Lindie Heeralall

The tree has a lot of apples. I don’t know what kind. They’re sweet and the ones kissed by the sun blush pink. I cut out the larvae and their crystals of poop. I juice, strain, pasteurise and bottle almost a hundred eaters. The peach-gold liquid sits on the counter and the shabby kitchen is filled with sweet, warm appley aromas. It is the best part of September. Harvest. Blackberries, pears and sloes, jammed, ginned and juiced. My fingers are stained purple with fruit and red with blood from their unforgiving defences.

I wash my chunky cardigan, ready for the cold. From the kitchen window I see the dog taking my friend for a walk. He is hooded and braced against the northeasterly driven rain, ruddy-cheeked and waving but the weather makes him smile. I like this place. Later I remember Dad and the sadness comes. It does that.

At night barn-funnel spiders scurry around the living room and under my son’s bed till he hangs over the edge screaming, ‘Catch it Mummy!’ I chase them with a plastic cup and an old water bill, despatching them out of the bedroom window, so he will sleep. Do they fly? Noble false widows loiter in window frames. Mushroom-like spiders stumble around. Slow worms get slower. Tawny owls call through the open window. Nights draw in, stars get brighter, and the Horlicks at the back of the cupboard calls to me.

I love this time of year. The covers are being pulled up and the land is tucking itself in. Stack the logs by the fire dear. Grab a blanket. Snuggle up.