It’s autumn and time to pick the fruit. Les comes to help me. We untie the first net and start to ease it free of the branches. It has to be done carefully because the apples are ready to drop and any shaking will dislodge them. As we lift the net a fine cloud of powdered lime is released into the air around us. We catch our breath and our eyes begin to smart. I go in search of masks and goggles hoping these will solve the problem, but the goggles soon mist up inside and become obscured on the outside by the dust. This is going to be a horrible job.
The apples all have a white coating which has to be removed before they can be sold. I work for days and days at the sink in the shed, brushing each apple clean. When finally they are all shiny and beautiful, I weigh them and pack them into boxes, ready to be sold.
Once the apples are picked the trees have a further spurt of growth, but by June the bare branches are surrounded by brown leaves rotting on the ground. It’s on these leaves that the spores of apple scab remain dormant over winter. When the spring rains hit them they will re-infect next season’s leaves and fruit. Every year seems to be dryer than the last and although the trees are irrigated, higher temperatures and the changing weather patterns are making them more vulnerable to the disease.
Having had two outbreaks of scab during the season despite all my spraying, I resolve to remove as many of the infected leaves as possible. They have to be raked from around the trees, piled into mounds and then carted off to the tip. It’s backbreaking work and takes me a whole week. When spring comes again and there are fresh signs of scab, I decide the effort just wasn’t worthwhile. Next year I shall let the leaves remain where they fall and perhaps bury them under a layer of mulch instead.
PART THREE
Drought
It’s been eleven years since we planted the orchard and every year has been drier than the last. Now the people of Bendigo are forced to use bath water on their plants and succulents and cacti have replaced hollyhocks and pansies.
Because of the drought the water authority has reduced our allocation by two-thirds, so now it will be a struggle to keep the trees alive. I have seen council workers dig slotted agricultural pipe into the ground when planting street trees. The irrigation water goes directly to the roots so there’s little loss from evaporation. If I can do this in the orchard it could save a large amount of water.
First I need 300 holes. I enlist Les’s help and he comes with me to hire a post-hole digger, since I wouldn’t recognise one if I saw it. The hole needs to be a good fit for the pipe, so we test out a machine in the hire company’s yard, making quite a large hole. Fortunately nobody seems to notice. I cut up the pipe and Les drags the digger into the orchard.
We quickly discover we have a problem. The council workers dig the hole before they plant the tree. Our trees are fully grown and many of them have low spreading branches. This makes it extremely difficult to move the digger close enough to make a hole near the roots. Because the trees were planted on mounds, we have to push the heavy machine uphill. Each tree is different and Les struggles to manoeuvre the ungainly device this way and that, whilst I push the branches out of his way. A lesser man would have thrown in the sponge but Les, with his endless patience, perseveres and eventually there’s a neat hole close to every tree. I drop in the lengths of pipe, adjust the drippers, and declare the operation a success.
Despite the drought and heat, the magpies manage to raise two noisy babies. They stay close to the house where there is plenty of water. When the dog falls asleep they’re onto her bone in a flash.
The paddocks are bare. By piping the water below ground, we’ve reduced the grass growing around the apple trees, so there’s little now for the hungry kangaroos to eat. They begin to attack the plums and damage shrubs they have never touched before. In the early evening, the boldest of them comes right into the front garden to drink from the birdbath. There’s so little feed remaining that I am afraid they may die.
I put out a trough of water beside the orchard and buy them a bale of lucerne hay. Every evening five or six kangaroos file down the hill from the bush where they have sheltered from the hot sun during the day, to congregate around the trough. They take it in turns to drink, the big male exercising his right to go first. He seems to take a long time to have his fill, dipping his head down to the water again and again. When the patience of one of the younger males wears thin, he approaches but is quickly driven away. Yet when the young joey comes close, his father stands aside to allow him to drink.
I have to pass close to the trough on my way to turn off the irrigation in the evening. Walking slowly, I turn my face away from the kangaroos and act as if I haven’t noticed they are there. At first they hop away when I approach, but soon they become used to my nightly walks and only look up briefly as I pass by. Sometimes visitors would like to see the kangaroos ‘up close’. They follow me into the orchard but are only rewarded with a brief glance before the animals make a break for the bush. It’s as if all the members of the little mob know me personally and understand I’ll do them no harm.
Late one hot afternoon I’m wandering through the bush behind the house when my path is crossed by a long procession of hairy caterpillars, following each other nose to tail. Some distance away I see those at the head of the line begin to climb the trunk of a wattle tree.
A cloud of butterflies hovers over the yellow everlasting flowers. They appear to be two different species but are actually all common browns. The females are a little different from the males, having darker markings on their wingtips.
There is a commotion in the bush. All around me birds are calling out in alarm. Then just ahead I spot a wedge-tailed eagle, improbably perched on the lowest branch of a small gum tree. I can’t imagine what it can be doing there. Perhaps it has become exhausted by the heat. It stays on the same tree for nearly an hour before it recovers and flies away.
