The Scent of Apples

by Jacquie McRae

  The group were all tanned and groomed, and reminded me of dressage ponies.

  ‘How do they pick? Who’s the most beautiful?’

  ‘Nah, it’s about who’s the most manipulative. Whoever can con the most people into wanting to hang out with them gets to be the winner. You just have to be pretty to be in the running.’

  ‘You’re making this up.’

  Charlie shook her head as she spooned more macaroni cheese into her mouth.

  ‘Nope, it’s just all part of the social hierarchy bullshit. Where’ve you been, Libby?’

  My old school was so small that everyone played together. Now I get why Lucy was such a bitch. She was obviously used to being the Queen Bee, and I mucked it up by not bowing down to her.

  I looked at Charlie. She’s both smart and beautiful. ‘You could have been the leader, Charlie.’

  ‘Of that lot? God, no! It matters to them what you wear, what you say, who you talk to. I’d have to have a lobotomy just to cope. I prefer their sneers.’

  I wonder how you get to be as confident as Charlie. She’s like a self-contained island, governed by her own rules. For some reason she’s chosen to let me be in her world. I feel sick in my stomach. I’m such an imposter.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie’s rucksack perches on the end of her bed. A sweatshirt’s red sleeve pokes out the top.

  ‘I can’t believe they’re finally letting us out for the weekend.’

  ‘You make it sound like we’re in prison.’ I unzip my suitcase.

  Charlie looks at me like I’m mad. ‘And the difference is?’

  Charlie’s quiet spell only lasted one night. She woke up early the next morning, climbed over the school pool fence and went for an illegal morning swim. She came back glowing.

  ‘So what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home, Libby?’

  I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘I’m going to catch my horse, Zorro, and canter him down the beach.’ She looks at me. ‘You must want to do something?’

  ‘I’ll go visit my nan, even though she doesn’t remember who I am.’

  ‘Does she have Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘No one’s really sure what the problem is. She went funny when my poppa died.’

  ‘That’s sad. It’s amazing what the brain can do though. I had a cousin who had a motorbike accident and ended up in a coma. Mum took me to see him a few times. He had tubes coming out of all sorts of places. Some taking stuff away and others giving him life.’

  ‘Didn’t that freak you out?’

  ‘No, I found it fascinating. His body was lying there on the hospital bed and yet it was like it was empty.’ She grins. ‘I remember looking around the ceiling, thinking I might catch him floating around up there.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He woke up after two weeks. I was so disappointed – not that he woke up, but that he didn’t remember a thing about where he had been.’

  ‘That’s cool that he woke up. I don’t think my nan’s going to, though.’

  ‘Sorry, that must be really hard. But if she’s breathing there’s hope.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And at least you still get to see her.’

  I nod.

  ‘OK Libby, time to brighten things up. Let’s go find Matron and torment her.’ She has a wicked grin on her face.

  You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to work out that Matron and Charlie have drawn swords. I’m not sure who drew the battle line first, but neither one looks like backing down. Matron will ping Charlie for the smallest thing, like a sock not pulled up properly, and Charlie returns the favour by breaking every rule she can find.

  *

  I spot Mum in the auditorium before she sees me. She has a way of holding herself that’s unique and that makes her taller than she really is. Her grey woollen pencil skirt and matching jacket is too hot for this time of year, but it does make her look elegant.

  I must have been such a disappointment to her when I didn’t pop out all long-limbed and blonde. I took after Dad’s side of the family with my tree-trunk legs and frizzy hair. It’s amazing, really, that someone so beautiful could produce me.

  Watching her from a distance makes me realise how much I’ve missed home. I don’t know what gets into me, but I run up and throw my arms around her. She’s more surprised than me, and pulls back immediately. The look she gives me catapults me back to when I was five.

