Dad’s Holiday Cottage Olga discovered, quite unexpectedly and by sheer chance, that Dad’s cherished country cottage had been sold. She was calling her mum in another city from the local post office when, due to a mix-up by the operator, she was connected by accident to a conversation between her mum and her aunt. The news broke with the surreal randomness of a film scene: two voices from two cities, sharing the fact that the cottage was gone, sold at a good price, and now there might even be enough left over to help Olga out a bit! Her mum and her aunt—voices as familiar and precious as home itself—hundreds of kilometres away, their speech turned into electric signals and sent who knows how far across England. Physics had always been a puzzle for Olga; Dad insisted she study harder. *** “Dad, why is the September sunshine so different?” “What do you mean, sweetheart?” “I don’t know… I just can’t explain it. The light’s softer, somehow. It’s sunny but not like August.” “You’ve got to learn your physics, Oggy—the position of the planets changes in September! Catch this apple!” Dad laughed and tossed her a huge, shiny red apple with a hint of honey scent. “Discovery?” “No, not yet. Cinnamon Stripe.” Olga bit into the apple, sweet foam flooding her mouth, capturing the warmth of summer rains and the juice of the earth. She knew little about apples or physics—and therein lay her biggest worry! Because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been hopelessly in love with her physics teacher for two years. The universe had narrowed down to rays of sunlight and the laws of matter, all refusing to fit neatly into the pages of her English school exercise book. Not that Dad needed telling; he could see it in her distant eyes and poor appetite. She’d confessed last year, sobbing all night on his lap. Mum was away, holidaying in a spa. Her sister, a dozen years older, was studying in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy. He whistled lively tunes—he never did that at home. There, Mum and her older sister held the stage. Mum was a stunner, head librarian at an RAF base, tall, proud, with a stubborn streak and a mane of coppery hair dyed with henna. Every other month, she’d emerge from the bath wrapped in a big turban, scented with herbs and rain. Mum’s beauty was plain for all to see. Dad, nearly ten years her senior and a bit shorter, was quiet and unassuming. “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” Mum had once said, and Olga had taken offense, overhearing. Unassuming—or so he seemed next to Mum’s flaming hair, dramatic gestures, and spirited nature. Mum loved comfort and order, but Dad always welcomed his “soldiers,” as he called his pals from his days in the forces. Some slept on the floor of their tiny two-bed flat. After Dad was made redundant as a major in the 1960 Army Downsizing (“one million three hundred thousand out!”), he worked as chief engineer at the Liverpool Telegraph Office. His soldiers built the cottage for him, taking turns digging and hammering away for free. It was tiny, just one room and a porch, but Olga loved curling up on the roof with a bowl of gooseberries or strawberries, carried up by Dad. Bliss. Mum rarely visited, reluctant to spoil her beautiful hands with any digging. Olga admired them; Dad kissed them. “These hands are made for lending out books, not for working the vegetable patch,” he’d joke, winking. *** The first drops of September rain tapped cheerfully on the porch roof. Olga tucked away her book. “Oggy, come down! Mum and Irina will be here soon, and we need to sort dinner,” Dad called, his voice ringing with unaccustomed brightness at the cottage. Olga dawdled, head tilted skyward. The clouds were swollen, grey, but not threatening. Rain slicked her face. Hugging herself for warmth, she watched beams of sunlight stabbing through the cloud, over neighbours’ gardens. Physics forgot, her first year at journalism school in London spread before her with its own rules. She’d been placed straight into a hostel room; for the first week, she rented a flat, sharing with the landlady and a room full of students. Her studies were a deep plunge into literature and language—everyone in her group fell in love with the engaging lecturers. But after class, homesickness pressed in. Too few friends yet. She grabbed lunches at the university canteen, wandering streets until dark. The city’s beauty felt strange, cold, lonely. At night she’d climb the steep Metalworks Hill near the main university building, past private homes, limping from new, pinching shoes. The kitchen in her rented flat was filled with the smell of apples; Dad had brought crates for the landlady as thanks. That mellow smell made her eyes fill, soul restless in her chest. Her hostel roommates were students from Germany—Viola, Maggie, Marion—and their babble of German gave her headaches by evening. She’d step outside to smoke, often joined by her German mates who borrowed cigarettes and always paid for them. They were fascinated by the pickled tomatoes Olga’s mum sent, devouring them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s pantry was bare, the Germans produced sausage beyond any English student’s dreams, but rarely shared. In May, their exchange program ended; they left behind piles of German boots, bought especially for the Russian winter. British students