"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too." [31/???] [Midsomer Murders]
"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too."
Chapter 30: A Divided Way
With the telephone receiver pressed between her ear and shoulder and the cookbook clutched tightly in her hand, Joyce held back a sigh. There was, after all, no use in being irritated. "Are you sure you won't be home in time for dinner?"
"I'm sure, Mum," her daughter said on the other end of the line. "We've still got some work left this evening-and Gavin is going give me a lift once we're done."
No surprises there, Joyce thought. The week in which Cully had found her own way home after rehearsal was long finished, it seemed. Even with the late days that had encompassed Cully's weekend and the first workday of this week, Gavin Troy still made his way to the Causton Playhouse to drive her home. At this point, for anything else to happen would be more than odd; it would be bizarre.
"But it shouldn't be too late," her daughter added.
"I'd hope not, if tomorrow's the premiere."
"Yes," Cully said, though she was silent for a second. "A bit earlier than last night."
Joyce shook her head, and the receiver jiggled against her shoulder. "You're starting to sound just like your father."
"He's said a few times that I sound just like you."
"That's perfectly reasonable, isn't it?"
After a moment filled with rustling and clattering in the background, Cully said, "I suppose." Her voice faded away again, replaced by several unintelligible words, and Joyce pressed her ear harder against the plastic receiver. Regret followed immediately when her daughter spoke. "I'll see you when I get home tonight."
"If you're not too late," Joyce said, setting the book face down on the counter and opening the back to the index. "I do hope the rest of your evening goes well."
"Me too." A few seconds of additional rustling and a bit of shouting cluttered the line before Joyce heard a barely audible "Bye, Mum" and the sudden flat silence indicating the end of their conversation. These sorts of calls from her daughter were now typical and the least favorite Joyce ever received...well, aside from those they had been fortunate to have from family friends-rather than Tom's colleagues!-when Cully was a teenager.
The phone calls she received from her daughter now-inevitably placed from the theater-were often tense and brief, wedged between the end of one scene's rehearsal and the beginning of another's, made almost on borrowed time. Like someone else in this household, Joyce thought as she returned the wireless receiver to its cradle. Even if she had truly pursued the possibility almost thirty years prior, a career as a teacher would have left her as the eye of the storm in the household's rushing about. Her husband and her daughter's professions were not well-suited to a calm environment.
But with the phone call finished and the proper page of the book once again visible, Joyce took a moment to wash her hands, even as her gaze drifted to the bowl of medlars on the counter beside the cookbook. Though she intended to follow Cherrie Balcombe's recipe word for word, Joyce remained thrilled to have another recipe for guidance. Without it, she might have begun to doubt Cherrie's instructions to let the fruit ripen so far that it nearly fell apart in her hands. Just before Cully's phone call, Joyce had transferred a number of the wrinkled, brownish-orange fruits from the white crate on the table in the adjacent room to a cutting board; she had been unable to purchase fewer. After a quick cut down the center of each to expose the pit, she had moved them to a stainless steel bowl. Now, lifting the first medlar, Joyce popped out the pit, depositing it on the now empty cutting board and placing the fruit on a white tea towel.
It was a simple, repetitive process, drawing that same slice down the middle, peeling the dreadfully ripened fruit apart, and slipping the pit onto the cutting board. Soon, Joyce did not even spare the motions a thought, and her mind turned to other matters...to her daughter. For the past few weeks-even if she had attempted to conceal it-Cully's happiness at Gavin's presence in her life had been more than obvious. It had become impossible to ignore. Her face was brighter, her words lighter, and sometimes her concentration on revision in the back garden had clearly wavered. I don't even need Tom to see that, Joyce thought, rubbing her fingers together as the sticky pulp from the fruit clung to the tips. No deductions were necessary.
Again and again: open and pit, open and pit, open and pit, until the rhythm took on a life of its own, sinking out of her consciousness...And if it happened again, then what of Tom and Gavin? Joyce couldn't help but wonder, and could anyone blame her? Twice before, her husband's relationship with his sergeant had been strained over Cully...but could even a good working relationship survive that a third time? Could anyone blame Tom if he threw in the towel, finally decided he'd had enough of Gavin Troy-
"Hello, Joycey?"
Even though Tom's voice was distant, Joyce turned toward it. "In the kitchen," she called, almost looking over her shoulder before thinking better of it as she popped another pit onto the cutting board. His footsteps came closer and after a moment, Joyce heard the gentle thump of paper hitting the kitchen table. "How did it go today?"
"Oh..." Not well, then, she thought as his footsteps drew even nearer and his breathing told her he stood right behind her. "We're not actually going to eat those..."
"Medlar jelly." Joyce held one of the fruits up, the soft medlar almost squishing between her fingers. "It's Cherrie's recipe. You have to let the fruit go rotten before you eat it." Bringing it to just in front of her nose, Joyce sniffed it. As delicious as Cherrie Balcombe's medlar jelly was, the scent of the ripened fruit was enough to turn her stomach.
Reaching into the bowl, Tom lifted one of the scored medlars. "You've got to be kidding."
"It's in the book." Joyce nodded at the open volume on the counter. "I checked."
Setting the fruit back onto the pile, Tom-his reading glasses nowhere to be seen-reached for the book, bringing it close to his face as he walked around the end of the counter. Away from the smell, Joyce thought as she removed another pit. "Medlar jelly," he said, his voice already taking on the distant tone it did when he was lost in thought. "Medlar..."
Joyce glanced up from her hands. "What is it?"
"Someone described their friend as 'the meddler'," he continued, lowering the book slightly. "I wonder if she meant one who meddles...or the fruit?"
"There are quite a few trees over Malham way, in the bigger gardens. Quite popular locally."
The book came up again. "'Medlars spread on straw ripen"-his voice stopped for a moment-"by their own corruption.'"
An old way to think about it, Joyce thought, cringing as one of the medlars transformed into a paste in her hand. Looking toward her husband another time, she frowned. The book still lay open in his grasp and he had not moved at all. I can't imagine what that means to him.
After another few long seconds, he turned back to her. "I guess that's one way to think about it," Tom said, retracing his steps to the kitchen proper and settling the book back where it had been before.
"However you think about it, that's the way it has to be."
"And you're absolutely sure?" he asked, scratching at his neck, just below the edge of his collar.
"All I'm doing is following the book, Tom. And Cherrie's recipe." Just managing to scrape the pulp from the pit, Joyce dropped the medlar onto the now not so white tea towel.
Nodding at the pile, Tom said, "Not sure I trust either of them, if they're claiming this will be good to eat."
"It's called bletting."
"Oh, there's a whole process to it, is there?"
"Apparently, it's not the only fruit that needs it. Persimmons and quinces are left to start rotting as well."
Her husband's brow furrowed. "Are you planning to serve us more rotten fruit?"
The latest pit hit the cutting board harder than she had intended. "I only looked it up in one of our encyclopedias, Tom. They were all listed there."
"At least we won't be eating them raw." Leaning across the counter just to the towel, he inhaled deeply and briefly before his mouth curled in disgust. "Is Cully back from rehearsal yet?" he asked, already wearing a frown.
"Of course not," Joyce said with a shake of her head. It was about to begin anew. "She rang, though. She said they'll be done earlier than yesterday-"
"Well, that's good to know." The foul grimace faded as Tom stood straight again. "I've hardly seen her lately."
"And that she doesn't know when she'll be back," Joyce said, quicker than before.
The new calm on his face vanished, curiosity and confusion taking its place. "Even if they're nearly finished?"
"She said Gavin will give her a lift, like he usually does."
The next frown was one of resignation. "Of course."
"She won't have much time for anything except the play for the next few weeks."
"All for the best."
Joyce handled the next fruit with even less care. It was as if every word they had shared regarding their daughter and Gavin had been ignored. "I guess if you're going to talk about meddlers..."
