Apples on the Snow…
Out beyond the windy edges of Elmwood, where the old forest breathes and great pines seem to prop up the skyand the air is thick even at noon beneath the needleslived John Edward Shepherd. He was a hard man, sturdy as old oak.
Hed served as a forester since he was a lad, knew every tree, every ditch, every fox hole and every deer path for miles around. His hands were enormous, battered and blackened from work, and the scent of resin seemed carved into his skin forever. And his heart? It seemed whittled from bog-oaksolid, reliable, inflexible.
He and his wife, Beatrice, lived side by side for thirty years, a picture-perfect pair. If you walked by their gate in the evening, youd spot them on the porch: John softly teasing a melody on his concertina, Beatrice gently singing along. They fit as naturally as dusk to day. Their cottage brimmed with lifeshining blue window-frames like Beatrices eyes, a border thick with phlox, not a weed to be seen in the garden, every bed neat as a pin.
I still recall them planting their apple orchard. John digging pits, turning the rich black earth, Beatrice holding slender saplings, fanning out roots with the care of a mother brushing her childs hair. Grow, my lovelies, shed coo, grow sweet and fine for the children. John would pause, mop his brow, and smile at hera smile brighter than hed ever manage since. That orchard blossomed each spring in a cascade of white, so come autumn apples hung heavy, their tart scent drifting for milescrisp and bursting with juice.
But the Lord took Beatrice too soon. She faded away in a season, hollowed by illness, slipping quietly away in her sleep, Johns hand cupped in hers. Heartbreak aged John overnight; he went grey as thunder and his face grew sharp with grief, but never a tearhe was a man, after all. Just gritted his teeth till his jaw clenched, and from then on he looked like winter itself.
Left with only his youngest daughter, Emily, John clung to her as to a lantern in the deepest nightshe became the only thing keeping him tethered to the worlds edge. Hed fret over her like a mother bear: strict, cautious, never allowing her to risk a hair. He lived in terrorbone-deep panicthat shed leave him too, vanish like her mother. That fear poisoned everything. He watched her every move; she could barely breathe.
Youre my hope, Em, hed say, his heavy hand smoothing her hair. Grow up, take the house after me. Im not letting the world take you. What do you need out there? The worlds cruel, crowded with wolves in mens coats.
Emily grew into a beauty: corn-gold plait thick as a fist, eyes the blue of spring skies, her fathers exactly. And her voiceif she sang an old folk song walking by the edge of the woods, birds would still and men in the meadows would pause mid-scythe, listening, mouths agape. The women wept; shes her mothers image, theyd say, but clearerwhat a gift! She dreamed of singing professionally, of moving to London for the Royal Academy of Music. She devoured books on music, pored over sheet music, wore out old records on their battered gramophone.
But John? He thought the matter plainlike any old countryman raised to mistrust change. Born here, best stay here. The city frightened him as wildfire didhe thought it a ravenous beast. I wont have it! hed thunder so fiercely the crockery rattled, Youll work on the farm, marry Will the tractor driver, raise children as folk should! Enough of this nonsensemaking a spectacle of yourself. Its indecent!
Then, one sodden October, the floodgates broke at last. Emily, always so quiet, suddenly rebelled. She packed a battered suitcase. John ragedroared, screamed, swore.
If you walk out, youve no father left! he spat after her. And no home! Dont set foot here again!
When she left, head high, into the rain without looking back, John seized an axe and slammed it down into the porch stepsplinters flying out like drops of blood.
No daughter of mine! he choked to the empty air. Shes dead to me!
Twelve years passeda lifetime. Winters bled to springs, children in the village grew up, some joined the army, some married and started their own homes. The Shepherd house stood, silenta monument to loss. The orchard ran wild, choked with brush, branches woven like pleading fingers. The blue paint flaked from sills, the porch sagged, and the axe rusted into the wood, leaving a dark, festering wound.
Then last November, a shooting frost came earlysharp as knives. Hardly any snow lay, the ground was iron, already minus ten at dusk. I was on my way home, and spotted no smoke from Johns chimney.
In the country, an untended hearth spells trouble.
