Where the Fruit Falls

by Karen Wyld

  Karen Wyld is a freelance writer and author living on the coast south of Adelaide. Born in South Australia, her Grandmothers’ Country is in the Pilbara region of Western Australia. As a diasporic Aboriginal woman of Martu descent, she writes fiction and non-fiction that seeks to contextualise colonisation, displacement, the Stolen Generations, homecoming, resistance and rights. She’s currently a Masters candidate, exploring how magic realism is used to articulate time, belonging and Country in Aboriginal-authored text.

  First published in 2020 by

  UWA Publishing

  Crawley, Western Australia 6009

  www.uwap.uwa.edu.au

  UWAP is an imprint of UWA Publishing,

  a division of The University of Western Australia.

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Copyright © Karen Wyld 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  ISBN: 978-1-76080-157-1

  Cover design by Alissa Dinallo

  Typeset by Lasertype

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

  An ancient ocean roars under the red dirt. Hush. Be still for just a moment. Hear its thundering waves crashing on unseen shores. This vast ocean was there in the beginning, as it will be in days not yet begun. Alongside gentler comrades, massive creatures once tumbled in the ocean’s depths – jaws chasing tails. This harsh water ballet continued until the meek inherited an evaporating body of water. With budding legs, they crawled onto land and spawned. With the passing of time, their descendants and descendants’ descendants procreated. Each generation became less like their forebears, as they roamed unhurriedly, populating an ever-changing continent.

  Creatures of all shapes and sizes left their marks on terra. Footprints in an empty creek bed, claw marks on fossilised trees, faint impressions of a thumping tail across a gibber plain. Until time circled once again, and the era of colossal rulers was no more. By the time their bones had mingled with dust, others already roamed the earth.

  ONE

  That distinctive aroma of apples evoked many memories for Maeve, but it was her beloved who lay on the bottom of a distant ocean that she now recalled. This memory had been carried on a wisp of a wind through the orchard outside her door, teasing ripe apples until they’d dropped to the ground. That heady perfume of apples and first love was not the only thing that arrived on her doorstep that afternoon.

  As the door closed, Maeve heard a fluttering of tiny wings. Instinctively, the corner of her upper lip rose slightly, with just enough momentum to displace wrinkled skin. That quivering sound took Maeve back to an almost-forgotten moment, when she had intimately known such wings beating against her own chest. Back to a time when a younger Maeve had not yet discovered corporeal yearnings, and foolish romantic notions had sufficed.

  And then came an era, many decades past, during which Maeve Cliona Devlin had slowly and surely shed all sense of innocence, through hard times and pleasurable moments. Nonetheless, as life tends to be cyclic, matters of a carnal nature had long since been replaced by a more ascetic existence. Nestled in a wrought-iron bed that had seen better days, Maeve did not often succumb to nostalgic musings on the distant undulations of a life well lived; she appreciated the uncomplicatedness that ageing sometimes grants a woman. It is strange what memories can be stirred, at any given time, by the aroma of apples or the simple act of a door opening.

  It was Brigid who had opened the door. She entered the room quietly, not wanting to disturb her grandmother. Brigid was oblivious to the fluttering wings she carried, the faint beating that had caught her grandmother’s attention. It could be said she was generally unaware of nuances, both the everyday kind and the extraordinary. Despite recently turning eighteen, Brigid Devlin had not yet noticed she was no longer a child, let alone become aware of the perils of fluttering hearts.

  Brigid unconsciously shuddered as the coldness of her grandmother’s cottage hit her. She didn’t notice that shudder squeeze through just a sliver of a gap as she shut the door. Her grandmother had heard that shudder leave but took no offence – she had the good sense to know that not even a shudder would willingly venture too near a fading light.

  Putting aside her musings, Maeve patted the bed. ‘Birdie, sit. Tell me about your day.’

  Brigid walked towards the small kitchen table, placing upon it a well-laden basket. ‘Let me open a window first, Granny, to let some fresh air in.’

