The Love Apple

by Coral Atkinson

  ‘How much?’ asked PJ.

  ‘Two for a penny,’ she said.

  PJ, who had already spent sixpence from his half-crown, gave her the money.

  ‘Here,’ said the woman, putting three of the cakes into PJ’s hand. ‘This ould one is a bit bokity and it’s burnt, take it as well. Yiz look destroyed.’

  ‘All them peelers and the army,’ PJ said, ‘has something happened hereabouts?’

  ‘Sure it has,’ she said. ‘Mr Hunt over at Knockswilly moithered. They’re saying the Land Leaguers did it, him being an evicting swine.’

  PJ had heard of the Land League. Men who wouldn’t put up with evictions, men who wanted fair rents and the right to be compensated for improvements they made on leased land.

  PJ came to a horse trough and sat on a large stone. He was ravenous and the potato bread was delicious. Absorbed in the pleasure of eating, he hadn’t noticed a cart parked nearby, the horse grazing in a tuft of grass that sprouted from earth at the bottom of a wall.

  ‘And wouldn’t the smell of that bring rabbits out of their holes?’ a voice said.

  PJ jumped. A man with a blackened face was sitting in the back of the wagon, looking down on him.

  ‘Glory be!’ said PJ. ‘Yiz put the heart across me.’

  ‘I’m sorry for that,’ said the man. ‘I meant no harm.’

  ‘Who’re ye?’ said PJ.

  ‘Beelzebub. See, over my shoulder I carry a club,’ the man said, waving what looked like a cardboard weapon. ‘Ah, don’t look shocked, lad. I’m not really Beelzebub. I’m often St Patrick.’

  With that the man put down the club, rummaged about on the floor of the wagon and put on a tattered-looking paper mitre with green ribbons.

  ‘Mummers,’ the man went on. ‘The mummers that bet all we meet. Others are at the public house and I’m sleeping it off, or I was.’

  ‘Mummers?’ said PJ. ‘I’ve never heard tell of them.’

  ‘Travel about at this wicked time of year. Go to houses, put on a show.’

  ‘Do yiz want some spud?’ said PJ.

  ‘No lad, no,’ said the man. ‘A poor little article like yerself needs all the grub he gets. Pity yiz have never seen the mummers. We’re the lads for a laugh, a bit of craic.’

  When PJ left the mummer he headed back to the canal. To get to the towpath he had to cross the river. On the wall of the bridge was a scrawl of large black words. PJ had passed it on his way into the town but as he was unable to read it meant nothing.

  A lieutenant, a corporal and two privates, one carrying a bucket and shovel, were on the bridge looking at the writing:

  Warning: To all evicting landlords

  We’re watching

  You’ll be next!

  PJ hesitated for a moment when he saw the soldiers, but there was no other way of getting to the canal and he decided to go on. He crossed to the far footpath and walked with his head held down.

  ‘You there!’ the officer called to him. ‘Come here.’

  Reluctantly PJ went over.

  ‘See this writing?’

  PJ nodded.

  ‘Look at me,’ said the officer, and gave PJ a cuff across the face with his glove.

  PJ looked up.

  ‘Did you do it, boy?’

  ‘I haven’t the book learning,’ said PJ.

  ‘Well, some of your friends have,’ said the officer. ‘This sort of thing is all over the town. Here, Hoskins, give the boy the bucket and the shovel. He can get the mud and black out the words. Better one of these bloody bogtrotters does it. Good lesson for the little nit.’

  PJ took the bucket and went down to the river. The mud was heavy and the shovel large for his hands.

  The soldiers stayed on the bridge and the officer lounged about watching. He had his revolver out and was idly swinging it on his fingers. ‘Bloody hurry up down there! Quickly now!’

  PJ tried to shovel faster.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? We can’t wait all day.’

  PJ’s hands and back ached and the splinters from the rough shaft of the shovel handle were jabbing his palm.

  ‘This will bloody move you!’ shouted the officer. He cocked his revolver and aimed three shots at PJ’s feet.

  PJ jumped in terror. Then, without pausing to think, the boy dropped the shovel. He ran up the bank, down the street, away from the bridge. A spatter of bullets fell behind him.

  ‘Come back!’ the officer shouted.

  PJ was running along the quay, the soldiers after him. He dodged among carts and laden donkeys. Behind him he heard a rumble of wheels. He glanced back and saw the mummers’ cart. Beelzebub was driving.

  ‘Give us a lift, mister! Give us a lift!’ PJ gasped.

  Beelzebub slowed the horse and PJ flung himself on board. There were four other men in the cart. ‘God almighty!’ said one of them, looking behind at the running soldiers. Beelzebub applied the whip and the wagon lurched off, moving over the cobblestones at a stiff gallop. They hadn’t gone far when the soldiers stopped chasing them.

  ‘Aren’t they after trying to kill me?’ said PJ, lying shaking and gasping in a heap of dirty costumes.

  ‘Bastards!’ said one of the mummers, who was holding a suit of cardboard armour. ‘But we showed them.’

  ‘Sure we did,’ said Beelzebub. ‘We bet all we meet!’

  The kitchen smelt of sweat, mud and newly baked soda bread. The cottage, though substantial, was crowded. Around the walls were the farmer and his wife, their children, several in-laws, neighbours and day labourers. The adults sat on bentwood chairs or stools, the children on the floor. Four teenage girls, patched boots protruding from under their dresses, were sitting on a large table. In the middle of the room Beelzebub, as a rotund St Patrick with a pillow under his coat and a false beard, was having a crosier-and-sword fight with King Billy. The two mummers hacked away, chasing about and jumping over outstretched legs. The delighted audience cheered and catcalled. St Patrick’s mitre was knocked off and he was pushed to the ground. The saint was just about to be run through by his enemy’s sword when a man wearing a top hat and carrying a silver-topped cane bounded out from behind the dresser. He bowed to the audience and recited:

  I’m Erin’s true hero

  The name is Parnell,

  Home Rule for Ireland

  May Brits go to Hell.

  There was immediate and prolonged applause. The character of Charles Stewart Parnell had only recently been included in the group’s repertoire and the response showed he was a popular addition.

  I may be a landlord,

  I may be a toff,

  But I’m all for Ireland

  And I’ll see Billy off.

  A fierce battle then ensued between Parnell and the Protestant king. Parnell was run through with a sword and copious quantities of pig’s blood spilled. Despite this mortal injury Parnell managed to chase King Billy offstage and up the ladder that led to the sleeping areas of the cottage. The victorious Parnell returned, clutching his wound and writhing in agony.

  ‘The man needs a doctor,’ shouted a youth seated by the hearth. On cue, the doctor appeared with a large suitcase.

  Here’s a doctor from Dublin,

  A much-learned man,

  Though our hero lies bleeding

  Fix him I can.

  The doctor opened his suitcase and took out a fearsome collection of farm and kitchen tools and a bottle marked ‘Ass Liniment’. Amid laughter and asides he tried to prise Parnell’s lips apart with the various implements before finally applying a chisel and a hammer. Having got his patient’s mouth open he poured a bright-pink medicine down his throat, reciting as he did so:

  A hammer, a chisel,

  A pliers, a tack;

  My medicine will fix him

  And bring Parnell back.

  The dying hero immediately sprang to his feet and the audience cheered. His recovery marked the end of the play. The rest of the cast, who had been hidden in the bedroom, returned. There were boos for Ki
ng Billy and cheers for Parnell. Beelzebub, now with soot-blackened face and holding a club and a frying pan, stepped into the centre of the group and recited:

  Death departed,

  Time to go

  But first a penny

  For our show,

  You’ve had your fun

  You’ve had your craic,

  Now it’s time

  To pay yer whack.

  Parnell passed his hat around. The audience clapped.

  PJ, who had watched the whole performance from beside the curtain that cut off the kitchen from the main bedroom, had never seen a play before. He was entranced. The mummers said they performed several times an evening and PJ was already looking forward to a repeat of the play further along the road. He had been with the mummers since they rescued him at Rathbeggan. They were heading part of the way he needed to go and seemed happy for him to ride along with them. They had even asked him to join them as they were looking for a ‘young one’ to play Wee Biddy Funny, but though they were a kindly lot, PJ declined. He wouldn’t feel safe, not properly safe, until he found Mrs Sullivan. She was the nearest to kin he had: the only person in the whole world who cared about him. He knew she wouldn’t turn him out.

  The mummers, who were on their way to Kildare, left PJ at Robertstown. He was cold and tired and wet. It had been raining for hours. He had tried to sleep that night in a little stone pavilion in an estate garden that ran down to the canal. There was a thick bed of leaves on the floor and the roof kept out the rain. PJ was just drowsing off when he heard dogs barking somewhere close. He jumped and ran, back through the beech trees, over the stone wall and onto the towpath. He couldn’t find anywhere else to sleep, though he spent a few hours crouched in a ditch under an overhanging hedge. When darkness finally struggled into light, PJ put his jacket over his head to keep out the rain and started walking. His money was gone now. He was starving and his feet were blistered; for the first time since he had set out he wondered about what he was doing. Maybe he should have stayed with the mummers. He thought wistfully of bouncing along in their cart, eating scuds of soda bread and the hard-boiled eggs that some of their audiences had given them. What if he couldn’t find Mrs Sullivan? He only knew this place Killeigh was near Tullamore. What if Mrs Sullivan didn’t want him? Maybe the gentleman she nursed had died and she had left. It was months now since he’d seen her. Maybe …

  PJ stumbled on a tree root and stubbed his toe. He began to cry. ‘Mick,’ he sobbed, ‘Mick.’ But Mick wasn’t answering.

  Charleville Square at the centre of Tullamore was an elegant collection of buildings, slim Georgian houses facing each other across the cobbles. The rain had stopped and the square was busy when PJ reached it. There were donkey carts, wagons, pony traps and horses. Groups of idle men stood about, scuffing their heels against walls. Women with shawls over their heads and babies in their arms shepherded children. A man was shovelling dung. A woman with a battered straw hat was selling eggs from a basket. A brown-and-white dog held a bone between its paws and growled.

  ‘Please, Father,’ said PJ to a passing priest, ‘can you tell me the way to Killeigh?’

  The priest told PJ the road to take.

  ‘And please, Father, is it far?’

  ‘Ah no,’ said the priest. ‘Four or five miles maybe.’

  It was late afternoon. The winter light had a shifty quality, as if uncertain whether the day was moving towards clearing or to a shower. The trees were ominous against the advancing sunset and the hedgerows elaborate pieces of dark twisted iron.

  A group of boys were playing road bowling as PJ passed and he stopped for a moment to watch. With a leaping gesture, one of the players tossed the shot. PJ had seen the game played by the lads at Kinross House. He knew that whoever covered the course in the least number of throws won.

  ‘Are yiz wanting to play?’ asked a boy with a large burn-hole in his jacket.

  ‘Sure, I haven’t time,’ said PJ, walking on.

  When PJ got to the village of Killeigh he went to the forge. A shop or a public house would have done as well but having worked with horses PJ knew the ways of forges. There was gossip at the forge; men hanging about chewing on straws, as shoes were shaped and sparks flew. Bound to be someone there who’d know where Mrs Sullivan was.

  ‘Mrs Sullivan,’ said the blacksmith, who was bolting the doors of the forge, having finished work for the day when PJ arrived. ‘Wasn’t there a nurse, a Dublin wan, over at the big house in the summer? Though to tell the truth I haven’t seen her lately. She’ll be who yer after.’

  To have come all this long way and find someone who actually knew Mrs Sullivan made PJ light-headed with gratitude and relief.

  The grounds of the big house adjoined the village green. PJ walked up the drive. He was stiff, wet, shivering and hungry. Blisters made each step painful and his feet ached. He was also happier than he’d been since Mick’s death. In a few minutes he would find her. It was like coming home. The boy went under the carriageway that led into the main courtyard. Hens ran in and out of the barn and a brougham was in front of the coach house.

  In the narrowing light PJ saw a woman carrying a vase of leaves coming out of what looked like the kitchen door. She wore a dark dress and had a bunch of keys at her belt. PJ guessed she was the housekeeper.

  ‘What do you want, sonny?’ she said. ‘If you’re from the tinkers we want no truck with them.’

  ‘Excuse me, missus, but I’m looking for someone. Mrs Sullivan. I’ve walked from Dublin to see her.’

  The housekeeper rested the vase on top of a pile of butter boxes that stood beside the door. ‘Am I right in thinking you’re PJ?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘You unfortunate little divil. You’d better come in, PJ. You’d better come in.’

  Chapter 10

  [NEW ZEALAND, LATE 1882]

  Grotesque was the only word Geoffrey Hastings could think of that adequately described his situation. Here he was in his own drawing room, sitting in his own serpent-green plush armchair, watching Mrs Moller, a large woman with sweat stains on her dress, pulling her huge breasts out of her bodice: thrusting them in front of him like a gardener exhibiting marrows at a fête.

  ‘Firm and round,’ Mrs Moller said, ‘and the nipples, see the nipples, nice and elastic, just as Mrs Beeton says they ought.’

  ‘Mrs Beeton, the household expert?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Moller. ‘So you haven’t read what she says about wet nurses?’

  Geoffrey felt that this was seen as a serious deficiency. He certainly hadn’t thought of consulting a book, especially what he regarded as a cooking book, as preparation for the interview. Now he wished he had. What in heaven’s name was he supposed to say or do? This was clearly women’s work. It was Huia’s responsibility, there was no doubt, but in this as in much else of Geoffrey’s relationship with his second wife, what he thought should happen and what actually took place seldom coincided.

  At this moment Huia was in bed upstairs, crying. The baby, Oliver, was mercifully asleep in his cradle. Geoffrey had accepted the employment of a nursemaid but he could see no sense in appointing a wet nurse. The fashionable practice of paying a woman to suckle one’s own children struck him as totally unreasonable. Huia was able to feed the baby herself and, had she married a working man, she would undoubtedly have done so. But Huia had other ideas.

  ‘I want my twenty-inch waist back,’ she said. ‘And you don’t want a wife like an old cow with flapping udders. Anyway, I don’t like all the sucking and tugging. It hurts and it’s common. Ladies don’t feed, they have wet nurses.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me about what ladies do and don’t do,’ said Geoffrey. In the months since the wedding Huia had become increasingly concerned both with her looks and being — when it suited — what she called ‘a lady’.

  She had wept and sulked and refused to feed Oliver until finally Geoffrey had given up in desperation. He had assumed that Huia would a
t least interview the prospective wet-nurse applicants, but though several weeks had elapsed since the birth, Huia kept to her bed, pleading exhaustion and crying at any mention that she might get up.

  Maeve, the young Irish nurse married to Geoffrey’s friend Arthur Pascoe, had been there for Huia’s lying-in.

  ‘Can’t see a stim wrong with her,’ Maeve had said, ‘and Dr Mackintosh agrees with me. She’s the picture of health and the baby’s a fine child too, but your wife certainly seems in a bad way. Melancholic, I suppose you’d say. Seen it before with new mothers, never know what to make of it. I’m sure it’ll pass.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Geoffrey, taking a quick look at Mrs Moller’s overgenerous breasts and hoping that was all that was required.

  ‘But will they do, sir?’ said Mrs Moller.

  ‘Well,’ said Geoffrey, uncertain how to either judge or reply.

  ‘So you think I can’t produce,’ said Mrs Moller. ‘Is that it? Nine children of my own I’ve suckled with these and eight others I’ve nursed. And never a complaint. Look at this, Mr Hastings, just take a look at this.’

  Mrs Moller took one elongated nipple in her fingers and pinched it. A trail of milk arched across the room and feathered down on the books on the canterbury.

  ‘Good God!’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Thought you’d be jiggered by that. The gents always are. So do I get the job?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey wearily, ‘you do.’

  The coming of Oliver had been an extraordinary event for Geoffrey. To have a son gave him a pleasure he had never expected. When Huia had announced she was pregnant he had felt nothing except horror for the child she carried. If it hadn’t been for Sybil he would have sent the girl away, far away: Australia, most likely. Geoffrey recoiled whenever he considered how close he could have come to losing Oliver. Losing this miracle of flesh that was his own.