The Silver Bough (35 page)

But once again she turned away from temptation and set about picking another tree’s heavy, ripe crop, settling each glossy red apple carefully in its nest of shredded paper as she fought off memories of how he’d looked at her; his eyes and his smile. But she had sent him away. It was pointless. She would never see him again.

Another question began to bother her. Why had she planted these apple trees? Why had she gone to so much trouble in her quest to reproduce Appleton’s Fairest? With what purpose? Who was it
for
? Not just the golden apple, but all of them, more apples than she could eat by herself in a year. If it was just a way to pass the time, more interesting than playing endless games of solitaire, but at base no different, then her life
should
have ended when Sam’s did, and she was still alive, a prisoner serving out her term only because she was a coward, frightened to kill herself, yet too scared to live.

It was not the first time she’d had such thoughts, but it was the first time she’d seen, opposed to death and time-serving, a real alternative, an opportunity she could reach out and take, if only she was brave enough.

She carried the heavy trug full of apples out of the walled orchard, across the meadow, and into her garden, where the sight of the large, blue-covered book lying on the table claimed her attention. She decided to take it back to the library, where it belonged. It was a relief to have a simple, straightforward task to perform, a release from thoughts that had begun to circle upon themselves and become obsessive, and the prospect of seeing Kathleen again was unexpectedly cheering. Maybe it wasn’t too late to apologize and make up for her antisocial behavior; maybe a friend was just exactly what she needed.

As she was turning the car on the paved area in front of her house, preparatory to driving down the steep hill, Nell noticed a line of fog hiding the horizon. More surprisingly, the fog had rolled in to land just beyond the place where the road was blocked, cutting off her view of the road beyond Appleton, yet the road on the near side of the landslide, going into town, was clear. How peculiar.

She couldn’t see any fog at all after she’d descended her hill. As she pulled up and parked on the empty street in front of the library she realized it was shut. It was obviously later than she’d thought. The clock in her car—a venerable secondhand Volvo—didn’t work, and she didn’t wear a watch because she didn’t have to; she’d always had a pretty good sense of time. She could look at the sky and judge the hour within five or ten minutes; just now, she thought it could not be later than half past five.

She got out of the car, the book in her hand, thinking that she could try the library house, which was the building abutting the museum at the end of the block. Turning in that direction, she noticed a small child standing on the corner: a little girl dressed in a stained pink tee shirt and shorts, with dirty bare feet, scabby knees, and scratched legs, her hair a long, uncombed brown tangled cloud who stared at her with a fierce, accusing glare. She felt a startled, queasy jolt of recognition, a start of anxiety, almost as if the child was her own long-forgotten responsibility.

It was ridiculous. She’d never had or wanted a child; she didn’t even
know
any children. Yet as she continued to look at this one—who stared angrily, implacably back—the feeling of recognition didn’t decrease, and her anxiety grew. The kid couldn’t have been much more than five. What was she doing out on her own? And those bare feet—she could gash her foot on a broken bottle or, worse, step on a rusty nail. Somebody should be looking after her. Where were her parents? What were they thinking to let such a young child out on her own?

There was no one else anywhere in sight; there was no one but Nell to take responsibility, so she did, stepping forward, making an effort to fix a friendly, unthreatening expression on her face. “Hello, what’s your name? I’m Nell.”

The little girl’s eyes widened. Without answering, she whirled around and ran across the street. Halfway up the next block she stopped and looked over her shoulder: a look that dared, or invited, Nell to follow.

Nell didn’t have to run. For all the energy the little girl poured into her movements—arms and legs both pumping away—she was not moving very fast. By walking briskly Nell was able to close most of the distance between them, at which point she slowed down again rather than catch her up. She didn’t want to frighten the child.

They passed a church and a tennis court, then a block of flats built half a century earlier in ugly, utilitarian concrete. She wondered if the child’s home might be there—it was the sort of place anyone might run away from—but the little girl dashed by without giving it a second look. She only paused at the top of the hill, where there was a choice of directions. To the right, the road ran down toward the town center; straight ahead it offered access to a crescent of handsome old houses and a hotel, while on the left it doglegged down the hill again, past more houses, before joining the wide Esplanade that followed the coastline.

It was the downhill route the girl chose, but she did not stick to the road for long. Abruptly she swerved into a driveway or alley running between two houses. It was paved, but only wide enough for a single vehicle and heavily overgrown with bushes and trees of various kinds. A crookedly leaning sign near the entrance announced in faded letters:
ACCESS TO HOUSES ONLY
.
KEEP CLEAR
.
NO PARKING
.

To enter the narrow, shadowy lane was to plunge into twilight. Up ahead she saw the pale pink of the little girl’s tee shirt, and she had an unnerving flash of
déjà vu
. Although she did not remember it herself, she’d been told by relatives that for almost a year after her parents’ death she’d refused to settle down, taking off every few days without a word of warning and with nothing but the clothes she was wearing—once it had been her pajamas and bunny slippers—to walk and walk in an endless, hopeless search for “home.” She either did not understand, or could not accept, that the house where she’d lived with her parents—the only place that meant “home” to her—was not only occupied by strangers now, but was also hundreds of miles away, in another city.

The alley ended in a cul-de-sac; straight ahead she saw a row of four identical, run-down, dingy white cottages, the spaces in front of them taken up by as many parked cars. The little girl had stopped running, but Nell could not guess if that was because she had come home, or because she’d only just realized she was trapped. Fencing ran along behind the terrace of cottages and on either side, marking off property boundaries. Her only escape was back along the narrow road by which she’d come. Nell stopped still in the mouth of the alley, conscious that she was blocking the girl’s retreat, and waited.

