The Love Apple

by Coral Atkinson

  There was, he decided, something touching yet defiant about such a house. It was miles and miles from anywhere, empty bush rolling away on every side, a huge unbridged river almost at the door, and yet here between four walls was this small sanctuary; a monument to comfort, domesticity and order.

  They had eaten a surprisingly good meal of steak, potatoes and apple pie, and while Bluett and Huia attended to the horses, Geoffrey sat with Mrs Hende looking at photographs of her home and family in Denmark.

  ‘I was just a girl when I came — a silly, fluffy-headed girl,’ she said, holding an old postcard of the changing of the guard at the Amalienborg Palace. ‘I fell in love with Peter, who was a sailor, and ended up here. How could I have known what it was like in this place, so far away?’

  ‘It must have been very lonely for you,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Lonely?’ said Mrs Hende. ‘Thought I’d go mad — no other woman in a day’s walk distance, and I’m scared of horses. You know, with each baby I go by foot all the way up to Ross for the lying-in; I’d do anything rather than ride. And I don’t trust the rivers either.’

  ‘Well, you’ve have made it very agreeable here,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Hende. ‘It is what I have, what I do — looking after the house, my husband, the children and the travellers who stay keeps me from thinking too much. Thinking is no good, if you’re sad. Makes you worse.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I know that from experience.’

  The horses fed and watered, the group rode on. South of the Wanganui they came upon a boy and girl playing on the track. The children were very excited to see the party and at once invited them home.

  ‘Ma will kill us if you don’t come in and have tea,’ said the boy, aged about eight, who had caught hold of Tsar’s bridle. He was barefoot, his trousers rolled up above his knees. His legs were daubed with reddish stains that Geoffrey guessed were iodine, the all-purpose treatment for scratches and infection.

  ‘She’ll make scones for you,’ said the little girl, presumably his sister.

  ‘And there’ll be jam,’ said the boy.

  ‘How can we resist an invitation like that?’ said Geoffrey. ‘What do you think, Bluett?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Bluett.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Geoffrey, turning Tsar into the clearing from which the children had come. ‘I’m sure we could all do with a cup of tea and a jam scone.’

  Mrs Arnott was standing at a clothesline, hitting a rug with a carpet-beater. On seeing the riders she stopped what she was doing and came to the paling fence.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ said Geoffrey, dismounting. ‘We were passing and the children begged us visit. I’m Hastings; this is my guide Alf Bluett and his daughter Miss Bluett. We’re heading down to the Routledge.’

  Mrs Arnott smiled, hands on hips. ‘Most welcome,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you most welcome. Tie your horses to that rail and come on into the house and have a nice cup of tea.’ Then, looking at Huia, she said, ‘And aren’t you the image of someone I once knew in Greymouth.’

  ‘My word,’ said Geoffrey, ‘that’s the second time in two days Miss Bluett’s been likened to someone else. Hope this occasion doesn’t end quite so dramatically.’

  ‘Florrie, that was her name,’ said Mrs Arnott, ignoring his remark. ‘You’re the dead spit of Florrie Grady. Called herself Mrs John Grady, though didn’t I know she was no more married to that fancy man of hers than I am to the old tomcat.’

  ‘Shut up, will you? Just shut your filthy bloody gossiping mouth,’ said Bluett suddenly, manoeuvring his horse very close to where Mrs Arnott stood at the far end of the fence.

  ‘And who do you think you’re speaking to like that?’ said Mrs Arnott. ‘Wasn’t I just passing an innocent comment?’

  ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I’m sure Mr Bluett meant no offence. Why, probably none of us has ever heard of this Mrs John Grady.’

  ‘I bloody have,’ said Bluett, waving his whip. ‘And if you, Hastings, or you, missus, mention that tart’s name again I’ll open your fucking skulls.’

  It seemed no empty threat.

  Dinner was over and they had struck camp on a small grassy area between bush and stream. Geoffrey was sitting on a log with Champ at his feet. He was trying to read but the thought of what had happened at the Arnotts’ farm, and the constant assault by sandflies, had reduced him to an angry frenzy of slapping and scratching. He wished he could have dismissed Bluett for his appalling behaviour. He had, of course, ordered him to make some sort of apology to Mrs Arnott, but Bluett had just ridden off as if he hadn’t heard. Geoffrey certainly wouldn’t have stood for it coming from a hired man in Ireland, but here in New Zealand, at the veritable end of the earth, things were different.

