Oh, Mrs Thompson, not this again! We agreed, didnt we? The cottage is for unwinding, to recharge the soul, not hard labour. I come here for fresh air, not to bend over veg patches all weekend. Ive just had my nails done, and my back aches from sitting in the office. I dont slog away at a screen all week just to swap it for a spade on my days off.
Charlotte adjusted her large-brimmed hat, hiding behind dark sunglasses as she settled deeper into the garden recliner. In one hand she held a glass of cold lemonade, in the other, her phone. She didnt spare a glance towards me, stood in the midst of the vegetable plot, leaning on the hoe, swiping sweat from my brow.
I exhaled heavily. The sun was blazing it had been an unseasonably warm May. The earth was thirsty, and the weeds seemed to spring up even as you looked away. They threatened to overwhelm the neat rows of carrots and beetroots. Beside me, my husband, Richard, was busy amongst the broad beans, periodically straightening his aching back. He was nearly seventy, slowed now by age, yet he never complained: he understood better than anyone that the earth had to be cared for if it was to provide.
Charlotte, Im not asking you to plough the whole garden, I said, keeping my tone even through growing irritation. Just give the strawberries a weed, would you? Twenty minutes, tops. Look the grass is all over them. And I know Oliver would love a bowl of clean berries when he comes.
Oliverll eat berries from Waitrose if he wants them, she fired back, not lifting her eyes from her phone. You can buy strawberries, raspberries, even watermelon year-round now. No point killing yourself over it. Honestly, Mrs Thompson, this fixation with vegetable plots is straight out of your generation. If you work out the cost of petrol, compost, your time, backache, and painkillers, that carrots worth its weight in gold.
Wed had this argument before. Ever since Oliver, our only son, married Charlotte, our cottage had become a battleground between two philosophies. Richard and I had always believed that summer was for storing up treats, and that home-grown, chemical-free fruit and veg tasted better and did you more good. Charlotte, a thoroughbred city girl, genuinely couldnt fathom sacrificing free time to battle slugs when you could buy everything pre-washed and packaged.
At that moment, Oliver was out by the barbecue, carefully neutral. He felt for us spending all day in wellies, but dreaded rows with his wife. Charlotte could pull a face and plunge the whole house into a chill silence it was easier for Oliver to dig the new beds himself, unseen, than risk the peace at home. Not that Charlotte approved, insisting he was there to relax, not to slave on his parents allotment.
Mum, Dad, leave her be, Oliver called over, turning a sausage. Lets eat once the grills ready. Ill help with the watering later.
Waterings one thing, son, grumbled Richard. But weeds wont wait. Never mind, love, well get it done ourselves. Helpers or not, it gets done.
I pursed my lips but stayed quiet, returning to waging war on the nettles. It wasnt the effort that stung I loved the earth but the attitude. Wed built this cottage ourselves, planted the trees, always dreaming it would be a hub where the family mucked in together and then reaped the reward. Now, it seemed we were just the custodians, making everything ready for the younger lots leisure.
The summer rolled on, June giving way to a scorcher of a July. Each weekend followed a pattern: Charlotte and Oliver would drive down Friday evening with marinated meats, bottles of wine, and the odd cake. Charlotte would sleep late, lay her blanket directly on the lawn (which, incidentally, Richard mowed), and bask in the sun. Id spin like a top: weeding, watering, feeding, fighting the endless pests. Then there were breakfast, lunch, and supper to make for the crowd all that fresh air makes you ravenous!
Charlotte didnt lift a finger in the kitchen either.
Oh, Mrs Thompson, your roast is divine, I could never do it like you, shed say between mouthfuls. And those leek and cheese tarts simply heavenly. Youre culinary royalty!
The praise softened me, and Id find myself back at the stove, Charlotte leafing through magazines on the veranda.
Then, when the raspberries were ripe, things came to a head. The canes were heavy with fruit. They had to be picked or theyd spoiled. I was suffering from a bad headache that morning.
Charlotte, lovely, could you pick some raspberries? Hate to see them wasted, and I want to make some jam for you both for the winter.
She wrinkled her nose at the thorny canes. Ill get stung, and the nettles are murder. Plus, the mozzies eat you alive. How about I nip to Tesco and buy you some jam instead?
I dont want supermarket jam! Its all stabilisers and chemicals. This is real, home-made. Surely half an hours not too much to ask?
It is! she snapped. I didnt sign up to harvest your garden. If you want jam, you pick it. Im fine without, its better for my figure.
So in the end, Oliver picked the raspberries quietly, while Charlotte was in the shower, emerging scratched but with a full bowl. I said nothing; I just set about making the jam, filling jars, stacking them away in the shed, thinking, Let it be. Come winter, well see whos grateful.
August brought heat and tomatoes. The greenhouse, my pride, was festooned with ripe fruit: beefy, sweet, and fragrant. The cucumbers and peppers came next, crisp and glossy.
That was triple the workload. Not only must I tend the beds, but the kitchen became a proper bottling factory jars sterilised, pickling brine bubbling on the hob, clouds of dill and garlic scenting the garden.
This time, Charlotte hovered near the jars as they cooled.
Mmmm, that smell! You know, pickled gherkins are the business. Oliver loves them with his roasties. Did you do any ratatouille? Last years, we polished off in one go.
I did, I replied curtly, screwing a lid tight. My hands shook with tiredness; my feet ached ferociously.
Brilliant. Charlotte smiled. Well need a good stock this year. Shop ones are rubbish all vinegar. Yours are perfect.
I caught Richards eye; he shook his head. Hed heard the whole exchange, and knew exactly how I felt.