nabbed them on the sly. *** “Oggy, chop the cabbage for me, I’ll dig up some carrots. Broth’s ready.” The kitchen windows fogged up. The giant cabbage bloomed lace-green on the board, Olga tasting a leaf—nothing beats homegrown! She chopped energetically, sweet scent swirling, flung open the window: in blew the promise of autumn leaves, bonfires, apples. She saw Dad from the back: the spade going in with effort—she knew his back ached. Dropping the knife, she rushed outside, hugged him. He turned, embraced her, kissed her hair. That evening only her sister Irina arrived; Mum had a headache, stayed home. *** Then came university, a whirlwind marriage, her first job at the “Pioneer” factory paper, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter born, even a divorce. So much in five years. Olga’s husband left for someone else; she lived with toddler Marisha in a rented flat. Dad came biweekly, loaded down with groceries, playing with Marisha. “Oggy, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less often, okay? She gets car sick… And, well, she might have a new gentleman…” “Dad! Come on—you’re not serious!” Dad laughed, bitterness lacing his voice. Silenced. Olga suddenly saw how pale and old he’d grown, even stopped whistling. “Dad, how about I take some holiday and we all go to the cottage with Marisha, while it’s still warm?” *** The garden was deep in leaves—the final warm week of October. A fire in the stove, tea steeped with blackcurrant leaves, Olga frying potato cakes in a hurry. Dad raked leaves; Marisha “helped,” scattering and laughing. The oil spat and popped. Deep in the orchard, Dad’s whistle drifted back. By evening, the bonfire burned. The street was empty, neighbour’s gardens shadowy. Dad threaded thick bread onto cherry twigs for roasting, helping Marisha hold them over the flames. Olga stretched her cold hands to the fire, lost in its spell. She remembered her first student work trip to Yorkshire—guitar songs under the stars, intoxication with the night’s mystery rather than any one crush. Faces in firelight each held their own secrets. That’s where she met her future husband. This week, work called her up to consider joining the Labour Party; the night before she crammed party manifestos, felt grilled about her divorce and morals. Nearly in tears, a colleague leapt to defend her: “This is a meeting of bullies, not comrades!” Years later, she’d shudder at the memory. After dark, they doused the fire. At the gate, a car stopped—a door slammed. Mum, radiant in a stylish coat, arrived with a work colleague who’d driven her over. Marisha ran to her gran; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that?” “Sasha, it doesn’t matter, just a lift from work—you don’t know him.” Dinner was tense, Marisha fussy. Mum asked about work, distracted, Dad glared at her, shoulders sinking ever lower. Evening ruined. *** Within a year, Dad was gone. A massive heart attack—gone in two days, early in a warm golden October. Straight after the funeral, Olga took leave and went to the cottage. Marisha stayed with her grandmother. Everything fell out of her hands. The harvest was immense. Olga handed buckets of apples to neighbours, cooked preserves with mint and cinnamon—as Dad loved. Dad’s old comrade came round to help; together, they’d go to Wisley for rare saplings. “I’ll stay a few days, Oggy, dig the garden, prune trees, if you’re okay.” “Oh Mr Atkin… Thank you!” The “Oggy” brought tears. In that moment, the bleakness, orphanhood, finality hit. Before then, she’d half hoped Dad would return, that it was all a bad dream. First mornings after losing him, during that edge of sleep, she’d fumble to remember what was so wrong—then it would hit, wave after wave—Dad was gone. The guilt followed: why hadn’t she kept him earthbound? “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll come, help, every time. You know, Oggy, we picked this apple tree together, you were just a kid. On the way to Wisley, Sasha talked more about you than your big sister. You were so small, funny. He always said the trees would outlast him. Many times, I rushed him to pick a sapling!” Mr Atkin stayed three days, tilled soil, pruned apples, spread fertiliser, planted three yellow chrysanthemums in memory of Dad. “A bit late to plant, but the autumn’s mild—they’ll flourish. For Sasha.” Roses still needed wrapping, but that would have to wait for spring. They hugged goodbye. The drizzle grew; Olga watched him retreat through the gate until he turned and waved her inside. Rain hammered the roof and slammed the gate with a mournful creak. The porch was scattered with yellow petals. Everything was Dad’s and always would be—rain, trees, autumn scents, the very soil. He was still there, somehow, and always would be. Olga would learn, would return with Marisha even in cold weather—just two hours by coach. Come spring, maybe she’d get central heating sorted. Start saving soon. She’d definitely go to Wisley with Mr Atkin, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted some. *** Six months later, early April, as the last snow held on, the cottage was sold. Olga found out by accident, on the telephone at the post office, dialing home after a trip to Wisley. In the cramped little phone booth, at her feet in a bag, nestled a white currant sapling, wrapped damply at the roots with an old children’s t-shirt.

