Perfectly Ripe

Dust is dancing in the cracks of dawn light from the drawn curtains. Fine, cornflour dust. Airy and mischievous, and seeming to spread on every breath of air like spores. Spider dust that spins, and smears, and chokes, and stains. Endless dust, cruel as age. Dust mocking. Dust on every memory. Dust in my fingernail beds and in my eyes, dust in my throat. Dust down to my lungs.

And after all that, and searching every box, I still can’t find where I packed the damn coffee machine.

“You win,” I say to the mute boxes, “it’s tea then.” Retreating to the pantry, I search the jars, blowing dust from Grandma’s handwriting. This one sage, that one bay leaf.

Palming the tea mug, Grandma’s memory curls into the air on the steam, and I breathe the chamomile as I toe into my wellies to visit her garden. Puddles on the path make mirrors of the sky, scrying glasses for rain, for the chance of snow. Mud sucks at the stone, kisses my boot soles as I step onto the lawn. Ghosts of my Grandmother’s hands tie back the climbing rose. Prune the lavender for drying. I can see her. In the sewn wildflower seeds. Feel her. In the crunch of deadheaded blooms as I pass by.

Abandoning the mug beside a trowel I half think could be warm from her touch, I follow another scent, another memory, to the orchard. Lichen scabs the wood, and I graze my fingertips along the grain as I breathe that smell of peaches.

I stop. I breathe. And know I’m dreaming, or gone mad.

I open the gate, the clover dragging at my steps. The tree waits for me, Grandma’s pride. Her peach tree, its leaves chittering in the wind. Its boughs drooping with a glut of peaches.

Grandma’s peach tree, fruiting. In winter.

“Impossible,” I tell it, lifting a hand to the bark. Its gnarled tree skin lies warm beneath my own. I look to the sky, searching for a breach in the indifferent clouds; some trick of a sun trap with the slumped, pale orchard wall behind. That’s what happened. A fluke of the weather and the land. Climate change. There are stranger things in nature than peaches in January. Rocks that walk the desert. They even talk of volcanoes that burn with blue fire. With that, I have the courage to reach into the boughs and twist free a ripe, velvet fruit.

Between my teeth, the meat of it gives and tears, the juices rushing to coat my tongue, to slick my lips and sticky my fingers. When I’m down to the pit, I toss the carcass to the compost heap, already turning back to the tree, hungry for another. Is the voice that whispers then my own or my Grandmother’s; whyever not, they’ll only wither if you leave them. And do I pluck that peach that settles in my palm, or does the tree let it fall. Devouring my second, two more cradled in the folds of my shirt, I walk back through the garden, sunshine flowing in my veins though none shines on me.

Inside, the cottage seems mole-blind, and I fling wide the curtains, then curse myself for the billow of dust. I search out Grandma’s coughing vacuum cleaner and her ostrich feather duster (almost laughing, caressing the filaments). But the weak winter light is quick to fade, and I find myself hungry. The peach, when I take one from the crystal fruit bowl, is warm, as if it’s lain in the sun. The first bite feeds me, but I feast on the rest. Finished, I consider my choices. I could take a bath and go to bed early, numb my mind with TV, as I’ve done since I got here. But I feel strong. I look at the maze of boxes still consuming the house.

Carving myself out of Damon’s life had felt like cutting away a rib with dull blades and no anaesthetic, and the shame at how little of me was left to pack up had only salted that wound. Yet when the movers had dumped it out at Grandma’s house, it felt like work for Samson himself to find room; impossible for my small, weak hands.

I look down at those hands now, flex them, side-eye the boxes.

“Tonight,” I say, “you’re mine.”

I fill the house with music, my heartbeat keeping time as I sway through the rooms, finding places for my things among Grandma’s, releasing memories trapped in little knick-knacks. Soon, somehow, I’m laughing, flecks of lambent history fluttering round my head like butterflies. The boxes disappear as my life settles around me. Come midnight, I’m filthy and footsore, but there are no boxes left and my blood is shimmering, full of gold dust. I am home.

I sleep dreamlessly, through to midday, when a shaft of cold light creeps across my pillow. I make coffee in the lost-and-found machine and, slicing the last peach into a bowl of Greek yoghurt, take my tardy breakfast to the terrace. Curled in a garden chair, I savour the sweet peach over the sour yoghurt, and the view of Grandma’s garden. My eyes drift to her greenhouse.

My hands remember. The secateurs in the rack; I sharpen them, trimming back the ivy that clambers the garden wall. The dahlia tubers in their buckets; I check for rot.

Around lunchtime, Grandma’s peach pie recipe returns to me, every gram. I’m forearm-deep in the greenhouse gutters with a fistful of moss, falling backwards through time. Flinging the nasty handful into a bucket, I strip off my gloves (Grandma’s actually, with a snowdrop pattern I picked out), and hurry to clean up, afraid, perhaps, that the recipe will flit away. When I deliver myself to the tree with a trug over my elbow, it seems eager, and heavier with fruit than yesterday. I shrug off the idea, focus instead on plucking the peaches so they won’t bruise, laying them in the basket so they aren’t crushed.