"Not that again, Joyce."
Another pit popped onto the board. "And here I thought you were doing so well."
"There are limits."
Narrowing her eyes, Joyce glanced at her husband, and for a moment, she thought she noticed a flinch. "Hmm."
She heard the buried sigh just before he kissed her cheek, quickly drawing back and away from the smell...she hoped. "I won't say anything else. I know that makes you happy."
"I'm not the one you should worry about keeping happy," Joyce said quietly.
Resting a hand on her shoulder, Tom chuckled; it was a choked, forced sound. "You're the only one who's ever around to tell."
Before leaving Joyce to her preserves-and sending off a few prayers that she would meet with more culinary success than usual-Barnaby made himself a cup of tea. The heat of the tea bled through the ceramic handle to his fingers and by the time he settled himself into the chair at the desk in his study, Barnaby was more than happy to place it on the wooden surface. But even as the steaming tea languished in the cup, Barnaby left it on the desktop, just warming his fingers on the ceramic. Tea was usually his respite, a quiet moment outside of the hustle and bustle of the day. But now, his stomach was tightening as the irritation grew.
It was a question that had circulated in his mind for weeks: how in the hell did his wife remain so unconcerned? She knew their daughter as well as he did and, despite the close relationship he shared with Cully-she had always been her father's child-Joyce and Cully had their own unique relationship built on being mother and daughter. The women against the man, he thought, his mouth twisting into a frown and his fingers beginning to drum on the side of the still warm ceramic cup.
Really, though, how could Cully-or Troy-or Joyce-expect him to react any other way? He had worked with Troy day after day, year after year, and given him directive after directive that was often ignored. And then his daughter, who, despite her early rejection of his authority, had come to at least listen to his suggestions as she matured, seemed to cast aside every word he spoke. But Troy...God. Now the man was ignoring each and every comment, every hint-
Yet if his worst fear was manifesting itself, then it made perfect sense. Would another's words or worries matter at all? No, don't think about it. That would only make it worse, sicken him even more...if that was possible.
God, he needed a distraction, something, anything to take it from his mind. Standing with another complaint from his joints, Barnaby turned his back on his desk and his tea, as well as the folder of photos and reports he struggled to no longer examine. Going over all that work yet another time was enough to frustrate him to rage.
"How's it going?" he called as he crossed the floor of his study, returning to the kitchen.
"Fairly well, I think," his wife said, her head bowed over the stove.
"Just think?"
"Tom, I'm new at this," she said, her wrist circling over a wide pot, her fingers gripping a wooden spoon as though she was terrified of it being swallowed by the substance that reached halfway up its length. And substance was the proper term for the contents: a brown, almost gelatinous semi-solid half-filled the vessel, a wide track remaining each time Joyce moved the spoon.
"It won't look like this at the end, will it?" Barnaby asked, wondering briefly how wretched it must taste.
"The medlars were brown to start," Joyce said, turning her face toward him. "You can't expect them to suddenly turn orange again like they were on the tree."
"Might look like something we could eat," Barnaby muttered.
"Tom!"
"It would certainly help."
"Then you wouldn't be able to eat it. According to the book, medlars are too bitter to eat when they look the nicest."
"A trade-off, is it?"
"Yes," Joyce said, turning to the pot of jelly again.
"I hope it's worth it," Barnaby said quietly, turning around again to head back into his study and leaving his wife and the kitchen behind. With each step he took into the room, he heard one word pounding in his skull. Medlar. Meddler. Medlar. Meddler.
"Bloody thing," he whispered, taking his seat once more. Even the tea and its familiar milky bitterness refused to push the echo from his brain.