Dads Cottage

Its a testament to the power of cosmic mix-ups that Emily Bradshaw learned her dad had sold their beloved cottage by pure accident, secretly eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for her ears. Shed rung her mum from the local post office in Leeds, only for the operator to accidentally patch her into a lively exchange between Mum and Aunt Edith, in Manchester. Thats the sort of situation you only find in cheesy rom-coms or stories people tell in the pub and expect no one to believe. For a few paid minutes across Yorkshire and Lancashire, she learned the cottage was gone, sold for a tidy sum, and the proceeds might even help dear Emily with her studies!

Mum and Aunt Edith, those painfully familiar voicescackling about the funeral of the cottage. A hundred miles bridged by telephone cables and electrical pulses. Physics, Emily! Dad would always grumbleshe barely passed the subject.

***

Dad, whats with the sunshine in September? Emily asked one late morning.

What sort of sunshine, love?

Dunno. Its just different softer? Not August-bright, isnt it?

Thats planetary physics for you. The position of celestial bodies shifts, Dad replied, tossing her a hulking apple that glistened red and smelt faintly of honey.

Worcester Pearmain?

Nah, those are still a little green. This ones a Russet Stripe.

She crunched through the apple, mouth foaming with sugary juice, autumn leaking in with every bite. Apple varieties and physicsher kryptonite. Emily, now in Year Nine at Bradford Grammar, possessed the brains of a poet but the heart of someone hopelessly smitten. That was her main trouble. For two years, physics teacher Mr. Benson had been the object of Emilys full-blown schoolgirl crush. Physics, matter and space, never fit into her lined exercise book. Her father, of course, noticed the dreamy expression and disappearance of hunger, and shed confessed everything in a teary torrent last year during Mums spa holiday. Her big sister Annabel was miles away, off at uni in Birmingham.

Dad was only truly alive at the cottage. He whistled tunes (usually off-key), full of musical mischief, a habit he rarely indulged at home. There, Mum and Annabel ruled the stage; Mum, a glamorous head librarian at the military base, with a mane of copper curls the colour of autumn leaves, always smelling of herbal shampoo. Every few months, shed emerge from the bath in a massive towel turban, reeking of henna and rain. Mums beauty stunned people like cold water. Dad, shorter and nearly ten years older, blended in with the curtains. Mum once whispered to Annabel, Our Rogers hardly a looker, but men dont need to be, which Emily overheard and carried like a pebble in her shoe.

Unremarkable, she called him, next to Mums vivid locks and dramatic plate-smashing outbursts. Mum loved order, neatness, and comfort. Dad, on the other hand, had a collection of squaddiessoldiers Dad helped settle in Leeds after army downsizing. Sometimes theyd crash on the living room floor, needing a meal or a job. After Dad retired, he became chief mechanic at the Leeds Telegraph office. And those squaddies? They pitched in, building his cottage, clearing brambles and knocking together a one-room wonder with a veranda. Emily spent summer afternoons perched on the roof, Dad bringing up bowls of gooseberries, cherries or strawberries. Bliss.

Mum rarely visited the cottageshe prized her hands, nails like patio tiles. Emily admired them, Dad kissed them reverently. These hands were made for books, not cabbages, he would joke, winking at Emily over the compost heap.

***

The first drops of September rain drummed the veranda roof. Emily closed her paperback.

Emily, come down. Mumll be here soon with Annabel. We need to get lunch sorted, Dad calledhis voice oddly bright at the cottage.

She hesitated, chin to the sky, face slicked wet with rain. Only up therebetween heaven and hedgecould she see the beams split clouds over neighbouring gardens, physics blessedly forgotten.

Months later, Emily was thrown into student digs at York Universityone week on the wild, another in a rented flat with a landlady who baked strange pies and let out her best room to three other students. Lecturesdrowning in poetry and prose, tutors who made the whole cohort swoon with their charm and intellect. After classes, homesickness pressed like a bad handshake. She ate beans on toast at the canteen and wandered the streets until dusk. The city glowered with beauty, cold and impersonal, making Emily feel like a misplaced jigsaw piece, limping in cheap patent shoes.

The kitchen at home always smelt of applesboxes Dad gifted the landlady for kindnesss sake. That sweet, slightly musty fragrance brought tears and unleashed her caged soul.

When she finally moved into halls, her neighbours were exchange students from GermanyViola, Magda, Marleen. By evening, all the German made her head ache, so shed slip out for air while the girls smoked on the steps and returned borrowed cigarettes with coins, leaving the Brits bemused. The Germans were astonished by Mums pickled tomatoes, devouring them with fried potatoes. When Emilys stash ran out, they produced sausages, but only for themselves. May ended with the Germans packing up, leaving mountains of winter boots by the kitchen binpristine German footwear, snapped up quietly by British students.

***

Emily, shred the cabbage while I dig up some carrots. Stocks ready! Dad called out.