The girl walked toward the end house, then paused and deliberately turned and looked back at her. She might have been trying to communicate something by her intent gaze, but Nell didn’t know what. Still without a word, the child turned away, took a few steps forward, and vanished into the house.

Nell followed, and, then, as she went closer, she stopped and stared in surprise. The house on the end of the row was a mere shell. No one could live there. Although the outer walls remained standing, the roof was gone, and there was not much left of the interior.

Hide-and-seek,
she thought, and stepped forward, up to the gaping doorway through which she’d seen the child go, eager now to bring the game to an end. But the girl had vanished. Inside the ruined building were some piles of rubble overgrown with weeds, and nothing else. Nothing larger than a cat could have hidden there. She gazed all around, dismayed and a little frightened as she understood who the child reminded her of, why she’d felt such a strong jolt of recognition. It was herself, of course. There was a picture of her taken shortly before her parents’ death that showed a cleaner, happier child, but one with the same fierce gaze, scabbed knees, and long brown hair.

Just to be sure, she searched every inch of the ruin, and even went behind it in case a real child had tricked her by slipping through the back window and was crouching out of sight. She was still pursuing this pointless search when a large, slatternly-looking woman came out of the house next door to ask, in a pointedly hostile voice, if she needed any help at all.

“I’m sorry—I thought I saw a little girl go in there. I was worried in case she was lost. But I guess…I must have been mistaken.”

The woman’s hostility cleared away at the sound of an American accent. “You’ll be a visitor, then? I thought you’d all left on Saturday night. Dunno why
you
stayed. There won’t be any more planes now, you ken. You’ll have to take whatever happens along with us.” The woman’s eyes alighted on the large book she was still clutching.

“Is that your book of maps? It looks an old one. That’s probably how you came to get lost. Shall I show you where you are?”

She responded without thinking to the outstretched hand and gave her the book. “It’s not maps,” she said, uneasily. “And it’s not mine. It belongs to the library. I was just going to return it. It’s about apples.”

“Apples! Now there’s something my family used to know something about—or so they say. It’s from our library here, you say? Do you mind if I look?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

The woman opened it to the first illustration and sucked in a long breath of appreciation. “My! That
is
fine! No one’s seen one of
them
in fifty years.”

The woman herself could not have been much more than forty, and Nell narrowed her eyes skeptically. “But you know what it is?”

“Oh, yes. Me mum had a picture—not as nice as this, mind, but we always thought it was something special. And of course we knew the stories. Me granddad came from one of the families planted the first orchards here.”

“I’ve seen an apple just like that hanging on a tree,” said Nell, suddenly glimpsing a way out, the chance to hand over responsibility to someone who knew what to do with it.

The woman eyed her calmly. “But you haven’t picked it.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Sure you would.” She closed the book without looking any further into it, gave it a soft tap, and handed it back to Nell. “You’ll have read all about it. You know that you must share it with your man.”

“My man’s dead.”

“And you think the world came to an end, aw, poor you,” she jeered gently. “But the world didn’t end, did it? You went on living. And now it’s time for you to find a new man. Just get on with it,” she finished impatiently. “There’s not much time left, you know.”

“You’re not real,” said Nell suddenly. “I’m imagining this, just like I imagined that little girl.”

The woman laughed, showing crooked, overcrowded teeth. “You think I’m your conscience? Well, listen to your conscience, dearie!” Her hand darted forward and she seized a bit of flesh on Nell’s arm and gave it a vicious pinch.

Nell fell back, shocked.

“There, you felt that, didn’t you?” The woman laughed again and nodded with satisfaction. “This is no dream. It’s all really happening—yes, lots stranger things than meeting me, I’m sure! You’ve been chosen.”

“Why me? I don’t want it. You have it. Share it with your man and have your heart’s desire.”

“
My
man. Oh no, oh no.” She chuckled.

“Well, why not, if it’s supposed to be so wonderful? You ought to leap at the chance.”

“And I would’ve, ten or fifteen years ago. But I kicked out my last worthless boyfriend two years ago and—funny thing!—nobody’s shown any interest in me, ’less I’m buying a round. I’ve got four kids, and nobody but me’s interested in them, neither. I couldn’t leave ’em to fend for ’emselves, now, could I? Reckon it was one of mine you saw just now, playing some trick,” she added, nodding in the direction of the ruined house.

Nell didn’t bother to argue with her. “Thanks for your help,” she said flatly, turning away.

“Thanks for yours, and all,” the woman called after her. “You’ll do what’s right, in the end. You’re pretty enough to be the Apple Queen.”

It was still light enough to be considered daylight in front of the houses, but a few seconds later, as she emerged from the gloomy, tunnel-like driveway onto the road, night had fallen. She sucked in a shocked breath and looked around, wondering if she was starting to suffer blackouts. How long had it taken her to walk those few short yards? She couldn’t even guess what time it was now, but it was certainly well after sundown. The streetlights were on, and away down the hill she could see the glimmer of lights strung along the pier. Here and there in the harbor the lights on the boats gleamed like fireflies in the darkness of sea and sky. She shivered, chilled in spite of the warm, still air, and set off at a brisk walk for the library house, praying that Kathleen would be in.

Just as she reached the street that ran along behind the library she saw a bright light come on in the garden—probably a motion-sensitive security light. Going closer, she saw a figure standing in the library garden, and, as she reached the iron gates, recognized the librarian standing very still and staring up at a lighted window in the side of the building.

“Kathleen?”

The woman started violently.

“Kathleen, it’s me, Nell—can I come in?”

“Nell! Oh, thank goodness! Just wait, I’ll unlock the gate.” She hurried over and grappled noisily with the cumbersome lock before finally managing to swing it open. “Oh, my, it’s good to see a friendly face!” She peered up at her earnestly. “Can I ask you to do something for me? Just look over at the library and tell me if you can see a light from
inside
the building.”