  He felt angry and trapped. Tomorrow they would cross the Poerua and Whataroa rivers and reach the inland turn-off the next day. After that there would be no pack route to follow, no friendly accommodation houses to offer food and comfort. Geoffrey was not prepared to tackle the Routledge alone; an alternative was to call the journey off, which would be both be costly and disappointing. And there’d be the added unpleasantness of having to share the ride back to Hokitika with a sacked Bluett in an even fouler mood.

  They had left the farm with Geoffrey full of apologies to Mrs Arnott and Huia in tears. Geoffrey guessed that this Florrie Grady might well be Huia’s missing mother but he felt he couldn’t inquire. He wished he had never made the comment that had so inflamed Bluett. He should have thought first, but how was he to know?

  For the rest of the day Bluett had spoken only when obliged to, or to swear at the horses. Huia had sulked. After they had made camp Bluett had taken the muzzle loader and disappeared into the bush. There were gunshots and about twenty minutes later he returned with several dead kereru, which he threw at his daughter’s feet.

  ‘Get them plucked and roasted.’

  Huia had angrily wrenched at the feathers of the birds before spearing the bodies on sticks and holding them over the fire. Geoffrey had felt sorry for her but she radiated such a sense of resentment and anger that he kept his distance.

  What a disaster, Geoffrey thought to himself, using The Heart of Midlothian to crush a sandfly that was biting his wrist. Planning the expedition in Hokitika, he had imagined the slow horseback journey into the Routledge as a rural idyll, something akin to a pilgrimage, an ideal preparation for the work ahead. He believed that his best wild landscape photographs always owed as much to the journey as the location itself. Traversing the long beaches and solemn forests provided the context that inspiration required. But one needed to be calm and centred to work, while he felt powerless and angry. He smiled wryly at his predicament. He was marooned in the middle of a primeval forest miles from anywhere, dependent on a rough, possibly violent man sunk in some private rage, and his pretty, hoydenish daughter.

  ‘Nil desperandum,’ said Geoffrey to Champ, giving him a back-rub with the toe of his boot. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’

  Chapter 6

  Huia’s bare hands looked cold and red as she clutched the reins. She appeared to have no gloves, which was certainly unconventional. Geoffrey wondered if the lack was from poverty or preference.

  It had been drizzling for hours and the girl’s woollen cape was sodden; her soldier’s cap was speckled with raindrops and her hair hung over her back like mourning bands. She seemed small and abject bobbing up and down on Curly, yet even in this rather wretched state there was a quality that compelled Geoffrey’s gaze. Geoffrey, tolerably dry under his waterproof cape, was thinking about women. Why some had this attraction and others, often fine, interesting women, provoked no such enthusiasm. Sybil Percival, for instance: Vanessa’s sister. He had known Sybil since she was fourteen and had been closer to her than to any of his own sisters. In a few months Sybil would be visiting him in New Zealand; in fact, she was already on the high seas. Geoffrey felt a glow of pleasure a
t the thought of seeing her again, and yet there was nothing in his eagerness that concerned Sybil as a woman. She was a friend, a dear friend, someone whom in his loneliness he longed to see, but that was all.

  Huia put her hand behind her head and gathered her wet hair together between thumb and fingers. Then she let it drop. Geoffrey watched. Queer how things were, he thought.

  They had left the main track at the Okarito turn-off earlier in the morning and were now heading east towards the mountains. If the weather had been better it would have been a scenic route but today the sky was the colour of putty and the mist lay between the trees and hillsides like unspun wool. The mountain peaks had vanished. There was nothing that Geoffrey yearned to photograph. He was bored.

  Alf Bluett was less angry than on the previous day and Huia had smiled when Geoffrey offered her a toffee. Neither of the Bluetts was inclined to speak. Geoffrey entertained himself trying to remember the words of various Gilbert and Sullivan songs and occasionally whistling the tunes.