  The older woman nodded. A few moments more of waiting were of no consequence. It was enough that someone had arrived, fleetingly bringing some sunshine. She felt no animosity towards family, even if she sometimes felt they’d already executed their final goodbyes. Only the granddaughter willingly remembered the old woman at the bottom of the garden. Numerous times a day, Brigid brought her granny distractions from the outside world, to dilute the infinite seconds of waiting. The others, when they remembered the old woman, came out of a habitual sense of duty. The three broad-shouldered youths on the brink of manhood, who reminded Maeve of beloved male kin left behind on a distant shore, rarely stepped over her threshold. In the bluntness of old age, Maeve no longer felt any attachment to the sons of her daughter, unlike the fondness she had for the eldest grandchild, Brigid: her Birdie. The grandsons didn’t know of Maeve’s sense of disconnect. Even Margaret, her daughter, was unaware. Perhaps those bonny boys reminded Maeve too much of home. Of love lost, and lands never to be seen again. Or perhaps the way they filled a room simply reminded Maeve that she was shrinking.

  Opening the window, Brigid caught sight of a small black-and-white bird. Maeve raised her head seconds before the bird broke out in song. It was a cheeky tune, alluding to promised embraces and stolen hearts. At least it was to Maeve’s well-travelled ears. Birdie didn’t hear the same tune. She heard spring blossoms and sun-warmed afternoons. And had a sudden longing to hide in the long grass and watch as wispy clouds made patterns in the blue. Maeve smiled, as the birdsong had brought back cherished memories. In cahoots with an old woman’s fancy, a warm gust of wind floated through the open window to kiss Maeve’s paper-thin skin, bringing her lost whispers of forever and ever, and then some. It had been decades since her husband had passed away but some things are never forgotten. Kisses on yesterday’s skin last forever.

  If her eyes had not grown milky, Maeve might have cast them over the room where she now lay entrapped. Maeve had built this cottage, not much more than that one room, with her own hands; and some unexpected help. The room served as parlour, kitchen and bedroom. Later, a small attached bathroom had been added by her son-in-law. Not an inside laundry though, as, right up until her sight had completely gone, Maeve had insisted on using the tarnished copper tub in the detached laundry out the back. If she could have looked around the room, she would have found more than a few shadowy memories lurking in corners. None of her husband, as he’d never set foot on this land where Maeve had built a home for the next generation.

  Setting sail as a bride, Maeve disembarked as a widow. The anguish of leaving behind her family, knowing she would never again see the emerald island of her childhood, was overshadowed by the loss of her first and only love. His body had been sent to the bottom of the sea mere days before land was sighted. Having recently returned from war, Roan Devlin had been far from robust when they’d left the land of their childhood. He was certainly no match for La Grippe’s frenzied tango. This unwanted dance partner had barely raised a flamed hue on other passengers’ cheeks before dancing Roan off, to the end of time. Stepping away from the rail,
having witnessed their shared dreams become entangled in the shroud that drifted from sight, Maeve had turned her thoughts to staying afloat.

  Fortuitously, before his fated last journey, Maeve’s husband had the foresight to secure a modest slice of land on the country they had chosen to sow their marital life. When Maeve arrived alone, heavy of heart and womb, she had taken comfort in the realisation that love’s legacy was a patch of good earth, with a modest wattle-and-daub lean-to. Using coins that had weighed down the hem of her pinafore during the ocean crossing, Maeve had purchased timber and set to work. Ignoring the strangers who scoffed at her determination, she welcomed extra hands when offered. Unable to pay for their labour, Maeve acknowledged her new neighbours’ kindness with lovingly prepared food, resulting in full bellies and warm laughter. This did not gain her any friends among the women in the small town by the coast. Not to begin with. Then word had spread that Maeve was not only recently widowed but expecting. Primly downturned mouths then became welcoming smiles. And Maeve soon had a one-roomed cottage and caring neighbours to shelter her for decades to come.

