Apples on the Snow…
Out on the far edge of our village, right where the ancient woods begin and the towering firs seem to prop up the heavens, sat the cottage of John Arthur Harris. He was a man as solid as oak, known throughout the county. Hed worked all his life in the forestry commission, knew every tree and hollow, every badger set, every twisting deer track for miles. His hands were like shovels, thick and calloused, stained dark by years of labor and sap, the stuff worked so deep into his skin it would never come out. And his heart? His heart seemed carved of the same old English oakreliable, faithful, but unbending and stern.
He and his wife, Margaret, spent thirty years together, the very picture of a devoted pair. Of an evening, youd pass their neat little gate and see them out on the porch: John quietly playing his accordion, Margaret humming along, their harmony so perfect youd sometimes stop in the lane just to listen. Their home was a jewelblue-painted windowsills the exact shade as Margarets eyes, hollyhocks nodding in the garden, not a weed in sight, every bed straight and proper.
I remember when they planted their apple orchard. John digging the rich, black earth with his great spade, Margaret holding the saplings upright, gently separating their roots as if she were brushing a childs hair, whispering, Grow strong and sweet for our childrens delight. John would look at her then, mop his brow, and smileso openly that hed never smile like it again. That orchard grew into a wonder, every April cloaking itself in white blossom, and in autumn the apples were so crisp, so generously sweet that you could smell them all the way from the lane.
But God took Margaret early. She withered away with illness, quick as a parched stem on the hearth, slipped away in her sleep, still holding Johns hand. He turned ashen with grief, but the tears never cameEnglishmen dont cry, so the saying goes. His jaw would grind and the muscles knot, and by morning his hair was white as hawthorn blossom.
He was left alone with Emily, their late blessing of a daughter. She was the light of his twilight years, the only thing binding him to this world or the edge of that shadowed forest. John doted on her in his own rough way, protecting her fiercely, never letting her stray too far, not even on the gentlest spring breeze. He was absolutely haunted by the fear hed lose her too, and the dread settled so deep it became his undoing. He watched over her too closely, never letting her out of his sight.
Youre my only hope, Emmy, hed say, his heavy hand trying to ease her hair. Youll grow up to keep the house. Ill leave all of this to you. You dont need the outside world, not really. Out there is full of disappointment, tricksters and wolves in mans clothing.
And Emily did growa vision, she was. Wheat-blonde plait down to her waist, as thick as a fist; eyes as blue as a June sky, just like her fathers. Her voice, though! When she sangout beyond the village, some slow old folk tuneso pure even the blackbirds would hush, and the farmhands out in the hayfields would stop their mowers and just listen, mouths half-open.
The women in the village wept at her songs, swore the child inherited Margarets talent, only brighter. It was a gift, plain and true. Emily longed to become a singer, move to the city, try for the conservatoire. She studied every music book she could get her hands on, picked out the notes, played worn records until they nearly snapped.
But John? John saw things the old, rural English way, with wariness and a kind of sly fear. Best bloom where youre planted, hed say. He feared the city like wildfirethought of it as something hungry, devouring. To him, cities were beasts that took and never gave back.
Not on your life! hed roar, loud enough to rattle the crockery. Youll work here, marry Peter from the next farmhes a good lad, building his own place. Youll have children, live decent, and none of this nonsense about becoming a performer! Not in my house!
Then, on one drizzly October day, the dam burst. Emilygentle, obedientpacked her little suitcase and stepped for the door. John lost all control, shouting and cursing.
If you go, I have no daughter! he spat after her. Youre dead to me! Dont come back!
She didnt look back, just disappeared into the rain. Johns axe landed square in the porch step, splinters flying out like blood. No daughter! he rasped into the silence. Dead and gone.
Twelve years passed. The village changed with the seasons; children grew up, some went off to the army, some married and raised their own. Johns cottage stood lonely, the orchard wild, branches gnarled and tangled, blue paint chipped, the porch lopsided, the old axe rusting where it landed, rotten as a wound.
Then last November, the frost hit hard and early. No snow yet, the ground black and iron-hard, the frost biting at minus ten. I was out that evening, passing byno smoke from Johns chimney. Never a good sign in winter.
