by Gee, Maurice
Ellie closed her eyes again. The music, the orchestra, had a richer brown; the violin stepped out front and then stepped back. Its sound was yellow, orange, red. Ellie smiled. She opened her eyes when it was over and found the woman, Anerdi, watching her.
‘Did you like that?’
‘Yes, it was good.’
‘Do you know what it was?’
Ellie shook her head. ‘I don’t listen very much.’
‘Brahms.’
‘Uh huh,’ Ellie said. He was a name, like Mozart and Beethoven and the rest.
‘Audrey doesn’t like music, it upsets her.’ She signalled to the woman in the shed. ‘Turn it off, Audrey. I’ve got a visitor.’
Audrey went into the house and stopped the new piece.
‘Now, who are you?’
‘I’m Ellie Crowther. I’m picking for Jim Barchard, over there.’
‘I’m Frances Anerdi. I get called Fan. Audrey, come and say hello. Audrey is a weaver. Have you seen her work?’
‘No,’ Ellie said. She stood up and shook hands with Audrey, who smiled and blushed. Fan Anerdi, with the pink cheeks, would never blush. She would probably not want to shake hands either. All the same, she smiled at Ellie and said, ‘I’ve seen you sketching.’
‘I do it when I’m feeling good,’ Ellie said.
‘You’re not an art student, then?’
‘No, I’m a librarian. An apple picker now.’ She wondered if Fan would have sent her away if she hadn’t sketched. ‘What I really came for – Jim told me you might let me borrow some books.’
‘What sort?’
Ellie was tempted to say D.H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, or Margaret Drabble perhaps – recommend herself. Instead she shrugged: ‘Something light. To pass the time.’
Fan Anerdi’s smile seemed disdainful and amused, as though she understood Ellie’s hesitation while scorning her choice.
‘Audrey has plenty of that sort of thing, haven’t you, Aud?’
Surprisingly, Audrey laughed. ‘Don’t be a snob, Fan.’ She winked at Ellie. ‘She reads romances.’
‘I do not. Chase him, Audrey. He’s doing it again.’
‘Shoo!’ Audrey cried, running stiff-hipped on to the lawn, where a tui had swooped from a tree beyond the garden and bullied another away from the jar of yellow water.
‘He thinks it all belongs to him. That’s honey water. There are five jars out there in the trees, enough for all. But it’s his domain. He spends all his energy driving the others away.’
‘Can he drink it all?’ Ellie said.
‘Of course not. He’s a capitalist. He’s J.P. Morgan.’
Ellie laughed, although she had no idea who J.P. Morgan was. Audrey came back.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, no. I didn’t come for –’
‘Tea, Audrey, please,’ Fan said. ‘And you will stay, unless you’re bored.’
‘No, I’m not bored. You’ve got a beautiful place. I could live here.’
‘It’s been hard work. Mostly hers,’ Fan said, as Audrey went into the house. ‘But I don’t like to praise her too much or she gets embarrassed.’
‘What sort of weaving does she do?’
‘Rugs. Brown rugs. They’re comfortable if a little bit the same. She breeds her own sheep for the wool. Audrey is capable. Don’t underestimate her.’
‘Is she the one who painted rainbows on your letterbox?’
‘Well I certainly didn’t.’
Ellie wondered if they were lesbians or only friends. The feeling they gave was of a married couple: fondness and spite, service and familiarity. Fan was not necessarily boss.
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Twenty-three years. Since the war. It was just a cow paddock when we came.’
‘You’ve made it lovely.’
‘Audrey did that. I mostly watched.’
‘It’s her place, not mine,’ Audrey said, coming from the house. ‘She’s the moneybags. I’m penniless. I do the work.’
‘Well,’ Ellie said, uncomfortable, ‘I suppose that makes it belong to you both.’
‘Exactly,’ Fan said. ‘So pipe down, Audrey. She planted every one of those trees. And she built our two studios there with her own hands. Stop blushing. Make the tea.’
Audrey went back into the house. The tui swooped and drove a smaller one away. ‘I’ll do it,’ Ellie said. She chased the bird, clapping her hands, then walked to the back of the garden, where paddocks dropped away to wattle groves and tea-tree groins. The sea, white in the sun, ended in a horizon so wide Ellie imagined she could see it curve. There were millions of apples hanging on trees along this stretch of coast. They ripened in the sun, enriched their colours, plumped themselves; yet Ellie could not see them – not even Jim Barchard’s crop – could only feel, as though a fullness were in reach, as though she had only to stretch out her hands.
She turned and looked at the house. Russet-coloured fowls were advancing on to the lawn, drawn perhaps by the hope of crumbs from afternoon tea. Fan Anerdi and Audrey Webster were like women in one of those garden watercolours Ellie had seen reproduced in books, where everything was colour and light, where the shade was light. They carried a wicker table on to the lawn. Fan wore a dress hanging free, as though it had no one inside it. Green and blue: colours people used to say must never be worn together. Audrey folded out two canvas chairs. She walked up the lawn through the fruit trees.
‘Tea,’ she said.
‘What does she do in her studio?’
‘She paints. Fan paints. Nothing else really matters to her.’
You do, Ellie wanted to say, and as if she had picked up the thought, Audrey gave a small embarrassed laugh: ‘I just do my weaving so she has company.’
‘But people buy your rugs, I suppose.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Audrey said, sounding surprised.
‘Do they buy her paintings?’
‘Oh yes. Much more than they used to. She’s just put up her prices. She’s getting quite pleased with herself. Come and have some tea, Ellie. We’ll sort out some books later on.’
Ellie sat on one of the folding chairs, while Audrey set the table with milk, sugar, jam and a bowl of whipped cream. She made a second trip to the house for mugs of tea and a plate of scones.
‘A Devonshire tea,’ Ellie said, delighted. ‘I used to serve them once at a hotel I worked at in Scotland.’
‘How old are you?’ Fan said.
‘Twenty-six.’
‘That’s older than most pickers.’
‘Yes. I’m kind of marking time.’ She did not want to explain more than that, or question herself. Working in the orchard had seemed to give her a space where she need not think. ‘What sort of painting do you do?’
Fan looked at Audrey. ‘Blabbermouth.’
‘You love it,’ Audrey said.
‘I saw your easel through the window,’ Ellie said. She had peered in as she and Audrey came down the lawn. ‘I’ve never met a painter before. Can I see inside?’
‘I’m not in the mood,’ Fan said. ‘I want to see some of your drawings first.’
‘They’re no good,’ Ellie said. But the pleasure she had felt in them in the last few days made her add, ‘I do them for fun.’ There was no fun, she might have gone on, unless she satisfied herself, but that seemed to say they were good in some way after all. Ellie ate a scone. She remembered Mrs Nimmo: If you really want to know something, the best thing is to ask.
‘Where does Anerdi come from?’ she said.
‘Oh, Anerdi,’ Fan said, in a tone that meant a person not the name. Audrey laughed.
‘He was a young man I met once,’ Fan said.
‘Once too often,’ Audrey said.
‘He sat down at my table in a cafe in Nice. Really, Audrey, there’s no need to laugh. I was very happy for a time.’
‘I just meant the name,’ Ellie said. ‘It sounds Italian.’
‘It’s a kind of hybrid, like him. Italian and Fr
ench. That mix is common all along that coast, with its history. I married Mr Anerdi for a short time. And I liked his name much better than Clark, which I was before. So I kept it.’
‘Was that long ago?’
‘Do I look so old? It happened before the war. I left him where I found him, in a cafe in Nice, and went to England. I had some trouble with “Anerdi” there. Italian, you see. It was hard to convince people it was French.’
‘Did you stay for the war?’
‘Oh I’m English, can’t you tell? Audrey is the New Zealander, aren’t you Aud?’
‘We both are now.’
‘Nonsense. I’m nothing. I belong to this bit of land.’
‘Is that what you paint? This place?’
‘No painting. Not today. Audrey will show you how to do weaving if you want. Or how to milk the cow.’
‘This cream comes from our cow,’ Audrey said. ‘Don’t worry if Fan seems a bit rude.’
