Apples on the Snow…
At the edge of Maplewood, right where ancient trees stand tall and pines shadow the daylight, lived John Edward Barker. John was tough as old boots.
He spent his entire life working as a forest warden. He knew every tree in the woods, every hidden hollow, every fox burrow, and each winding deer path. His hands were huge, like spadescalloused, always dark from bark and sap that had seeped into his skin forever. And his heart His heart seemed carved from the very oak he lovedsturdy, reliable, and unyielding.
He and his wife, Margaret, shared almost thirty years of happy companionship. They made a striking pair. Often, on my way home at dusk, Id pass by their cottage and see them on the porch: John quietly working the concertina, Margaret softly singing in harmony. There was a warmth between them that drew you in. Their home was always tidy and welcoming: blue-painted windowsills to match Margarets eyes, a garden packed with phlox, and not a weed out of place in the vegetable beds.
I still remember when they planted their apple orchard. John dug deep, rich holes while Margaret held the young saplings straight, gently spreading their roots as though she were combing a childs hair. Grow, my dears, grow sweetly and strong for our children, shed encourage. John would glance up, wipe the sweat from his brow, and smilea light in his smile he never showed again. That orchard grew beautifully, blossomed foam-white every spring, apples crisp and fragrant filling the air each autumn.
But fate had other plans. Margaret was taken from him too soon. Illness carried her off quietly in just three monthsshe withered away and went gently in her sleep, clutching her husbands hand. John turned silent with griefhe wouldnt cry, men dont, he told himself. Still, he clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, and overnight his hair turned ghost-white with sorrow.
Left behind with him was their late-born daughter, Emily. She became the light in his life, the only thing holding him steady in that lonely woodland. John adored her in his own gruff wayoverprotective, never soft, keeping the world at bay, even the spring breeze. He dreaded, with a terror deep as bone, that she too might leave him as her mother had. That fear became his undoing. He watched over Emily to the point of smothering, barely letting her draw breath without his say.
Youre my hope, Emily, hed say, running his heavy hand over her hair. Youll be the lady of the house, Ill hand it all down to you. I cant let you go out there. This worldwhat’s it got for you? Out there, you’ll meet wolves in human skin.
Emily grew up a beautyher plait thick, golden as wheat, trailing down to her waist, eyes blue as a spring morning, just like her fathers. And what a voice! When she wandered past the end of the lane, singing an old folk tune, even the birds would hush and the labourers in the fields set aside their scythes and listened, jaws hanging.
Women wept at her singing, saying shed her mothers gift, only brighter still. Her voice was rare, a gift from God. Emily dreamed of becoming a singer, leaving for the city to audition at the conservatoire. She devoured musical books, taught herself notes, wore the grooves of old records thin on the gramophone.
But John? Well, he thought the old-fashioned way, with a countrymans caution and wit. Bloom where you’re planted, hed say. He feared the city like a wildfire devouring all good things. To him, cities were monsters, greedy and cold.
Not a chance! hed thunder, rattling the crockery in the cabinet. Youll be a dairy lass, marry Charlie the tractor drivergood lad, hands-on, got his own house builtraise children like every other woman! You, a performer? Rubbish and shame!
Then, one rainy October, the dam finally burst. Emily, always quietly obedient, stood her ground, packed her battered old suitcase, and headed for the door. John lost his temper, shouting and stomping, cursing.
You walk awayyou’ve no father! No home! Youre never to set foot here again!
She left into the rain, never looking back. John grabbed his axe and swung it down on the porch step. Splinters flew, sharp and red as blood.
No daughter of mine! he choked into the emptiness. Gone, as good as dead!
Twelve years passeda lifetime. Seasons came and went, children were born, lads joined the army, couples wed. Johns home became a monument to his sorrow. The orchard went wild, branches tangled in supplication, paint peeled from the window frames, the porch slumped, and the old axe rotted right in the wood, a rusted scar.
Last November, bitter cold hit early and hard. The ground, not even covered in snow, was frozen solid, and the thermometer read minus fifteen. I was returning from a call one evening when I noticed John’s chimney was cold. Thats always a warning in the countryside.
My heart sank. I pushed open the gate; it wasnt even shut. Duke, the old dog, didnt bother leaving his kennel, just thumped his tail and whined.
