A short story describing a place without using an adjective or adverb.
Audis, Beamers, and Mercs force us against the tea trees alongside the road as we clomp through puddles on our way to the cellar door. It had seemed a good idea when we set out. A stroll to stretch our legs, a chance to restock our fruit bowl, and support the local economy. My raincoat drips with mist and my hands are white by the time we get there. “I wish I had bought my gloves,” I lament, and my partner reassures me they will be warm soon enough, wrapped around a cup of apple mead. A sign to our left says, ‘chickens crossing’, and I wonder how the hens manage with the impatience of city dwellers, all rushing to be the first to take a bite of Fuji, Jazz, Pink Lady or Granny Smith.
We check the road behind us and begin the last fifty metres down a laneway nestled between hedges that guard the orchard. I roll my eyes as a horn sounds behind us and turn up the volume on my earphones before leaping to the left to avoid a crater. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t seen any chickens – they’d all been flattened or drowned in a puddle, hurrying to escape from tourists.
The car nudges around us and stops, spraying mud skywards then accelerates.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” I exclaim and turn to gesticulate.
A Porsche is sinking. The driver grits his teeth as the engine screams digging holes with each spin of the tyres. “Stop,” I yell, my palms and face now coated with mud as he glares at me, his hands strangling the steering wheel.
“Glug, glug, glug.” The engine drinks mud till it chokes, splutters then stops.
My partner runs back, arms waving at a Range Rover now entering the driveway, and I knock on the window as the man twists his key in the ignition. He glares back then presses a button and the window glides down. “I think you’re stuck,” I say. “Do you want a hand?”
“It’s OK!” he says, and a woman beside him sighs.
“No, it’s not,” she says. “Can you get help?”
“Um sure,” I reply. “I’ll see if the orchard people can pull you out.”
“Thank you. And if you don’t mind, ask them to call this number. There is no mobile reception here, and I don’t want to lose our booking at the restaurant. Tell them it’s Dr Forster.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll bring you back some mead to stay warm while you’re waiting.”
I can hear car horns tooting from behind as I walk, and my partner runs to catch up. ” Didn’t you tell them the car was stuck?” I ask, amazed at the cacophony building behind us.
“I gave up after the third car wedged in behind. Decided to leave them to it.”
Wisteria tumbles over the packing room door and we shake our hats and clumps of mud from our boots before we step inside.
“Hello?”
“Yes?” A woman pops up from behind shelves laden with boxes of apples.
“There is a car stuck in the mud in the driveway, and it seems like a bunch of very unhappy people behind them,” I say, as I wipe mud from my cheeks with a tissue. “Sorry, I didn’t realise I was quite so messy.” I hold my tissue out in front checking for any clean spot then screw it up and wedge it under the wristband of my raincoat, realising the futility of my search.
She laughs. “Yeah. We figured from the car horn symphony. You know we have two entrances – they could easily go to the next one – no puddle but no – seems Google Maps says this is the only entrance so it’s that one or none. Jack’s gone to get the tractor to pull them out. Reckon we’d make more money if we charged every fool for a tow than we do selling apples, ” she sighs.
“Can’t help you there then – we walked,” my partner laughs, ” The lady in the Porsche asked if you could ring this number too. A Doctor Forster – something about a restaurant reservation, and we were after a box of apples and a couple of cups of mead,”
The woman turns to fill cups from an urn. “Shame we don’t grow those Gloucester apples around here,” she says and begins to sing; “Doctor Forster, ate a Gloucester in a shower of rain, drove through a puddle, up to its middle, and never was seen again.” I smirk as she hands me the cup. Steam curls from inside and I cradle it to my chilled hands.
“I told the lady I’d bring her a cup of mead too. Keep her warm while they are waiting.”
“Couldn’t walk themselves?” she sniffs. “Never you mind, Jack will take care of them. You lot just sit down there with your drinks, get yourself warm, and try one of these lovely new season Jazz. They can wait.” I bite into the apple, the crunch filling my ears as juice dribbles down my chin.
“They’re beautiful. Nothing like anything in a shop,” I say with a smile as she passes me a box of apples to empty into our backpacks.
“Yep. Worth a walk,” she says and hums softly to herself as she returns to the rear of the packing room.
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash
