Book Review ‘Apples Never Fall’ Liane Moriarty

Years ago, I wrote on the office whiteboard “Big Little Lies by Liane Moriarty is going to be huge.” And it was. Now comes Apples Never Fall, another exceptional addition to the Moriarty canon, an enthralling novel of thought-provoking misdirection, a blueprint of interior family life, a drama so emotionally complex that I thought it was either a memoir, or years of studying suburban families.

In this case it’s the Delaney family with their tennis fixation, the obsessive training and competition of tennis, and its aftermath soaking into decades of their family relationships.

I followed the sudden arrival of stranger Savannah Pagonis, a cooking wiz, into the unsuspecting Delaney household, and discovered how Joy and Stan Delaney handle this peculiar arrangement while coping with retirement and the dysfunctional lives of four Delaney children now adults.

When matriarch Joy mysteriously disappears, the overarching plot hinges on “Joy, dead or alive?” and is set in present time with flashbacks. Husband Stan and deceptive Savannah are under suspicion, and here clues are planted, the trail of breadcrumbs laid for the observant reader.

Sprinkled throughout the story are friends, neighbours and comic relief from police duo DC Christina Khoury and PC Ethan Lim who struggle with their missing person investigation.

In the case of Savannah and the Delaney siblings Amy, Troy, Logan and Brooke, as youngsters they never seemed to trot off to school. Perhaps an alert teacher could have helped. However, I am sure readers will recognise their fraternal traits as grown-ups. Character-wise I think son Logan is great, followed by unfathomable dad Stan.

Seventy-one domestic drama chapters unfold in all their glory; chapter 52 is cataclysmic, chapter 53 almost poetry. At times the plot framework showed, the screenwriting element intruded, and I did not particularly like the odd use of “Troy’s father” or “Amy’s mother” instead of their names but these are minor points; the dialogue pulsates and glows.

Liane Moriarty writes breathtaking dialogue and suspenseful moments leaving no stone unturned on this rocky domestic landscape.
“Apples Never Fall”

The sense of place is strong and even though there is a lot going on, Moriarty has written an intimate narrative of social and relationship enlightenment which got me recalling my own younger life, the missed cues and insights the older me now recognises.

As the innermost workings of the Delaney family are laid bare, Moriarty’s writing transcends game, set and match, particularly relating to Joy and motherhood. Wow, I could read out pages of Joy and defy any woman to say she hasn’t felt the same at some point in her life.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this novel.

♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward

Rating “Apples Never Fall”

Quick Stories #9 Cheers Dears

Café Noir et Blanc, Joinville-le-Pont 1948, taken by Robert Doisneau (1912-1994) a noted French photographer who had a poetic approach to Paris street photography and later became a pioneer of photojournalism.

Ten Days Ten Short Stories

One a day for ten days. I write when I can, do the best I can, and I am willing to put my work out there! My thoughts are Don’t Be Embarrassed, Don’t Make Excuses, Don’t Stop Writing.

Recently I completed a 10-week term on Fridays with U3A Brisbane Creative Writing Group on Zoom and enjoyed the prompts, feedback and general literary discussions. The writers in the group are quite diverse in style and writing content.

The wordcount limit is 500 words and while I found their prompts were ‘forcing’ me to come up with something different each week, I really enjoyed doing it. I was quickly learning how to keep them short and sweet. Edit, edit, edit.

My characters are good, bad and ugly and the majority of the time I had no idea where they came from!

I say write for yourself first and don’t be precious about your words. For better or worse, here are mine—the prompt (above) is a black and white photograph.

Cheers Dears

There had been bitter discussions over the guest list regarding Roderick’s brother Ivan, the odd sheep of the family, and whether or not he should be invited to our afternoon wedding.

I thought Ivan, while not fully conversant with wedding etiquette, well, any etiquette really, was an all right sort of fellow who could knock back a sherry with the best of us.

Roderick joked that he was the only person who had ever seen Ivan take a bath; one bath. Ivan was perpetually in transit to and from distant coal mines. No perks, just Black Lung, high risk, low pay. Whereas Roderick had chosen banking, and naturally I was pleased with his substantial wages.

Over family luncheon, Roderick tabled the No-vote and Ivan replied “I’ll find a way.” Mother had stifled a nervous giggle; I remained silent.

