Read Online The Love Apple by Coral Atkinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Coral Atkinson
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startlingly coloured, as if tinted with aniline dyes. Sea and sky were fiercely blue, bush unequivocal green. To the east the mountains, a pale, glistening line cresting the forest, white birds on a dark lake.
Huia was on the beach collecting driftwood. She was bending over a large branch, breaking off pieces for kindling.Her dress, which appeared to have been very hastily pulled on, was open at the bodice and the outline of the girl’s unconfined breasts was clear under the thin chemise.
Geoffrey had a sharp and unexpected flash of desire — a momentary image of being behind Huia as she stooped to her work. Of feeling her body bend before him and catching her breasts in his cupped palms. Since Vanessa’s death such frissons of lust had deserted him. The return was so sudden and so unexpected that for a moment he was uncertain what had happened.
Sinful thoughts, the clergy would undoubtedly have said, and Geoffrey thought they would have been right. And then there was Vanessa — wasn’t this yearning after another woman, however fleetingly, unfaithful to her memory? But there was no answering stab of guilt, no voice of conscience dictating that this mortifying fancy must be put aside. Not this morning. Instead, Geoffrey felt surprise and a joy of recognition. Something he had believed dead had stirred, and it was far from disagreeable. He continued to stand at the tent flap, watching Huia and letting the fantasy excite him.
Certainly no English rose, the girl would look incongruous netting a purse in a drawing room, or corseted and coiffed at a viceregal ball. But here on a New Zealand beach, Huia with her torrential hair and timber-coloured skin seemed alluring in a rumpled, colonial way.
‘Rattle your bloody dags, Hu, and get that fire going,’ Bluett shouted, coming around from the back of the tents where he had been feeding the tethered horses.
Huia turned on hearing her father’s voice. She made no reply but came back over the stones carrying the bundle of driftwood. She began to lay the fire in the previous night’s cinders.
Geoffrey dropped the tent flap and, with Champ barking alongside, went down to the foreshore to wash in the freshwaterstream that crossed the beach from swamp to sea. The swamp was filled with flax clumps; their tall maroon flowers reached upwards into the light. A pukeko high-stepped out of the cover onto the grass. The bird paused for a moment and, on seeing man and dog, quickly disappeared back into the raupo. It really was a perfect morning, Geoffrey thought. The day was so new; the sky, untroubled by any suggestion of cloud, had a rococo brilliance.
The kettle was boiling when Geoffrey returned, and Huia was kneeling on the grass holding a frying pan over the flames. She had a bright paisley shawl around her neck and shoulders and her hair lay like a dark collar on the exotic decoration of the fabric. Smoke drifted in the morning air and Geoffrey could smell the aroma of bacon and mutton chops. He was ravenous.
He moved from one side of the fire to the other, considering which angle he would use if he were to photograph Huia cooking on the brow of the beach. He smiled to himself at the way his craft asserted itself. He was glad Huia was busy turning the chops with a piece of wood. He certainly had no intention of going back on his word about photographing her, yet he had to admit she would make a pretty composition. He saw the scene in the gaze of the camera: the frantic white breakers at one side, the pebble and wood-strewn beach, and then on this small mat of grass a girl with a patterned shawl hunkered over a pot and a fire. ‘Breakfast’, ‘Morning’, ‘Best Meal of the Day’, he thought, devising possible names for his imaginary composition.
‘Do you want eggs with your bacon and chops?’ Huia said.
‘Eggs?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Here?’
‘Yes,’ said Huia, reaching in the horse’s feedbag lying beside her and picking out two eggs. ‘I brought them wrapped
Huia was on the beach collecting driftwood. She was bending over a large branch, breaking off pieces for kindling.Her dress, which appeared to have been very hastily pulled on, was open at the bodice and the outline of the girl’s unconfined breasts was clear under the thin chemise.
Geoffrey had a sharp and unexpected flash of desire — a momentary image of being behind Huia as she stooped to her work. Of feeling her body bend before him and catching her breasts in his cupped palms. Since Vanessa’s death such frissons of lust had deserted him. The return was so sudden and so unexpected that for a moment he was uncertain what had happened.
Sinful thoughts, the clergy would undoubtedly have said, and Geoffrey thought they would have been right. And then there was Vanessa — wasn’t this yearning after another woman, however fleetingly, unfaithful to her memory? But there was no answering stab of guilt, no voice of conscience dictating that this mortifying fancy must be put aside. Not this morning. Instead, Geoffrey felt surprise and a joy of recognition. Something he had believed dead had stirred, and it was far from disagreeable. He continued to stand at the tent flap, watching Huia and letting the fantasy excite him.
Certainly no English rose, the girl would look incongruous netting a purse in a drawing room, or corseted and coiffed at a viceregal ball. But here on a New Zealand beach, Huia with her torrential hair and timber-coloured skin seemed alluring in a rumpled, colonial way.
‘Rattle your bloody dags, Hu, and get that fire going,’ Bluett shouted, coming around from the back of the tents where he had been feeding the tethered horses.
Huia turned on hearing her father’s voice. She made no reply but came back over the stones carrying the bundle of driftwood. She began to lay the fire in the previous night’s cinders.
Geoffrey dropped the tent flap and, with Champ barking alongside, went down to the foreshore to wash in the freshwaterstream that crossed the beach from swamp to sea. The swamp was filled with flax clumps; their tall maroon flowers reached upwards into the light. A pukeko high-stepped out of the cover onto the grass. The bird paused for a moment and, on seeing man and dog, quickly disappeared back into the raupo. It really was a perfect morning, Geoffrey thought. The day was so new; the sky, untroubled by any suggestion of cloud, had a rococo brilliance.
The kettle was boiling when Geoffrey returned, and Huia was kneeling on the grass holding a frying pan over the flames. She had a bright paisley shawl around her neck and shoulders and her hair lay like a dark collar on the exotic decoration of the fabric. Smoke drifted in the morning air and Geoffrey could smell the aroma of bacon and mutton chops. He was ravenous.
He moved from one side of the fire to the other, considering which angle he would use if he were to photograph Huia cooking on the brow of the beach. He smiled to himself at the way his craft asserted itself. He was glad Huia was busy turning the chops with a piece of wood. He certainly had no intention of going back on his word about photographing her, yet he had to admit she would make a pretty composition. He saw the scene in the gaze of the camera: the frantic white breakers at one side, the pebble and wood-strewn beach, and then on this small mat of grass a girl with a patterned shawl hunkered over a pot and a fire. ‘Breakfast’, ‘Morning’, ‘Best Meal of the Day’, he thought, devising possible names for his imaginary composition.
‘Do you want eggs with your bacon and chops?’ Huia said.
‘Eggs?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Here?’
‘Yes,’ said Huia, reaching in the horse’s feedbag lying beside her and picking out two eggs. ‘I brought them wrapped
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