by Lisa Tuttle
And then they’d seen the branch, so thick with pale blossom that it seemed to gleam like silver in the dim light. Thinking about it later, she recalled a book in the library on the subject of Scottish folklore called The Silver Bough. She hadn’t read it; she assumed the title implied a Celtic counterpart to Sir James Frazer’s great study of myth and religion worldwide—but she didn’t know if that was significant. The sight had struck her instantly as magical, impossible—but Nell had said strange weather, like the sudden burst of warmth they were experiencing after such a wet and chilly summer, could cause a second blossoming.
But if that were so, she could think of no reason at all why Nell’s mood had changed so abruptly after their visit to the orchard. She’d withdrawn almost to the point of catatonia, and nothing Kathleen said could get through to her. The food had been very nice, but there was little conversation between them, no connection at all, and so she was home again before nine o’clock, feeling a desperate need for a sympathetic ear. But there was still no answer from Dara’s phone, and two other friends she tried in London were equally unavailable, so she went to bed early with the handwritten Recollections of Alexander (McNeill) Wall her only companion.
My great-great-grandfather, John James Wall, was the first of our name to settle in these parts. He came to Appleton as a young man in the 1660s, bringing with him several small trees from his family’s farm in the Borders; by crossing one of these with one of the local wild crab-apple trees (so I was told) he created the Scarlet King, which produced a peculiarly delicious cider and which continues to be much grown locally for this purpose.
After John Wall’s death his son, James Alexander Wall, took over the running of the family farm and turned it into a thriving, multifaceted business. By his direction, more land was turned over to orchards, and the cider-manufactory was likewise both modernized and increased. Wall of Appleton became well-known for cider, even quite far afield, and the finest eating apples were exported to Glasgow and other Scottish markets. My great-grandfather may be remembered for his Pomona, a work of much beauty and scholarship, into which he decanted many years of study, and all his passion for apples. But to those who have tasted it, his greatest boon and his lasting legacy must be one of the finest dessert apples ever grown—I mean, of course, Appleton’s Fairest.
After a long and apparently contented bachelor existence James Wall took a wife when he was past seventy years of age. The woman’s name is not known; it does not appear to be recorded anywhere that I can find—and there must have been some question raised as to the legitimacy of their union, for there does exist a sworn testimonial to the effect that the twin boys, by name Lachlan John and Robertson James, were the legitimate issue of his lawful marriage, recognized by James Alexander Wall as the fruit of his loins and his lawful heirs. When the boys were about eleven years of age, Robertson (he was named after his paternal grandmother’s family) was sent to a school in Edinburgh, but the other lad was kept at home to learn more of the farming business; it was said that he had a great affinity for the apple trees. A year or two later, my great-grandfather suffered his final illness. Not even waiting on the funeral service, his widow, “the stranger woman” departed for parts unknown with her son Lachlan, and they were never seen again.
The farm and orchards were supervised by a factor until Robertson came of age. When he finished his schooling, he returned to Appleton, and married a local girl (Mary Brown) with whom he had two children: my uncle Lachlan and my father James.
Kathleen remembered two things when she woke on Monday morning: It was her day off, but she’d agreed to give Graeme Walker and his wife’s young American cousin a behind-the-scenes tour of the library building at eleven o’clock. She couldn’t remember if she had remembered, when he’d wheedled her into it, that this was her Monday off, and it didn’t really matter, because she could always take next Monday off instead. Still, while looking at the golden sunlight spilling in around the edges of her bedroom curtains, she thought what a waste of the fine weather it would be to spend her whole day indoors. She’d do it on her own time, then; it wouldn’t take long. She was sure Graeme had given the girl a guided tour of the museum already, and he knew more about the exhibits than she did.
After dressing in the bright blue cotton skirt and linen top she’d been on the brink of packing away for the winter, she went out to buy her breakfast from the bakery. Walking through the quiet, waking streets, she became aware of something indefinably different in the atmosphere. Most of the shops and businesses here didn’t open until nine or ten—the bakery, which supplied several of the hotels with breakfast rolls and pastries, was a rare exception. But the mood on the streets was anything but sleepy. There was a new air of excitement and hope, she thought, as if the whole town was waiting for something wonderful that was about to happen, holding its collective breath…
She laughed at herself, recognizing the pathetic fallacy at work. She was the one full of hope, expecting something wonderful to come of her meeting with Dave Varney on Saturday evening, and this glorious weather seemed to reflect her mood. She’d almost forgotten how exhilarating the early stages of a relationship could be, before anything as definite as a kiss had yet occurred, when everything remained open and possible. Yet even knowing it for a trick of her own mind, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that the town had changed. It didn’t seem to be the same place she’d been living in just last week, and yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t have said what was different about it.
