– I won’t let you do this, Margaret! Not without my corpse blocking the way! – my mother bellowed, stepping into my path toward the garden. Her wrinkled hands trembled, clutching a rusted trowel like a weapon.
– Move, Mother. This has been settled. The demolition crew arrives tomorrow. The contracts are signed, – I sighed, avoiding her bloodshot eyes. The weight of my London suit felt heavier than the muck-caked boots she’d worn since the thaw.
– Contracts? Who gave you the right to sell the land where your father tilled these plots for forty years? Where I’ve bent my back since spring began? – She spat the words, her silver hair whipping in the July wind.
– You’re not young enough for all this, Mags. And who’d want your organic cabbages or those heirloom tomatoes? Supermarkets stock everything now. – I reached the gate, but she barged back, her voice shrill as a screech owl.
– Supermarkets? That’s not *food*, it’s just chemical paste! Your father’s in his grave, roaring at your idiocy!
The argument under the old apple tree – its branches heavy with shrikings of Cox’s pippins – spiraled into something feral. Around us, the garden sprawled in riotous splendor: towers of bean poles, borders of marjoram, and rows of thornless blackcurrants. The air reeked of rosemary and ripe fruit. Over Hatherleigh village, the blood-purple sky stretched unbroken save for a wisp of cloud, as if heaven itself paused to judge.
I, tall and salt-and-pepper at forty, boiled with frustration. I’d come from the City with a neat plan: sell the farm, move her to a flat in Walthamstow. The house where my childhood creaked and rickety had leaked since 1912. Still, Mags stubbornly clung to this crumbling shack, this earth that had cradled generations.
– Mags, *think*. You’re seventy-two, laboring in this mud like it’s a matter of life.
– It *is*, – she whispered, her fire dying to embers. – This is my life. What’s your chump of a flat in Walthamstow? A prison where I’ll choke on my own geraniums.
– You won’t. Emily’s prepped a room for you. Lily’s been begging to see her grandmother, remember?
– Lily’s the apple of my eye, love. But I won’t abandon this cottage. Every dado has your father’s memory.
I rubbed my temples, half-afraid to voice the truth: that Mags’ world wouldn’t survive the whirring, buzzing London. She needed a farm’s rhythm – the crows at dawn, the plump blackcurrants detonating under fingertips.
– If you must insist… help me gather the last harvest, – she relented, though her voice wavered. – The apples are bursting this year. Ungathered, their bounty would rot.
I agreed, gambling she might soften. We trudged to the shed for baskets.
– Recall how Dad made you water this orchard at first light? – she asked as we neared the tree.
– Yes, like a sack of hammers. – I smirked, though my throat tightened. The apple he’d named “Blushing Agnes” – my favorite – dangled low.
She handed me a basket, its paint flaking like old skin.
– Don’t forget your roots, love. The soil gives, but it won’t wait forever.
As the sun dipped, we picked in silence. Her hands were gnarled, veins like frost on glass, yet her eyes still held that same fierce fire. She spoke of the land like a sacred text:
– Your father said soil is alive, Greg. It remembers. If you tend it with care, it returns the favor.
– I’m not doing this for cash. London’s unsafe for you. No proper hospital for miles. What if you slip on the icy steps?
– Mrs. Beatty’s just down the lane. And Ailsa across the field. They’re spry as hares!
– Mrs. Beatty’s seventy-eight, and Ailsa’s arthritic! They’re not your harem of nurses.
– Fiddlesticks. Ailsa brought me a bowl of raspberries *yesterday*. Hot from the bramble.
I rolled my eyes. In her world, the elderly were eternal, gardens more nourishing than tinned fish, and the past a sanctuary. How explain that I feared her loneliness more than the sale? That I haunted my Oxford beds, picturing her slumped among foxgloves?
– Your wife called today, – she said suddenly, depositing a crimson apple in my basket.
– Emily? Why?
– She’s *wrecked* about your workaholism. Said you haven’t slept since the takeover.
I groaned. Emily, ever the peacemaker, had pleaded with me to visit.
– She proposed you and Lily stay for summer. Away from your *screens*. And she wants you to… listen to your mother.
We finished by dusk, six baskets heavy with apples. Mags bustled into the kitchen, clattering with mugs and a jar of lavender-infused tea. She served scones with clotted cream, the kind I’d shunned since university.
– Sit down, love. Speak plain.
– I understand you mean well, – she began, tracing the rim of her cup. – But this land… it’s *us*. Your father built these walls with his own hands. They whisper his name. How can I desert them?
– You don’t have to *sell*. Summer here, winter with us.
– And the garden? The plums? Who’ll water them?
– You’ll return in spring. I’ll help you reseed.
She studied me, the firelight painting her face. Outside, the hounds of the Wolseley estate barked a rustic symphony.
– Remember when you feared sleeping alone?
– Must it always be about that?
– Your father growled, “Enough coddling. Let the lad learn.” But I’d sneak back to your bed…
– You were never one to let go.
– Your smile’s different now, Greg. It’s tight. Like you’re still at your desk.
I deflated. She was right. London had swallowed me whole – spreadsheets replacing soil, deadlines devouring dinner. When had I last taken Lily to the duck pond without my laptop in my bag?
– I’ll cancel the sale, – I said, the words raw. “But you’ll stay with us this winter. You’ll see Lily again.”
Mags’ eyes teared, not with joy, but with reluctance.
– And the land?
– In spring, we’ll replant. I’ll take time off. It’s about time.
She nodded, silent as the moths that fluttered in.
The next morning, I woke to the scent of warm scones. Mags hummed “Greensleeves” as I shuffled to the kitchen.
– Up early?
– We’ve yet to clear the strawberries. And those potatoes need digging. If you want to do it properly, we must act.
The days melted into a rhythm that defied London’s madness. I’d forgotten how time bends in the countryside – sunrises as promises, the soil giving its bounty without pleas.
– Try this, – she urged one afternoon, offering a handful of raspberries. Their tang made me choke up, not from taste, but memory. Once, my father and I had picnic-waded through this very bramble patch. It was a sacrament: the harvest, the preserve, the quiet.
By the time my train to Walthamstow departed, the larder brimmed with jams and pickles. Mags hugged me, her stocky arms creaking like the old gate.
– Tell Emily these scones make up for your sins, – she whispered. – And Lily mustn’t forget where her fruit comes from.
I promised. And I meant it.
In London, Emily and Lily awaited, but I knew Mags would return. With her raspberries and stubbornness. With the soil’s secrets. Because the land, like family, never truly lets go.