  On the next day the weather cleared. They were riding on the riverbed of the Routledge; the loose stones clipped and chimed under the horses’ hooves. The mountains, elusive since they had left the coast, were suddenly visible: huge and white, the décolletage of some female giant.

  They camped at Lake Tarepo, a locket shape of water that mirrored snowy peaks and forests. Geoffrey made photographs using his new camera and carefully prepared dry plates. He was not sure that the light was favourable or he himself in the mood to make creative decisions. It was an occasion when the best he could do was merely photograph what was there. But though he felt unable to imbue the scene with anything of himself, his interest in how the new process would work sustained him. When he finished they moved on.

  The late afternoon had become very warm and Geoffrey was hot. Bluett had already shed his jacket and was riding in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Geoffrey yearned to do the same, though felt embarrassed at the prospect of being so informally attired in the presence of a woman.

  Damn it, he said to himself, pulling his arms out of the sleeves of his jacket as he rode. Might as well be comfortable, and we’re not in County Kildare now.

  ‘You hot?’ said Huia.

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I think the stones reflect the heat. Must be like this in a desert.’

  Huia, who was hatless, pulled her paisley shawl over her head, holding it high over her face so only her eyes and forehead showed.

  ‘Do you reckon I could be an Arabian princess?’ she said.

  ‘Stop that bloody primping,’ said Bluett to his daughter. Then, glancing at the sky, he added, ‘Take a look at those clouds, Mr Hastings. Wager there’s trouble brewing.’

  At the rim of the clear sky a mass of darkness had gathered.

  ‘Looks like a storm,’ said Bluett. ‘Better get out of the riverbed and find a good campsite before it hits. There’s a miner’s shack above we could make for.’

  They made their way into the steep rata forest that bordered the river. It was impossible to ride so they walked the horses. Even that was difficult, as the trees grew at odd, contorted angles, reaching out from the bank and then, as if from some sudden mind-change, turning upward to the sky.

  It was dark among the trees and getting darker. By the time the party had climbed the ridge and sighted the hut in the next valley, evening was on them and heavy drops of rain had begun to fall. The deluge was spectacular when the storm arrived. The horses’ hides gleamed with wetness, clothes were limp, and rivulets of water ran down hair and faces. Geoffrey, Huia and Bluett were soaked.

  The hut, made of ponga slabs, was built under the protection of an overhanging bluff. There were no windows. Sacking had once covered the doorway but was now only tattered remains. The roof at one end of the hut extended to provide shelter for horses; at the other was a rough, detached chimney. It would be good to be out of the downpour.

  They tied the horses on the rusted wire under the overhang and went inside without unpacking the gear. Geoffrey struck a wax match and looked around. There was nothing in the shack but two logs near the remains of a fire. Strings of rain fell from cracks between the slabs of the roof. Outside, the sky dumped down cataracts, and from somewhere close came thunder. The tethered horses neighed in fright.

  The three travellers sat on the logs in the shack as thunder and lightning advanced: each roll louder, each flare closer and brighter. A clap of thunder broke directly overhead and the horses whinnied in terror. At the same moment an almighty crack ripped through the little building. There was the sound of falling timber and the hut convulsed.

  ‘Bleeding Jesus,’ said Bluett, ‘what’s happened?’

  ‘The horses,’ said Geoffrey.

  Tsar had pulled too strongly on the tethering wire, bringing part of the hut wall down. A lightning flash illuminated the five horses, still saddled and burdened, stampeding about the clearing. Thoroughly spooked, they moved in a frenzy. Thunder exploded about the hills and rain sheeted down. Bluett swore; Geoffrey shouted. Champ barked. The horses pounded about.

  In the glare from one of the flashes, Huia caught Curly. Seeing him calmed appeared to reassure the other horses, and soon they had Diamond and the three pack animals under control. Tsar, his bridle still attached to both the tethering wire and a slab of ponga from the wall of the hut, remained free. Geoffrey came within a few feet of the big horse and was about to grab him when another flare of lightning struck: for one extraordinary moment the horse’s ears lit up. Tsar reared onto his hind legs and then bolted in pain and terror, the wire that entangled the horse having conducted the lightning current.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ shouted Bluett. ‘Take a look at that!’

  ‘He’ll break a leg,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You see to the other horses, Huia. Your father and I’ll go after Tsar.’

  Geoffrey and Bluett followed the sound of the panicked horse blundering among the trees. The storm was easing, the rain less heavy. The two men slithered about in the muddy wetness, cursing and falling, and Geoffrey’s lantern went out. Ahead they could hear Tsar’s wild neighing. They found him trapped, the tangled wire pinning the horse’s hind fetlock to a bush.

  Geoffrey caught Tsar’s bridle. ‘There, there,’ he said to the horse. ‘You’ll be safe now.’

  Bluett knelt down to untangle the wire. Tsar gave a frightened lunge sideways and Bluett fell, catching his foot in a tree root as he went. There was an ominous crack, a yell of pain.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Bluett, trying to stand and falling again. ‘It’s my bloody ankle. Wouldn’t be surprised if the bugger’s broken.’

  Several hours later Geoffrey was lying on the damp floor of the hut, with Champ at his thigh, and deciding that this was the most uncomfortable and disagreeable night of his life. He had managed to drag Bluett back over one shoulder, while leading Tsar with the other hand. The trees were too low to ride among; the wet bush dark, slippery and almost solid. There was no way of knowing if Bluett’s ankle was broken but the man was in pain so they’d poured brandy down his throat and waited for him to sleep. A fire and a hot meal would have been cheering but there was nothing dry to burn and Huia and Geoffrey were too tired to search. They made do with stale bread, a bit of cheese and a determination to ignore wet clothing. The noise of the storm and the dripping sound on the floor finally stopped, to be replaced by the buzz of mosquitoes. Wet, cold, scratched, bruised, hungry and tormented by biting insects, Geoffrey lay awake in the seemingly interminable darkness. He could hear Huia’s regular breathing and knew she was asleep. Bluett moaned and mumbled in some alcohol-induced doze.

  Geoffrey had no awareness of sleep but he must finally have drifted off. He came to, smelling smoke and wet woollens. Huia had a fire going in the hut and articles of her clothing were draped on the adjacent logs. The girl, wrapped in a grey blanket, crouched close to the flames. Geoffrey could see her legs exposed from foot to calf. His eyes slid up from the hearth to where her knees disappeared in the folded rug. Vanessa’s were th
e only other bare female legs he had ever seen. Unlike his wife’s rounded, creamy limbs, Huia’s legs were thin and faintly brown. It was hardly fashionable to have such colouring but it seemed appealing all the same. Firelight suffused the bare flesh, giving a becoming glow as if the ecru-coloured skin was lit from within. Gloire de Dijon roses, Geoffrey thought, sleepily considering how he would enjoy creating that skin colour in a tinted photograph. He stretched, savouring the sight and enjoying the comforting warmth of the flames.

  ‘Thanks for making the fire,’ he said, catching Huia’s glance. ‘Though it beats me where you found anything dry enough to burn.’

  ‘Pulled bits off the inside of the chimney,’ Huia said.

  Bluett’s ankle was very swollen but the pain was reduced, provided he stayed off it. ‘Reckon it’s just a sprain,’ he said. ‘A day or two and I’ll be jake.’

  The hot pools were a few hours’ tramp from the hut but they would have to walk, as the heavy, low-hanging bush was unsuitable for horses. Bluett said that since he was crook, Hastings should go there without him. ‘The girl’s been to the pools before, haven’t you, Hu? She can guide while I rest up.’

  Geoffrey’s whole body ached from the discomfort of the journey and his night on the floor; the thought of a long soak in hot water seemed like bliss. Of course it was wildly improper to be considering taking off alone with a young woman, but Bluett himself had suggested it, and who else would ever know? Geoffrey decided that there were times where the rules of ordinary propriety just didn’t apply. Here at the fringe, the frontier of the empire and civilisation, was no place to be hidebound by etiquette. Wasn’t such freedom from convention, the opportunity to be spontaneous, to do as one pleased, all part of the charm and allure of the place? A sort of reward for the privations imposed by being there?

  ‘If you think you can manage for the day on your own,’ Geoffrey said. ‘And you’d better sketch us a map, just to be on the safe side.’