  With her bridal trousseau finally unpacked, Maeve had set about making her acquaintance with the land. First, she removed a sea of stones, putting them aside for a wall that had since seen many people pass by. All those decades ago she had imagined a simple wooden gate sitting between low stone walls, opening to a path that led to her front door. On either side of the path would eventually grow an abundance of fragrant herbs and flowers, familiar plants from her homeland whose scents carried with them fond memories. These pleasant images had made time pass quickly as she tilled the land, proudly building calluses on her long-fingered hands.

  Maeve planted well-sprouted potato eyes that she’d kept damp all through the ocean crossing. Unbeknown to her husband, who had sworn that his wife would never be made to eat another potato for as long as she lived, Maeve had hidden precious peelings in her luggage. She had listened attentively at the feet of womenfolk and knew there are times when the humblest of vegetables makes the tastiest meal. Reassured that a good future crop of potatoes lay nestled in the spring-warmed earth, it was time to prepare her modest home for the little stranger’s arrival. Having been so intent on grieving, building and planting, Maeve had put off pondering the new life she’d been growing. Until mild pains in her lower back reminded her that neither death nor birth can be controlled.

  At first sight, her daughter’s resemblance to Roan had been confronting; she had his eyes. Maeve quickly found comfort in those bluest of blue eyes. The midwife and female visitors had laughed at the inexperienced mother’s joy, before kindly informing her that all newborns have blue eyes. Maeve didn’t listen to their chattering, as she knew her daughter’s eyes would never change.

  Maeve had named the babe Margaret, the moniker her Roan had chosen upon hearing he was to be a father. And even though she knew others would think it archaic, Maeve bestowed on their daughter the middle name Boudicca, feeling she might one day need strength from the homeland. There was no saint’s name given, for grief had caused Maeve to question, and then abandon, her once deeply ingrained faith. Shortly after mother’s milk flowed in abundance, Maeve had returned to working in the field and, with help from her neighbours, she’d brought in the first crop of potatoes.

  ‘Granny, are you all right?’

  Maeve started. Dragged from days past, it took her a few moments to recognise the voice. ‘I’m fine. Quit your fussing.’

  Brigid moved away from the open window and perched on the edge of her grandmother’s bed.

  Maeve reached for her hand. ‘How are the apple trees?’

  ‘Father managed to get rid of those woolly aphids. He made up something smelly to wash them away.’

  ‘That man was born with a green thumb. Your mother did right to marry him.’

  The apple trees, more so than the other fruit trees in the orchard that surrounded the cottage, were important to Maeve. They connected her to the land and people of her childhood. Maeve and Roan had brought cuttings of fruit trees from home, wrapped carefully in layers of dampened moss and rags. With careful coaxing, Maeve had persuaded those trees to adapt to a new climate, to bear fruit for generations of offspring. In addition to creating the orchard, Maeve had made fruit preserves, pies and other treats in her younger years. She sold the excess to neighbours, and later at the local market. And there were always potatoes to sell. This had enabled her to support her child, without needing a man.

  Those earlier years were tough. At first she was lonely, far from family and widowed so young. Then Maeve found warm arms for cold nights. There would only ever be one true love for her, but that had not stopped her from taking a lover whenever she desired. In her cottage at the edge of town, it had been easy for Maeve to be discreet. And she had been firm with each and every lover; she was not interested in keeping house for any man. That dream had floated away when Roan was left at sea.

  By the time Birdie was born, Maeve had tired of her lovers and decided to devote herself to her granddaughter, whose arrival had caused a storm. When Brigid’s mother was a young woman, it had become apparent that she had not inherited her mother’s green thumb. Instead, Margaret had her father’s wanderlust, which urged her to leave home too soon. Four years later Margaret had returned with a toddler in tow, setting off the gossips. Despite children out of wedlock being considered wicked, they were not too uncommon in times of war. Margaret, however, had committed an entirely different sin. One the settlers could not fathom. But Maeve hadn’t seen things the same way as her neighbours. She was instantly besotted with her granddaughter. She had marvelled at Brigid’s curly dark-brown hair, so like her own, and eyes of deepest brown. The first time someone had dared call her little Birdie a piccaninny, Maeve had flashed them such a look of disdain that no one ever uttered that word again. At least not when Maeve was in earshot.