Fan threw half a scone at the hens. They chased it like a football on the lawn. ‘I’ve had enough reminiscing. And my studio is not a gallery. If I ask to see your drawings I’m not just being polite. You sat out there for two hours this morning.’
‘I was doing things out of my head.’
‘What things?’
‘Faces mostly. People I’ve met.’
‘Useless, I’d say,’ Fan said.
‘Oh Fan, you don’t know,’ Audrey said.
‘Drawing is a trade and you’ve got to be practical, not play games.’
She got up and went into the house.
Audrey smiled at Ellie. ‘She’s cross because of Nice. Let her simmer down.’
‘I’d better go.’
‘Oh no, you need books. Come and see what I do. Bring your tea. I call it my workroom, not a studio. That’s just Fan.’
Ellie admired the rugs, which Fan had described accurately: comfortable. She picked handfuls of raw wool from a box in the corner.
‘I was a fleeco once,’ she said.
‘Were you? I’m a farm girl. Taranaki. It’s mostly dairy there. I get Jim Barchard to do my shearing. Do you know how to spin?’
Audrey demonstrated, drawing out fat threads then fine ones, expertly. ‘I knit jerseys too, but not for sale. They’re for my friends. Ah, there she is. She’s changed her hat, that’s a good sign. And she’s got some books.’
Fan was wearing a straw hat with a floppy brim. It made her less severe.
‘Have you ever seen good paintings?’ she asked.
‘I tried to see the Mona Lisa in the Louvre but people were standing ten deep,’ Ellie said.
‘What else?’
‘I saw the ones by Goya in Madrid. And all the things in Florence. Lots of stuff.’
‘Lots of stuff,’ Fan said. She raised her eyebrows at Audrey, and Ellie became impatient at being examined and marked.
‘I liked Goya. I liked El Greco. What else would you like to know?’
Audrey gave a nervous laugh.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Fan said. ‘I haven’t been to those places for so long. I like to hear. Did you see any modern stuff? “Stuff” is perfectly all right.’
‘Some,’ Ellie said. ‘I can’t remember all of it. Picasso. Matisse.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Bits. I thought some was just mad.’
‘It can seem that way,’ Fan said. ‘But I’m glad you approved of “bits”. Especially Matisse.’
‘I liked the colours. And the shapes.’
‘I’ve got a book of drawings by him. Borrow it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And here’s Cézanne. I think he would have been happy here. In Nelson, I mean. Painting it. Don’t read, just look at the pictures.’
‘She wanted novels, Fan,’ Audrey said.
‘Well, she can have them. Go and get some.’
‘She might like to choose her own.’
‘She can choose next time. Go on. Shoo.’
Audrey went into the house. Ellie laid the books on the lawn by her chair.
‘Do you always bully her so much?’ she said.
Fan looked startled. ‘That’s not bullying. We’re giving each other friendly little taps. Audrey and I are old friends, dear.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
‘Tell me about yourself. Apple pickers are usually boys and girls.’
‘I’m not old. It’s just, I’ve been away for two years and I don’t know if I’m home yet.’ She told Fan, and Audrey when she came back, about her time overseas, then about House 4 and working in libraries and the shearing gang. The hens clucked around the table and J.P. Morgan drove his competitors away. Ellie began to enjoy herself. She felt that she was gathering the bits of her life and holding them so the edges joined. She mentioned her men only in passing or not at all. It was interesting how they seemed to pass. Yet she had thought she loved several, and sex with them had been more than just fun. Where were they now? The question pleased her.
‘You should smile. It lightens your face,’ Fan said. ‘If I painted you I’d have lots of light.’
‘My mother –’ Ellie said, then stopped. ‘No, I’d better not talk about her.’
‘Why not?’
‘She got married again and had more children. I’ve got a half sister and two half brothers. She wanted to be happy, so did he; but somehow it’s turned out sad.’
Fan and Audrey smiled and nodded at her.
‘I don’t want to end up like that,’ Ellie said. It was something she had known, yet it seemed a discovery. ‘I suppose I should be back there helping her.’ But she knew she should not – and should not be guilty about it either.