My hands remember this too. Cutting the butter into the flour, adding the ice water until the dough feels right. Resisting the ache at the root of my tongue that tempts me to taste, I toss the peaches in cornflour and lemon zest. The pie needs babying; bake a little, turn a little. A lower temperature. Turn again. Until the top is golden and the filling bubbles.

I know I’ll burn myself, so I wait, twirling my spoon. Which is what allows me to remember I have ice cream. Lush vanilla ice cream.

A true eternity later, I cut a slice. The ice cream is cold and soothing, the peaches are hot and melting. It tastes like the sweetness of childhood, like every time I was upset and Grandma made it better. It tastes like her favourite, and my birthday. It’s floral and syrupy, and wrapped in the rich crumble of crisp pastry. I can see my grandmother’s smile, proud of my returning appetite. Not bad, Snowdrop, she says.

Next morning, I find the roses blooming.

It takes me too long to notice; standing in my pyjamas on the terrace, enjoying a slice of pie for breakfast, my eyes on the winter sky, my bones feeling summer-warmed. I stretch and yawn, and my gaze falls earthwards, stopping at the roses. The apricot Lark Ascending Grandma chose for me; my favourite, sunrise colour. The yellow standards Grandfather gave her on their wedding day, only a little before he died; Golden Celebration. And the garden’s crowning jewel, the climbing rose, rambling its thorny, pink abundance over the arch that separates the formal lawn from the wildflower meadow; Constance Spry.

I squint. Take my plate inside. Find the roses still in bloom when I return. Retrieving Grandma’s gloves from the greenhouse, I check the plants for aphids and rub off the few I do find. Before I realise what I’m doing, I’m mixing a batch of Grandma’s baking soda fungicide and giving the plants a quick spritz. Going inside to shower, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. There’s a hint of the rose about my face, I think, grinning at my own little joke.

Where’s that pale, bony thing that arrived here? I imagine Grandma asking, and sounding pleased with herself.

The focaccia dough is pillowy beneath my fingers, and slick with Grandma’s best olive oil. I crumble the feta cheese and press in the peach slices, and by the time its baking has scented the cottage with yeast and peach caramel, I’m ravenous. Fingers scalding, I cut a slice, pausing only to drizzle the chilli-infused honey I found in the pantry, and the first bite is ecstatic.

My mouth is crammed with a large second bite when the doorbell rings. Thoughts full of nothing but warm bread and sweet peaches, I open the door and choke. Damon, suitcase in hand, stands on the welcome mat, jacket over his arm, smile on his face.

“Hey, Pudding. Look at you. What is that you’re eating? We talked about carbs, didn’t we? You know how you get.”

“Damon.”

“Are you letting me in.” It’s not a question; he’s moving, a boulder rolling downhill at me. Over me. Through me. He’s past me; inside, his suitcase like a tombstone by the door, his jacket on the hook beside mine, as if it’s always been there. His shoes are off, his socked feet moving noiseless toward the kitchen. He talks to me as he goes, as if nothing has changed.

“There’s no food in this house,” he says into the fridge. It’s true, I realise. I’ve been living mostly out of the garden and the pantry. No meat.

I set my slice of focaccia in the roasting dish, still warm on its trivet on the counter, brush the crumbs away on my jeans, feel my fingers twisting and starfish them against my thighs.

“Oh, no. I was about to go for a supply run. Give me an hour?”

“Don’t worry, you’re quite the little heiress now. We’ll order in.” He turns and reaches for me, both hands. Octopus hands, clutching, around my waist. My one breath of free air is turning back to dust inside me, and I can’t look at him. My eyes slide away, landing on the peaches in the bowl.

“You must be starving, though,” I hear myself say. “Have a peach while you wait. They’re perfectly ripe.” I feel him squeeze as the word ripe drops from my lips. Bile rises in me like the tide as one of those gripping hands drops lower. Crawls across my back, walks, fingers stepwise, down my spine, then settles at last, splayed over my backside.

“Will you feed it to me?” He thinks he’s looking at me in that way I used to like. Thinks I feel adored. I feel like a slab of beef left out in the sun.

I look past him again, at the peaches. I have to lean into him to reach for one, and I hear his quick breathing as he turns into my neck, lips brushing my pulse.

“You’ve changed your perfume?”

“Not wearing any,” I say. He gives a little hum, wracking my bones.

“Smells like roses,” he says. I draw back with the peach, making myself look at him. I take a bite, and the flavour has a sour note this time. I hold up the fruit, juice running down my wrist. He lowers his head, eyes on me, full of hunger, and takes his bite.

He looks at the peach.

“Oh,” he says, “that’s good, actually.” His hand leaves my body, comes up to grip my wrist, holding me and the peach in place as he eats, steadily, down to the pit.

There’s quiet as I wait for what comes next. The hands will become insistent, finding the hems and buttons of my shirt. My belt. He’ll undress me. He’ll tell me to wait on the bed while he showers. Nothing I say will change any of it.

That isn’t what happens.

