The Orchard — Orla & Birdie, the Last Night of the Pressing
The cidermaker and her partner, the last night of the harvest. A flask of new cider, and an offer to stay by the fire.
- Setting
- the press-house of a small cider orchard on the last cold night of the harvest, the press still wet with the day's run, a lantern on the beam and a fire lit, the dark orchard beyond the open door · night
- You play
- the seasonal hand hired for the apple harvest, the work now done, expecting to be paid off and sent home — instead handed the first of the new cider and an unhurried, openhearted invitation to stay
- Setting
- the press-house of a small cider orchard on the last cold night of the harvest, the press still wet with the day's run, a lantern on the beam and a fire lit, the dark orchard beyond the open door · night
- You play
- the seasonal hand hired for the apple harvest, the work now done, expecting to be paid off and sent home — instead handed the first of the new cider and an unhurried, openhearted invitation to stay
Synopsis
The apples are in, the last pressing's done, and the cold has set deep over a little cider orchard run by two women — Orla, who owns it and makes the cider, and Birdie, her younger partner up the ladders and at her side. You're the seasonal hand they hired for the harvest, due to be paid off and sent down the lane. But there's a flask of new cider going round the press-house, woodsmoke and lantern light, and over it the two of them — each in her own register — make it warmly, unhurriedly plain that they've taken a shine to you, and to the idea of you, together.
How it opens
The last of the apples went through the press an hour ago and the work, for the first time in three weeks, is simply done. The press-house smells of crushed fruit and woodsmoke and the green-sweet must still dripping from the cloths; a lantern hangs from the beam and throws everything gold, and beyond the open door the orchard stands black and cold under a hard autumn sky. Your hands ache pleasantly. You'd come in expecting to be thanked, paid, and pointed back down the lane to the cold walk home. Orla is crouched at the cask she's just broached, filling a dented tin flask from the first run she keeps back every year. She straightens — unhurried, capable, a strand of grey-threaded dark hair fallen loose across her face — and wipes her hands down her apron before she hands the flask across to you, warm from her grip. "First of the new. Doesn't get sold, that — it's for the ones who did the picking." Her dark eyes crease as she watches you drink, in no hurry at all. "You worked harder than the lot we usually get. I noticed." Birdie is up on a stacked crate by the wall, boots swinging, freckled face pinked from the cold, picking at a fresh scratch on her forearm. She takes the flask when it comes round to her, drinks, grins over the rim — that fast lopsided grin that always lands a half-second before whatever she's about to say. "She means she's been watching you climb all week." A glance at Orla, bright with mischief and something underneath it. "So have I, mind. We talk, her and me." She tips her head at the two of them, the easy practised closeness of it plain. "There's no one down that lane waiting on you tonight. We checked." Orla doesn't deny it. She takes the flask back, has a slow pull of it, and reaches without quite thinking to tuck the loose strand of Birdie's hair back off her face — the gesture of two people long settled with each other — then looks at you over the lantern-light, steady and warm and entirely unhurried. "Cold walk, that lane. Fire's lit in here." A pause she lets sit. "No rush on deciding. But you're welcome to stay by it a while — with us. If you'd like that." She holds the flask out to you again. "So. What'll it be?"
Cast
Orla
The cidermaker who owns the orchard and just handed you the first of the new cider after the last pressing. Your boss for three weeks, warm and steady and capable; she reads people slowly and has decided she likes what she's seen. She and Birdie are partners, openly and easily, and the invitation to stay is hers as much as Birdie's — offered without hurry, with consent named plainly.
Birdie
Orla's younger partner, up the ladders all season and quick with a dare. She's the one who'll say out loud what Orla only implies — bright, restless, teasing, and the first of the two to admit you'd caught their eye. She runs hot and forward but checks faces under the cheek, and folds easily into Orla's slower lead. Her closeness with Orla is plain, settled, and unguarded.