Panes fogged from long boiling. The cabbage bloomed across the board, pale green and frilly. Emily tore a leaf and nibbledalways delicious so close to the earth. She chopped briskly, filling the room with sweet scent, then flung open a window for a rush of autumn air. Through steamy glass, she watched Dad digging, knowing too well his back ached with every spadeful. She dashed out, hugged him tight from behind. He turned, squeezed her in silence, kissed her damp hair.

Annabel arrived that evening alone; Mum stayed back with a headache.

***

There followed university, a starter marriage, a job at the Innovator aviation plant newsletter, Dads first heart attack, daughter Rosie arriving, then divorce. Five years, whizz-bang. Her husband left for someone more exciting; Emily lived with two-year-old Rosie in a rented flat. Dad visited every other weekend, bringing groceries, wrangling Rosie.

Dont hold it against Mum, Em. She hates travel, gets carsick And, well, there might be a gentleman friend

Dad! For heavens sake. At her age?!

Dads laugh was dry, almost brittle. He fell silent. Emily noticed his hairpure silver now, shoulders slumped. Even his whistling stopped.

Lets have one last visit, Dad. Ill take leave on Monday. Well go to the cottage before the frost hits, me, you, and Rosie?

***

Autumns final warmth set the garden ablaze. Leaves carpeted the ground, sunlight clinging to the cottage for one last week. They stoked the stove, brewed tea with blackcurrant leaves. Swiftly-grilled potato cakes sizzled as Dad raked up leaves, Rosie laughing, tossing handfuls back onto the pile. The garden crackled with fire and Dads whistling.

Emily stretched frozen fingers toward the flames, mesmerised. She recalled her first university work placement in Scotlandguitar songs under stars, dizzy with love for nothing and no one in particular, just the endless sky, the hush, the odd chords and firelit faceseveryones secrets glowing in their eyes. There she met her future husband. Now, the office summoned her to join the party committee, candidate for Labour. Shed revised the Constitution all night, but the meeting turned into an inquisition about her divorce and moral fortitude. Emily falterednearly in tears. A colleague stood for her, stammering, This is a gathering of bullies, not comrades! Years later, shed remember and cringe.

When night deepened, they doused the fire. A car screeched at the gate, a door slammed. Mum! So beautiful, in her new red coather colleague had driven her. Rosie threw herself at Nana; Dad kissed Mum awkwardly, frowning.

Who was this colleague then? he probed.

Oh, Roger. Does it matter? He gave me a lift. You dont know him

Dinner was a washout, conversation awkward, Rosie fractious. Mum quizzed Emily about work, lost in her own thoughts. Dad glowered and hunched, shoulders drooping lower each hour. The night was ruined.

***

A year later, Dad was gone. A massive heart attackhe slipped away in two days at the height of an unnaturally sunny October. Straight after the funeral, Emily took leave to live at the cottage. Rosie stayed with her Gran.

She dropped everything. The apple harvest was unprecedentedEmily dished out buckets to neighbours, cooked vats of applesauce with mint and cinnamon, just as Dad loved. Dads old friend, Tom Evans, came to help, as theyd done for years, sourcing new trees from the plant nursery together.

Ill stay a few days, Em. Dig the garden, prune the treesall right?

Oh Tom, youre a star. Thank you!

The way Tom said Em made tears sting her eyes, and a terrible finality pressed upon her. Before then, shed half-believed Dad would return, that grief was just a bad dream. In those first days, waking up was excruciatinga split-second of hope, then reality crashed in, Dad was gone.

Guilt arrived nextshe hadnt kept him here.

Dont sell the cottage, Em. Ill always visit and help. Remember the Coxs Orange Pippin tree? Your dad picked it with you when you were tinywe drove out to the nursery, you were such a funny kid. Sasha told me more about you than Annabel. Said the trees would outlive him. He always fussed over saplings, Id hurry him along

Tom stayed three daysturned the earth, pruned the apples, fertilised, and planted three yellow chrysanthemum bushes by the front step.

They shouldve gone in earlier, but its been a warm autumn. Theyll hold. For Roger Ill cover the roses next timeleaves need clearing, but thats a job for next visit.

They hugged goodbye. Rain began pitter-pattering. Emily stood by the gate and watched Tom walk away. He sensed her, turned, and waved: Go inside! The wind slammed the gate shut with a plaintive squeak. The doorstep glowed with yellow petals. This was Dads placerain, trees, autumn smells, and the very soil. Hed always be here, somehow. Shed return, with Rosie, until the first frostjust a two-hour bus to paradise. Then, come spring, as soon as the snow melted, maybe central heating could go in. Time to start saving, penny by penny. Shed go to the nursery with Tom, finally get that whitecurrant Dad had wanted…

***

Six months later, in the bitter wind of an early April, just as the first snow lay pristine, the cottage was sold. Emily found out by accident, in a cramped telephone booth on the road back from the nursery. At her feet, wrapped in a damp, old baby vest, the whitecurrant sapling waitedhomeless.