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“There’s no such thing as true love,” she said.
And roses fell dead.
This is a fairytale, though not from long ago.
Once there was a girl- a princess, so named by her father, and precious, because a princess is a very precious thing.
“More precious than gold?” she would ask, testing him.
“Gold is not precious; gold is just metal.”
“More precious than jewels?” she would ask.
“Jewels aren’t precious; they are just dazzling.”
“More precious than love?” she would ask, finally certain that she had caught him out at last.
“Love is not in competition with precious. Love is precious and precious is love.”
The girl was amazed that her father was so wise, and she looked at him with adoring eyes, and said: “Daddy, when I grow up, can I marry you?”
Her father laughed, and hugged her.
“A princess must marry a prince!”
“But, will he be wise like you? Will he love me as much as you do?”
Her father’s brow creased ever so slightly, a single grey cloud passing in front of the sun.
“Of course he will. A prince is always wise and loving.”
“Do you promise, Daddy?”
“I promise, princess.”
When the girl grew up, her prince did not arrive as she anticipated. He did not come unexpectedly on horseback to serenade her, or to woo her with a rose and a poem. He did not take one look at her, and gasp at her unfathomable beauty. Nor, did he insist upon whisking her away right that instant, lest they spend another moment out of each other’s arms. No, he did none of those things. In fact, she didn’t think that her prince had ever even thought about doing any of those things.
Then one day, he was leaving on yet another long journey away on a mission for the king.
“You are not my prince,” she said.
He smiled and winked at her as he slung his pack over his shoulder.
“Sure I am, princess. Now, how about a kiss for your prince? It will be a long time before you see him again.”
“I’ll say,” she said.
He looked puzzled.
“You are not my prince,” she continued, “and today as you leave, so will I- only in a different direction and, in order to find my prince- the real one.”
“What say you? Surely you jest.”
She remained unimpressed.
“At least stay here” her father implored, “You’ll meet another”
She wasn’t as sure.
“Daddy, my heart is breaking to leave, but I have to go as you well know. I can tell by your eyes this is no new surprise.”
Sadness poured out of him and gathered around his ankles where it would remain like a thick, grey fog that he would have to labour through wherever he went. He could not stand in the way of his daughter living her life. After all, hadn’t he taught her that wonderful things would come to her if she were brave, and open to love?
She hugged him tightly. It was the letting go that proved hard to do, she suddenly felt bound there with super glue. But, when she finally let go of her dad, she never looked back to show she was sad.
The world was unexpected after a lifetime inside pleasant walls. People looked at her with mistrust and something else she didn’t recognise except, perhaps, that she had seen it before in the eyes of her mistaken prince. People presumed she was lost or imposing, or up to something. People were confusing. People stole from her when she had willingly turned over her purse to them; people cursed at her when she tried to help them pick up their fallen fruit, or simply smiled- mistakenly thinking it might brighten their dark expression. People started to make her heart contract and force her gaze towards the ground. People fashioned her once smiling lips into a drawn line.
Her bright and cheery dress became drab through its constant wear, and with her increasing lack of bathing; she began to resemble the murky water of a painters brush cup.
On the outside she was crust, and inside she was crushed. She’d forgotten her lofty dreams of meeting a prince and, to be honest, the mistaken prince from so long ago now seemed a lovely suitor. But all of that was in the past. Her present was here selling lemons to disinterested masses, and perhaps, her future included her owning her own lemon tree and collecting larger profits. It was something of a distraction.
Her father had not meant to taunt her with stories of charming princes and true love when he knew it all to be false. But, if he hadn’t, she might be home amongst his warmth and love right now and remembering how to smile, instead of accepting coins in her grimy hand and tucking them into her skirt pocket.
“My lady, if you would do me a great honour, could I perchance look upon your face?”
Her heart seized a moment, and her gaze nailed itself to the wooden stall lest it rise to accommodate this stranger.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s presumptuous of me that you would look upon me. But, if you would be so kind, I would be terribly grateful. In fact I would be so grateful that I would buy your entire stock of lemons.”