In some seasons there’s a mouse problem. Perhaps it has something to do with the weather. Suddenly, the shopping baskets at the Coles supermarket are carrying the telltale little traps tossed on top of the vegetables and groceries. The mice always manage to get into the roof cavity, and it’s when I turn over in bed at night that I first hear their furtive scurrying. We should do something about the problem immediately, but of course, being slack, we don’t.
In no time a tiny mouse is visiting us in the evening when we are watching television. It boldly patters across the slate floor, giving the slumbering dogs a wide berth. This is such a perfect, neatly made little creature. Of course this can’t continue and Nick speaks warningly of the need for poisons and other unspeakables.
Still, aware of my sensitivities, he arrives home from shopping next day carrying a blue plastic ‘humane’ mouse trap. All we have to do is put a small piece of cheese or chocolate on a spike inside. When the mouse takes the bait a door drops down and catches it unharmed. The label offers various suggestions for disposal of the caught animal, but all of them are unpalatable as far as I’m concerned. We do have a large block of land, however, so when I hear the trapdoor click I set out with a torch and carry the box all the way to our fence line. There, pointing the little fellow in the general direction of the newly emerging housing estate at our border, I release him into the bush.
For a few nights Nick watches without comment as I leave the house bearing yet another mouse. Then he suggests I paint a white spot on the back of the next one before I let it go, because he suspects the mice are making it back before me. Finally, when they begin to eat the soap in the bathroom I give in and Nick calls the pest exterminator.
Then one evening, when semi-comatose we loll in front of the television, a sudden sound from the kitchen jolts us awake. There’s a shockingly loud scratching sound coming from the ceiling above the corner cupboard. We look at each other wondering what kind of large animal could be making so much noise, before coming to the conclusion there must be a possum in the roof cavity.
I have looked for possums and been disappointed that although w
e have the little sugar gliders, there are no signs of ringtails or brushtails living on our block. Of course having a large possum in the roof cavity is no cause for celebration. We have both heard dire tales of nightly scratching, shrieking and urine dripping down from above. Nick grabs a kitchen spatula and making a huge row, bashes it repeatedly on the ceiling.
Afterwards we wait expectantly for the scratching sounds to resume but now there is only silence. Two weeks later we hear the noises again. This time we know what to do, and soon all is peaceful.
Some days later we are busy preparing for a formal dinner party. I set places for twelve people around two tables on the verandah. Each one is covered with a crisp white tablecloth and decorated with vases of cream roses. I have made sherry trifle and Nick, who is a wonderful chef, has prepared an array of splendid casseroles and curries.
It’s a perfect, balmy summer evening, and after our guests have eaten the main course I light the candles in the gathering twilight. The hum of conversation grows as our guests relax and enjoy their wine and trifle. As I lean back in my chair, I suddenly catch sight of a large rat running across a beam of the pergola just above our heads. It disappears under the eaves. A moment later it reappears, running along the beam in the opposite direction.
Horrified, I glance around at the guests, who seem undisturbed, but catching my husband’s eye I realise that he’s also spotted the rat. Mute, I wait in anticipation for the sudden outcry and panic. None comes, and for the rest of the evening I struggle to ignore the frequent comings and goings overhead. Next day we buy rat poison.
English Sherry Trifle
The recipe for this sumptuous trifle was given to me many years ago by a Yorkshire lady, Joan Watson. In her nineties now, she’s still a wonderful cook
150 grams sponge cake
120 millilitres sweet sherry (or to taste)
825 grams can of fruit salad
(or other soft fruit such as berries)
85 grams port wine jelly
150 millilitres boiling water
60 grams custard powder
550 millilitres milk
2 tablespoons caster sugar
40 grams lightly toasted flaked almonds
300 millilitres thickened cream
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
6 glacé cherries
Slice the cake and place in the bottom of a large glass bowl. Drench with the sherry. Drain the juice from the fruit and set aside. Put the fruit on top of the cake.
Make the jelly using the boiling water. Stir until the crystals have dissolved and then use the fruit juice to make it up to 400 millilitres, and pour it over the fruit.
Dissolve the custard powder in 100 millilitres of the cold milk and stir in the sugar. Heat the remaining 450 millilitres of milk until almost boiling. Pour over the custard and quickly return to the pan. Stir over a low heat until it thickens, and then remove it from the heat. Cover the surface with plastic wrap to prevent a skin from forming.
Place almonds under grill until lightly browned. When the custard is cold spoon it into the bowl, forming a layer over the set jelly. Whip the cream until stiff and then gently stir in the vanilla essence. Place a blanket of cream over the custard. Arrange cherries on the top and sprinkle the almonds around the edge.
Dutch Apple Cake
This unusual cake is brimming with apples.