Inside, it was colder than outsidea damp, deathly chill. The water in the bucket was thick with ice. The place reeked of unwashed skin, old medicine, and despair.
John lay on his bed beneath his old coat, shivering so hard the bed shook, teeth rattling.
John! I shouted. What are you thinking?
He opened red and frightened eyes, gazed right through me.
Maggie he whispered for his wife. Maggie, its so cold Wheres Emily? Why doesnt she sing? Tell herlet her sing Willow Down…
He was deliriouspneumonia burning him up.
That night I wouldnt leave. I stayed and watched over him. I got the fire going, warmed the place despite the smoke. Gave injections. John moaned and tossed in fever, crushing the pillow, calling out to his daughter:
Emily, come back Dont walk into the woods, the wolves Im sorry I did love you Dont leave
I sat next to him, knitting a sock, listening to his wandering words, tears streaming down my face. So much love unspent in that hard old man, and so much pain he brought upon himself, love turned into a cage.
By morning the worst had passed; he was drenched with sweat, fever gone.
His eyes cleared but looked lost, like a beaten dog.
Valerie he croaked. I waited for her, every day. Every morning Id look out the window. Every night Id listen if the gate creaked.
I know, I said, fixing his blanket. Shes written, you knowVera the postwoman told me.
She did? He shot up, eyes wide. Where are the letters? I nailed up the letterbox! Thought shed forgotten me, struck me off!
Vera kept them for you. Couldnt bear to throw them away.
Morning came and I dashed to the post office. Sleepy Vera handed me a box of letters. I brought it home to John.
You should have seen him read. Those big, battered hands trembled, and tears dripped onto the paper, smudging the ink. He kissed the photos of the grandchildren, hugged them to his chest, tracing their faces with his rough finger.
My grandchildren, Val Two of them
Among the letters we found the torn remains of a phone numberbut the last four digits were missing.
This is trouble, I said. Weve got an addressManchesterbut its a big city. Writing would take ages.
Ill go! insisted John, flinging off the covers. Ill crawl there if I have to!
Stay put, hero, I told him, tucking him back in. Its the twenty-first century. Theres a quicker way.
I went to Marthas boy, Jamie, whos clever with computers and home fixing his mums bathtub. Explained everythingfind her online.
He pushed up his glasses, straightened his Christmas jumper. Aunt Val, not easybut lets try. Facebook, LinkedIn Her married name? Emily Carter? Right
We found her! There she was: Missing home, her status read. Jamie sent a message: Emily, its Jamie Atkins from Maplewood. Your fathers very ill, asking for you. Please get in touch.
We waited. An hour, twoCountry internet is more promise than reality; the modem blinks and croaks. The wind howled, the signal faded, and John sat nearby, pale as chalk, drinking cup after cup of Rescue Remedy, enough to fill the cottage with its scent.
She wont answer, he muttered. She wont forgive me. I wouldnt. I cursed her that night.
Thenping!the abrupt chime of a reply.
Shes written back! Jamies voice rang out. “Gave a number.”
We called. The ring was long, flat, uncaring. My heart raced.
A man answered, curt.
Hello? Who is this?
John was speechless, gasping for air. I nudged him.
Its John Emilys father
There followed a deep, heavy pauseyou could hear the breathing on the other end.
So now youre her father? Twelve years gone.
Let me speak!a womans urgent voice.
Hello? Emily, her voice braced and cautious.
Emily John stammered. Youre alive
Silence. Ten full seconds, just static.
Why are you ringing? she asked softly, her voice trembling despite herself. Whats happened?
Im dying, love, John said simply. I did you wrong. All of it. I just needed to hear your voice before I go. Forgive me, if you can.
She brokeher cry quiet, raw and painful.
I dont know, Dad she sobbed. I waited for years. I wrote you so many letters and never had a reply. I dont know if I can…”
Im not asking for all at once, John whispered. “Just know I loved you. In my way. Fool that I was.
Well come, she said suddenly, decisivelycool, but certain. I can’t let you die on your own. We’ll come. Wait for us.
John hung up. There wasnt happiness in his face, just relief mixed with fear.
