When spring arrived, my parents began to consider putting their cottage up for sale. They were getting on a bit and no longer had the health or energy to maintain the garden. My sister, who had raised her children and was busy with work, didnt have time to help out, either. After much deliberation, my parents finally made their decision.
My older sister let out a sigh of relief; she wouldnt have to feel guilty anymore for not helping with the allotment. It wasnt easy to set aside time, especially since the cottage was a fair distance away in the countryside. Catherine had suggested to my parents more than once that they should sell up. In exchange, she could look for a small plot nearer to her home. She had no wish to spend the weekends toiling away over onions and carrots. If she was going to have a place outside the city, she wanted somewhere to unwind, read a book, perhaps enjoy a picnic. For my parents, though, the cottage had always been about making jams and preserves.
Weekends were never long enough for Catherine and her husband. There was always something to be done, but never time to do it. Her husband had a job that sometimes called him away even on Saturdays and Sundays. Catherine knew the cottage brought more hassle than relaxation; after a weekend there, she felt she needed a holiday just to recover.
So, in the end, Catherine was in favour of the sale. The cottage went, and they enjoyed a few peaceful years. Then, as time went on, she found herself missing ita plot of land where she could simply rest, do as she pleased. Eventually, her husband suggested they buy another.
His work schedule had become more predictable, so they could finally have proper weekends in the countryside with fresh air for the children. They penned a plan together: just a couple of trees and some raspberry or currant bushes for the children to snack onno vegetable beds to weed. When they told my parents that the new place would be strictly for relaxation, not gardening, everyone agreed it was a grand idea. The only task left was to find the right spot.
After viewing many properties, they finally found the ideal plotcomplete with a decent house and just enough planting. The seller was an elderly gentleman named Mr. Wilkins. His wife had passed away, and he no longer had the inclination to keep up with the gardening. Thats why hed put it on the market.
Legalities settled, Catherine was over the moon. Her wish had finally been granted. The house was solid and didnt need immediate fixing. They decided to start making improvements that summer, taking leave from work to spend time at the new place.
The first week went by quietly enough, but soon after, Mr. Wilkins, the old owner, began popping round. He said he needed to collect a few belongings, and of course we didnt mind. But then he began to grumble. First, he complained about the old bush wed removedit had been bone-dry for years anyway. Next, he moaned about the rowan tree, saying he and his wife had planted it and it shouldnt have been touched. Then he spotted that where the strawberries used to be, wed arranged a little rockery instead.
He made his way around the whole plot, finding fault with nearly every change. Eventually, my brother-in-law couldnt keep quiet any longer. We paid for the land, Mr. Wilkins. Its legally ours. We decide what to plant and what to remove.
Besides, there was nothing in the sale agreement about the previous owner continuing to use the property. If there had been, we certainly wouldnt have gone ahead. Mr. Wilkins stormed off but turned up again the next day, this time holding a sapling and intent on planting it where the rowan had stood.
My brother-in-law asked what on earth he thought he was doing. In the end, he even offered to give Mr. Wilkins his money back if he wanted to stay, but the old man refused and still went ahead and planted his bilberry. A neighbour, Mrs. Hargreaves, passed by and was surprised to see Mr. Wilkins at the property. He started complaining to her about us, but she pointed out that Catherine and her husband had every right to do what they liked with their own garden. Still, she warned us that it was difficult to get that message through to him.
Later, Mrs. Hargreaves confided that Mr. Wilkins had fallen out with nearly everyone on the street after his wife died. His behaviour, she said, had become rather odd, and we shouldnt expect a peaceful timehed likely keep returning. She said shed meant to warn us earlier but hadnt managed it, and suggested we speak to the residents committee to have a word with him.
All the while, Mr. Wilkins had managed to plant his bush and then vanished, only popping back now and then to collect this or that, meddling silently before leaving once more.
The next morning my brother-in-law went off to work. He worked for a local building firm and got on well with his mates. When he told them what had happened, they joked hed bought the garden with a grandfather clause attached, but they also offered to help and soon started putting up a new fence. Mr. Wilkins was absent for several days, so when he returned, he was surprised to find he could no longer get in as he pleased.
The old gent ranted and raved, attempted to get through the gate, and finally went to complain to the committee. They were already aware by then that hed been making life difficult for the new owners. I dont know what they said to him, but after that, he only showed up once moreto collect his last few possessions.
