Fast Fiction: Goodly Fruit
What did Gratton mean when he told his estranged wife that he missed her goodly fruit? Richard Mallinson’s story unravels a tangled skein of love.
Soon after Lucinda left me, Gratton's wife went too. (There was no connection.)
'What d'you think of this, then?' Gratton said in the pub, showing me a letter
he was going to send.
'Darling,’ it began, 'I do miss you so. Above all I miss your goodly fruit.'
'For god's sake,' I said, 'do you mean what I think you mean?'
'I don't know what you think I mean.'
'Well,' I said, 'that phrase goodly fruit comes in a 17th century love poem. I
will say no more.'
'Don't then,' he said, grabbing the letter back. 'Bloody teacher.'
*
A week later in the pub Gratton was looking glum.
'What's wrong?' I asked. 'Didn't your wife reply to your letter?'
He stared at me. 'She did and I wish she hadn't.'
'Why, what did she say?'
'She said that somebody else had written a letter to her and had used the same phrase, goodly fruit. . .’
I sipped my brandy. ('Brandy is for heroes,' said Dr Johnson.) 'Did she say who this other person was?' I asked.
'No,' he muttered, 'but I have my suspicions.'
*
Gratton stopped coming to the pub. I asked the barman for news.
'Well,' he said, evasively, 'I know that his wife is now, er, shacked up with Nigel... the chap who does book reviews . . . that sort of thing.'
'Yes, he'd know about 17th century love poetry, wouldn't he?'
'Eh?'
'And what about Gratton himself?' I pursued. 'Is he still on his own?’
He looked-left and right and then almost at me. 'Er, you know that woman you used to live with, don't you,' he said, ‘. . . Lucinda was it? Er, well. . .'