Pastry
185 grams butter
75 grams caster sugar
1 egg yolk
200 grams flour
1 dessertspoon iced water
finely grated rind of 1 large lemon
few drops vanilla essence
Filling
5–6 large cooking apples
½ cup sugar
ground cinnamon
handful of raisins or mixed dried fruit
25 grams flaked almonds
Cream butter and sugar. Stir in the egg yolk and add the flour, water, lemon rind and vanilla essence. Mix with hands. Chill for 30 minutes.
Divide the pastry into 2 portions, one slightly larger than the other. Press larger portion into base and sides of a greased 20-centimetre springform cake tin. Chill.
Peel, core and thickly slice the apples and put into pastry case, lightly sprinkling the layers with sugar, cinnamon and raisins. Roll out remaining pastry onto a floured board. Cut into strips and arrange on top of apples in a lattice pattern. Sprinkle top of cake with cinnamon and flaked almonds.
Bake in a hot oven for 30 minutes then reduce to moderate and bake for a further 30–45 minutes until apples are tender and pastry is golden. Leave in tin until cool. Remove and serve with cream.
Coffee Hazelnut Cake
This is actually a rich dessert somewhat similar to tiramisu.
175 grams butter or margarine
175 grams caster sugar
3 eggs, lightly beaten
175 grams self-raising flour
3 tablespoons instant coffee
425 millilitres water
225 grams caster sugar
2 tablespoons brandy
275 grams thickened cream
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
30 grams dry-roasted unsalted hazelnuts
Cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Gradually beat in the eggs. Sift the flour and fold into the mixture. Turn into a greased and lined 20-centimetre cake tin. Bake in a preheated oven at 180°C for about 45 minutes. Test with a skewer near the end of cooking.
Meanwhile, dissolve the powdered coffee in 100 millilitres of the water. Place the remaining water and the sugar in a pan. Heat it gently until the sugar has dissolved and then simmer until a light syrup forms. Remove from the heat and add the coffee and brandy.
When the cake is cooked remove from the oven and place on a deep dish. Pierce it all over with a skewer and pour the warm coffee mixture over the hot cake. Leave to stand overnight.
Next day whip the cream and vanilla essence and use to coat the cake. Roughly chop the hazelnuts and sprinkle them around the edge.
For the first time a black wallaby comes out of the bush to drink from the birdbath, thirst overcoming his shyness. Whilst in the front garden he makes short work of my roses. Knowing he’ll return, I dig them up and put them in pots on the back verandah.
A massive bushfire is raging in the hill country. It’s many kilometres from here yet the smoke is dense in the orchard, making work impossible. Repeated lime sprays have whitened the trees and in the swirling mistiness they are strange, ethereal. I think of snowy Christmases in England.
A pair of plovers has moved into the orchard. The birds run about searching for grubs in the moist earth around the tree roots. Oddly, for they’re not nocturnal, I hear their anxious warning call late into the night. Perhaps a fox startles them. They disappear for a while in the spring but then return, bringing two fledglings with them. I watch the family carefully for I’ve seen plovers viciously attacking anyone approaching their young. Luckily, they seem to realise they’re just guests in the orchard and move politely out of the way when I come too close.
At night when I’m lying in my bed I can hear the eerie call of the tawny frogmouth. The soft boom boom is repeated over and over like the sound of a distant lighthouse warning ships in the fog. He’s a strange bird, with a massive mouth. At night he hunts like an owl and in the daytime he sits in the fork of a tall gum tree near the gate. With his pale mottled feathers and outstretched bill he’s almost indistinguishable from the branches of the tree.
It’s a stifling hot day and I struggle home with my shopping. At the back door I fumble in my handbag for the house keys and in so doing, let drop the grocery bag. It narrowly misses a small dark snake curled up on the doormat. I freeze, and for a few moments we stare at each other. Then the little whip-like creature glides around my feet and disappears into the undergrowth.
The garden is wilting in the heat. As I begin to water a pink daisy bush, a tiny jewel-like pardalote flutters into its centre to catch the cool spra
y. It’s only as far away as the length of my arm.
Raw Herring Salad
In the very hot weather when we don’t feel like cooking, these two appley salads make a refreshing meal.
250 gram packet of matjes herring fillets
4 hard-boiled eggs
2 green apples, peeled, cored
1 medium beetroot
1 small onion
4 medium gherkins
3 medium potatoes, cooked
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons white vinegar
¼ teaspoon salt
pepper
mayonnaise
lettuce leaves
sprig of parsley
Remove herrings from the packet and soak in cold water for an hour, changing the water once to reduce the oil and salt. Cut the fillets into pieces.
Slice two hard-boiled eggs and set aside, together with a few small pieces of herring. Chop the apples, beetroot, onion, gherkins and potatoes and mix together in a bowl. Chop the remaining eggs into pieces and add them to the bowl. Add the herring, reserving a few pieces for decoration. Stir in the vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper.
Turn the contents of the bowl onto a large plate. Use a spatula to press the mixture into a mounded shape. Cover this with mayonnaise and arrange a few lettuce leaves around the edge. Decorate with the egg slices, remaining herring pieces and a little chopped parsley.
Clay Gully Page 6