**The Foreign Country Cottage**
A year ago, the Harrisons bought a countryside cottage. After turning fifty, Peter felt a strong urge to own a second home. His rural childhood reminded him of his family house and tending the garden.
The small cottage, though modest, had been well cared for. Peter repainted the wooden shed, fixed the fence, and replaced the gate.
There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard was lackingonly a handful of trees and no shrubs, save for a little patch of raspberry bushes.
“Dont worry, love, well get it sorted in time,” Peter said as he set to work.
Emma bustled between the flowerbeds, approving her husbands plans.
On one side, the neighbours were friendly, though they rarely visited; their property was neatly kept. But the other side was pure neglectthe fence sagged, and weeds choked everything.
Those weeds plagued the Harrisons all summer.
“Peter, its unbearablethese weeds are spilling into our garden. Its like theyll take over the whole lot,” Emma complained.
Peter grabbed his hoe and attacked the invaders with vigour. But the weeds seemed endless, always creeping back.
“Emma, looktheir pear trees are doing well this year,” Peter remarked, eyeing the overgrown neighbouring garden.
“And that apricot tree is exceptional,” Emma added, pointing to one heavy with fruit. Some branches even stretched into their own plot.
“Id love to meet the owners just once,” Peter said wistfully. “Maybe theyll come for the harvest, at least.”
In spring, Peter hadnt resisted watering the neighbours trees with his hosehed have hated to see them suffer in the heat.
But now, the relentless weeds gave no quarter.
“They couldve at least mowed once this summer,” Emma grumbled.
The next time they arrived, the Harrisons were amazed by the apricot harvest. For the region, it wasnt unusualmany grew thembut on an abandoned plot?
“No, Im cutting their weeds,” Peter declared. “I cant stand seeing the place strangled.”
“Look, Peter,” Emma said, gesturing to the apricot-laden branches hanging into their garden.
Peter fetched a small ladder. “Lets pick these before they rot. No ones shown up.”
“Thats someone elses,” Emma cautioned.
“Theyll go to waste anyway,” he said, plucking the ripest first.
“Then lets gather raspberries for the grandchildren,” Emma suggested. “Youve mowed the weedsfair exchange for the work.”
“Its like we could take it all. No one tends this placeits leaning against our plot like an orphan, forgotten.”
(Adapted from the artist Jean-Pierre Martin)
At work during a break, Peter joined his colleagues chat. The delivery drivers swapped stories.
“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden when Im not looking. Theyve shaken my trees twice already,” lamented Nigel Bennett, nearing retirement.
Hearing this, Peter felt sweat prickle his forehead. Hed just picked those apricots with Emma, and the pears promised a good haul too.
“Wheres your cottage?” Peter dared to ask, dreading the answer.
“Down in the St. Albans allotments.”
“Ah,” Peter sighed. “Ours is further up.”
“Things ripen earlier your way,” Nigel admitted. “Ours come late, but they still pinch themeven dug up some potatoes! Ive half a mind to set a trap.”
“Trapsll land you in trouble,” one man warned. “Youll end up in jail.”
“What, and stealings fine?” Nigel fumed.
Heading home, Peter was swamped by guilt-tinged memories of harvesting the neighbours fruit. Even if it wasnt Nigels plot, remorse gnawed at him.
As a boy, it had been differenthed dashed through others gardens a few times, just for fun.
But this? Theyd taken apricots from neighbours theyd never met. And now they eyed the pears.
True, Peter had planted young trees that would one day bear fruit. But that apricot tree next door… such a shame to waste it.
“No ones coming,” Emma reassured him. “If they didnt show all year, they wont now.”
“But I feel like a thief,” Peter fretted.
“Want me to toss the apricots? Ive already given half to the kids,” she admitted.
“Leave it. Too late now.”
So the Harrisons spent summer tending the neglected plot, fighting weeds. They watched the pears, hoping the owners might appear.
But when the fruit finally dropped, Emma gathered a few in her apron.
In autumn, after tidying their own land, they cast a final glance at the neighbours. Even the fence seemed to plead, its slats begging to be straightened.
Near the gate lay rubbleremnants of some temporary structure, now just rotten wood, broken glass, and scraps of fabric. Yet beside the mess, a few late flowers struggled up.
That winter, reminiscing about summer days, Peter felt a bittersweet nostalgia for the cottage.
Come spring, at the first green shoots, the Harrisons returned.
“Dyou think the owners will come back this year?” Emma asked of the abandoned plot.
Peter sighed. “Poor garden. Such a waste of good trees…”
When it was time to till the soil, Peter hired a ploughman.
All the while, his eyes strayed to the neighbouring plot. He and Emma had cleared the worst weeds, but the earth needed turning…
“Listen, matewhat if we plough that side too? Ill pay,” Peter offered.
“But Peter, why?” Emma asked. “Its not ours.”
“I cant bear seeing it wild.”
“So well tend strangers land forever?”
“Waitafter lunch, lets go to the allotment office. Find out who owns it. This weed business…”
At the office, a woman peered over her glasses at a ledger. “Address again? Cherry Lane, 45?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “They should at least mow or harvest. Such a shame, that lovely orchard going to ruin.”
“Well, its done now,” the woman said. “Owners gave up. Its council land.”
“So no owner?” Peter asked.
“Seems not. The old couple passed. Their nephew refused the inheritanceno time for it.” She studied them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy it? The land?”
“Yes. Itd be cheap. All paperworks in order.”
“What dyou think, Emma? Take it, since its legal?”
“Think well manage?”
“Well fix it up, leave it to the kids. Bring the grandchildren.”
“Mountains out of molehills,” Emma joked as they arrived at the plot.
“Feels like weve adopted this garden. Its ours now,” Peter said.
“Right, Ill haul the rubbish myselfgot the trailer. Clear the weeds, free the orchard, then replace that fence.”
By summer, Peter admired the treetops and Emmas flowers. The old neighbours land seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.
“Look at our little gardenits come good,” Peter marvelled.
One weekend, the children arrivedtheir daughter Lily, son-in-law Jack, and the grandchildren. The older boys, Michael and Charlie, raced ahead, while little Ann paused, enchanted by the flowerbed. Peter snapped a photo.
“I like it,” Jack said, uncoiling the hose for the potatoes. “Could plant gooseberries next year.”
“Thats your job,” Peter said. “Well leave a lawn here for the kids to play.”
“Ill buy them a paddling pool,” Jack promised. Then he eyed the fence. “Soshall we replace this?”
“Lets,” Peter agreed. “After all, its ours now. Like it invited itself in… and look how its thrived. Plenty of raspberries this year.”