“What?”
She looked up, of course. What person would buy 39 lemons, after all, in exchange for nothing but the simple exercise of looking upon the face of a merchant girl?
“My lady, what a crime to be hidden by your garments! A face as lovely as yours should shine upon everyone, so that they might have at least this one vision of pure beauty in their lifetime.”
A line. She had learned about lines in this new life of hers. They were empty words thrown about by careless men who knew not what they meant.
But, she was taken by the sight of him as she had not intended to be, and the vision of his smile had a long forgotten effect on her heart.
He continued to smile even as he poured coins into her hands and waited expectantly for his lemons.
“I’ll take them as they are in the crate if that’s alright.”
She looked around her. She needed the crate for tomorrow but was loathe to admit that she had only one.
“But, of course it’s inconveniencing you,” he said.
She smiled; relieved he had intuited what she hadn’t wanted to say.
“I promise I’ll return it tomorrow,” he added.
“Well, but I need to collect...”
“Ah, you probably need it to collect fresh lemons in the morning. What time and where? I’ll be happy to help in any possible way.”
There didn’t seem to be anything to say.
“The Vickary orchard. At six.”
“Six in the morning? Is that necessary for lemons?” he asked.
“It’s necessary for me,” she replied.
“Ha! Very good; the Vickary orchard at six. I shall cut a slice of lemon for every minute that passes until the hour arrives.”
“What will you do with all the slices?” she wondered.
This guy was a real kook.
“I shall fashion them into a lemon flower and give it to you as a sign of my love.”
The colour and noise and movement of the market crowd quickly took him from her before she could respond.
He had uttered that word. That word she had not allowed into her mind or over her lips in the many years that had passed since she had walked away from her father and his dangerous promises.
This man had no business saying it. Where love is concerned, it rages like fire and one can only get burned.
The next morning, her bare feet trod the dusty path to the orchard more eagerly than they had the day before. Her hair was more neatly arranged, her previous attitude more or less estranged. She skipped the narrow path between the trees and fell abruptly to her knees.
In the clearing at the crossroads of the orchard, a beautiful lemon flower spread out on the earth before her. Layer upon layer of tiny, dried, half-moon lemon petals drew a sunflower big enough to hold her in its centre. She knelt to touch it, and smelled its fading, familiar scent. A smile played on her lips. When she looked up from the decorated ground, there was no one else around.
“Hello, kind sir?” she said, coming to stand.
“The flower is a treasure, never before has my fruit brought me so much pleasure.”
When still her love had failed to show, she supposed that she would have to go.
“I have to get more lemons now.” She declared quite loudly, picking up her empty crate to collect the lemons alone.
Sadness crept into her heart.
Slow footsteps took her down a row of lemon trees when she saw the shoe.
A clue!
She picked it up from where it lay on its side on the earth, between the flower and the tree.
“But, my love, where is your other shoe? And where are you?”
She looked around frantically, up high in branches and low at the roots, she looked at the flower then back to the shoe. Oh what to do. Had something terrible befallen this man, in his quest to show her love?
“Combustion quite spontaneous? Or something subcutaneous?”
It seemed that she would never know, because now she really had to go.
The passing of time was an endless, rocking tide that washed over her with monotonous regularity. Suitably wiser since her unhappy encounter with yet another mistaken prince, she had given away all notions of love, and focussed instead on her career. Her once simple lemon stall was now twice the size and boasted a number of home made, lemon-powered, lemon-scented cleaning products, as well as the original fruit. Her dresses were now bright, and without a trace of dirt or grime, and her skin was clean and clear thanks to another of her products – lemonAIDE: a drink designed to boost energy and cleanse the body from the inside. Her hair was quite a bit blonder than before because one of her product lines, “lemon hair wash” did not sell well. People complained that not only did it not clean their hair, but it often left pulp and seeds in their tresses, working against the very end it sought. Still possessing quite a supply of it, her only option was to stoically continue to use it herself.
