Read Online The Scent of Apples by Jacquie McRae - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacquie McRae
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me.â
âOK, youâd better not keep her waiting. You know where to find me if you need me.â
I march off in the direction of the house but stop after a few metres. I turn and watch the back of him as he walks towards the barn. His broad shoulders look like they could carry my burden for me. Part of me wants to run after him and blurt out all my secrets. But the closer he gets to the barn, the more ridiculous the idea of telling him seems. I turn and take my loser self back to the house.
Mum stands with her hands on her hips, and I see her lips moving before I even get within earshot. I gather Iâm late for breakfast, and mumble an apology. Iâm smart enough to have learnt that itâs easier to let Mum have her rave than to try and defend myself. I duck past her and wash my hands in the sink. Dad is sitting at the table with the newspaper shielding his face.
âHi Dad.â
âMorning Libby.â He lifts his head up for a moment, but something in the business section pulls it straight back down.
I take a meal tray from beside the oven. They have little legs that pop out the bottom so you can rest them on something. They were meant to be used only on special occasions, but now I arrange a tray for Nan every morning.
I find Nanâs teapot with the multi-coloured pansies on it. I put in some tea leaves, pour boiling water on it and leave it to draw while I hunt through the drawer that has our place mats and linen. I take a creamy coloured piece of linen with crocheted edges.
âWhy canât you use one of the place mats that we can just wipe afterwards?â
âBecause she likes the cloth ones.â
âRubbish, she wouldnât have a clue.â
I ignore her bitchy comment. I know it drives Mum nuts that I choose the best linen to line the tray. It always needs hand-washing after Nan has spilt her food all over it.
Todayâs linen choice has a Victorian lady embroidered on each of the four corners. Each one has a bonnet on her head and a basket of flowers looped over one arm. Different coloured cotton has been used for every hooped skirt and bodice. Royal blues, luscious reds and vivid greens spill from their baskets. Nan embroidered this when she was a girl of sixteen and still dreaming about the man she would fall in love with. She tried several times to teach me this delicate craft, but after a while we both gave up.
I spoon a bowl full of porridge and place a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the tray. I ignore Mumâs look as I race outside to pick a flower. One night I stayed up late making a family of origami swans to place on her tray. Yesterday I gave her a few of my love-heart rocks. I put anything on that I think might jog her memory and make her remember us. I come back in clutching a small bunch of violets. I put them in a crystal bud vase.
âThat porridge will go cold if you donât stop fussing, Elizabeth. Youâd better be quick or yours will as well.â Mum takes a pot from the stove and ladles spoonfuls of porridge into three bowls lined up on the breakfast bar.
I pick up Nanâs tray and carry it along the passage to her bedroom. Our house was built in 1875, and Nan and Poppaâs room was once the servantsâ quarters. Close to the kitchen and away from the front of the house. At that time the room had no windows, but Poppa paid a builder to take out some of the old bricks and replace them with two large windows to let more light in. He got the glazier to make sash windows to match the others in the house, even though the old ones rattle around in the wind.
The room is in darkness. I place the tray on the bedside table and open the curtains. The coral tree is in full bloom. Nan and Poppa chose this room because of the access to the back garden. Some of the trees, like the eucalyptus, must have been planted about the same time the house was built. The coral tree is a South American tree. Ours reaches nine
âOK, youâd better not keep her waiting. You know where to find me if you need me.â
I march off in the direction of the house but stop after a few metres. I turn and watch the back of him as he walks towards the barn. His broad shoulders look like they could carry my burden for me. Part of me wants to run after him and blurt out all my secrets. But the closer he gets to the barn, the more ridiculous the idea of telling him seems. I turn and take my loser self back to the house.
Mum stands with her hands on her hips, and I see her lips moving before I even get within earshot. I gather Iâm late for breakfast, and mumble an apology. Iâm smart enough to have learnt that itâs easier to let Mum have her rave than to try and defend myself. I duck past her and wash my hands in the sink. Dad is sitting at the table with the newspaper shielding his face.
âHi Dad.â
âMorning Libby.â He lifts his head up for a moment, but something in the business section pulls it straight back down.
I take a meal tray from beside the oven. They have little legs that pop out the bottom so you can rest them on something. They were meant to be used only on special occasions, but now I arrange a tray for Nan every morning.
I find Nanâs teapot with the multi-coloured pansies on it. I put in some tea leaves, pour boiling water on it and leave it to draw while I hunt through the drawer that has our place mats and linen. I take a creamy coloured piece of linen with crocheted edges.
âWhy canât you use one of the place mats that we can just wipe afterwards?â
âBecause she likes the cloth ones.â
âRubbish, she wouldnât have a clue.â
I ignore her bitchy comment. I know it drives Mum nuts that I choose the best linen to line the tray. It always needs hand-washing after Nan has spilt her food all over it.
Todayâs linen choice has a Victorian lady embroidered on each of the four corners. Each one has a bonnet on her head and a basket of flowers looped over one arm. Different coloured cotton has been used for every hooped skirt and bodice. Royal blues, luscious reds and vivid greens spill from their baskets. Nan embroidered this when she was a girl of sixteen and still dreaming about the man she would fall in love with. She tried several times to teach me this delicate craft, but after a while we both gave up.
I spoon a bowl full of porridge and place a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the tray. I ignore Mumâs look as I race outside to pick a flower. One night I stayed up late making a family of origami swans to place on her tray. Yesterday I gave her a few of my love-heart rocks. I put anything on that I think might jog her memory and make her remember us. I come back in clutching a small bunch of violets. I put them in a crystal bud vase.
âThat porridge will go cold if you donât stop fussing, Elizabeth. Youâd better be quick or yours will as well.â Mum takes a pot from the stove and ladles spoonfuls of porridge into three bowls lined up on the breakfast bar.
I pick up Nanâs tray and carry it along the passage to her bedroom. Our house was built in 1875, and Nan and Poppaâs room was once the servantsâ quarters. Close to the kitchen and away from the front of the house. At that time the room had no windows, but Poppa paid a builder to take out some of the old bricks and replace them with two large windows to let more light in. He got the glazier to make sash windows to match the others in the house, even though the old ones rattle around in the wind.
The room is in darkness. I place the tray on the bedside table and open the curtains. The coral tree is in full bloom. Nan and Poppa chose this room because of the access to the back garden. Some of the trees, like the eucalyptus, must have been planted about the same time the house was built. The coral tree is a South American tree. Ours reaches nine
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