The Magic Apple Tree

For my mum
Who never stops believing in me

Looking out of the window, Susan nearly dropped her coffee to see that there was an apple on her apple tree. Still in her pyjamas and socks, she hurried outside to gaze up at the bright red globe. She laughed delightedly and ran a finger over its silky skin.

‘Excuse me,’ said a voice.

There was a man standing at her gate. His clothes were frayed and patched in places; his shoes were so scuffed they were more grey than black; his face was weathered and wrinkled. His eyes were fixed on the apple.

He took off his woollen hat respectfully. ‘Would you be so kind as to give me that apple? I haven’t eaten for three days now, and that was an old sandwich from a bin.’

‘I don’t think you understand…’ Susan began and faltered. She’d meant to say: I’ve had this tree for seventeen years. I grew it from a seed. My father and I planted it the day before he left for the war and never came back.

You don’t understand that I’ve had this tree has never, ever borne fruit. I came so close to cutting it down so many times, but I didn’t. And now it has fruit, and you want to take that away from me?

‘I don’t think…’ She thought of her father, his easy smile, the way he had always given coins to those he saw sleeping rough. Lost souls, he’d called them. And there were so many more lost souls around these days than there had been back then.

She forced a smile on her face. ‘Of course. My pleasure.’ She reached up and, reverently, picked the apple. She brought it to her nose and allowed herself to breathe in its fresh scent before she walked to the gate and handed it over.

As the man took the apple, his fingers brushed against Susan’s and it was like blinding light had dazzled her. For a moment, he wasn’t a dirty, hunched old man, but an angel, straight, blond and beautiful. She blinked, and he was the same homeless old man again.

He looked at the apple, then up at Susan. ‘This is kind of you. After such generosity, I predict that you’ll have more fruit from this tree soon.’ He winked at her and walked off. Susan watched him until he turned the corner, then went inside, trying not to feel sorrow at giving away such a prized possession.

After all, she reasoned, I started the day with no apple and I ended it with no apple, so I’m not really any worse off.

The next day, there was another apple. As she approached it, Susan expected the strange man to appear again. But the little cul-de-sac she lived in was empty of people.

She picked the apple and carried it inside. She put it on the table while she fetched some yogurt from the fridge and granola from the cupboard. But when she turned back she choked back a scream. A mouse was on the sideboard, its front paws on apple as it sniffed at the fruit.

Susan grabbed the tea-towel, intending to shoo the creature away, but a chorus of small squeaks made her look down. Clustered on the floor were four tiny baby mice.

For a long moment, Susan stood thoughtfully then she walked towards the table. The small mice fled beneath the fridge while the adult scurried behind the bread bin. Susan took a knife and cut the apple up into tiny pieces. She lay some on the counter top, the rest on the floor. Then she sat at her breakfast table and sipped her coffee, watching the family of mice fill their bellies with her second ever apple.

When they were done and had ambled away considerably fatter, Susan swept the rest of the apple into her hand and put it out for the birds. Then she went inside and thoroughly scrubbed her kitchen with disinfectant.

The next day, there were two apples. Susan could hardly believe it and she laughed with delight. She’d set some down for the mice and keep the rest for herself.

‘Good morning, dear!’ called out a voice.

‘Good morning, Deidre,’ Susan called back to her neighbour.

‘What have you got there?’

‘Apples.’

‘My! Has that tree finally fruited?’

‘It has!’

‘Oh, how wonderful. How long has that tree been there? Twenty years? I remember you planting it just before your father left. And now it has fruit! How lovely for you. I do so miss the apple crumbles that my sister used to make. She was quite the chef you know.’

Susan spared Deidre a sympathetic smile. Neither Deidre nor her sister, Marcy, had ever married. When Marcy had died last winter, Susan had worried that Deidre wouldn’t be far behind. But the old woman had rallied and now almost seemed to be getting on with life, albeit with a haze of sadness permanently hovering around her.

Susan took her two apples into the kitchen and looked at them. They were perfect: no marks or blemishes, their skins shiny and tight. She thought about how her father helped organised a huge Christmas dinner in the town hall one year for all the old people who had no-one to spend the festive period with.

Being lonely is a terrible thing, he’d said.

Susan fetched a baking dish and her scales. Half an hour later, she knocked on Deidre’s door and presented her with a small apple crumble.

The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, my dear, you shouldn’t have.’ She breathed deeply, savouring the aroma. ‘Oh my, I’m so grateful for this. My niece and her son are coming over later. I’ll share it with her.’

Susan frowned at the crumble. ‘I’m not sure it’ll feed three people…’ she said dubiously.

Deidre patted her hand. ‘It’ll do fine. Thank you so much, my love. You have no idea what this means to me.’

Later that day, as Susan was doing the dishes, there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find a woman dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt but with immaculate make-up and a friendly smile.

‘Hello there. I’m Deidre’s niece, Amanda. She tells me that you made the crumble. Is that right?’

‘Yes. Was it okay?’ Susan asked anxiously.

Amanda laughed. ‘Okay? It was delicious.’ She produced a business card from her back pocket. ‘My aunt tells me that you’re between jobs at the moment and that you might appreciate a bit of extra cash. I operate a cafe in the town centre. If you’d like to bring some of those apple crumbles down to the cafe in the next few days, I’ll try them out with the customers and we’ll go from there, okay?’

Susan stared at the card then looked over Amanda’s shoulder at the tree. ‘But I might not have any apples tomorrow.’

Amanda shrugged. ‘I’m sure supermarket apples would be fine. But I’ll leave it up to you.’ She turned and walked away.

When Susan went to bed, her head was a whirlwind of thoughts. The next day she rose early and got on the phone to the council. She arranged for someone to come out that afternoon, check her premises and issue her with a hygiene certificate. By then, the mice had been caught and housed in the shed, where they seemed very contented with their lot.

As the man from the council left, Susan took a bowl out to the tree and picked the dozen apples that had fruited overnight.

A few days later, Amanda reported that her customers had ordered the apple crumble and many had taken portions home as well. She asked if Susan would mind providing some more, and maybe an apple pie or two as well. And if she had any tray-bakes, that would be grand too.

The week after that, Susan asked a friend to design her new business logo, and set up a website. She described what she wanted and her friend did such a good job that Susan printed out a copy and framed it, hanging the sign over her stove.

From then on, whatever she cooked or baked, the sign for The Angel Apple Pie Company watched over her. And whenever anyone knocked at the door – from the postman, to the neighbourhood children on the scrounge, or a double-glazing salesman – she always had a little something fresh out of the oven to press into their hands and see them on their way.

The Magic Apple Tree

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