Maggie came through the orchard with a basket full of cabbages. On top was perched a shiny red apple. As she walked, her hips swayed from side to side. Her long skirts rustled in the grass. The midday sun was hot, and she felt soft and drowsy. Damp hairs curled where her bonnet had come loose.
The trees in the orchard had low, gnarled branches, warm and weighted with ripened fruit. Slowly she meandered through the trees, swinging under the branches as she passed by.
Beyond the orchard, the garden sloped up to the House. Maggie worked in its kitchens. She was new, sent up from the village. The cabbages she carried were for Cook’s soup. They’d been dug out of the soil this morning. The basket was lined with straw from the stables. The red apple she’d picked for herself.
She shaded her eyes with her forearm. Up at the House the shutters were closed, but the drawing-room doors had been thrown open onto the veranda. A breeze billowed the white curtains. Through the doorway it was dim and dark.
Faint through the air came the sound of a piano.
Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti- it sang.
The young Master was at his practice.
Maggie dangled her basket and leant against a pear tree. Its trunk was warm against her back. A fat bee flew past, trailing pollen. Maggie widened her nostrils. The honey in the hive would soon be ready for harvesting. Her mouth watered at the thought.
Do, re, mi, called the notes. Fa, so, la-
Like a question, thought Maggie. Upwards they went towards a peak. She waited for the answer that came at the top, but each time the phrase broke off early. Maggie sucked her finger. There was dirt under the nail. Leaves tickled at the nape of her neck. She shifted her basket to the other hip. The red apple rolled against the rim.
She’d seen the Master once before, riding out in the carriage while she was picking blackcurrants at the side of the lane. The horse in the traces kicked up her hooves and tossed her head against the bit. The young Master sat up very straight and didn’t look to right or left.
“Drive on,” was all she heard him say. “Drive on!”
How fine he was! How pale! She stood and stared long after the carriage had disappeared, with the juice from the berries soaking through her apron.
Do, re, mi. Do, re, mi-
It left a tingle on the skin, him stopping short like that. Like an itch you couldn’t quite reach. She rubbed her thumb back and forth beneath her collar. The cotton frill was damp and sticky. It really was very hot. She pushed herself off the pear tree and wandered up towards to the House. The sun was bright across the veranda. The curtains lifted in the breeze.
Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti-
The piano, she knew, stood there in the grand drawing-room. The other day she’d cleaned it when the parlourmaid was sick. Its wood was black and shiny, with a varnish so thick you couldn’t see the grain, and the keys were like little white bones. She’d polished it all over with a yellow cloth until it gleamed. Then she pressed one fat, round fingerprint onto the lid.
Do, re, mi, fa, so, la-
The notes came clearer now, calling to her, drawing her up the garden. Why did he keep sticking so, she wondered? What was he waiting for? She thought again of his pale skin. Her own cheeks were hot. She wiped her brow as she climbed to the top of the lawn. How nice it would be to swim later in the lily pond, to slide down the mulchy bank into the cool waters. The lily pads were like great flat hands with stalks below like fingers, plucking at your legs.
She supposed the young Master swam only in the bath-tub. She pictured him lying on the white enamel beneath the stiff brass taps. Was he as pale all over, she wondered?
He played again the same stuck phrase. Again he broke off early. Maggie hitched up her basket and climbed the stone steps onto the veranda. Now she could make out the dark shapes of the furniture in the drawing room. It was so dim and dreary in there. How stiff his fingers must be, how they must ache. She tugged at the laces on her bodice, to let the air in. He should come outside and play a little, she thought. Her red apple shone in the sunshine.
The notes began again, half a step higher. Up and up they went, with their funny little question.
She leaned against the veranda wall and thought of the stablehand she’d danced with at the servants’ ball. He smelled of straw and horses and another odour, sharp and spicy. His hands were big and hot and they’d held her tight, stirring the bottom of her belly. Up and up the stirring went as the music jigged and they whirled about the room. When the dance was over she laughed and fanned herself with her apron. The stablehand whispered a suggestion as he took her back to her seat.
Do, re, mi, fa-
And now here was the Master, sticking on his scales. Why didn’t he play something else, Maggie thought, let his fingers go a bit? She closed her eyes and basked lazily in the sunlight. A bluebottle tangled itself in the white curtains. She could hear it buzzing against the lace. She should be getting back to the kitchens soon. Cook would be waiting and the cabbages would get limp. She oughtn’t really to have come up here. Cook would clap her ears if she knew.
The music stopped. A pregnant silence filled the air. The sun’s rays beat down from the zenith; Maggie felt their heat thick upon her eyelids. From far away came the whinnying of a horse. Indoors, all was still. She waited. Would he come, she wondered? Would he dare? The bluebottle buzzed again, banging against the glass.
At last she heard a rustling of papers and the noise of the piano stool pushed back. Footsteps came across the floor then, near at hand, a cough.
Maggie lifted her lashes.
They stared at each other, the boy and the girl.
His white shirt was buttoned right up under his chin and his golden curls were carefully parted. His upper lip showed a fine blonde down and his mouth was soft and pink beneath, like rose petals. He gazed down at her with round blue eyes.
Maggie felt herself brim-full. She stood in the doorway and rocked the basket on her hip. Her skirts swayed back and forth across the threshold. She sensed the stirring in him too, like sweet sap that ran beneath the tree bark. The syrup needed drawing out, she recalled, else it would clog and harden in the wood.
Maggie held out the red apple. Her arm was plump and browned by the sun.
“P’raps you be hungry, Sir, what with all yer exhershuns.”
The breeze blew and the bluebottle swooped free from the curtains. The blood bloomed in the young Master’s cheeks. He clenched his fists at his sides. His bottom lip trembled.
Maggie laughed and lifted the apple up towards him.
“Won’t ’urt you, Sir,” she said.
He pulled in his chin.
“I don’t eat dirty vegetables,” he said. “And it’s time anyway for my nap.”
He reached out his arms and grasped the handles of the doors. She stepped aside as he tugged them closed, shutting out the summer.
Maggie admired her reflection in the shining glass. Behind her the sky was full of blue. She held the apple up to her nose. How sweet it smelled! She twirled her skirts and set off back down the steps and across the lawn. The straw in the basket tickled her bare arm. Above the orchard a blackbird was singing. Her feet trod firmly in the soft earth.
She swung the basket as she turned towards the kitchens. The cabbages were leafy and green. What good soup she and Cook would make, spiced with garlic and thickened with cream. She lifted the apple to her mouth and pressed its smooth skin against her teeth.
Later, she mused, she would stop by the stables. After all, she’d said that she might, and she was full of such a stirring.
She imagined the Master lying himself down in a narrow bed with the shutters tight closed; buried there in the sheets, as pale as a worm, with his clean hands plucking at the blankets. Yes, she decided. Pale all over.
She puckered her lips and whistled in full:
Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do!
The juice from the apple was as sweet as toffee. It filled all the corners of her mouth.