Ivan’s occupation had not dimmed his wits and I personally think that’s why Roderick’s family shunned him. He could be too sharp with his tongue and cut too close to the bone. Roderick said he spoiled things. Strangely enough Ivan never aimed an acerbic comment in my direction.

Our big day arrived and the ceremony was only slightly marred by Roderick inexplicably going red in the face and choking during the vows.

Afterwards, our wedding photographer suggested something casual. Something along the lines of newlyweds imbibing a fortifying drink. The cosy bar where we first met was chosen for its location halfway between the church and reception rooms.

Stephen, the best man, hurried us through the narrow streets as shoppers stopped to smile or offer a cheeky comment.

I sensed somebody was following us but I couldn’t pinpoint anyone when I looked back. “Nerves,” I thought, squeezing Roderick’s damp hand. “Guests to greet, boring speeches, cake to cut.”

My bridesmaid Ethel is a teetotaller and declined to accompany us. Wisely as it turned out. The gritty pavement ruined the soles of my satin shoes and the hem of my gown. I knew Mother would be distressed, aggravating her heart condition.

On the way into the bar, I snagged my bridal veil on something, the door handle perhaps, and Roderick untangled it with a tut-tut of exasperation.

We ordered our drinks, and one for the photographer. While Stephen chatted up the barmaid, the photographer positioned himself further down the counter, clicking away.

“Oops,” I said during a playful attempt to give Roderick a sip of my drink. Liquid dribbled onto his hand-made silk cravat.

He tut-tutted again, grumbling “Don’t want to look like Ivan on my wedding day.”

I raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Our wedding day, husband dearest.” Under my breath I muttered “Here’s to Ivan…”

During our bridal waltz, news came that Ivan had been killed when a tunnel collapsed on the early shift. A week later, our agitated photographer said “No charge”. Roderick was distraught. Ivan looms in every photograph in our wedding album.

——© Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2021——

“Generally, emerging writers don’t write every day; some writers don’t stretch themselves; some writers don’t share their work; some writers fear feedback; just do it!” ♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward

Quick Stories #7 Artist as a Child

Moggill Farmhouse Brisbane Queensland © Elle 2019

Ten Days Ten Short Stories

One a day for ten days. I write when I can, do the best I can, and I am willing to put my work out there! My thoughts are Don’t Be Embarrassed, Don’t Make Excuses, Don’t Stop Writing.

My characters are good, bad and ugly and the majority of the time I had no idea where they came from!

I say write for yourself first and don’t be precious about your words. For better or worse, here are mine—the three prompts (courtesy of AWC Furious Fiction) were 1. The story’s first sentence must contain only four words. 2. The story must include something being shared. 3. The story must include the words paint, shift, wave and toast.

Artist as a Child

His pose seems unrehearsed. Gavin sits with one shoe raised on the chair, leg bent. His elbow rests on his elevated knee, arm dangling. A persuasive artist, gallery patrons arrive and gladly absorb his relaxed aura.

This unperturbed look is the impression he gives to anyone who doesn’t know him better. Apart from guest appearances, he is an horrendously difficult person to be around.

Oil paint, turpentine soaked rags, brushes, and canvas torn from frames habitually litter the studio floor. Thus I dispute the saying “order out of chaos”. If Gavin could do that, he would never paint a single picture.

One of his latest, and most important works, was completed in an afternoon of ranting and raving when a courier delivered the right set of three wooden easels wrapped in the wrong brown paper.

“It’s for an art installation. It has to be unwaxed brown paper!” He paced the concrete floor. “The whole idea is to paint in situ.”

The courier didn’t want to understand the significance. He was already backing out the door, having encountered Gavin’s artistic temperament once before.

“Take it up with the boss,” he said, sliding our huge door shut with a thud.

Gavin pulled irritably at the neckline of his t-shirt which had seen better days, soon to join the castoffs on the floor. “Sabotaged!”

“I can order a roll of brown paper from the newsagent.” I tried not to sound too down-trodden.

Gavin hissed “Elle, I don’t want stuff they cover school books with!”

I let my office diary drop, scattering a zodiac of tiny seed pods across the work bench.

“Improvise, Gavin.” I said calmly. “You may find it works better without the absorbency.”

I dabble, you see, landscapes. His eyes lit up and I almost heard his brain creak.

He accepted help to shift the easels closer to the window for natural light, jostling unfinished works aside.

We share the art studio, an unusual arrangement for siblings considering one is famous and the other does not want to be.

I had declined to organise tonight’s chat and chew platters, believing that I already fill the role of sales and booking manager so catering was a bit too much. The honorary title of art advisor suits me. Nowhere does it state I must “arrange tiny scraps of organic food on dry toast.”

When our spendthrift patron Lady Augusta arrives, she gives me a quick wave before aiming straight at Gavin to discuss her eighth portrait sitting. Goodness knows where these works end up.

Gavin quickly grabs an illustrated catalogue, head down, apparently ready to discuss technique with a notable art critic. He tells the critic “They want me on the cover.” I wince.

Guests are moving aside as Lady Augusta swoops, all fluttering chiffon and swinging pearls. Nevertheless the exhibition is a success and I sell my lone painting; at the evening’s highest price.

——© Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2021——

“Generally, emerging writers don’t write every day; some writers don’t stretch themselves; some writers don’t share their work; some writers fear feedback; just do it!” ♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward

Quick Stories #3 Fair Enough

Ten Days Ten Short Stories

One a day for ten days. I write when I can, the best I can, and I am willing to put my work out there! My thoughts are Don’t Be Embarrassed, Don’t Make Excuses, Don’t Stop Writing.

My characters are good, bad and ugly and the majority of the time I had no idea where they came from!

I say write for yourself first and don’t be precious about your words. For better or worse, here are mine—the prompt was Missing Out.

Fair Enough

My sister wants to be called Garet, and I say “The end bit of your real name?” I count to five. She doesn’t hit me. “Why not go for something different?”

She pulls a face, accentuated by squinting into the morning sun beaming through the kitchen window.

Undaunted I continue “You’re called Margaret, right. It might be hard for people to cut off the first part. Why not the dual purpose name Monica? Get it?”

“Sounds like an English teacher,” she huffs, missing the point.

“Yeah, you’re not brainy enough.” I duck the paperback she aims at my head. It tumbles to the floor and our dog Loopy senses conflict. He hauls his arthritic body off the floor and lopes from the room.

Garet twirls a lock of hair, she’s in another place. Possibly Zone One, the Plaza hair salon which radiates militancy.

Theatrically I gasp “You’re not planning short back and sides?”

“Not too short,” she says airily, “and a different colour.”

She holds up her phone, the image makes me blink. “Wow, purple bleeding into fluoro green.”

“All the girls at school have short hair, like, I mean, really short hair.”

I lean forward. “So instead of remembering all that stuff Mum and Dad say about being an individual—”

She cuts me off “That’s fine when you’re an adult and your high school days are behind you.”

My mouth won’t stay closed. “Do those dimwits in your class use a social scale based on hair styles?”

Garet flares “Of course not!”

“So why do it?” I kinda know but want her to admit it.

“You know why.” She picks at her nails, glaring. “To fit in.”

“And?” I raise my voice an octave, my eyebrows go with it.

“It’s complicated.” Garet stacks her cereal bowl on top of mine. “The fear of missing out.”

My two hands slam onto the pine table before I can stop. “Missing out on what? Art gallery trips, tapestry classes?”

She flinches “I want to be part of the volunteer group visiting sick children in hospital.”

Instantly I regret my outburst. Until she adds “There’s some pretty cool interns who hang out with the volunteers in the canteen.”

Fair enough, I can reason with that. Tragically I was overlooked for a hot new soccer team. Now I won’t put my hand up on Sports Day because of that fear, that stab of rejection.

“Garet,” I say condescendingly, “go a full makeover but don’t forget that your family loves you, okay.”

“Thanks, Bro.” She actually blushes saying that, then twirls her hair again. “I’ll think about it for another week before I tell Mum and Dad.”

“I won’t breathe a word.”

I figure she’ll come home this afternoon with crazy coloured hair. Fear of missing out makes a person irrational; like wasting money on a soccer club tattoo.

“Generally, emerging writers don’t write every day; some writers don’t stretch themselves; some writers don’t share their work; some writers fear feedback; just do it!” ♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward