Clay Gully
Page 5
I feel sympathy for the neighbours’ children, obliged to play in small neat backyards. They are naturally attracted to our bushland and yabby-filled dams. When, however, I catch two very small boys in gum boots wading in the water, I’m concerned for their safety. After speaking to their parents, my husband mends the fence again and I erect a large NO TRESPASSING sign.
One morning I’m working in the kitchen when the telephone rings. A pleasant female voice tells me she is calling from the BreastScreen clinic, where I have recently had a routine mammogram. There is an instant tightening in my chest. The nurse explains, ‘We have found small specks of calcium in your right breast and we would like you to come back to the clinic.’
The panic eases a little as I realise they haven’t found a lump, but in my confusion the words come babbling out of my mouth, ‘I’ve had an injury to my right shoulder which probably explains why there might be a build up of calcium.’
The woman listens quietly and then firmly repeats herself. ‘You need to come back to the clinic. This is about your breast, not your shoulder.’
It’s on my birthday, almost a month since the first phone call, that I am finally diagnosed with invasive breast cancer. After the operation my prognosis is good, but I don’t return to work in the orchard for a long time. Physically I make a satisfactory recovery but I’m beset by fears and depressive thoughts.
Then one day, wandering aimlessly between the rows of apple trees, I fail to notice the rising wind and darkening skies. Suddenly the rain comes down heavily and I know that before I can make it back to the house I shall be soaked. Two rows away there is a Beauty of Bath with spreading branches and I run to shelter under its thick green canopy. Raindrops bounce off the leaves and an occasional drop of moisture hits the warm skin of my bare arms, but mostly I remain dry. Crouching down among the roots I breathe in the sweet musky smell of the rich brown soil, darkening in the rain. It makes me think of a workmate who, when suffering a bout of anxiety and depression, was told by her counsellor to take off her shoes, go outside, and rub her feet into the bare earth. I watch the rain for a while, peering through the moist leaves, until the wind drops suddenly and the squall is over. It’s time to start work again amongst the trees.
There are two parasites on our block. A large bouquet of mistletoe grows on the red box tree behind the house and it is visited regularly by the tiny mistletoe bird. I know he’s around when I hear his high-pitched, warbling song. He is a glossy blue-black with a white chest and a flash of bright red at his throat. Unlike other birds, he deposits his droppings directly onto the branch on which he’s resting, allowing the sticky mistletoe seed to send out its tendrils into the wood.
The cherry ballart bush takes its nutrients from the roots of a gum tree. Its red, cherry-like fruits are popular with the birds and can be eaten by humans apparently, although I haven’t dared to try them.
When I was a young girl in Yorkshire, I climbed into my grandfather’s tree and dropped the apples down to where my mother waited to catch them in her apron. They were big green apples and two would be enough for a pie. I was never tempted to bite into them because they were as sour as a lemon.
Bramleys are true ‘cookers’, their strong acidity giving a wonderful flavour to any pie or crumble. They’re unusual in that when cooked, they turn to a yellow fluff that needs no breaking up with a fork. Cored, stuffed with brown sugar and raisins and then baked whole in the oven, they are a delicacy. In my grandparents’ house, the Bramleys were arranged on a stone slab in the cellar in long neat rows. There they remained firm throughout the winter months, always available for a pie or sauce to be served with the Sunday roast.
Baked Apples
This recipe is good with Granny Smiths but wonderful with Bramleys, which change to a yellow fluff.
Wash and core 1 cooking apple per person (but do not peel).
Spoon the filling of brown sugar, a little chopped butter, a few raisins and/or flaked almonds into the apple cavities.
Place the apples in a deep dish. Cover with foil and bake in a 200°C oven for about 30 minutes. Use a skewer to check that the centre of the apple is soft.
Bacon and Apple Slice
2 sheets of frozen shortcrust pastry
2 medium onions
125 grams free-range bacon
1 cooking apple, peeled and cored
oil and margarine for frying
1 tablespoon French mustard (or more according to taste)
milk
Partly thaw the pastry. Place one piece on a greased baking sheet. Chop the onions, apple and bacon into small pieces. Melt a little margarine and oil in a large frying pan and add all three ingredients, cooking gently until soft and golden brown. Stir in the mustard.
Turn out onto centre of sheet of pastry. Using a brush dampen the pastry edges with a little milk and place second sheet on top. Cut off the excess pastry at the corners. Press the edges together, then crimp up. If desired, shape the spare pieces of pastry into leaves for decoration. Brush top with milk. Chill in fridge for a few minutes. Then cook at 170°C for approx. 15 minutes until pastry is nicely browned. Remove from oven, cut in slices and serve at once.
Apple Dumplings
An easy dessert, lovely on a cold night.
For each person—
1 cooking apple
1 square of either shortcrust or puff pastry, large enough to enclose an apple
1 teaspoon brown sugar
2 or 3 dried apricots
few chopped hazelnuts or flaked almonds
knob of butter
pinch of cinnamon
milk
a little beaten egg
Peel and core the apples and mix together the other ingredients to fill each apple cavity.
Place each apple in the centre of a pastry square. Draw up the edges of the pastry around the apple, brush the edges with milk and press together to seal well. Trim excess pastry and turn the apples over so that the pastry joins are underneath. Use the leftover pastry to make a leaf for decoration.
Place apples on a baking sheet lined with nonstick paper and bake at 200°C/180°C fan-forced for about 30 minutes.
As my Bramley apples mature in the summer heat, I notice they don’t have the slightly oval, flattened shape that I remember from my childhood. A few weeks later their green colour gives way to a pale yellow and they develop a faint apricot blush. I pick an apple and bite into it, anticipating a rush of strong acidic flavour. Instead I have a mouthful of bland, uninteresting flesh.
Of the 300 trees we’ve planted, 120 are going to produce a crop of pale, insipid apples. I am bitterly disappointed. Of course the apples I remember grew in the relatively cool summers of northern England. Perhaps the reason why people don’t grow Bramleys in Australia is because they don’t do well in a hot climate.
We bought the trees from Clive and Margaret, so I give them a call. They’re interested in seeing our first fruit, and come to look at the orchard. As we wander along the rows of Bramleys we’re drawn to a tree quite different from the rest. This one is wide and spreading and on its branches are hung the flat green apples of my childhood. Puzzled, we walk on and discover two more trees which have produced ‘true’ Bramley apples. It is then we realise there has been a mistake. Of the 120 trees we bought as Bramley’s Seedling only three actually are Bramleys. The remainders are of an unknown variety Clive and Margaret have never seen before, and which Clive now christens a ‘pseudo-Bram’.
They are both horrified, not only because of this particular disaster, but also because Bramleys have been their best-selling variety for years. In the time it’s taken for my trees to grow fruit, they may have mistakenly sold pseudo-Brams to a host of other people. There could be all kinds of repercussions. I feel terribly sorry for them, especially since it wasn’t their mistake. It seems they purchased the bud wood from Tasmania where the mix up must have occurred. The three true Bramleys would have come from their own Bramley tree.
At least I have the
compensation of knowing good Bramleys can actually be grown in this climate. I’m also relieved to know that these pale tasteless apples are not the result of any orchard mismanagement on my part. Immediately Clive offers to re-graft all the pseudo-Brams, turning them back into true Bramleys. I can scarcely believe this is possible, but sure enough, he arrives in the winter carrying his pruning saw. He proceeds to remove the limbs from the trees, in some cases leaving only a trunk.
In the early spring he returns, this time bearing long bundles of brown twigs ready to be grafted onto the now denuded trees. The sap has risen and it’s time to begin. Clive gently eases the spoon shaped blade of his pruning knife between the bark and the green wood within. He selects a cutting with thick buds and slices it diagonally to create a fine flat point. Then he makes a slit in the branch of the tree and slides the twig firmly beneath the bark. He binds it tightly in place before giving the graft a waterproof coating.