On the bookshelf to the left of his desk-just to the left of the now slightly brown and definitely worse for the wear cactus-a dictionary sat on the shelf, between a thesaurus and a plant encyclopedia. Unable to hold his hand back, Barnaby reached over the still prickly succulent for the thick volume. Without even a conscious thought, his fingers flicked through the thin, slick pages, through D, G, L, finally moving too quickly and ending in O. Backtracking, he found the first blasted word.
medlar, noun. 1. A tree of the genus Mespilus. 2. The fruit of the tree. The fruit is something like a small apple, and it is not eaten until it has begun to decay, or more properly, to blet.
"Ripen by their own corruption", Barnaby thought, now moving backwards again. Might explain that phrasing.
meddler, noun. 1. One who meddles or interferes in something not of their concern.
meddle, verb. 1. To interfere in or with; to concern oneself with unduly. 2. (obsolete) To interest or engage oneself; to have to do (with), in a good sense.
His fingers moved back through yet more pages.
interfere, verb. 1. To get involved or involve oneself, causing disturbance.
"Quite the name to give a fruit," Barnaby said, trying another sip of now lukewarm tea. As always, that left it vile rather than comforting, the handle of the delicate ceramic cup trembling between his fingertips. Slamming the dictionary closed with his other hand, Barnaby's eyes returned to the empty spot on the bookshelf, running over the cactus another time. To just glance at it was to think of Troy-
Without even considering it, Barnaby reached out his right hand, turning it and the mug over the pot and the cactus with its brown-tinged pads. The milky tea left a faint coat that ran between the needles as it descended to the parched soil. The bloody thing already looked pathetic, wilting in spite of the proper maintenance and measured, proper application of water. Probably from before, Barnaby thought, just noting a hint of regret. It was, after all, just a plant. But from...bloody thing! It was just a kind gesture, a token of good will sadly attached to that man and offered long before this new mess. It was unfair to the plant, if he was honest, and almost enough to make him feel guilty.
A/N: The dictionary definitions are from Wiktionary, accessed 3 January, 2014. Regional uses of the words were omitted. As a person with some knowledge of gardening, Barnaby very well might not use the term succulent to refer to the cactus. Botanically, however, cacti belong to the family and it's nice to not be repetitious. (Or so my research says.)
Chapter 30: A Divided Way
With the telephone receiver pressed between her ear and shoulder and the cookbook clutched tightly in her hand, Joyce held back a sigh. There was, after all, no use in being irritated. "Are you sure you won't be home in time for dinner?"
"I'm sure, Mum," her daughter said on the other end of the line. "We've still got some work left this evening-and Gavin is going give me a lift once we're done."
No surprises there, Joyce thought. The week in which Cully had found her own way home after rehearsal was long finished, it seemed. Even with the late days that had encompassed Cully's weekend and the first workday of this week, Gavin Troy still made his way to the Causton Playhouse to drive her home. At this point, for anything else to happen would be more than odd; it would be bizarre.
"But it shouldn't be too late," her daughter added.
"I'd hope not, if tomorrow's the premiere."
"Yes," Cully said, though she was silent for a second. "A bit earlier than last night."
Joyce shook her head, and the receiver jiggled against her shoulder. "You're starting to sound just like your father."
"He's said a few times that I sound just like you."
"That's perfectly reasonable, isn't it?"
After a moment filled with rustling and clattering in the background, Cully said, "I suppose." Her voice faded away again, replaced by several unintelligible words, and Joyce pressed her ear harder against the plastic receiver. Regret followed immediately when her daughter spoke. "I'll see you when I get home tonight."
"If you're not too late," Joyce said, setting the book face down on the counter and opening the back to the index. "I do hope the rest of your evening goes well."
"Me too." A few seconds of additional rustling and a bit of shouting cluttered the line before Joyce heard a barely audible "Bye, Mum" and the sudden flat silence indicating the end of their conversation. These sorts of calls from her daughter were now typical and the least favorite Joyce ever received...well, aside from those they had been fortunate to have from family friends-rather than Tom's colleagues!-when Cully was a teenager.