The business (despite the lemon hair wash), was a success, and so was she. She no longer hung her head or forwent on personal hygiene, especially now that her line of orchard deodorants was out. She was so famous that people called her Princess Pip, (though she wished they wouldn’t- it was the name of the business after all, not hers). She was the most eligible bachelorette in town, which was good for only one thing. Sport. She played the game with each new suitor, fully enjoying her detached position, and deriving immense joy from watching so many cock-sure, handsome men turn away scratching their heads, or, even better- begging her to reconsider when she had declared she had tired of them. It was the best life she could hope for.
It had been part of her plan from the beginning to acquire the Vickary orchard to expand her business, and on the day that she finally possessed the means to do it, she walked through the trees where, over the years, she had spent so many hours covered in dirt, and getting lost in the smell of citrus. That day, unlike those early years, she wasn’t barefoot and grubby- she was stunning. Her dress was brand new and so were her shoes. She had planned to stride right up to ol’ Vickary and dazzle him with her confidence but, what with the heels and the soft earth, her arrival was far more ungainly than she had pictured in her mind. Still, light strands of her hair (brushed and free of pulp) floated charmingly on the breeze, and her face held the glow of a woman who was about to realise all of her dreams. In her Princess Pip bag (tailored hessian with a bright, yellow lemon appliquéd to the front) was access to the largest amount of money she had ever had. She intended to bowl Mr Vickary right over with her initial offer, and have him gratefully accept. The whole thing would be over before he knew what hit him and then her corporate empire would begin to take over the world, one lemon at a time.
The cottage was very quaint, she could see herself living here at once, and pictured herself taking tea and toast out on the verandah to watch her orchard of little money trees. Her mud-encrusted heels made their way up the steps to the front door, and she quickly swept those dreamy notions away. This negotiation required all of her wits. Old Mr Vicary often gave her the sh-
“Ah, Princess Pip. Come for lemons? You know, we already have a deal in place- you don’t have to come up and ask permission every time.”
His unwashed, hairy and portly presence in the doorframe made her vomit a little bit in her mouth. She swallowed it down and pressed on.
“Mr Vickary I most certainly haven’t come for more lemons, or permission. May I come in?”
A faint flicker of surprise came over him and he opened the door wider.
“Of course. But, I’m afraid have nothing suitable in the pantry to offer such a celebrity as yourself.”
Mr Vickary was a real twat sometimes.
“This won’t take long. I’ve come with a business proposal.”
He scoffed. You could tell he really couldn’t help himself.
“I see. Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised. Do sit down.”
They sat at the dining table, a round, unfinished wooden piece. Her mind briefly turned to the furnishing properties of citrus trees. By the time they were sitting across from each other, he and his sweating self seemed to take up half the room. Also, he had an odour that not even her orchard range of deodorants could hope to mask.
“What is this proposal, Princess Pip?”
“Mr Vickary do you think it would be alright if you called me by my name? I am here under quite serious circumstances.”
“I’d be happy to, my dear. Though, I’m afraid I don’t know what it is.”
Typical.
“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” she said, not wishing to prolong the act of being in this man’s presence. “I’ve written you an offer on this piece of paper. It’s for the orchard. Every tree, the cottage, everything; I think you’ll find it most agreeable.”
She slid the folded lemon-coloured, lemon-scented paper from her “notes from the orchard” collection, across the table, and waited.
“Were you under the impression that the orchard is for sale?”
“Everything’s for sale, Mr Vickary,” she’d always wanted to say that. Too bad Mr-tosser-Vickary sniggered.
“Indeed. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
He took the paper with his stubby fingers and prolonged the act of unfolding it. As he examined the figure his eyebrows danced up, then down, then up again. Then, he abruptly shoved the offer into his breast pocket and thanked her.
“I’m sure you’re quite busy today, I know I am. I want to thank you sincerely for coming by with this... offer, Princess- well, I want to thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to respond to it?” she said.
“Of course, but this will take careful consideration. I’ll be in touch.”
He ushered her back outside where she tottered back down through the orchard on her unsteady heels.
Not the imagined scenario at all.
