Geoffrey thought of Sybil and how, at the time of Oliver’s death, she had supported him, like a lifesaver holding the head of a drowning swimmer out of a rough sea. And he thought of Sybil’s gifts of food: bulky brown-paper parcels of fruitcakes and cured hams, quince paste and apple jelly.
It was over a year since Sybil had written to say her husband was dead, swept away crossing some river. We are both widowed now, Sybil had written. There is no one else to consider: we can please ourselves … Sybil, who had no children of her own, had left the Lochinvar homestead, passing it over to her stepsons and their young wives. She was now living in the married couple’s cottage. She wrote, as she often did, about the beauty of the high country, the grandeur of Mt Lochinvar, and the menagerie of animals she had adopted. Geoffrey could tell she was lonely.
The last time he had actually seen her was at the theatre in Christchurch. It was about a year after Oliver’s death and the time he had stayed with her in Cashel Street. It had been raining and, as Geoffrey paused outside the theatre foyer to open his umbrella, he’d seen Sybil and Freddie Powell doing the same. The meeting had been hurried; Sybil, toying with a gold snake ornament in her hair, seemed somewhat distracted. Her husband said nothing beyond a ‘how do you do’ and a handshake. No one suggested supper or getting together the next day and the meeting wasn’t mentioned again in any of her letters. Over the years Geoffrey had occasionally invited the Powells to Hokitika but Sybil invariably made excuses: the time of year, mustering, sickness, shearing; in the end Geoffrey stopped asking. But her letters kept coming, like a pulse. Sybil, the one unfailing constant of Geoffrey’s life.
He wanted to see her again, he really did, Geoffrey thought as he went back to the tomatoes and pushed one into a better position. In getting older he had come to appreciate the idea of continuity: past, present and future joined as if by some invisible thread; everything part of the pattern, leading on into some other. He remembered first meeting Sybil in Dublin. They’d danced in her parents’ morning room as he hummed a waltz and that ridiculous dress sword banged against his leg. He felt a sudden yearning to dance with Sybil again. They were both free now; Sybil had said so herself. The years of being unable to examine or acknowledge what lay between them, fearful that it might sway, tip, spill, were finally over. All those things thought and never said.
He remembered the time when Sybil first came to New Zealand, the happiness of those brief days together. Something precious had grown between them then, cut back with the announcement of Huia’s pregnancy. Geoffrey thought of the lines of the poem:
… I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seem’d to mean so little, meant so much …
And Sybil did mean so much.
Sybil read the letter twice. She was not mistaken. Geoffrey had asked her to meet him for a holiday in Picton, talked of how much he wanted to see her, how dear she was and how they should spend time together. Ever since her husband’s death Sybil had imagined such an invitation from Geoffrey, but she hardly expected it, having hoped for so much that had never happened. And now the letter had finally arrived.
She glanced around. The afternoon sun exploded into the room. The brass ornaments glowed, the silver claret jug on the sideboard tingled with brightness. Outside the crickets in the grass were singing with mad, late summer gusto. She would go to Picton, she would be with Geoffrey; she would find happiness.
Sybil looked at the photograph Geoffrey had sent. Prize tomatoes. Love apples, he sometimes called them. Having seen many pictures of Wharenui she recognised where he had taken them, outside the summerhouse. She saw him fiddling with their positioning, stepping back to assess his handiwork, making small adjustments. He would consider the tomatoes through the lens of the camera: seen that way they would seem even larger, bursting with vitality and life. She imagined the thick sound of wings overhead and Geoffrey glancing up as a flock of kereru flew out of the bush and over the grounds, their white and iridescent green plumage bright banners in the sky.
Then Geoffrey looked down at the camera and flicked the shutter.
Author’s note
Despite The Love Apple being a novel, and obviously fiction, many of the events it describes did take place. Readers may be interested to know that there was considerable support for the Irish cause in late nineteenth-century New Zealand, especially in Westland. Feelings ran strong in support of the Manchester Martyrs — three Fenians executed in England in 1867 — and delegations of Irish nationalists supporting Home Rule in the Westminster Parliament, such as that of 1889 led by John Dillon MP, were welcomed with wild enthusiasm.
Ten New Zealand contingents, totalling 6507 men, served in the 1899–1902 Anglo-South African (Boer) war. A total of 230 men were killed in action or by accident, or died of wounds or disease. The Irish Transvaal Brigade — and other groups of Irish irregulars — did fight on the side of the Boers in this war. (Today the flag belonging to the brigade is in the National Museum of Ireland, in Dublin.) In the failed Irish uprising of 1916 a small number of Boer rifles were seized by the British authorities in Dublin.
Danish immigrants Peter and Caroline Hende were real people who, from 1878, operated a ferry and accommodation house on the Wanganui River, near Harihari.
The traditional Irish folk song about the dead lover who dies or runs away, and returns in ghostly form to confront the former sweetheart, has many versions, two of which are quoted. The ‘She Moved Through the Fair’ version sung in Chapter 22 is the best known and the most beautiful. Padraig Colum arranged the words early in the twentieth century, a little later than this novel is set.
Acknowledgements
Books have many progenitors; this one is no exception. The New Zealand Society of Authors generously provided me with the support and direction of a mentor in the writing of The Love Apple. I am most grateful to the NZSA and to Linda Burgess, who was unfailingly helpful and charming in her mentoring role.
I would also like to thank Harriet Allan of Random House New Zealand and Rachel Scott, editor, for their work on this book; Nancy Fithian for her invaluable assistance; Gerry Gandy, who took me to the West Coast and made me look; Linda Hart (my underwritten friend) for her constant support and interest; Peter Ireland for his advice to always ask, ‘What exactly is going on here?’; Tanya Tremewan, who has been unswerving in her belief in my writing; and Paula Wagemaker for her encouragement.
I am also most grateful to Max Broadbent and Christine Bush of the Macmillan Brown Library, University of Canterbury; along with Julia Bradshaw and staff of the Hokitika Museum, for providing information and useful avenues for research; Chris Carrow of Circo Arts, Christchurch Polytechnic Institute of Technology, for explaining the intricacies of learning trapeze; Di Lucas, of Lucas Associates, for her advice on trees; and Rory Sweetman, who checked my material on the New Zealand visit of John Dillon and the Home Rule Delegation.
Close to home, thanks are due to my father, the late Cyril Atkinson, for his stories of family, Ireland and South Africa, some of which live again in this book; my ever-supportive sister, Tania Connelly; and my grandmother, the late Olive Wright, friend of the young man who had difficulty dancing when wearing a dress sword.
Finally, there is my husband, Wolfgang Kreutzer, for his unstinting love; and New Zealand and Ireland, inspiration for The Love Apple, dual homelands of my heart.
About the Author
Born in Ireland, Coral Atkinson moved to New Zealand as a girl and studied history at the University of Canterbury. She has worked as a secondary school teacher and educational journalist as well as in book publishing; currently she tutors on a publishing course and runs adult education seminars. Her short fiction has been published in New Zealand, Ireland and England. It has won and been shortlisted in several short-story contests. Coral Atkinson co-authored Recycled People: Forming New Relationships in Mid-life (Shoal Bay Press, 2000) and has also published various non-fiction articles, essays and educational text
s.
Copyright
National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Atkinson, C. E. (Coral E.)
The love apple / by Coral Atkinson.
ISBN 978 1 77553 055 8
I. Title.
NZ823.3—dc 22
A BLACK SWAN BOOK
published by
Random House New Zealand
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand
www.randomhouse.co.nz
First published 2005
© 2005 Coral Atkinson
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 86941 720 8
eISBN 978 1 77553 055 8
Cover design: Matthew Trbuhovic
Design: Katy Yiakmis
Printed in Australia by Griffin Press
The Love Apple Page 30
