Bad Fruit, page 25
“Speak to him,” Lewis insisted. “Just see if you like it.”
He drove me to the interview himself. Dr. Watson was nothing like Lewis, but his questions lit a spark of possibility.
What is language?
How do you think the English language has changed over time?
What happens to language when the brain is damaged?
So now I’m going to study linguistics. Tomorrow, I leave for Oxford.
I gather up my books. Around us, sycamore seeds fall, the autumn air alive with delicate wings.
He takes a thermos flask from his rucksack, pours hot tea into the cap, and hands it to me. “What was in the package this morning?”
There’ve been a lot of boxes addressed to The Polar Explorer House since I left. The smell of them panicked me at first; Lewis had to carry them into the dining room. But a few weekends ago, Saskia and I went in together, slowly knifing through the tape, pulling out the contents. Dangerous items were mixed with safe ones—bottles of black hair dye lumped in with my clothes, a pair of Peranakan cookbooks with my old textbooks. My rucksack, still full of emergency things, brought on a crushing feeling that didn’t leave me for days.
There was no malice in it. The boxes were packed by Jacob; he’d slipped in photos of the boys and notes asking me how I was, although he never called. None of them did.
Two boxes weren’t from him. Inside was everything I didn’t take from the hole, including three pots of ivy, all the books Daddy bought me, a little cloth bag holding the missing origami stars, and something wound tightly in bubble wrap—a beach jar. I poured it out on the library rug. It’s my drift glass salvaged from Mama’s violence, the poison bottle fragment, and the frosted marble, but also things from Julia’s collection. She has made up the jar with her prized shells.
“Just this.” I hold out my hand. The package that came today wasn’t from my brother or sister. It was a brown envelope, hastily taped. Inside was a red, silk jewelry pouch. My heart caught, watching the jade tumble into my palm; I could send it back, I could stuff it in the rucksack with all the things I can’t bear to see. But two voices came to me: a small child’s and a mother’s: “Like clouded grape.” “Like the sky before a monsoon.” I put it on.
He takes a swallow from the flask. “I have something for you too.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the playing cards. They’re soft and battered; we’ve played them almost every day, sometimes with Saskia, sometimes with Noah next door.
“Thank you.”
He stands up and brushes down his trousers. Later, we’ll have a small celebration, Saskia, Lewis, and me at The Polar Explorer House, not in the guest room with trays on our laps, but in the dining room, emptied of my boxes.
“Ready to go?”
I’ve been watching the park transform, the new honey of the trees, the infinite browns of fallen things shrinking into the earth. Now, I take it in for the last time, all the seen and unseen gardens, the places where I’ve forgotten and remembered, loved, and been torn apart. I’ve been waiting for this moment, day after day. I’ve been gathering strength for it.
“Ready.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Hellie, who believed in this novel when it was just a handful of words, your passion, confidence, and fabulous style have carried this novel through to the finish line. Thank you for being such an extraordinary agent, person, friend. Thanks also to Marya. Style icon, wordsmith, earliest US fan, your astute editorial eye and profound understanding have been utterly indispensable. Thanks too to Ma’suma, Emma, Mackenzie, and the whole team at Janklow & Nesbit for your creativity and support.
To Alessandra at Astra House, thank you for being so fierce and dedicated and thoughtful. I’ve loved every minute of speaking with and learning from you. To Charlotte at HarperFiction, your brilliant vision, insight, and talent have made this book the best it could possibly be. I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks also to Rola, Tiffany, Rachael, Susanna, Emma, and the rest of the teams at Astra House and HarperFiction who’ve championed this book.
Thank you to my Faber Academy 2016 writing group, especially Ania, Charlotte, Alice, Natalie, Emily, Laura, and Chris. Early readers, critics, friends, what a precious gift it is to talk to you every week about people who don’t exist. And then there’s the inimitable Sarah. Without you, how would I have known what this story is about?
Thank you to my wonderful family and friends, especially my parents, who filled our house with stories and gave me confidence to pursue my dreams; Dave and Sue for their wise counsel; Hannah G and Hannah C for answering obscure medical questions; Frances for talking with me for the last twenty-five years about the books we’ve read and then the book I wrote; my American family for going on journeys with me into Peranakan culture and family history; and the Philip-Howells and the Makonis for making me brave.
To a very special person, Patrick. My ally before I knew I needed one, you taught me about God and love, forgiveness and redemption, and in doing that, changed the course of my life. Thank you for being the real Lewis.
To my father. Way-maker, promise-keeper, light in the darkness, only you know how long this has been on the cards. Thank you for calling me out beyond the shore.
Finally, to my husband. This book is more than my words on a page. It is your pea and bacon risotto, homemade iced lattes, your track changes, the hours you spend listening to me read out passages, the games you play with our daughter—in short, everything you do every day. This book wouldn’t be here without you. I wouldn’t be here without you. And to my daughter, who teaches me how to be freer and happier than I ever thought possible, I live, breathe, and write for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ella King is a Singaporean novelist who lives in London. A graduate of Faber Academy’s novel-writing program, she is an award-winning writer who has worked as a corporate lawyer and for anti–human trafficking and domestic violence prevention charities.
Ella King, Bad Fruit