She was furious with Mr-holding-out-Vickary. It had been six days and she hadn’t heard a word. She sat at her stall, absently spraying lemon finish and wiping down the glossy bench-top, while unwashed masses swept by.
“Keep walking, trouble,” she said to a grubby lad who had been loitering nearby.
“Ok then, I’ll just tell Mr Vickary you weren’t interested in his message.”
“What? What’s the message?” she stood up at once.
The kid smiled, “It’ll cost you.”
She grabbed him by his grotty collar and pulled him off the ground.
“Listen to me you little hustler, if you have a message for me, then you better give it or I swear to god I will pummel you to within an inch of your life with the very lemons Vickary is holding out on.”
Hey, the past six days had been pretty tense.
The kid went wide-eyed with shock and agreed to talk, making her feel pretty bad- especially when a passer-by shouted “Hey Pip! Leave the kid alone, some of us just don’t like lemons!” which sent a ripple of laughter amongst the petty stall-owners.
She let him down and apologised.
“Well? What’s the message?”
The kid handed over a lemon.
“A lemon?”
“Read it,” the boy said, looking embarrassed.
She turned it over in her hands until she could make out the scratched message in the rind.
let’s talk
“Did you write this?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“That’s very impressive.”
“I go to school.”
“Not the spelling, the writing- the engraving. It can’t have been easy.”
“It took a few lemons to get it right.”
She smiled at him, “There is a job for you in the world of lemons, young man, but I can’t figure what it is just yet. Come back and see me another day, ok?”
The kid shrugged and walked off. Probably not that thrilled at the spontaneous job offer from a woman who had moments before threatened his health and safety with fruit.
This time when she went to the Vickary Orchard, she left the heels at home. Coming as she had straight from her stall, her hair was unbrushed and her brow sweaty. She marched right up to the door and banged a fist on it.
“Mr Vickary!”
Footsteps approached from inside.
“Six days, Vickary? You’ve got a lot of nerve making me wait six-“
The door opened and with it, her mouth.
“days,” she finished.
“I’m sorry you had to wait, but it was unavoidable.”
She couldn’t answer.
The man at the door kept waiting for her to, but she just couldn’t. Her heart had seized, like it had been lying dormant all this time and only now had the benefit of an electrical jump-start. Her head was dizzy. It kept running films of someone from long ago through her memory, someone who looked just like-
“You better sit down,” he said, and he helped her to the glass topped table on the deck.
“Would you like some tea? Or toast?”
“Toast?”
“Sorry, I’m not sure what one should do in this situation. You do look frightfully pale.”
“Can you imagine why?” she asked.
“So you do remember me,” he said.
Oh, why must she fall for a man who states the bleeding obvious?
“Of course, I remember you. You made quite an impression.”
“Ah, the flower.”
“Well, initially the flower, but then it was more about the single shoe you left in the orchard. I supposed all sorts of terrible things might have befallen you.”
“Permit me to explain?”
“Can I get the tea, first? And the toast, if it’s still part of the offer.”
He seemed a bit put off by the fact that she could wait ten minutes for his explanation, but dutifully made the tea and toast. He even waited for her to finish eating and drinking before broaching the subject.
“You see-“
“I suppose an explanation is fine,” she said, cutting him off, “I mean we are both here and everything; and it would solve a curiosity that’s been bugging me for some time. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait to the end to decide if you’re kind.”
He deflated further, though this gave her none of the satisfaction that her previous games had.
“I’ll begin by saying sorry,” he said,” It is not enough, that’s true in part, but it is an appropriate and genuine start.”
Her heart melted, to her dismay. She could not control its delicate way.
“The day I first spoke to you, it was like heaven switched the laws of gravity and drew me across the earth to you. I have never before felt anything as I did the moment you looked up at me. You were beautiful, of course. But, your eyes held such sadness, as though you were imprisoned by that flimsy stall. You seemed bound without chains.”
She was speechless.
“You saw the flower; I made it as a sign of my love. It took me quite some time and more than a few sprays of lemon in my eyes.
“Oh, I have a product for that-“
“You do?”
“Well yes, it comes in both an eye dropper and a mist.”
She saw she had been deal-making too long and almost let him off without righting his wrong.
“But, that’s not the point,” she said.
He nodded and finished his story instead.
“I made the flower and had time to spare, so I sat down for a moment in the shade and looked up at all the trees. The smell was so... Then, I saw this big, bright lemon hanging just out of reach. I decided I would start picking the fruit for you, starting with that one. I had to climb the tree though, so I started to take off my shoes. I got one of them off when I heard the shouting. Mr Vickary was running at me with a rake, telling me to stop stealing his fruit or he’d call the police. I still had my other foot in my hand as he came at me, and I hopped around a bit until I realised that I needed to get running, shoe or no shoe. But, by that time it was too late. I started running, but he knew the orchard too well and cut through the trees to catch me. He’s fast for a tubby guy. First he clobbered me with the rake, and then he set upon me with his fists. I have to say, it is not worth the trouble to steal from this man.”
“Oh!”
“I came out of my coma on Thursday.”
“Oh!”
“And, on Friday, Vickary came begging to settle out of court.”
“Court?”
“Well, my lawyers made a pretty good case against him. Initially, he thought it would just be his word against mine, but there was a young lad who saw the whole thing. He’d been hiding away in the orchard engraving the most extraordinary images in the rinds of lemons with a rusty nail. I got to know him. He’s never had a family and feels the lemon trees are his family now. I mean, the kid’s off his rocker, but he saved my bacon, cos now I own the orchard.”
“You own it?”
He produced the worn, lemon coloured and scented paper with her confident handwriting from his breast pocket, and put it on the table. A gentle breeze nudged it closer to her.
“Vickary gave me your offer yesterday.”
She looked into his eyes for the first time. She wanted to see him; to really see him and know if he was true.
“Read it,” he said.
She took it with one tentative hand. He watched her closely. Still with her eyes on him she unfolded the page. When finally her gaze shifted to the message he’d written there, she frowned.
No deal
Shock betrayed itself with her sharp intake of breath.
“You are not the man I thought you were, after all. I’m sorry I ever had the misfortune to have met you, and my heart is even sorrier that it offered itself up to you on more than one occasion to be bruised. Please stay away from me on all occasions in the future.”
She got up from the table, grating the chair along the floorboards and losing her way through tears. His hand above her elbow, strong and gentle, anchored her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry, I do everything wrong. Please sit. Please, give me one more chance, I wasn’t quite finished.”
She sat, bowing her head to hide the tears that refused to remain beneath the surface. Fingers brushed them aside and knuckles nudged her leaking nose.
“Please,” he said.
Tissues appeared in her hand and she mopped her face. She no longer cared. She didn’t want to listen to him anymore. What she wanted the most was to run home and open a nice big bottle of LemonAIDE. Oh, who was she kidding- a nice cabernet.
“Here,” he said, pushing a crisp and lemon-scented, folded piece of paper towards her.
“This is from ‘Notes from the Orchard’,” she said, “Did you buy a set? I must have sold it to you.”
“Read it,” he said.
She unfolded the page and read.
The orchard is yours for $1
I have deducted relative costs of the pain and suffering you endured from the day you met me- and the slight depreciation that we faced during the economic downturn. I have included one, small, worthwhile cost: that you did in fact meet me. It’s worth something, no? Please, don’t say no. But, of course, if this is your feeling, then the orchard is yours at no cost.
The princess duly paid the sum
The prince accepted the fee
He bought a lime
Which at the time
Was a very strange thing to see
The boy who had engraved the lemon
Was soon working at the stall
His lemon art
Was soon a part
Of the merchandise for all
They never actually married
Or lived happily ever after
But their love was true
it grew and grew
and more oft than tears, was laughter
They became a famous couple
for their empire of lemon and lime
The business thrived
Their love survived
And they lived happily (most of the time)
Kylie Mulcahy ...
issue 10:03 | archives by category | archives by author
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