  I remember being excited about school, but somehow it hadn’t registered that I had to stay there on my own. I was fine as we walked through the playground, but clung to her hand when she went to leave. She managed to pry my fingers loose, so I grabbed hold of her skirt. She leaned down and took my face between her hands. She whispered, ‘Elizabeth. You’re a big girl now. People like us don’t act like this.’ I had no idea what she was on about, but it did make me pause long enough for her to escape my clutches.

  That feeling must have lodged somewhere inside me. I recognise the look she’s given me now, and it makes me feel stupid and small again.

  ‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ she says, cementing her lips into a half-smile.

  Next to us a girl called Doris, who has been nicknamed Baby because she cries herself to sleep every night, is sobbing so hard that watery stuff is dribbling out of her nose. Her mother has her arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her into her chest. The snot runs like a slithery trail down her mother’s blouse.

  Mum looks them up and down. I know she’s doing a quick inventory. She turns back to me and raises one eyebrow. I recognise the look of scorn.

  ‘Come on, Libby. Where’s your suitcase? We better get going.’

  I point to the foyer, where it’s piled up with the others. Charlie, her rucksack slung over one shoulder, waves out to me before disappearing in the crowd.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That’s my friend Charlie.’

  ‘Oh. You didn’t tell me she was Māori.’

  ‘Well, she’s Māori.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She looks around, and I’m thankful for all the other people around us. If they weren’t here I’d be getting a lecture about keeping my circle of friends wide. She won’t come straight out and say that she doesn’t like Māoris, but I’m sure that’s the truth, though I doubt that she has ever taken the time to speak to one.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Actually, he didn’t come.’

  ‘Doesn’t he want to see where you’ve exiled me to?’

  She ignores my comment, but strides a little faster towards our car. My suitcase keeps banging into my heel as I drag it across the car park. She takes it from me and throws it into the boot, and slams it shut.

  I breathe in the smell of the leather upholstery. Mum slides in beside me and clips on her seatbelt.

  ‘Buckle up, Elizabeth.’

  I do as I’m told, and watch in the rear-view mirror as the brick and stone buildings of the school disappear. A crushing sense of loss envelops me, but I’m not sure why.

  *

  The box hedging around the front of our house tells me something’s wrong. It looks like it’s been decapitated rather than trimmed. I’ve seen Mum out in the garden when she’s in a mood, and nothing escapes the blades of her secateurs.

  She opens up the front door. The kauri panels and railings on the staircase glow from beeswax polish. The sight and smells are so familiar to me that I forget for a moment about the missing pieces. I half expect Nan to come shuffling out smelling of violets, and Poppa to sneak up behind and hug the breath from me.

  ‘Come on, Elizabeth.’ Mum gives me a nudge from behind. ‘Let’s put your things in your room.’

  I traipse up the stairs. The faded pink roses on the carpet and the creak on the fourth stair up remind me how much some things have stayed the same, and yet the silence in the house whispers to me that nothing is how it used to be. In my room I open up one of the dormer windows to invite the sweet smell of the orchard
air inside, and sit down on my bed.

  ‘So when will Dad be back?’

  She sits down opposite me and a look I can’t quite make out – is it sympathy? – rests in her eyes. Alarm bells start ringing.

  ‘Elizabeth.’ She stops, swallows and starts again, ‘Elizabeth, your father and I are having a little break.’

  ‘What do you mean – a break?’ My voice squeaks.

  She picks at some lint on her skirt. ‘Dad’s decided to move into town for a while until we can sort some stuff out.’

  ‘So are you getting a divorce?’

  ‘We’ll work things out. This is just temporary. Your dad will come around.’

  ‘So Dad wants a divorce?’ I stand up and pace around the room. Mum’s words feel like they’re being fired at me from a slingshot. I hope some movement might help me absorb them a little better.

  ‘He thinks he does at the moment, but he’s been under a lot of pressure. Playing the knight in shining armour up the road didn’t help. I told him it was Marion and Stan’s own fault for not having things sorted.’

