April's Fruit

First published in Gentle Reader No: 32 - November 2000

She held the book 'Winter's Promise' tightly to her, then studied the photograph on the cover and read the information inside the jacket cover. She opened it and read the dedication again:

For my special mother, who inspired me to write and whose inherent kindness is always full of promise.

Risa shivered. The sky outside hung down, glowering its grey lining and emptying its contents of snow in bucketfuls onto the garden outside the cottage. When she had moved here into the country, she had been spellbound by the cottage with its old-fashioned herb and wild flower garden at the front, an orchard of plum, damson, apple and pear trees at the back. It had been spring, late April, and all the new, green life and blossom had lifted her as mystically as a resurrection. She knew she had to live here.

Writing was a solitary process and although Rita was divorced, she never felt alone. She had her craft, her cat, Robyn, and now her own cottage set like a piece of stone mosaic amongst the varying shades of surrounding fields. The cold seeped against the thick walls. Coffee, hot, black and sweet, was what she needed. She had been writing since daybreak and it was now half past four in the afternoon. Her one alcoholic luxury was a bottle of Tia Maria Tom had given her at Christmas and she added a shot into her coffee and added a generous dash of cream. Robyn was curled up in her basket by the solid fuel stove, the warmest place in the cottage; head upside down and tucked under her front paws. Her black, velvety body twitched and her whisker snuffled as she dreamt of mice and birds. Risa poured some cream into a saucer and placed it on Robyn's food mat.

The coffee tasted as if she had drunk it for the first time. Risa copied her cat and curled up on the chair in front of the fire in the living room. She stared at the friendly, living flames of the log fire, mesmerised by the constant shift of colour. She was just beginning to relax when the telephone rang. Why did the phone always intrude just when you began to relax?

"Hello." Risa tried to sound welcoming.

"Risa Richards?" The voice on the other end waited.

"Yes, speaking."

"It's Roland Grant. I'm phoning on behalf of Menton publishers. You sent us the manuscript 'Never Born' for us to read. We like the novel very much and think we could publish it, but feel one or two parts need to be rewritten."

Risa swallowed, then turned from the telephone table to look out of the window into the orchard and the gently rising land behind it. The wind flurried the flakes of snow, which skirted round the corner of the cottage. She took a gulp of coffee and swallowed again.

"Ms Richards? Hello?"

"Yes, I'm here. It's just a bit of a shock, that's all." She didn't want to say she had never had any work accepted before, let alone liked.

"Details of the few changes we feel would improve the novel and a written confirmation of our intention to publish are in the post."

"Thank you. I'll look forward to hearing from you."

"Goodbye now."

"Goodbye." Risa stared at the idyllic scene outside, then shook her arms up into the air, jumped up and down like a child, who has just received the exact toy she has imagined nightly and played with in her dreams, but never held in reality. Her leather boots hit the polished, wooden floor rhythmically whilst her woven, tasselled shawl slipped and shivered round her body.

"Tom, it's me," Risa gabbled as she got through to his number.

"Look me, you'll have to stop phoning. I'm expecting a call from Risa."

"Tom Stevens, be serious. I've got some fantastic news. You'll never believe it."

"You've had your novel accepted."

"How do you know?"

"I don't, but I can't think of anything else you'd get so excited about. Not even me proposing to you. I know. I'm younger than you and I've been married before and so have you and you're very wary of men."

"Tom, what do I do? I haven't got a clue how to go on with publishers. I never thought it would happen."

"I'll explain later. Is it still all right for me to come and stay this weekend? I've got a surprise for you too. By the way, have you bought that bed for the spare room?"

"Yes, but every time I go in there it reminds me of… Never mind. I'm looking forward to seeing you. Will you be able to get here in this snow? It's very much off the beaten track."

"Arctic blizzards wouldn't keep me away."

"See you tomorrow then. Couldn't you just hint at the surprise; give me a clue? You know me, I can't wait."

"No, it wouldn't be a surprise then. And Risa," he paused, "will you marry me?"

"Tom, if you won't give me a hint of your surprise, I'm certainly going to keep you in suspense."

"That sounds more promising than 'no'."

"See you tomorrow - about what time?"

"Late afternoon. Around five o'clock, hopefully. I love you, Risa."

The telephone clicked and the line began purring its dialling tone. Risa smiled, put down the receiver and dashed into the kitchen, picked up a rather sleepy and astonished Robyn and danced round with the cat in her arms. Thank goodness she had gone shopping earlier in the week and had a pantry and fridge full of food. Snow had not been forecast.

Friday dawned clear, fresh and brilliantly cold. The storage heaters were beginning to throw out some heat. The glass behind the bedroom curtains was a filigree of lacework, as Risa breathed hard and rubbed a circle to see out. Sun glazed the icicles hanging from the eaves of the roof and the lintel above the front door. Robyn was curled up, crescent-shaped, on a rug at the end of the double bed. Risa loved Fridays, even though she worked for herself now. One day was just as wonderful as the next. Perhaps it was because she was born on a Friday.

The post was late. George, the postman, all muffled up in a scarf, cap, gloves and wellingtons, knocked on the door, as Risa scuttled to open it.

"See you've a letter from London. Important news?" Risa took the thick bundle of letters, as if a present was proffered.

"You always have a lot of letters," continued George. "I don't think a day's gone by when you haven't had any post. Popular lady, aren't you?" His nose shone from the sun and the cold, cracking frost in the air.

"It keeps me in touch everywhere," said Risa. "I'm always writing letters." George declined the offer of a cup of tea, having had breakfast at Mrs Hutchings down at the farmhouse and several more cups of tea at interceding homes.

"Going to be sunny today, but more snow tonight. See you tomorrow."

"Bye." Risa hoped the snow would hold off until Tom had arrived. The letter from Menton was there in the pile and one from her friend, Chris, in London with all her news.

Not a great lover of baking, Risa suddenly decided to make some bread and cakes. Tom would appreciate them; he had a very sweet tooth. The sun swung round the kitchen and began to set over Springhill Farm by the time Risa had finished all her cooking. She had even made some jam from the damsons frozen last summer. The jars, filled with rich, deep purple, glowed in the setting sun.

Risa went upstairs and made up the new bed in the spare room. She was just arranging a vase of dried summer flowers, when the knocker of the front door heralded her visitor. Tom's car had slid silently onto the driveway. He stood, dark hair and eyes shining in the light of the porch lantern, his scarf hiding the lower half of his face. From behind him stepped a small girl of about seven with blue eyes and golden-brown hair.

"Risa, this is April, my daughter. April, this is Risa."

"Hello April." Risa smiled and held out her hand. A small, warm hand grasped hers. Spring had arrived again at the cottage; the trees, covered in snow, shone translucent as though in blossom.

She remembered making her daughter's bed three years ago, anticipating Amy's arrival home from a school holiday to the Lake District. The phone had rung when she had been putting up the new blinds she had made in Amy's favourite colour, purple, then the ringing of the doorbell, then the policewoman came to speak to her. The shock of the news hit her like a tidal wave at full force and it was true that hair can turn white nearly overnight.

She had envisaged such hopes and dreams for Amy; all erased by the turn of a wheel in a car travelling too fast. The days just ran into each other like watercolour paint on wet paper. Steve had tried to help, tried to reach her, but she had buried herself in her writing and nothing was able to bridge the chasm that widened daily between them. They separated, then divorced two years later.

"Let's go and make up a bed for you, April, in the special room." Tom smiled.

"Can I help?" he enquired.

"Oooh, yes, can you check the chicken isn't burning and if you really want to you could peel some potatoes and put them on to boil for roasting. I bet you like roast potatoes, don't you April?" The girl looked up at Risa and her deep blue eyes spoke of trust and innocence.

Risa Richards' novels were always best sellers and she excelled at the nuances of character and plot needed in the best psychological thrillers. She had even taken an MA in Psychology at Nottingham University encouraged by Tom, who was a psychiatrist, part-time now. She kept her maiden name. She had married Tom the following spring after he had arrived that winter's evening and she became April's adoptive mother - her mother had died in childbirth.

"I'm going to be a writer like you," April had told Risa seriously one morning over Saturday breakfast, as Tom was feeding the cats. "And I'm going to dedicate my first book to you."