Short Stories

The Apple Tree

Part One – Cricket

The ball smashed into the bat and a thunderous crack echoed, it soared over the waist-length fence. The umpire said ‘foul’ and an uproar of deafening cheering, from me. He had a favourite team and everyone knew it.

‘Dad, that’s unfair. It’s an easy six.’ Flinging his wooden bat aside, my brother kicked the tree stump. I was six, he was twelve.

Voices rose from inside, squeals and shouts; my cousins had arrived. Time for him to get his revenge. ‘We have a new umpire, thanks Dad, you can retire.’ My brother glared at me.

Dad gave me a pitying look, ‘play fair,’ he said and abandoned me.

The racket from my cousins was a comfortable bubble. The neighbours knew we were home. Jumpers & shoes askew, a trail from the front door. Flying through, a quick hello to all the adult faces, barely acknowledging their parents, they ran through the open patio.

The playing field dipped at the corners of the garden, no more real umpires, the older siblings call the shots. We abandoned the cricket ball. Grass tickled my naked toes as we collected the fallen apples. The tree towered over us & offered itself as the perfect wicket. Apples replaced the plum red cricket ball, graced the air in an underarm bowl, an overarm throw, and if you were showing off, a quick apple spin off the floor.

We pretended we were using the rotten ones; the riper an apple the better the smack. Slicing them into halves, three quarters or even tiny chunks with what would have gotten you a six, whacking into the garden fence boundaries.

I’d run the length of the back garden out of breath, past the shrubs, the strawberries and the mint leaves all to catch the largest piece of an apple. I lunged forward, sliding, grazing knees and trouser legs with a grass green sheen to finish that life or death catch. Having missed, I’d break and enter into the sacred vegetable garden. On tip toes, dodging carrot roots and fresh mud patches to retrieve the resilient apple, while my older cousins looked on. Always making the smaller ones take on the vegetable patch obstacle course, in case they got caught.

We played until dinner time, when the best apples were cut into segments, dusted with salt and pepper, and gorged on by their pickers. The quicker you ate, the faster you got back to the garden, we scrammed, getting in every second of play before the adults roared from the sidelines.

‘Come back and eat properly, otherwise I’m taking you home.’ My aunt shouted.

‘It’s time to go home, you need to sleep.’ An uncle roared.

‘The sun is gone. Dark now. Come inside, it’s too late.’ We were never told to come in because of the racket, our voices were a comfort to everyone.

Part Two – Newspaper

The most constant, reliable item we had was a newspaper. Well, all the newspapers. The early morning icy mist clinging to the windscreen didn’t know what hit it when we came along. We scrunched yesterday’s news into flimsy little balls & scrubbed away the droplets.

The piles of newspaper, only ever dating back to a month beforehand, were kept somewhere reliable. The toilet is the perfect place for the written word. Because when that tissue runs out, you can always rely on this morning’s face to wipe your bum. It’s also good for the other kind of food waste.

Need to separate things & pack them away in your suitcase? Newspaper is the answer. Want to play Pass The Parcel on the cheap? Get together the last two day’s current events and wrap away. Got a smudge on your window that you can’t get rid of? We all know a measly clothe will not do. But don’t you dare step on the written word. It doesn’t go on the floor. It has always got a place high above, kicking it will get you whacks around the head. No, we only reserved newspaper for the best of things.

Part Three – Written in Stone

The concrete is fresh, soft, amiable. He writes our names with a stick. One after the other, in age order. Eyebrows furrowed with concentration. A small audience, each pushing away the other’s shoulders and scrambling to see what happens. We’re told to stay away from the cement. The walkway from the patio to our oasis. We go out to our mini jungle keenly, waiting to show the ones who haven’t seen.

‘Look’ we say, ‘this one is yours’. Some cannot read. But we help each other out. The older ones taking charge. There are our names, all of them, cemented into the ground we’d walked over hundreds of times without looking. Eyes glinting, grins gleaming we run to our tree, swing on the thickest branch with so much glee. Arms holding tight, the older ones climb to the top, say they can see the names perfectly. Making us glow with envy. But before long all is forgotten when they rain down on us with the bittersweet apples. Grabbing a few & running for cover, our gran is waiting inside with a knowing look.

Eager & hungry faces staring at her, waiting for her magic, the secret ingredients. A light dusting of pepper & salt on the fresh apples that were launched, to even out the bitterness. Same goes for our oranges. A habit we’ll take & turn it into one of our ways for the rest of our days.

Teeth biting into the wedges, sweet sourness spreading down your tongue & the roof of your mouth. The apples still cool from being amongst the throng on the treetop. I would decide I had enough, my fair share quota complete & abandon it for the rolled-up roti, with a spread of butter & sugar to run around with. Back into the abyss of the back garden; back to our apple tree.