In the bakery, she bought a fresh, warm loaf of bread, four morning rolls, and—so as to have something to offer Graeme and Ashley—four assorted sweet pastries. She made a change from her usual route on her way back by turning down a back street behind the Orchard Hotel, and saw a shop she’d never noticed before. It was the sort of odd, old-fashioned business she’d occasionally encountered in this country, a shop that offered specialist items, obscure hardware, or obsolete technologies ignored by the profit-driven superstores. Appleton had several small, family-run shops that appeared to operate on the narrowest margin of survival as they sold sweets, sundries, or restaurant supplies to an ever-shrinking market, but Kathleen had not seen this one before. Peering into the dim interior—it wasn’t open yet, of course—she tried to work out what it sold. There was no window display, and the ancient wooden shelves that lined the walls were filled with plain cardboard boxes that gave no clue as to their contents. They might have been shoes or fishing tackle or office supplies or even magic wands.
Stepping back, she looked up at the storefront where the name W. P. MACTAGGART & SONS shone out in carved and apparently recently regilded letters, but there was not a hint of what their business might be. There ought to have been a shingle hanging out, with a carved and painted picture of something…a wizard, or a bubbling cauldron; then it would have been at home in Diagon Alley. Smiling at her fanciful thoughts about what was probably no more exciting than an out-of-business shoe shop, she went on her way. But it bothered her that she couldn’t remember having seen the shop before. She did notice things, usually.
She’d switched on the office coffeemaker a few minutes before Graeme and Ashley arrived, and he sniffed appreciatively as she ushered them into her office.
“Would you like a cup before we start?”
“Mmm, please!” Graeme rubbed his hands and beamed, but Ashley shook her head.
“There are pastries.” She offered the plate.
“No, I’m OK.”
She looked faintly sullen; Kathleen wondered whether Graeme’s idea of a special treat had been imposed against her will. “Juice, water, anything? I think there might be a diet Dr Pepper…”
“I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you go have a look around the museum?” said Graeme. He glanced at Kathleen. “Are the doors open?”
“Yes, everything’s unlocked.”
“We’ll come get you when we’re ready,” said Graeme, treating her more like one of his children than the adul
t she was. “Or just come back here if you get fed up.”
She shrugged and sighed before wandering off. Graeme took a sip of coffee and turned back to Kathleen. “She found it hard to get moving this morning. Jet lag, I guess. Plus, I don’t think she’s really a morning person.”
“I hope she’s not going to be bored.”
“Bored? No! She enjoyed the museum on Saturday, I know she did. Plus, she’s really interested in art. And she thinks this is a great old building.”
“Well, that’s nice. But she’s seen the best of it already. There’s just a few rooms upstairs…it’s not the most thrilling tour.”
“Oh, Kathleen, I object! It is most thrilling.” He lifted a Danish and inspected it through narrowed eyes. “Did you buy this from that funny old bird on the pier?”
“Funny old bird?”
“She was dressed like Whistler’s mother. Or do I mean Rembrandt’s mother? Long dress and a funny sort of bonnet covering up her head so you couldn’t see a single hair, or her ears—I don’t know what it was in aid of, but she was selling home baking off a tray on the pier, and doing a roaring trade. They usually do those things in one of the church halls on a Saturday.”
“I didn’t see her. I got those from the bakery on Main Street, and I didn’t go by the pier at all.” Recalling the route she had taken, she asked him about W. P. MacTaggart & Sons.
He shook his head. “Sure you remembered the name right?”
“I think so.”
“On Kirk Street?”
“If that’s the street that runs along behind the Orchard Hotel.”
He nodded. “But there’s nothing like that there. Sure you weren’t on the other side of Main, running along to George Square? There’s the tobacconist, Peter Marr, which looks old-fashioned.”
“I know the tobacconist’s. It’s got an amazing display of pipes and exotic cigarettes and jars of peppermints in the window.”
“He might have cleared it out.”
“I wasn’t on that side of the street. I was coming back to the library. It was a couple of doors past the chandler’s shop, before you get to the dry cleaner’s.”
“You’ve got me,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never noticed it. They must not get mail.”
Ashley was in the museum, standing and staring intently up at Appleton Fair Day. She scarcely looked around when they came in, as if, thought Kathleen, she was reading the picture and didn’t want to lose her place.
“Who is that, do you know? That man kind of lurking in the background there…you can hardly see him…it looks like he’s got something on his head…is it a turban?”
Although the figures in the foreground could be seen very clearly beneath the light that came from the two carefully angled lamps fixed to the wall above the picture, details in the background were more obscure. Kathleen fetched the heavy-duty flashlight from beneath the counter. “I’ve never really noticed that man before,” she remarked, before aiming the light at the dark, skulking figure. “Seems to be my day for seeing things for the first time.”
She heard Ashley gasp at the same moment recognition constricted her own lungs. She thought of the young man she’d seen on the street corner, gazing up at her bedroom window on the night of the earthquake. She’d seen him so briefly, and the painted face was so small, that she couldn’t say it for a certainty, but she felt the likeness was undeniable. Which meant, probably…her eyes swept back to the young Victorian woman who was the very image of Graeme’s wife Shona…that far from being a stranger here, the man she’d seen was the descendant of some longtime Appleton family.
“Graeme, do you know who that is?” Ashley sounded urgent. “I’m sure I’ve seen him—well, his relative—around here.”
