The Old Country Cottage
A year ago, the Whitmans bought a country cottage. Having reached his fifties, Peter felt a deep yearning for a second home. His rural childhood reminded him of the family house and the joys of gardening.
The little cottage, though modest, had been well kept. Peter repainted the wooden cabin, mended the fence, and replaced the gate.
There was just enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard left much to be desiredonly a handful of trees and no shrubs, save for a small patch of raspberry bushes.
“Dont fret, my dear, well get it sorted in time,” Peter said as he set to work.
Emily bustled between the flower beds, nodding at her husbands plans.
On one side, the neighbours were friendly, though they seldom visited, tending their own plot well. But the other side was utterly neglected. The fence sagged, and everything was choked with tall weeds.
Those weeds were the bane of the Whitmans summer.
“Peter, its unbearablethis grass is creeping into our garden. Itll take over the whole plot soon,” Emily complained.
Peter would grab his hoe and attack the weeds with vigour. Yet they seemed endless, always returning.
“Emily, looktheir pear trees will have a good crop this year,” Peter remarked, peering at the overgrown garden next door.
“And that apricot tree is extraordinary,” Emily added, pointing to one heavy with fruit. Some branches even stretched into their own garden.
“I wish I could meet these owners just once,” Peter said wistfully. “Perhaps theyll come to harvest, at least.”
Come spring, Peter couldnt resist watering the neighbours trees with his hoseit pained him to see them suffer in the heat.
But now, the relentless weeds gave no respite.
“They might have mown the grass just once this summer,” Emily grumbled.
On their next visit, the Whitmans marvelled at the apricot harvest. For the region, it was no surprisemany grew thembut on an abandoned plot?
“No, Im cutting their grass,” Peter declared. “I cant bear to see the place strangled by weeds.”
“Look, Peter,” Emily said, pointing to the laden apricot branches dipping into their garden.
Peter fetched a small ladder. “Lets gather these before they rot. No ones shown up yet.”
“Its not ours,” Emily cautioned.
“Theyll go to waste anyway,” he said, picking the ripest fruit first.
“Then lets pick raspberries for the grandchildren,” Emily suggested. “Youve mowed their grassfairs fair for the work.”
“Its as if we could take it all. No one tends this placeit borders our plot like an orphan, forgotten.”
(Adapted from the artist John Martin)
At work during a break, Peter joined his colleagues chatter. The delivery drivers swapped stories in a circle.
“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden the moment I turn my back,” lamented Nigel Harris, nearing retirement. “Theyve shaken my trees twice already.”
Hearing this, Peter felt sweat prickle his brow, recalling how he and Emily had picked the apricotsand how the pears promised a fine harvest too.
“Wheres your cottage?” Peter dared to ask, dreading the answer.
“Down in the Kent allotments.”
“Ah,” Peter sighed. “Ours is further up.”
“Things grow earlier where you are,” Nigel admitted. “Here, everythings late, but they still come to pilfereven dug up a few potato plants. Ive half a mind to set a trap.”
“Traps will land you in trouble,” one man warned. “Youll end up in jail.”
“And stealings allowed?” Nigel fumed.
Returning home, Peter was haunted by guilty memories of harvesting the neighbours fruit. Even if it wasnt Nigels cottage, remorse gnawed at him.
As a boy, it had been different. Hed dashed through others gardens now and then, but only in play.
Here, theyd taken part of their neighbours apricot crop. And now they eyed the pears.
Of course, Peter had planted young trees that would one day bear fruit. But that apricot tree next door it seemed a shame to let it go to waste.
“No one will come,” Emily soothed. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”
“But I feel like a thief,” Peter fretted.
“Shall I throw the apricots away?” Emily offered. “Though Ive already given half to the children,” she added sheepishly.
“Leave ittoo late now.”
So the Whitmans spent the summer tending the neighbouring plot, clearing weeds. They watched the pears, hoping the true owners might appear.
But when the fruit finally dropped, Emily gathered a few in her apron.
In autumn, after tidying their own land, they cast a last glance at the neighbours. Even the fence seemed to whimper, its leaning planks begging to be straightened.
By the gate, debris piled upremnants of some makeshift structure, leaving behind rotted wood, shattered glass, scraps of fabric yet beside the rubbish, late flowers struggled to bloom.
That winter, reminiscing on summer days, Peter felt a quiet longing for the cottage.
With springs return, at the first sign of green, the Whitmans hurried back.
“This year, do you think the owners will come?” Emily 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 land. He and Emily had cleared the worst weeds to stop the spread, but the earth begged for turning
“Listen, matewhat if we plough that side too? Ill pay,” Peter offered.
“But Peter, what are you doing?” Emily asked. “Its not ours.”
“I cant bear to see it wild”
“And what, tend other folks land forever?” she reasoned.
“Waitafter lunch, lets visit the allotment society. Well find out who owns it. This weeds a nuisance, and the whole place neglected”
At the society, a woman peered over her spectacles at a ledger. “The address again? Cherry Lane, 45?”
“Yes, thats the one,” Emily confirmed. “At least they might mow the grass and harvest their fruit. Such a shamea lovely orchard gone to ruin.”
“Well, its settled now,” the woman said. “The owners gave it up. Its council land.”
“So its ownerless?” Peter asked.
“Seems so. The last owners were elderlypassed on. Their nearest kin, a nephew, refused the inheritance. No time for it.” She studied them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy it? The land?”
“Yes. It wouldnt cost much. All the paperworks in order.”
“What dyou think, Emily? Shall we take it, since its legal?”
“Think well manage?”
“Well fix it up, leave it to the childrensomewhere to bring the grandchildren.”
“Mountains of trouble, eh?” Emily joked as they arrived.
“Seems weve adopted this garden. Its our child now,” Peter said.
“Right, Ill clear the rubbish myselfgood thing Ive a trailer. Well weed the orchard, then replace that fence.”
By summer, Peter admired the treetops and Emilys flower beds. The old neighbours land seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.
“Lookour little gardens come alive,” Peter rejoiced.
One weekend, the children arrivedtheir daughter Lillian, son-in-law Jack, and the grandchildren. The elder boys, Michael and Christopher, dashed ahead, while little Anna lingered, captivated by the flowers, giving Peter the perfect photo.
“I like it,” Jack said, uncoiling the hose to water the potatoes. “We could plant currants,” he suggested.
“Thatll be your job next year,” Peter said. “Here, well leave a lawn for the children to play.”
“Ill buy them a paddling pool,” Jack promised. Then he eyed the fence. “Shall we? Replace this fence?”
“Lets,” Peter agreed. “After all, its ours now. Almost as if it invited itself in and look how its flourished. Plenty of raspberries this year.”