  I was used to Mum’s lack of compassion, but sometimes she could still surprise me.

  ‘Once your dad gets things straight in his head, and he remembers the commitments he made to you and me, he’ll be back.’

  For a brief second our eyes lock. For a moment there is something that looks like helplessness in her eyes, then she shakes her head and gets up abruptly. My mum was brought up by strict Catholic parents. Asking her for a divorce would be like asking a Muslim if they’d like to try pig.

  ‘I promise, nothing will change for you. In fact, I think it’s best if we keep this to ourselves. You stay at school, and by the time this term is over everything will have gone back to normal.’ She smoothes down her skirt. I think her words are as much to reassure herself as they are for me.

  ‘How come Dad isn’t here to tell me all of this?’

  ‘I thought it was best coming from me. At the moment he’s not thinking right. He might make things scarier for you. I was against telling you at all, but your father insisted.’

  I sink back down onto the bed, my legs no longer willing to support me.

  ‘This just isn’t fair,’ I whine.

  ‘Try and put it out of your mind. It’s a nice day.’

  Out the window, heavy grey clouds are being bossed around by a strong wind.

  ‘We could do a little shopping at the mall and have lunch out somewhere,’ Mum says.

  For one hopeful moment, I think that I may have gone completely mad and imagined the last few minutes.

  ‘You did just tell me that you and Dad are breaking up?’

  She turns away from me and gazes out the window.

  ‘We’re having a break and then we’ll all go back to how we were.’

  ‘Mum, nothing can ever go back to how it was.’

  She turns back and smiles at me, but it looks more like a grimace. ‘We’ll see. Now, how about that shopping trip?’

  ‘I just got home.’ I slump down on my bed.

  ‘I’ll see you downstairs then.’ Mum hesitates, but then closes the door behind her.

  *

  Images of Dad play through my mind all afternoon, almost like he’s dead. I remember my sixth birthday party, when he dressed up as a clown. I was sitting on a barstool at the breakfast bar, sprinkling hundreds and thousands onto some buttered bread, when he came into the kitchen looking for his red nose. He had a curly wig on and a big painted red mouth. The nose was on an elastic band on top of his head, like sunglasses. Mum pulled it down and flicked it on his nose. I don’t recall their faces, but I remember the laughter. I haven’t heard that sound from either one of them in ages.

  *

  I tuck my dirty washing under my arm and take it downstairs to the laundry. I dump it in the basket, and as I pass by the kitchen I see Mum at the table. I watch from the doorway as she sorts buttons from an old biscuit tin into colour piles along our family dining table.

  She looks up and sees me.

  ‘What are you doing standing there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, do it somewhere else.’

  ‘Where are our photo albums?’

  ‘They’re locked away in a chest of drawers in the spare room. Why?’

  ‘I was going to put some photos up in my room.’

  ‘I’ll sort some out for you later; I’m busy right now.’

  I look at the buttons, stacked up neatly in their rows. ‘Yeah, you look really busy.’

  My words hit their target. Her whole face seems to screw up on itself. First her lips and then her eyes. I wanted to be mean, but now that I have I don’t feel any better.

  I flick the kettle on. ‘I was going to make a cup of tea; do you want one?’

  She stops sorting her buttons.

  ‘Since when do you drink tea?’

  ‘That’s what they teach us at that posh school you sent me to. Oh, and how to cross your ankles.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ The button-sorting gets faster, and she frowns like there’s a lot more to this tea-drinking than I’m letting on.

  ‘It’s just a cup of tea, Mum. The orange juice tasted bitter so I started drinking tea instead.’ I take Nan’s teapot down from the shelf. The multi-coloured pansies have started to fade, but it’s still my favourite thing in the kitchen.

  I pour the boiling water over the tea leaves and bring the pot and two cups to the table.

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen that pot on the table.’ Mum says.

  It has never occurred to me that Mum might miss Nan as well.

  ‘We should take it to her,’ I say on impulse.