The phone calls she received from her daughter now-inevitably placed from the theater-were often tense and brief, wedged between the end of one scene's rehearsal and the beginning of another's, made almost on borrowed time. Like someone else in this household, Joyce thought as she returned the wireless receiver to its cradle. Even if she had truly pursued the possibility almost thirty years prior, a career as a teacher would have left her as the eye of the storm in the household's rushing about. Her husband and her daughter's professions were not well-suited to a calm environment.
But with the phone call finished and the proper page of the book once again visible, Joyce took a moment to wash her hands, even as her gaze drifted to the bowl of medlars on the counter beside the cookbook. Though she intended to follow Cherrie Balcombe's recipe word for word, Joyce remained thrilled to have another recipe for guidance. Without it, she might have begun to doubt Cherrie's instructions to let the fruit ripen so far that it nearly fell apart in her hands. Just before Cully's phone call, Joyce had transferred a number of the wrinkled, brownish-orange fruits from the white crate on the table in the adjacent room to a cutting board; she had been unable to purchase fewer. After a quick cut down the center of each to expose the pit, she had moved them to a stainless steel bowl. Now, lifting the first medlar, Joyce popped out the pit, depositing it on the now empty cutting board and placing the fruit on a white tea towel.
It was a simple, repetitive process, drawing that same slice down the middle, peeling the dreadfully ripened fruit apart, and slipping the pit onto the cutting board. Soon, Joyce did not even spare the motions a thought, and her mind turned to other matters...to her daughter. For the past few weeks-even if she had attempted to conceal it-Cully's happiness at Gavin's presence in her life had been more than obvious. It had become impossible to ignore. Her face was brighter, her words lighter, and sometimes her concentration on revision in the back garden had clearly wavered. I don't even need Tom to see that, Joyce thought, rubbing her fingers together as the sticky pulp from the fruit clung to the tips. No deductions were necessary.
Again and again: open and pit, open and pit, open and pit, until the rhythm took on a life of its own, sinking out of her consciousness...And if it happened again, then what of Tom and Gavin? Joyce couldn't help but wonder, and could anyone blame her? Twice before, her husband's relationship with his sergeant had been strained over Cully...but could even a good working relationship survive that a third time? Could anyone blame Tom if he threw in the towel, finally decided he'd had enough of Gavin Troy-
"Hello, Joycey?"
Even though Tom's voice was distant, Joyce turned toward it. "In the kitchen," she called, almost looking over her shoulder before thinking better of it as she popped another pit onto the cutting board. His footsteps came closer and after a moment, Joyce heard the gentle thump of paper hitting the kitchen table. "How did it go today?"
"Oh..." Not well, then, she thought as his footsteps drew even nearer and his breathing told her he stood right behind her. "We're not actually going to eat those..."
"Medlar jelly." Joyce held one of the fruits up, the soft medlar almost squishing between her fingers. "It's Cherrie's recipe. You have to let the fruit go rotten before you eat it." Bringing it to just in front of her nose, Joyce sniffed it. As delicious as Cherrie Balcombe's medlar jelly was, the scent of the ripened fruit was enough to turn her stomach.
Reaching into the bowl, Tom lifted one of the scored medlars. "You've got to be kidding."
"It's in the book." Joyce nodded at the open volume on the counter. "I checked."
Setting the fruit back onto the pile, Tom-his reading glasses nowhere to be seen-reached for the book, bringing it close to his face as he walked around the end of the counter. Away from the smell, Joyce thought as she removed another pit. "Medlar jelly," he said, his voice already taking on the distant tone it did when he was lost in thought. "Medlar..."
Joyce glanced up from her hands. "What is it?"
"Someone described their friend as 'the meddler'," he continued, lowering the book slightly. "I wonder if she meant one who meddles...or the fruit?"
"There are quite a few trees over Malham way, in the bigger gardens. Quite popular locally."
The book came up again. "'Medlars spread on straw ripen"-his voice stopped for a moment-"by their own corruption.'"