Clive comes every morning for three weeks and together we work our way along the rows of pseudo-Brams. He tries to teach me his skills but I’m not very good at grafting. Eventually he gives up and just hands me the paintbrush. As we work he tells me fascinating stories of the time when he was an actor. Mostly though, we talk about apple trees, for we both share an abiding love for them. In no time there are green leaves on our little twigs, and mere trunks have become growing trees again. The following spring he returns and we repeat the effort until they are all fully limbed.
Water trickles over the rim of an earthenware pot in the back garden. Thornbills, wrens and pardalotes drink and bathe there. Frogs and small lizards live amongst the damp rocks at its base.
With so much land clearance and building in the surrounding area, many breeding sites for birds have been destroyed. Last season we fastened nesting boxes onto two small gum trees in the front orchard. Although it might seem strange for an apple grower to encourage parrots, the fruit is protected by nets now and they can do no harm.
Two eastern rosellas come on a daily basis to inspect the boxes. Before they begin to breed this year I do a check and discover the box they occupied last year has a rotting base. Although the other one is in good condition the birds have never paid it any attention. Perhaps it’s in a position they don’t like.
I enlist the help of my son Nathaniel, who climbs up the ladder and takes down the damaged box. We plan to replace it with the good, unused one from the other tree, so he takes this one down also. Before he goes back up the ladder, I open the little inspection door in the front of the box to make sure there’s no debris inside. Here are two blue feathers from a rosella’s tail at the edge of a neat little nest of gum leaves. As I look, a sugar glider suddenly flies out of the door and runs up my son’s leg, before leaping into the branches of the tree above us. We turn to each other in shock.
Feeling guilty for disturbing the poor little creature’s sleep, we quickly return the box to its original position. The next day I gingerly open the inspection door to see if our friend has returned and I’m rewarded with the sight of a little pink nose. All is well.
One morning I discover a brown snake caught in a net which was left lying at the edge of the orchard after we picked the apples. Immediately I feel guilty. It’s my net, my fault. What can I do? Anyone I call in to help will knock it on the head with a spade. I could just walk away, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing the poor thing is trapped and slowly starving to death. I go to look for my sewing scissors.
The snake lies perfectly still. Maybe it’s dead. I slip the scissors between nylon and scale and carefully cut into a few layers of netting. The tail suddenly whips around and I leap out of the way. But when I look again I see that the snake’s head is so hopelessly entangled it can’t possibly bite me. Soon I manage to free the body. It is a beautiful, warm brown creature and its little bright eyes look up at me pleadingly.
I know this is madness, but how can I leave it now? In its struggle to escape, the nylon has tightened around the arrow-shaped head, and it’s difficult to force in the points of my scissors without harming the skin. As the last strand comes free I prepare to jump for my life, but the snake doesn’t move. Then slowly, its jaws part and I can see its soft pink gums. The snake continues to hold its mouth wide open, almost as if it’s trying to show me something.
Gingerly creeping forward, I discover a last strand of nylon wrapped around a tooth. I pause. Until now I’ve been lucky, but doing dental work on a brown snake is a bit much. Its tiny button eyes gaze into mine. I’ve been very gentle and somehow I know it’s aware I’m trying to help. It isn’t going to bite me. Still, I don’t want it to kill me by accident, so I find a longish, thin stick and carefully lift the last strand from around the tooth.
There are a few sudden contortions. For a moment its eyes catch mine, before it quietly turns away and sets off down to the dam to look for frogs.
I’m sitting on the verandah reading, when I hear barking. I look over the fence and see Reuben up near the top dam. He’s chasing a fox. When I call out to him he turns back towards the house, but instead of making its escape, the fox follows the little dog down the hill. As soon as he notices, he chases it up the paddock again, and the game continues back and forth until at last the fox tires of it and disappears into the bush.