She walked down the drive under the trees with her armful of books and turned in at the orchard and sat on her bed reading one of Audrey’s novels, which she loved: not a romance after all but a story by someone called Olivia Manning about a couple working for the British Council in Bucharest before the war. How had Audrey chosen so well, after only an hour? Audrey was nicer than Fan.
She glanced at the Matisse book before cooking her tea, and did not like it. Ellie thought she could draw better than that.
They were getting near the end of the Red Delicious when Boggsie told Ellie he was leaving. She had finished tea and was sitting at the table in the kitchen writing to her mother: ‘I’m the fastest packer and the best picker too. You get a kind of rhythm going and it starts being automatic, like breathing or the beating of your heart and if you break speed you’ve got to start all over again and build it up. It’s hard work though. I’m getting strong. I’m as brown as a Maori. You wouldn’t know me. I like it best getting to the top of a tree. You can stick your head out and look across the orchard at the sea. It’s like being a bird that’s learning to fly and someone throws you up in the air. I don’t mind breaking the rhythm then. Did you get the case of apples I sent …’
‘I’ve had enough of this shit, I think I’ll shoot through,’ Boggsie said. He sat down over the table from her and ran his tongue over his pink lips. ‘Want to come?’
‘What?’
‘I’m quitting.’
‘Goodbye.’
Boggsie leaned forward. ‘This guy’s making money out of us. We could be in business on our own.’
‘What, plant an orchard?’
‘I’ve got something in mind. It’s easier than that.’
She supposed he meant peddling dope. He drummed his fingers on the table, then slapped his hands down two or three times.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Yeah what?’
‘You’re not like these university sheilas. You’ve been around.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘We could set something up, you and me.’
‘I don’t do dope.’
Boggsie grinned. His lips had a way of spreading flat when he was pleased. ‘It’s easier than that. We could make maybe a hundred bucks a night. Even splits.’
She knew what he was going to say, yet
could not stop him. The muscles in her throat had paralysed.
‘See, I’d park down the road from the hall. Some weeknights we could do the big orchards. These guys don’t want much, it’s quick and easy. Fifteen bucks. You could get twenty. I wouldn’t send any rough buggers out. It’s not like you’d be a pro, Ellie. It’s just for the season. We should’ve done it sooner, eh?’
She leaned across the table and punched him in the mouth. It was soft and slippery, with hard teeth inside. He spun backwards, lurching from his chair, which fell with a clatter on the floor.
‘Bitch,’ he said, ‘I’ll rip your head off.’ He came around the table, bloody mouthed.
Ellie threw a sauce bottle at him, splashing more red on his shirt.
‘Get away from me,’ she screamed.
‘I’ll kill you, cunt,’ Boggsie said.
She tried to keep the table between them but he rammed it hard and caught her at thigh level against the sink. She scrabbled among the dirty knives but found that she’d picked up a spoon. He leaned across for her as Jim and Mike ran into the room.
‘Stop,’ Jim bellowed.
Boggsie caught her arm and tried to drag her over the table. Her shirt ripped at the shoulder. Then Jim had his arm round Boggsie’s throat and was bending him back. He flung him sideways, and Boggsie fell on hands and knees by the wall.
‘Stay there,’ Jim said. ‘You all right, Ellie?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Her throat was thick. She felt blind.
‘So what’s going on?’
‘Bitch hit me. Cut my lip,’ Boggsie slurred.
‘He …’
‘Take your time.’
Ellie swallowed. She pushed the table out and breathed deeply. ‘He wanted to put me in his truck and park outside the orchards and send men out.’
‘You prick, Boggsie,’ Mike said, moving at him.
‘Keep back,’ Jim said.
‘Bitch is making it up,’ Boggsie said.
‘No she’s not. He tried the same with me,’ Janice said from the door.
‘I knew he was bloody rubbish,’ Jim said. ‘Get your things together and get out.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Boggsie said, standing up and feeling his mouth.
‘You want the cops?’ Jim turned to Ellie. ‘You want to charge him?’