  ‘She can’t remember people. I don’t think she’ll remember a silly old teapot.’

  ‘She might.’ Don’t be such a retard, I tell myself. Mum doesn’t miss anyone. ‘You know what, Mum, even if she doesn’t recognise the teapot, it might trigger something so she remembers us.’

  Mum’s heavy sigh makes me feel stupid, and then mad.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you think, Mum. I know that Nan still loves me. She just can’t tell me.’

  ‘Of course she loves you. I’m not trying to make you mad, I’m just being realistic.’

  I want to push her and her realism off her chair. Luckily for her, she pauses. But then she starts up again.

  ‘It’s tragic that you lost Poppa, but it’s time to move on now, Libby.’

  Her words cut straight through me. Since Poppa died it was rare to hear his name mentioned in our house. No one had said not to talk about him, but you could feel the tension when anyone did, so we all just stopped.

  ‘I lost my best friend, Mum. What’s the right amount of time to “move on”?’

  ‘I don’t know, but people do move on. They pull themselves together and get on with life. Not you, though. His death swept you away from us. You forgot that there was more than Poppa in your life. Your dad and I are still here, you know.’

  A small huh escapes my lips before I get a chance to clamp them shut.

  Mum gulps her mouthful of tea and glares at me. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, it looks like Dad wants out.’

  Mum picks up the teapot and the cups and takes them to the bench. The cups clatter against one another as she puts them in the sink.

  I’m in it now, so I keep going. ‘And I’m sorry, Mum, but just because you’re physically there doesn’t mean you are. Especially when Poppa died.’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about, Elizabeth. Your dad and Nan needed my attention, too. I thought it would be easier for you if we didn’t dwell on things. What should I have done?’

  I look down at my hands and start picking the skin around the nails. ‘I don’t know. But when I looked around for someone to talk to, no one was there.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but while I was talking to you, who would have kept the house going? The cooking, the cleaning – certainly none of you three hel
p out!’ She comes back and swipes all the buttons into the tin.

  ‘Why does everything have to be so tidy? God, when you die, do you want people to remember that you had a tidy house, or that you sat down and had a cup of tea with them?’

  Caught up in Mum’s scowl, I also see her fear.

  ‘Elizabeth, I don’t know where all this is coming from, but I don’t appreciate it. I’m sure you’re dying to see Toby, so why don’t you go out, and give me some peace.’ The fly screen door slams shut behind me. I carry the image of Mum up the path with me. I’m so pissed off with her, and yet the frightened look I saw in her eyes when she told me that Dad was taking time out makes me feel sorry for her.

  I pass by my old playhouse and see the egg cartons full of dried-up dirt sitting on the bench by the window. The little green leaves of the sunflowers have all shrivelled up and died. It was a stupid experiment anyway.

  Toby appears along the pathway, pushing a wheelbarrow full of willow cuttings. He strides over as soon as he sees me.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d be allowed out to play.’

  ‘I think I was sent out, actually.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s a good thing for me. How long have we got?’

  I look back towards the house.

  ‘Maybe a year.’

  Toby grins but makes no comment. I’ve forgotten that one of the things I love most about Toby is his ability to say nothing. When he used to find me hiding in the barn or down by the river as a kid, he never asked questions. He would just hold out his hand and walk along beside me.

  ‘I need to make some fences for the veggie garden. Do you want to give me a hand?’

  I look at the willow cuttings drying out in the sunshine.

  ‘Sure.’

  By the barn, Toby lines five of the bigger sticks on the ground. I take the thinner cuttings from the barrow and sit cross-legged in front of the sticks. I concentrate on weaving the cuttings under and over the supports. A tabby kitten sidles up to me and brazenly nudges me with her shoulder. When I don’t pat her she lies on my work.

  ‘Tallulah’s baby,’ Toby says.

  I scratch her stomach and she moves off my work and plonks herself down beside me.