My heart sank. Bad sign. I tried the gateunlatched. Old Brutus, the sheepdog, didnt bother to stir from his kennel, only thumped his tail.
Inside, it was colder than the grave. Ice floated thick on the pail. A heavy stench clungunwashed flesh, old medicine, despair. John lay on his bed beneath his greatcoat, shivering, the mattress bouncing, teeth clacking.
John! I shouted. What on earth are you doing?
He opened his eyesclouded, red. Didnt recognise me.
Bea… he whispered, calling his wife. Bea, its so cold… Wheres Emily? Why wont she sing? Tell her… sing that old tune… please.
He was deliriouspneumonia. The man was burning up.
I stayed the night. Lit the fire, warmed the place even though it smoked at first. Dosed him with injections. He groaned and thrashed, clutching the pillow, feverishly calling for his girl: Emily, come home… dont go in the woods, the wolves… I wont let you go… forgive me… I did love you…
I sat and knitted, listening, tears smudging my view. So much love locked away in this hard man, so much needless pain, love warped into a prison.
By morning, the worst was over. Hed sweat buckets, the fever subsided.
He opened clear but mournful eyes. Mary… he rasped, I waited for her every single day. Each morning, I’d check the window. Every night, Id listen for the gate.
I know, I said, tucking the blanket up. She wrote, actually. Vera at the post office told me.
She wrote?! He half-started up, wide-eyed. Where are the letters? I boarded up the box. Thought shed forgot… thought shed cut me off!
Theyre with Vera. She couldnt bring herself to throw them away.
I dashed over to the post office at first light. Vera, still half in her dressing gown, handed me a battered box of letters. I took them to John.
You should’ve seen him reading them. Those great weathered hands trembled, his tears fell and blurred the ink. He kissed the photographs of his grandchildren, pressed them to his chest, ran a rough finger across their faces.
Grandchildren, Mary… two of em…
We found a torn fragment of a phone number in one lettermissing the last four digits. Weve got an address at least, I said, but its London. Post would take ages, if they’d even answer…
Ill go myself! John cried, flinging off the covers. Even if I have to crawl. Ill find her!
Steady, hero! I said, pushing him down. Lets try something quickerits the twenty-first century.
I popped round to young Tommy from next doorclever lad, back from Manchester for the weekend to fix his mothers tap. Explained the problem, he adjusted his glasses, pulled on his Christmas jumper:
Aunt Mary, its not simple, but lets try. On to Facebook and other sites… surname Thompson? Yes, there she wasstatus: Missing home. Tommy messaged: Emily, its Tom from Elmwood. Your fathers not well, asks for you. Urgent, please reply.
We sat waitingan hour, then two. The signal in the village is patchy; the modem blinked uselessly. The wind moaned, the connection dropped.
John sat white as a sheet, guzzling brandy for his nerves, the smell filling the house.
She wont answer, he muttered, staring at the floor. She wont forgive. I wouldnt. I cursed her that night.
Thenping! The computer chimed.
Shes replied! shouted Tommy. Sent her husbands number.
We called. Long, dragging rings. My pulse hammered, Johns face slack.
A mans voice finally answered, irritable.
Hello? Whos this?
John couldnt speakmouth working, nothing coming. I nudged him.
Its… John… he croaked, Emilys father…
A long, hard silence. You could hear the man breathing.
Father, is it? Well, remembered at last. After ten years.
Give me the phone, Chris! came Emilys voice, anxious.
Hello? she saidguarded, chilly.
Emily… Johns voice rasped, daughter… alive…
Another silence, ten seconds at least, broken only by static.
Why are you calling? she asked quietly. Her voice trembled but held.
Im dying, lass. Ive wronged you. All wrong. I just… wanted to hear your voice, one last time. Forgive me, if you can.
She wept. Not with loud sobs, just sharply, bitterly.
I dont know, Dad… she managed through tears. I waited so long. Sent so many letters. I dont know if I can…
Im not asking right away, John whispered. Just knowI always loved you. In my clumsy way. Fool I am.
Well come, she said firmly, though cool. I cant leave you to die alone. Well come. Wait for us.
John set down the phone. There was no joy in his facejust relief and fear.
Shell cometo do her duty, not to forgive, maybe, he said softly. Who knows?
Mary! Where will they come to? This dump? Cobwebs everywhere! Barely a dish! What a disgracefor my son-in-law, for the grandchildren!
Enough! I snapped in my nurses voice. Well manage.
I rallied the neighbours; we scrubbed the house top to bottom. John paced, anxious. She wont recognise the place. Shell stare right through me.
And somorning of the reunion. Emily arrived in a muddy Land Rover. Out stepped a well-dressed city lady, determined, pretty; then the grandkids and her husband.
John stood on the porch, cap twisting in his hands.
Emily paused at the gate, eyeing him, the house, the porch with its scar from long ago. I saw her warring with herselfhurt still boiling from childhood, yet pity for this bent old man.
John stepped down awkwardly.
Hello, Emily.
She stood, gazing into his eyes.
Hello, Dad, she said quietly.
She took two steps and hugged himlike you embrace a stranger. He froze, then pulled her in, burying his face in her fur hat and began to shake, noiselessly.
She stood with arms at her side, silent tears rolling down. No wild joy, just pain for all the wasted years.
They went indoors. The air was tight, tension you could cut with a knife. The children huddled by their father, Chris, who eyed John guardedly.
They sat at the table. Silence. Only spoons scraping.
John couldnt last. He poured a tot, stood, hand shaking, spilling some.
Thank you for coming, he said to the floor. Didnt thinkwell, I hoped, but didnt dare… Chris, Emily… my life was empty without you.
Chris, stiff at first, glanced at Emilyshe was trembling. He sighed and picked up his glass.
Alright, John, he said, voice heavy, lets not rake it all up. Emily couldnt settle till we came. Shes a good soul, too soft-hearted. Lets drink to that.
Their youngest, Ben, piped up suddenly, Grandad, wheres your axe in the porch? Mum said you
Emily hushed him, pale-faced: Ben! Eat your dinner.
But John gazed at his grandson, smiled sadly.
Axe rotted to nothing, lad. My anger rotted with it. All thats left is dust. Ill show you the real woods tomorrow.
The ice thawed, if slowly. They stayed three dayslearning again how to be a family. John fussed, but hardly dared say a word too many.
Emily called in to see me at surgery on the third night, eyes red and tired.
Aunt Mary, have you something for heartache? Im struggling.
I poured her tea with mint.
Still cant let it go?
No, she admitted, clutching her mug. I look at himold, pitiful, trying so hard… I pity him. But when I recall that storm, his scream of I curse you!… I can hardly breathe. On the train here, I planned what Id sayall of it! How I starved, wept alone when Bea was born, no word from him…
And?
I couldnt, she sighed. I saw his bent back, those shaking hands. Hes punished himself far worse than I ever could. Twelve years trapped in a prison of his own making. Why should I twist the knife?
Thats wisdom, Emily. Forgive doesnt mean forget, it means mercy. Understand he loved youclumsily, blindly, but loved you.
Emily nodded, drained her tea. Do you know, today he warmed Beas boots on the stove, checked inside just as he did for me as a girl… And something let go, if only a little. Well manage, Aunt Mary. For the childrens sake. Maybe timell heal us.
They left after a week, promised theyd return in summer. And they did.
By summer, John was changed. Not some frightened old man, but alive again. He cleared the orchard. And you knowthe ragged old apple trees bloomed in a cloud of white. A miracle.
One afternoon, I passed bythem again on the porch, John and Emily, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sunset in silence. Little Bea skipping round the yard, weaving a flower crown.
John waved. His face was peaceful, warm.
Emily smiled at mesad, but unburdened.
Mary! John called. Come in for teaEmily made apple preserve, clear as amber!
I joined them on the veranda. We drank tea, the air smelled of apples, of summer, of peace.
They say you can mend a broken cupthe crack always remains, yes, but you can still drink. And tea from a mended cup sometimes tastes sweeter, because you hold it dearer than a new one.
Lifes as short as a winters dayyou blink, and dusk has come. So often, we think, Ill forgive next time, Ill call soon, Ill visit for the next holiday. But next time may not come. The house can grow cold, the telephone fall silent, and the letterbox stay empty forever.