  If Margaret had shared her story, then perhaps a few of the vanguard matrons would have sympathised with her. Perhaps if she had spoken of how she’d fallen for the handsomest, kindest, most cherished of men, she could have melted their bias. Margaret might have told them about the tears she’d shed when they discovered that he was not permitted, by law, to marry her. She would then have told the townsfolk how she’d travelled with Edward, her love, to stay with his family. Surrounded by a more tolerant community, their union was declared in the desert, not a church. Margaret could have shared her birthing story with other mothers. And how a few years later she and Edward had moved to the coast with their bonny baby.

  If none of that had helped sway the disapproving matrons, then the next part of her story might have. Margaret should have told them how her husband had died a hero. How, against her pleas and advice from his father, Edward had enlisted in the army. And, like too many young men, had died on a battlefield in a distant country, for a cause he did not quite understand.

  Margaret never told her neighbours and friends that story because she could never forgive them. They were too similar to the rigid people who had practically forced Edward to don a uniform. He had gone to war in the hope of returning to a different, kinder nation. He’d hoped that if he proved himself to those who were constantly judging him, controlling his life, then they’d accept his relationship with Margaret. And they’d no longer take their prejudices out on her, or the child. Edward had gone to war because he believed in a future where everyone, regardless of their origin story, was seen as equal. Deeply entrenched in grief, Margaret hadn’t told this story of love and loss. Instead, she hardened herself to the stares and whispers of those around her.

  The whispers faded when Margaret became a more respectable woman in the eyes of others. She was soon expecting another child, this time as a married woman. Maeve had accepted her daughter’s choice of husband even before she’d discovered that Frank Browne was skilled in horticulture as well as other trades. Due to the after-effects of polio, Frank had not been deemed fit for war, but nothing could stop him from achieving whatev
er he set his mind to. He had soon built a modest house next to Maeve’s cottage, for his wife and stepdaughter.

  Frank’s presence had also provided young Brigid protection from the Protector. Not that she really needed it. No one could have stolen the child from under the watchful eye of Granny Maeve. Unfortunately, Granny had taken this protection too far. For she had wrapped that child up so tightly with her love that Brigid had rarely been beyond the cottage gate as a young child. Coddled, she hadn’t noticed people who looked just like her: those made to live further out than the edge of town. They had seen her, and encouraged their children to play with the girl from the apple orchard. Maeve shooed the shy children away, and threatened the more courageous. She finally had a word to the parents. Eventually, they all hesitated to even look at Brigid in passing.

  Maeve had also buffered the child from curious glances and loose tongues whenever they went into town. When Brigid was old enough for school, it became harder for Maeve to keep a close watch on her. On the first day, Brigid had come home in tears, wondering why the other children teased her. Maeve had told Brigid she was like a little potato; her skin might be brown like the earth, but inside she was just like everyone else. Later, when Brigid had voiced her doubts about dirt-encrusted potatoes, Maeve had told her a tale about apple seeds, which made even less sense to Brigid. She soon stopped telling her granny what the other children said, and eventually stopped agonising over how different she was from them.

  Brigid was also different from her brothers, and not just in appearance. After the first Browne brother had been born, a year later another one arrived, and one the year after that. Three blue-eyed, freckled, light-haired brothers. They were Brownes and she was a Devlin, which just added to her troubles at school. Her brothers didn’t understand what it felt like to be an outsider, and they never once stood up for her. Brigid never really felt close to them. Nor did she really feel at home in her family’s house. She much preferred grandmother’s cottage. Maeve and Brigid were more alike. They both had soft curls of the deepest brown, and wide-awake possum eyes. Maeve’s were grey and Brigid’s deep brown.