The Wicker Man by Robin Hardy

Author:Robin Hardy [Hardy, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-49878-6
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2010-02-10T05:00:00+00:00

‘Exactly!’ agreed Lord Summerisle. ‘As the snowflake, so the apple. Which god is little more than semantics! That obstacle to ecumenism.’

While he had been talking, Lord Summerisle split the Saint Athelstan’s pippin in his hand with his special knife. Howie was on the point of taking a segment and tasting it, when Lord Summerisle simply took it back from the sergeant’s hand and threw both segments into a shallow box of sawdust on the floor.

This action yanked Sergeant Howie back into a state of extreme alertness. There must be something wrong with Saint Athelstan’s pippin, just conceivably something serious.

‘Don’t bother to taste it,’ he’d said, ‘it’s quite unremarkable. Unlike those splendid Pauncefoot Pearmains, which you can see in that tray over there, and which were brought in at the last mating in order to correct appearance. My father called the apple for old, or rather young Pinky, as he was then. It was bred when he and I were at school together …’

A sudden disturbing thought occurred to Sergeant Howie. Could the Chief Constable know this incredible island intimately and have never interfered because of ‘the old school tie’?

‘Has the Chief Constable ever been here, My Lord?’ asked Howie, almost sharply.

‘To my great sorrow, no. You may not have heard, but he suffers most dreadfully from hay fever. The pollen count, as you can well imagine, is quite astronomical here. My father had to advise against it. And he’s been wise enough never to risk it. Now I mustn’t keep you in suspense any longer. I threw that Saint Athelstan’s pippin away because I wanted you to keep your palate clear for this fella!’ Lord Summerisle flourished an apple he had just taken from a tray. ‘The renowned Summerisle Famous.’

As Lord Summerisle split the apple and passed him a segment, Howie was half-convinced that the Saint Athelstan’s pippin was the problem apple, the one he must retrieve from the sawdust bin, and he felt fairly confident as he bit into the Summerisle Famous. It was quite literally the most delicious apple he’d tasted … since the last time his mother had bought some of the same at the local fruiterer in Portlochlie and complained about their outrageous price.

‘Extraordinary, My Lord! Naturally, I’ve tasted them before,’ said Howie.

‘Yes, of course you have,’ said Lord Summerisle, caressing the famous apple like a lover. ‘Creamy white flesh, firm, full-flushed, blood-red, bloomed skin with a truly noble, sweet, vinous flavour. The lifework of three generations of my forebears, but it’s been worth it for on this we base our prosperity.’

‘Your father’s too?’ interjected Howie, embarrassed by the extravagance of Lord Summerisle’s language.

‘Oh, indeed. This beauty was only perfected just before his death. He produced some other marvellous fruit as well. Expanding our base, as it were. There’s Star of Summerisle, a remarkably heady pear. You can make a smoothly potent pear brandy from it. He produced the Flame of Summerisle, an extremely juicy, slightly subacid apricot of superb colour … but you must be getting very chilly, Sergeant.

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