Shell come,” he said. “Out of duty. But forgive me? Only God knows.
Val! he almost wailed. “But what will they seea pigsty, cobwebs everywhere, no decent crockery! The shameher husband, my grandchildren…”
Steady on! I barked in my nurses voice. Well sort this.
I raised the whole street; we scrubbed the house. John wandered about, anxious. Shell hardly recognise it, he fretted. Shell just give me that look.
Came the dawn of reunion. An old Land Rover pulled up. Out stepped Emilycity woman now: composed, lovely, severe. The children followed, then her husband.
John waited on the porch, hat crushing between his hands.
Emily paused at the gate, looked at him, looked at the house, at the step where the axe had been buried. I could see her fighting herselfold hurt and pity mingling for the stooped old man.
John stepped down and went clumsily to her.
Hello, Emily.
She gazed into his eyes.
Hello, Dad, she answered quietly.
She reached forward, embracing him, cautiously as if he were a stranger. John froze, afraid to breathe, then folded her tight and shook, silent with tears.
Emily stood awkwardly, arms hanging, and tears slipped down her cheeks. There was no wild joyonly ache at all those wasted years.
They went inside. A tense hush filled the room, the children clinging to their father, Emilys husband studied John closely. No one spoke at first, just the scrape of spoons.
John broke, pouring himself a small whiskey. He stoodhand trembling so bad it spilled.
Thank you for coming, he said, eyes lowered. I didnt expect itwell, I hoped, but never thought. Ive cursed my life without you all, Emily, your husband
Her husband, Mark, looked from John to Emily, saw the strain in his wife.
Right, John,” he said. “No point in raking old coals. We came because Emily couldnt settle. She’s got a kind heart, your Emily. Too kind. Lets drink to family.
Then young Sam, the smaller grandson, suddenly piped up”Grandad, whys there no axe in your porch? Mum said you chopped it up…”
Emily hushed him, went white. Sam! Eat up!
But John smiled sadly at the boy. The old axe rotted, Sam. And so did all my anger. All thats left is dust. Tomorrow Ill show you the real woods.
It took time for the ice to melt. For three days they lived awkwardly together, learning each other again. John tried to please, careful not to overstep.
On the third evening Emily came round to the surgery, eyes red and tired.
Aunt Val, she said, have you got anything for a heavy heart? Its hard.
I poured her tea with mint. Still cant let go of being hurt?
No, she confessed, gripping the mug. He’s so old and small now. I feel sorry for him, but when I remember that night in the rain, the shoutingmy chest tightens. I thought Id tell him everything! How I starved in the city, how I cried when Sophie was born and there was no one to celebrate…
And did you?
I couldnt, she sighed. When I saw his bent back, his shaking hands…hes punished himself far worse than I could. Twelve years in a prison he built himself. Why rub salt?
Thats wisdom, Emily, I told her. Forgiveness isnt forgetting. Its pityunderstanding he meant no true harm, just foolishness and fear. He loved you, only his love was broken and wild.
Emily finished her tea. Today he warmed Sophies boots on the stove, checked with his hand like when I was little. I saw thatand it eased something inside. Only a little. Maybe we can go forward, for the children if nothing else
They left after a week, but promised to return for the summer. And they did.
In summer John was differenta true host again. He put the orchard to rights. And, you know, a miracle happened. The tired old apple trees, thought dead, burst into blossomwhite puffs blanketing the yard.
Passing by one evening, I saw them together on the porch: John and Emily, shoulder to shoulder, just gazing at the sunset. Sophie was threading daisy chains in the grass.
John spotted me and waved, his face peaceful, content.
Emily gave me a smilethere was sadness still, but no anger.
Valerie! called John. Come in for tea and apple jelly! Emilys made itclear as amber!
Inside, we drank tea in the conservatory, and the whole house smelled of apples, summer, and peace.
People say you can mend a broken cuptheres always a crack, true, but you can drink from it all the same. Sometimes the tea is sweeter for the care you take.
Life is short, like a winter afternoon. Blink and its dusk, another blink, its night. We always think, LaterIll forgive, Ill ring, Ill visit at Christmas. But sometimes later never comes. The house can go cold, the phone fall silent, and the letter box remain empty forever.