An old way to think about it, Joyce thought, cringing as one of the medlars transformed into a paste in her hand. Looking toward her husband another time, she frowned. The book still lay open in his grasp and he had not moved at all. I can't imagine what that means to him.
After another few long seconds, he turned back to her. "I guess that's one way to think about it," Tom said, retracing his steps to the kitchen proper and settling the book back where it had been before.
"However you think about it, that's the way it has to be."
"And you're absolutely sure?" he asked, scratching at his neck, just below the edge of his collar.
"All I'm doing is following the book, Tom. And Cherrie's recipe." Just managing to scrape the pulp from the pit, Joyce dropped the medlar onto the now not so white tea towel.
Nodding at the pile, Tom said, "Not sure I trust either of them, if they're claiming this will be good to eat."
"It's called bletting."
"Oh, there's a whole process to it, is there?"
"Apparently, it's not the only fruit that needs it. Persimmons and quinces are left to start rotting as well."
Her husband's brow furrowed. "Are you planning to serve us more rotten fruit?"
The latest pit hit the cutting board harder than she had intended. "I only looked it up in one of our encyclopedias, Tom. They were all listed there."
"At least we won't be eating them raw." Leaning across the counter just to the towel, he inhaled deeply and briefly before his mouth curled in disgust. "Is Cully back from rehearsal yet?" he asked, already wearing a frown.
"Of course not," Joyce said with a shake of her head. It was about to begin anew. "She rang, though. She said they'll be done earlier than yesterday-"
"Well, that's good to know." The foul grimace faded as Tom stood straight again. "I've hardly seen her lately."
"And that she doesn't know when she'll be back," Joyce said, quicker than before.
The new calm on his face vanished, curiosity and confusion taking its place. "Even if they're nearly finished?"
"She said Gavin will give her a lift, like he usually does."
The next frown was one of resignation. "Of course."
"She won't have much time for anything except the play for the next few weeks."
"All for the best."
Joyce handled the next fruit with even less care. It was as if every word they had shared regarding their daughter and Gavin had been ignored. "I guess if you're going to talk about meddlers..."
"Not that again, Joyce."
Another pit popped onto the board. "And here I thought you were doing so well."
"There are limits."
Narrowing her eyes, Joyce glanced at her husband, and for a moment, she thought she noticed a flinch. "Hmm."
She heard the buried sigh just before he kissed her cheek, quickly drawing back and away from the smell...she hoped. "I won't say anything else. I know that makes you happy."
"I'm not the one you should worry about keeping happy," Joyce said quietly.
Resting a hand on her shoulder, Tom chuckled; it was a choked, forced sound. "You're the only one who's ever around to tell."
Before leaving Joyce to her preserves-and sending off a few prayers that she would meet with more culinary success than usual-Barnaby made himself a cup of tea. The heat of the tea bled through the ceramic handle to his fingers and by the time he settled himself into the chair at the desk in his study, Barnaby was more than happy to place it on the wooden surface. But even as the steaming tea languished in the cup, Barnaby left it on the desktop, just warming his fingers on the ceramic. Tea was usually his respite, a quiet moment outside of the hustle and bustle of the day. But now, his stomach was tightening as the irritation grew.
It was a question that had circulated in his mind for weeks: how in the hell did his wife remain so unconcerned? She knew their daughter as well as he did and, despite the close relationship he shared with Cully-she had always been her father's child-Joyce and Cully had their own unique relationship built on being mother and daughter. The women against the man, he thought, his mouth twisting into a frown and his fingers beginning to drum on the side of the still warm ceramic cup.
Really, though, how could Cully-or Troy-or Joyce-expect him to react any other way? He had worked with Troy day after day, year after year, and given him directive after directive that was often ignored. And then his daughter, who, despite her early rejection of his authority, had come to at least listen to his suggestions as she matured, seemed to cast aside every word he spoke. But Troy...God. Now the man was ignoring each and every comment, every hint-
Yet if his worst fear was manifesting itself, then it made perfect sense. Would another's words or worries matter at all? No, don't think about it. That would only make it worse, sicken him even more...if that was possible.