“That’s not very likely.”
“Why?” Speaking together, they stopped and gave each other a suspicious, assessing glance.
Graeme gave a little laugh at the chorus, although he looked puzzled. “Well, because, if I’m right—and, mind, I’m just basing this on something I read, and some old photos—that’s a Wall. I don’t know which one, because he’s a young-looking man, and when this was painted Lachlan Wall must have been in his sixties. His younger brother James, if he was still alive at that point, lived in Jamaica or someplace like that, and his son, Alexander, was just a wee boy.”
“Alexander Wall, the architect?”
“That’s right.”
“So it might be one of his descendants.”
“There aren’t any. Not alive today.”
“Where did you see him?” Ashley demanded.
Kathleen looked up, turning the flashlight beam on the man in the turban again. “He wasn’t wearing a turban when I saw him, but he was sort of exotic-looking. That’s why I noticed him. He was…outside the library.”
“He didn’t come in?”
“No. You know him?”
It was Ashley’s turn to look away. “No. I saw him, too. Thought he was dead sexy. I was hoping you could give me his phone number.”
Kathleen switched off the light. “Shall we move on?”
She led them back through the library, into the grand foyer, pointing out design features, but cutting it short when she began to suspect Ashley had already heard all this from Graeme. “You probably already saw the Ladies’ Reading Room?”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind looking at it again. That frieze-thing above the fireplace is gorgeous.”
“Yes, isn’t it! It’s by Frances Macdonald.”
“Was she local?”
“No, she was a Glasgow artist; part of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s group—his wife’s sister, in fact. Both women were very fine artists. The Hunterian in Glasgow has more of her work, if you’re interested.”
“I am. I’ll look out for it when I go there.”
Kathleen led her visitors past the old counter that barred the way into the back, explaining that in the old days what was now the reference room would have been closed stacks. Behind the old counter she unlocked a door—a modern addition—to reveal a metal spiral staircase.
Mindful of Graeme’s eagerness, and of the fact that she was wearing a skirt, Kathleen nodded at him. “Why don’t you go first, and wait for us to follow.” He sprang forward, not needing further encouragement, and she explained to Ashley, with a glance at the steps shivering beneath his moving weight, “They are perfectly safe, these stairs, but they do kind of judder, so I worry about putting them under too much strain. It’s probably better to go up one by one.”
“Do they go all the way up into the dome?”
“Oh, no. There’s no way into the dome—it’s purely decorative.” From the look on her face, she guessed Graeme had told her otherwise. She gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry…it’s really not very exciting. I don’t know why Graeme thinks this is such a big deal, but it won’t take long.” Now that the stairs had stopped quivering, she seized hold of the railing. “Unless you want to go first? No? Well, just give me a couple of seconds before you follow.”
The short spiral of steps ended in a long, empty room. There was a big bay window on one side which looked out into the high-ceilinged foyer. Thanks to the glass panels set in and above the doors to the Ladies’ Reading Room and the main library, it was possible, from here, to keep an eye on whatever was happening, with only the reference room and the museum out of sight.
“This was the old librarian’s office,” Kathleen explained. “In the old days he could come and go between his little eyrie upstairs and the counter below and never miss a trick.”
“But it’s not used for anything now?”
“Health and safety regulations,” she said, waving her hand at the staircase. “No good for storage, with staff having to haul boxes up and down those, ditto clambering up here every time you want a tea break. We couldn’t provide disabled access, and I think Mr. Dean—he was the previous librarian—had a problem with his hip.”
“I think it would be cool to have your office up here,” said
Ashley, gazing through the window at the stained glass above the front entrance. “It’s kind of like…a control room in a big ship or something.”
With an odd little jolt Kathleen recalled her dream of three nights before, when the library had been a ship at sea. With an effort, she collected her thoughts and directed her guests’ attention to the other interesting feature of the room, on the wall behind them. A full-sized apple tree, cast or molded in plaster, stretched from the bottom of the wall to the top, with a few branches and leaves trailing across the ceiling.
“Weird,” said Ashley, sounding startled. “I didn’t even notice there was anything there!”
“No, the light isn’t very good; it tends to blend in with the wall, especially as it’s all covered in the same, cream-colored paint,” Kathleen said.
“It’s kind of like that tree above the door of that pub, you know, the Orchard? Funny they didn’t paint it in different colors.”
Kathleen nodded her agreement; she’d had exactly the same thought when she’d been given her first tour of the building.
“Not much point,” said Graeme. “The way it’s placed, you can’t even see it from the foyer below. I know, because I’ve tried from practically every angle. Yet if they’d just placed it a little farther over, more in the center of the room, I bet you could see it from the foyer, especially if it had bright green leaves and red apples. But this way…well, it’s for the librarian’s use only.”
“Is it by some famous artist?” Ashley moved closer to peer at the bumpy texture of the bark and the smooth projecting globes that were apples.
“I doubt it. There doesn’t seem to be any record of who did it, which suggests it was probably the architect himself.”