Apples and Pebbles by Abby Letteri

​Abby Letteri is a writer based in Wellington and on the Kapiti Coast. Her first book, down they forgot: a memoir, was published in early 2021, between lockdowns.
 
During the first lockdown, I walked my dogs up the road most days to stretch their legs and clear away the cobwebs. We’d take a left out of the gate and follow the trees until the canopy gave way to sky, to where the road dips down to a one lane bridge, then up again into the narrowing of the Gorge. Just before we’d break free of the trees, we’d pass an old farm gate made of wood and covered with delicate mosses, set into the bush. It was one of those quiet gates that holds its tongue and tells no secrets.
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During the second week of lockdown, a basket appeared on a chunk of wood just outside the quiet gate. It was old, formed of two-toned wicker, brown and cream, with a braided handle, and filled to the brim with apples and walnuts. A hand-lettered sign told me to please help myself.
The apples were small but amazingly sweet and juicy. I ate one as I walked up the road and pocketed another for the old pony. This ritual became the new routine. I pocketed the occasional walnut, too, delighting in cracking it open after dinner and eating the sweet meats with a bit of cheese. There was something about the basket, the unencumbered offering, that made me feel more at home than I had in years.

On the fifth day, I left an offering in return: a perfect crimson leaf from my little maple tree. Another day, a small beach pebble in the shape of a heart. I placed these treasures in the bottom of the basket and felt a quickening of connection.

Towards the end of the second week of lockdown, the basket was gone. In its place was a note asking whoever had taken it to please return the basket. It wasn’t an angry note, it seemed to accept the possibility that the contents might have made a difference to a hungry household. But something about the theft got my hackles up. All the way to the swing bridge and back, past the reserve and the lone white horse in the big field, I kept turning it over in my mind. Someone had pulled over, snatched up the basket—and with it the day’s harvest of apples and walnuts—and taken off. Casual and callous, just like that.

The following morning, while rummaging in the shed, I spied a cheap woven basket festooned with thick cobwebs and surrounded by mouse droppings, its trim painted pale pink. I dusted it off, gave it a blast with the hose and set it outside in the sun to air. By the time the dogs and I were ready to walk, the basket was dry. I scribbled a note on a piece of card, and we headed up the road.
When we got to the quiet gate, the stump was still empty. I put the card on the stump and placed the pink basket on top. It was a poor substitute for the beautiful old brown hamper, but perhaps it would be a vessel good-enough for the harvest.

Up the Gorge, the white horse was grazing by the fence and whickered a soft greeting as we passed. I stopped to pluck him a handful of the long grass growing on the verge. By the swing bridge, we were overtaken by a mob of sheep followed by the farmer with his grinning dogs riding shotgun on a quad bike. Hens were out in the grassy paddock, scratching under trees, and the donkeys, Alice and Victor, lifted their heads and followed us with their intelligent eyes. A kingfisher, plump in his blue-green cloak and rosy waistcoat, perched on the quiet gate.

The animals reminded me how often I get it wrong with people, how much easier it is to communicate through an indirect exchange of apples and pebbles. Lockdown has its consolations. Heading home, I felt an indescribable lightness. It may have been joy.

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