God, he needed a distraction, something, anything to take it from his mind. Standing with another complaint from his joints, Barnaby turned his back on his desk and his tea, as well as the folder of photos and reports he struggled to no longer examine. Going over all that work yet another time was enough to frustrate him to rage.
"How's it going?" he called as he crossed the floor of his study, returning to the kitchen.
"Fairly well, I think," his wife said, her head bowed over the stove.
"Just think?"
"Tom, I'm new at this," she said, her wrist circling over a wide pot, her fingers gripping a wooden spoon as though she was terrified of it being swallowed by the substance that reached halfway up its length. And substance was the proper term for the contents: a brown, almost gelatinous semi-solid half-filled the vessel, a wide track remaining each time Joyce moved the spoon.
"It won't look like this at the end, will it?" Barnaby asked, wondering briefly how wretched it must taste.
"The medlars were brown to start," Joyce said, turning her face toward him. "You can't expect them to suddenly turn orange again like they were on the tree."
"Might look like something we could eat," Barnaby muttered.
"Tom!"
"It would certainly help."
"Then you wouldn't be able to eat it. According to the book, medlars are too bitter to eat when they look the nicest."
"A trade-off, is it?"
"Yes," Joyce said, turning to the pot of jelly again.
"I hope it's worth it," Barnaby said quietly, turning around again to head back into his study and leaving his wife and the kitchen behind. With each step he took into the room, he heard one word pounding in his skull. Medlar. Meddler. Medlar. Meddler.
"Bloody thing," he whispered, taking his seat once more. Even the tea and its familiar milky bitterness refused to push the echo from his brain.
On the bookshelf to the left of his desk-just to the left of the now slightly brown and definitely worse for the wear cactus-a dictionary sat on the shelf, between a thesaurus and a plant encyclopedia. Unable to hold his hand back, Barnaby reached over the still prickly succulent for the thick volume. Without even a conscious thought, his fingers flicked through the thin, slick pages, through D, G, L, finally moving too quickly and ending in O. Backtracking, he found the first blasted word.
medlar, noun. 1. A tree of the genus Mespilus. 2. The fruit of the tree. The fruit is something like a small apple, and it is not eaten until it has begun to decay, or more properly, to blet.
"Ripen by their own corruption", Barnaby thought, now moving backwards again. Might explain that phrasing.
meddler, noun. 1. One who meddles or interferes in something not of their concern.
meddle, verb. 1. To interfere in or with; to concern oneself with unduly. 2. (obsolete) To interest or engage oneself; to have to do (with), in a good sense.
His fingers moved back through yet more pages.
interfere, verb. 1. To get involved or involve oneself, causing disturbance.
"Quite the name to give a fruit," Barnaby said, trying another sip of now lukewarm tea. As always, that left it vile rather than comforting, the handle of the delicate ceramic cup trembling between his fingertips. Slamming the dictionary closed with his other hand, Barnaby's eyes returned to the empty spot on the bookshelf, running over the cactus another time. To just glance at it was to think of Troy-
Without even considering it, Barnaby reached out his right hand, turning it and the mug over the pot and the cactus with its brown-tinged pads. The milky tea left a faint coat that ran between the needles as it descended to the parched soil. The bloody thing already looked pathetic, wilting in spite of the proper maintenance and measured, proper application of water. Probably from before, Barnaby thought, just noting a hint of regret. It was, after all, just a plant. But from...bloody thing! It was just a kind gesture, a token of good will sadly attached to that man and offered long before this new mess. It was unfair to the plant, if he was honest, and almost enough to make him feel guilty.
A/N: The dictionary definitions are from Wiktionary, accessed 3 January, 2014. Regional uses of the words were omitted. As a person with some knowledge of gardening, Barnaby very well might not use the term succulent to refer to the cactus. Botanically, however, cacti belong to the family and it's nice to not be repetitious. (Or so my research says.)