crazed creature. It was too late to turn back; he knew that. Retreat was impossible.

  ‘Mary and Joseph,’ said Bridey as she unsteadily turned her weapons on him. ‘Who’s this dolled-up article?’

  Geoffrey, who had never in his life confronted one, let alone two guns, tried not to look at the gaping barrels.

  ‘I’m Hastings,’ he said, ‘a fellow countryman from Ireland.’

  ‘Old Cromwellian, more like,’ shouted an Irish voice in the crowd.

  ‘I hear you’re a Coulaghan. Fine people, the Coulaghans,’ Geoffrey went on.

  ‘Ah, shurrup yer moryah,’ said Bridey. The crowd laughed.