The Foreign Country Cottage
A year ago, the Wilsons bought a countryside cottage. Having hit their fifties, Peter felt a strong urge to own a second home. His rural childhood reminded him of the family house and gardening.
The small cottage, though modest, had been well-kept. Peter repainted the wooden shed, fixed the fence, and replaced the garden gate.
There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard left much to be desiredfew trees and no bushes, except for a small patch of raspberries.
“Dont worry, love, well get it sorted in time,” Peter said, rolling up his sleeves.
Margaret bustled between the flowerbeds, nodding at her husbands plans.
On one side, the neighbours were friendly, though they rarely visitedkept their place tidy enough. But on the other side? Pure neglect. The fence sagged, and everything was overgrown with tall weeds.
Those weeds plagued the Wilsons all summer.
“Peter, this is unbearable. The weeds are creeping into our gardenits like theyre staging an invasion.”
Peter would grab his hoe and attack the weeds with gusto. But they were relentless, springing back like stubborn houseguests.
“Look, Margaret, their pear trees are doing nicely this year,” Peter said, eyeing the neighbours weed-choked garden.
“And that apricot tree is something else,” Margaret replied, pointing at a tree heavy with fruit. A few branches even dangled into their garden.
“Id love to meet these owners just once,” Peter sighed. “Maybe theyll turn up for the harvest.”
Come spring, Peter couldnt resist watering the neighbours trees with his hoseitd be a shame to let them suffer in the heat.
But now, the relentless weeds gave no quarter.
“They couldve at least mowed once this summer,” Margaret grumbled.
The next time they visited, the Wilsons marvelled at the apricot harvest. Not unusual for the areamany grew thembut on an abandoned plot?
“Thats it. Im cutting their grass,” Peter declared. “I cant stand watching this place strangle under weeds.”
“Look, Peter,” Margaret said, pointing at the apricot-laden branches drooping into their garden.
Peter fetched a little ladder. “Lets at least pick these before they rot. No ones shown up.”
“Its not ours,” Margaret said cautiously.
“Theyll go to waste anyway,” he said, plucking the ripest fruit first.
“Lets pick raspberries for the grandchildren,” Margaret suggested. “You mowed their weedsfairs fair for the labour.”
“Seems we could harvest the lot. No one cares for this place. Its leaning against our plot like an orphan.”
At work during break, Peter joined his colleagues chat. The delivery drivers swapped life stories in a huddle.
“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden the moment I turn my back,” moaned Nigel Harris, nearing retirement. “Shook my trees twice already.”
Peter felt sweat prickle his forehead, remembering the apricots he and Margaret had pickedwith the pears promising a fine haul too.
“Wheres your cottage?” Peter ventured, dreading the answer.
“Down at the St. Albans allotments.”
“Ah,” Peter exhaled. “Ours is further up.”
“Things ripen earlier your way,” Nigel admitted. “Ours are always late, but they still nick emeven dug up some potatoes. Im half-tempted to set a trap.”
“Trapsll land you in trouble,” one man said. “Straight to jail.”
“And stealings fine, is it?” Nigel huffed.
At home, Peter was haunted by guilt over the apricots. Even if it wasnt Nigels plot, it gnawed at him.
As a lad, hed dashed through others gardensjust for fun, a handful of times. But this? Neighbours theyd never met, and now theyd snatched part of their harvest. And the pears tempted them still.
Sure, Peter had planted saplings thatd grow in time. But that apricot tree next door such a shame to waste it.
“No ones coming,” Margaret soothed. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”
“But I feel like a thief,” Peter fretted.
“Want me to bin the apricots? Ive already given half to the kids,” she added sheepishly.
“Leave it. Too late now.”
So, the Wilsons spent summer tending the neglected plot, battling weeds. They watched the pears, hoping the owners would appear.
But when the fruit finally dropped, Margaret gathered a few in her apron.
Come autumn, after tidying their own patch, they glanced at the neighbours land. Even the fence seemed to sag mournfully, as if begging for its slats to be straightened.
Near the gate, rubbish piled upremnants of some makeshift structure, leaving rotted wood, glass shards, scraps of fabric Yet beside the mess, late blooms struggled through.
That winter, reminiscing about summer days, Peter felt a sweet nostalgia for the cottage.
With springs return, at the first green shoots, the Wilsons hurried over.
“This year, dyou think the owners will come back?” Margaret asked of the abandoned plot.
Peter sighed. “Poor garden. Such a waste of good trees”
When it was time to turn the soil, Peter called a ploughman.
All the while, his eyes strayed to the neighbouring plot. He and Margaret had cleared the worst weeds, but the earth needed turning too
“Listen, matewhat if we plough that side too? Ill pay,” Peter offered.
“But Peter, whatre you doing?” Margaret said. “Its not ours.”
“I cant bear seeing it wild.”
“And what, tend other folks land forever?” she reasoned.
“Waitafter lunch, lets pop by the allotment association. Find out who owns it. These weeds vex me, and that sorry excuse for a garden”
At the association, a woman peered over her glasses at a ledger. “Address again? Cherry Tree Lane, 45?”
“Yes, thats the one,” Margaret said. “Least they could do is mow. Such a shamelovely orchard going to ruin.”
“Well, its done for now,” the woman said. “Owners gave up. Councils got it.”
“So no owner at all?” Peter asked.
“Seems not. Elderly couple passed. Their nephew refused the inheritanceno time for it.” She eyed them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy it? The land?”
“Yes. Wont cost much. Papers are in order.”
“What dyou reckon, Margaret? Make it ours, legal-like?”
“Think we can manage?”
“Well fix it up, leave it to the kids. Bring the grandkids down.”
“Mountains of trouble, eh?” Margaret joked as they surveyed the plot.
“Feels like weve adopted this garden. Our problem child now,” Peter said.
“Right, Ill haul the rubbish myselfgot the trailer. Clear the weeds, free the orchard, then that fences getting replaced.”
By summer, Peter admired the tree canopies and Margarets flowers. The old neighbours land seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.
“Look at our little gardenperked right up,” Peter cheered.
One weekend, the family arrived: daughter Lily, son-in-law Jack, and the grandchildren. The older boys, Tom and Harry, raced ahead, while little Emma 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.”
“Ill get em a paddling pool,” Jack promised. He eyed the fence. “So, shall we? Replace this old thing?”
“Lets,” Peter agreed. “After all, its ours now. Like it invited itself inand look how its flourished. Raspberriesll be thick this year.”