Reuben’s a funny little dog. Sometimes he steps on a sharp twig or thorn when we’re out walking. At once he runs back on three legs and holds up the injured foot to show me. Usually there’s no splinter in it and no damage done. Still, I rub it anyway and tell him he’s all right. At once he looks relieved and trots away on four legs again. It reminds me of all those times I cured my children of bumps and scratches just by kissing them better.
When we go out for the day we leave our dogs indoors. They’re well behaved and don’t make a mess. That is, except for one occasion when we came home very late. As I walked into the living room I noticed the wooden kava bowl on the coffee table was full of water. No, not water. Reuben wouldn’t have liked to ruin the carpet, so when he grew desperate he must have searched for the nearest equivalent to a toilet.
He’s always by my side. When I’m working along the rows in the orchard he lies quietly under a nearby apple tree and appears to be asleep. I find though, that once the distance between us is more than three trees he has to get up and move close to me again.
I’ve noticed he feels responsible for the other dogs. At times he’ll paw at my leg and insist I follow him to the door, where a very cold chihuahua will be waiting to be let inside.
Often when my husband is away on business I stay up late reading. Reuben sleeps beside me, but some time after midnight he makes it perfectly clear that I should be in bed. He won’t leave me alone until I put my book away and head for the bathroom.
He’s twelve now and his heart’s failing. Fluid is building in his lungs and he can’t walk very far. The vet says it won’t be long. I have a feeling Reuben knows, but he still greets every day with joy. He delights in simple things: his walk, an interesting smell, a tickle under his chin and a few loving words whispered in his ear at bedtime. He watches over me. I shall miss him.
The branches of the apple trees have become compacted and tangled, so Clive comes again to show me how to prune them. He stands back and observes the tree for some time. He walks slowly around, bending down first one branch and then another. I can’t imagine what he’s looking at. There are dozens of trees to be worked on and this is taking far too long. I am sure there are rules about pruning. Why can’t he just tell me what they are so I can get on with it?
Then as I watch and listen, I begin to understand how every tree is different and develops in its own unique way. Damaged or crossed branches need to be removed. One tree grows too densely; another needs branches tying down to achieve a satisfactory shape. It’s a matter of balance and developing a ‘feel’ for the tree. Once you have that, pruning becomes an easy task. After a while I’m usually in agreement with Clive as to which branches to cut. As my confidence
grows I enjoy pruning more and more, and eventually it becomes my favourite work in the orchard.
For some reason the Belle de Boskoops refuse to flower. I search through my books for an explanation and discover that fruiting normally occurs on horizontal boughs. To encourage flower formation the more upright ones should be weighed down. With that in mind, I set to work on my machine sewing dozens of little calico bags, which I fill with gravel. Then I spend a day hanging them in the trees so the branches are nicely flattened.
The following year there is still no fruit. I look at the Tydeman’s Early Worcesters growing between the Belle be Boskoops. They are full of apples carried on branches which shoot almost vertically towards the sky. It’s time for further research. Eventually, on a Dutch web site, I read that Belles are notoriously slow to mature and can take up to twelve years before they produce fruit. It seems a likely explanation, but I’m not exactly thrilled, since it means we may still have another three years to wait for their apples.
There’s an enormous web strung between two rows of trees. It’s been made by a golden orb weaver spider who sits motionless in its centre, waiting for her prey. Her body is silver grey and her long slender legs are striped with red. The web glistens in the sunlight for it’s made of golden thread. It’s so strong that when I pull it with my finger it doesn’t break. Fortunately for the spider I only drive the tractor down every second row when I’m spraying, so I won’t have to disturb her.
There are many smaller spiders hidden within the apple trees. Their papery golden egg sacs hang down in strings from the branches. I need to protect the trees from apple scab, but I try to avoid spraying directly onto the spiders. As I begin, the larger ones scuttle into the dark security of the tree guards and the smaller ones leap out into space, hanging on silken thread from the boughs until I’ve finished.