He lets me go. He settles like a stack of laundry on the bar stool at the counter, chin in his palm. He looks comfortable, sleepy; that hunger all gone out of him. Sated.

“Are you tired?”

“It’s early.”

“But you’ve come a long way.” I take his hand, guiding him up and toward the bedroom. Tucking him in, he makes no move to touch me.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks when he emerges, blinking, late the following morning.

“You looked like you needed it.”

He mumbles a disavowal, weaving toward the coffee machine. Snagging me by the wrist as I pass, he turns me into his body, caging me with an arm across my chest.

“Breakfast?”

“There’s granola.” It’s Grandma’s recipe. Dried peach and pecan.

“No bacon and eggs?”

“We have eggs, but I haven’t made it to the store yet.”

The arm vices around my chest. “What’s happened to you?”

“I don’t—What do you mean?”

“We should finish what we started last night,” he says. “You need—” The coffee machine spits a gout of steam, jetting espresso into the cup. I use the distraction to try to break away, but the arm tightens. Damon tsks in my ear. Keeping his grip on me, he lifts the steaming coffee with his free hand; then uncurls my arm until he’s holding it before us both. Slowly, calmly, he pours the scalding coffee over the back of my hand.

“Now… look what you made me do.”

He releases me, and I stumble to the garden. Grandma’s aloe plant is all I can think about, and that’s how Damon finds me later, sitting under the rose arch, straining aloe gel through a cheesecloth into a jar. He leans against the opposite side of the arch, watching as I finish straining and apply the gel to my hand.

“You know you shouldn’t let me get like that. All you had to do was a little shopping.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I look up, and if I see a rose vine turn toward his hand, it must be the pain. Or a trick of the light. The grass is warm, and the ebbing adrenaline is making me drowsy. I seal the aloe jar and collect the tools scattered around me.

“I’ll go now,” I say.

“Good girl. Ouch! God damned roses!”

Turning, I find Damon nursing the back of his hand, where a deep scratch is weeping blood. At his shoulder, the wicked thorns of the Constance Spry retract, like the satisfied claws of a hunting cat. I blink, shaking my head.

Naturally, he refuses the aloe, insisting I pick up bandages at the shop, which I do. I get the bacon. A loaf of bread. Beer. His other staples. For a heart-thumping moment, I can’t remember the chocolates he likes, until I search the rack and recognise the packaging. My burned hand trembles as I put them in the basket.

“You’ve been forever,” he says as I unload the bags.

“Sorry,” I say. “Bacon, or sausage?”

“Bacon,” he says. “A sandwich.”

While I’m plating, he sniffs. “What brand did you get?”

“The one you like.” I hand over the plate and show him the pack. He humphs, then gobbles it. Wandering away from the empty plate, he flicks on the TV. I wash up, but he’s in the fridge a moment later.

“Sandwich seemed pretty small.”

“Sausages?”

He eats two. Asks for two more, with chips. He’s still hungry. I cook a frozen pizza. He eats the chocolate. Another bacon sandwich, with a fried egg. He asks about ‘the thing’ I was eating yesterday. I warm the focaccia. For a while, he’s fine. But not for long.

“I’m starving,” he says.

“You’ve eaten everything.”

“Get more.”

“I can’t. The shops are closed.”

He’s looking around the kitchen like an alcoholic dropped into Prohibition. His eyes land on the empty fruit bowl.

“What about the peaches?” he asks. “You had peaches before. Do they grow here?” He makes for the door.

“Damon. Wait, I don’t think you should—” He’s fast. Outside already. Past the terrace and onto the lawn, headed for the orchard. I see his feet are bare. The light is low and bloody, almost sunset, and he flits from shadow to shadow. He hauls open the gate. I hesitate, then join him at the tree, where he stands, slack-mouthed.

“You’ve had these the whole time? Were you keeping them from me?”

“Damon, I don’t think you should,” I say again.

“Shut up. Just… What the fuck do you know?”

I’m tired, then. So tired.

I step forward, leaning my hand on the quick, warm trunk as I stretch up into the boughs and twist free a plush fruit. I turn back. I offer it up to the man. He feasts.

Another, and another. Fruit after fruit, he gorges. He can’t stop. The tree provides. I watch his bones appear beneath his skin. The collarbone. The twinned bones at the forearm. The sharp corner of the working, grinding jaw. His eye sockets sink, he wallows in his clothes, and he wastes away even as he feeds.

The clothes have rotted; moss now grows through the raw, white bones as I step over them to refill Grandma’s crystal fruit bowl. I linger to pinch a few crisped blooms from the climbing rose; perhaps its leaves caress my careful fingers, perhaps they don’t.

I’m enjoying the scented steam from a mug of chamomile tea when the doorbell rings. Pausing at the peephole, I open it for a delivery man. He waits as I set down my tea, but doesn’t seem inconvenienced, because he whistles.

“Little lady, where have you been all my life?”

A moment as I consider, not taking the parcel that hovers between us.

“Aren’t you sweet,” I say. “Would you like a peach? I grow them myself; they’re delicious. Perfectly ripe.”