I hurried over, pushed open the gateunlocked. Old Duke, the sheepdog, didnt even get up, just gave a single tail-thump, whining in his sleep.
Inside the cottage, it was colder than outside, a graveyard chill. Water in the pail frozen thick. The air heavy with the reek of sickness and old age. John was in bed, wrapped in his old overcoat, shaking so hard the bed rattled, his teeth chattering like hail.
John! I shouted. What do you think youre playing at?
His eyes opened, glazed and red, lost. Maggie he muttered, calling for his wife. Maggie, Im so cold wheres Emmy? Why isnt she singing? Tell her to sing The Green Willow
Delirious, I realised. Pneumonia. Hes burning up.
I stayed that night, stoking the ancient stove, waiting for the cottage to thaw, giving him injections. All night he tossed and turned, muttering about Emily.
Emmy, come back dont go into the woods wolves out there forgive me I only ever loved
I sat beside him, knitting and listening to his fever-dreams, weeping for the love this stern man still held, and the pain he caused with that love turned to chains.
By morning, the worst had passed. Hed sweated out buckets, the fever broken at last. Opened his eyes againclearer now, but full of that dark, dog-like sorrow.
Mary he rasped, hardly above a whisper, I waited for her, every day. Every morning Id look out the window; every night, listen for the gate.
I know, I told him, tucking up his blanket. She wrote. Emily sent lettersPat the postmistress told me.
She wrote? He sat up, eyes wide. Where are they? I boarded up the post box! I thought shed forgotten me! Thought shed wiped me out of her life!
Theyre all with Pat, and shes kept every one. I dashed out to fetch them from the post office, shivering in the dawn. Pat, groggy and baffled, rooted out an old biscuit tin stuffed with letters, and I took them back to John.
He read them with trembling hands, tears splashing down, blurring the words. Kissed photos of grandchildren, pressed the faces to his chest, traced their cheeks with his rough fingers.
Grandchildren, Mary I have two
There, in one letter, we found a torn scrap of a phone numberlast four digits lost. All we had was her address, some distant London borough. Writing would take an age, if she even got it.
Ill go! John insisted, trying to rise. Crawl there if I have to! Find her somehow!
Youll do no such thing, I snapped, pushing him back to bed. We do these things differently now. Its the twenty-first century.
Down the lane, I found Simon, the neighbours tech-savvy son, home from Bristol for the weekend. I told him the tale, handed over the bare details.
He adjusted his glasses, tugged his jumper. A bit of a challengebut lets give it a go. Facebook, FriendsReunited, maybe a bit of Google Whats her married name? Smith? Found her, I thinkstatus says, Missing home. Wait, Ill send a message: Hello Emily, this is Simon from Brook Lane. Your fathers ill and wants to see you. Please get in touch.
And we sat waiting. One hour, then two. Rural broadband is barely thatmodems flicker, wind howls, connection stutters. John sat beside me, white as his own sheets, gulping heart medicine with shaking hands.
She wont answer he muttered. Wont forgive I wouldnt, in her place. I cursed her, Mary.
Thenping! The sharp, digital sound made us startle.
She replied! Simon grinned. Heres her husbands number.
We called. The rings were endless, echoing, dull. My heart thumped.
A man answered, impatient. Hello? Who is this?
John could barely whisper. I had to nudge him hard. Its John Emilys father
A long silence. You could hear the mans breathing, taut and hostile. And then a womans voice: Let me have it, James! Hello? Hesitant, wary.
Emmy Johns voice rubble, tears threatening. Are you really there?
Silence, again. Ten seconds stretched forever.
Why are you calling? she finally asked, her voice trembling but steady. Whats happened?
Im dying, love, John said simply. Ive been a fool to you. Wrong in every way. I only wanted to hear your voice, just once. If you can ever forgive me.
She began to cry. Quiet, hopeless sobs.
I dont know, Dad she said at last. I waited so long. Sent so many letters into the void. I dont know if I can
Im not asking you to, not at once, John whispered. Just knowI loved you. In my own foolish way. I always did.
Well come, she said suddenly, voice tense. I cant let you die alone. Well be there. Wait for us.
John put the phone down. There was no joy in his faceonly relief and a deep, honest fear.
Shell come, he said. Out of duty. Will she ever forgive? Only God knows.
But Mary, he fretted, where will they stay? Its a mess, this place is falling apart! Ive nothing to show my son-in-law, my grandchildrenhow shameful!
Pull yourself together! I barked in my nurses voice. Well take care of it.
We roused the whole lane, scrubbed the house top to bottom. John wandered helpless, muttering, She wont know it Shell turn right round again.
Finally, the day came. A battered estate car pulled up. Emily stepped out, city-dressed, smart, proud. Her children and husband tumbled out after.
John stood at the porch, cap clutched in his broad hands. Emily made her way to the old gate, stopped. She looked at him, at the house, at the porch step where the axe once stuck. I saw the battle raging inside herhurt, childhood resentment, and a new, sharp pity for the bent old man.
John stepped off the porch, awkward. Hello, Emmy.
She stood staring a moment. Hello, Dad, she said quietly.
Then she hugged himtimid at first, as if he were a stranger. He froze, then crushed her to him, burying his face in her fur collar, trembling silently. She let him hold her, arms lowered, tears running down her cheeksnot with joy, but with the pain of lost years.
Inside, the air was tense, the children shy, her husband James stiffly polite. They ate quietly, only the sound of spoons.
John broke first, pouring himself a small whisky, hand unsteady. Thank you for coming. I dont deserve it. I cursed my own life without you.
James looked from his wife to John, saw the hurt in both, then sighed. Lets not dwell on the past. Were here because Emily never forgot. Shes too kind, your daughter. Far too kind. Lets drink to that at least.
Little Ben, Emilys youngest, suddenly piped up, Grandad, whys there no axe in the porch? Mummy said
Ben! Eat your supper, Emily snapped.
John looked at the boy, managed a wry smile. The axe rusted long ago, lad. My anger with it, too. Ill show you the woods tomorrowthe living trees.
The ice thawedslowly, but it thawed. For three days they all lived under one roof, learning each other all over again. John did his best to please, but always seemed afraid to say the wrong thing.
On the third evening, Emily came to the village surgery. Her eyes rimmed red, utterly worn.
Aunt Mary, she said, hands twisting in her lap, do you have something for a heavy heart? I can barely breathe.
I made her some strong mint tea. Still bitter?
She nodded, gripping the cup. I look at himso old, so frail, trying so hard I want to cry for him. But every time I remember that rain, the things he saidI feel small inside. I came thinking Id pour it all outhow I starved those first years, how alone I felt when little Lucy was born and no one sent a word
And did you tell him? I asked.
She shook her head. I couldnt. Hes paid his pricetwelve years in a prison of his own making. What would it do to hound him now?
Thats wisdom, Emily, I told her. Forgiveness doesnt mean forgetting. It just means letting go. Realising he hurt from fear, not malice. He loved you, sick with it, but loved all the same.
Emily drank her tea quietly. Today he warmed Lucys slippers by the fire, just like he did for me as a girl. And when I saw that, I felt something let go. Only a little, but enough. Well carry on, Aunt Mary. For the childrens sake. Maybe, in time, the old wounds will heal.
They left at weeks end, but promised to return in summerand they did.
By then, John had begun to change. No longer a lost old man, but the head of the family once more. He set the orchard to rights, and thenalmost miraculously, where the old trees seemed deadthere came blossom, white as a cloud, all down the lane.
One evening, walking past the house, I saw them on the porch: John and Emily, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun set, not talking, just present. Lucy wove a daisy crown around her head, running up and down the path.
John caught my eye, waved. His face was peaceful, light.
Emily smiled up at mesadness in it still, but no more bitterness.
Mary! John called. Come and have tea with Emilys apple preserveshe made enough for the Queen!
So I did. We sat there, sipping tea that tasted of apples and late summer.
Its true what they say: a broken teacup can be mendedtherell always be a crack, yes. But you can still drink from it. Sometimes, the tea tastes sweeter for it, as you cherish it more than any new one.
Lifes short, like these winter days. Blink and its dusk, blink again and its night. We always thinktheres time to forgive, to call, to come at Christmas. But later isnt promised. One day the house grows cold, the phone stays silent, the mailbox never fills again.