September. Potato harvesting the grand finale of the gardening calendar. It was the toughest job of all: digging, lifting, drying, sorting, lugging to the cellar. I really hoped the youngsters would help this time wed planted enough potatoes for two households.
But on Friday evening, Oliver called, voice sheepish. Mum, were not coming down. Its Jessicas birthday, shes having a bash at a restaurant. Maybe we can help dig up next week?
Theyre forecasting heavy rain, son. Potatoesll rot in the ground.
Well, try to find someone local. I’ll transfer you some cash. Or rope in some neighbours.
There was no help to be found. Our neighbours had enough on, and you cant trust the fellows in the local pub. We were left to dig the lot ourselves, just me and Richard.
That weekend is burnt into my memory. Both our backs gave up. Richard dug, I gathered. We took breaks, dosed up on heart tablets, slathered on heat rub, then forced ourselves out again. By Sunday, the spuds were up, dried, and sacked. Twenty-five sacks of fine, clean potatoes. Then the carrots, beets, courgettes, the pumpkins. The cellar bulged: jam, relish, pickles, preserves, stacked and gleaming.
Two weeks later, once most of the chores were done and the cottage was put to bed for winter, along came Charlotte and Oliver. Out of the car came empty crates and boxes.
Hello, all! Charlotte was perky. End of season, is it? Were here to stock up, then. Oliver grab the crates, lets get the haul from the cellar.
She strode in, plucked an apple from the larder, took a great bite. Oh, these apples! Five crates, I reckon, to last us. Four sacks of potatoes, plenty of carrots and beets. Ill pick out the jars: lots of gherkins, tomatoes, that ratatouille and jam, naturally.
I stood at the window and watched Oliver open the car boot. Inside, I felt a sharp twist. I remembered the muggy evenings, mosquitoes swarming by the raspberry canes, Richard groaning, sweat streaming, while Charlotte sipped lemonade in the sun and told us how pointless it all was.
Richard, I called. Come over a moment.
He came to stand with me. You see? I nodded towards the window.
I do, love.
What are we going to do?
We do whatever you decide. You did the lions share. You cooked and bottled.
I set my chin, straightened my headscarf, and stepped onto the porch just as Oliver was heading to the shed, spade in hand. Charlotte was giving orders from the steps.
Oliver, wait, I called, my voice crisp and clear.
He stopped, surprised. Charlotte froze, apple suspended mid-bite.
Whats up, Mum? Need the cellar key? I know where you keep them.
You wont need the key, I said, still calm. And you can take those empty crates straight back to the car. Leave them empty.
Pardon? Charlotte gaped. Mrs Thompson, what do you mean? Weve come for the food we need to stock up for winter.
Exactly, Charlotte winters around the corner. Remember the fable about the ant and the grasshopper: those who dont work, dont eat?
Mum, are you joking? Oliver smiled, trying to break the tension. Come on, theres loads Dad said it was a bumper year. Surely its for us all?
It was a bumper year, I nodded. But it isnt yours. Its ours. We planted it, we watered, we weeded, we picked slugs, we dug and bottled. You didnt lift a finger.
But were family! said Charlotte angrily, coming down the steps, her face flushed dark. Youd deny your own son potatoes? You cant eat it all half of itll go bad!
If it rots, it rots my effort, my waste. Or Ill sell it. Or give it to neighbours who lent a hand while you were off at parties. But you get nothing. Not a single jar. Not a single spud.
So this is a principle, is it? Charlottes tone went shrill. Trying to punish us?
Its not punishment, Charlotte. Its fairness. Youve told us all along that home-growings uneconomical, that Sainsburys is cheaper. Off you pop, then get your potatoes and carrots from there. No digging, no lifting, all nice and clean in a bag.
But the shop stuff is all chemicals! Charlotte burst out. Yours is home-made!
And you pay for home-made, Richard cut in, siding up beside me. And you pay with work sweat, sore hands. You didnt bother not even for the raspberries, which were yours for the picking. Now youre here with crates as if its a free-for-all. Its not. Not any more.
Oliver turned crimson, ashamed. He remembered all too well brushing off my requests, lying about work, humoring her whims.
Im sorry, Mum, Dad, he said quietly, staring at his shoes. I I get it. Charlotte, get in the car. Were leaving.
Im not going anywhere! This is ridiculous! Oliver, youre a man or not? Your mums lost the plot! Ill tell everyone how stingy your family is!
Enough! Oliver bellowed so loud that crows lifted from the old beech. In the car. Now.
Charlotte faltered, scowled, threw the half-eaten apple into my flower bed (I winced but said nothing), and stormed off, slamming the car door hard enough to shake the windows.
Oliver turned to us.
Im sorry, truly. I should have done more. Youre right we didnt deserve any of it.
Go on, love, I said gently. No grudges. Just remember: you cant always take, never give. Love is shown by action, not just words. And respect for a persons effort is where it all starts.
He nodded, hugged me, gripped Richards hand, and climbed in beside Charlotte. They drove off. Quiet fell over the cottage, autumn wind whisking yellow leaves down the lane.
Well, Mary, Richard sighed, slipping his arm round my shoulder. Perhaps we were too harsh, but what else could we do?
We had no choice. Otherwise, theyll never learn bread doesnt grow on trees.
A month passed, then two. Oliver called a couple of times, the conversations polite but distant. Charlotte didnt call at all.
Winter arrived, properly cold and snowy. We moved back to town, our cellar and garage stuffed with potatoes, pickles, jams all our hard work paying off in tasty suppers.
Mid-December, just before Christmas, the doorbell rang. It was Oliver, on his own, with a bunch of flowers and a big bag.
Hello, Mum. Can I come in?
Of course, dear. Richard, Olivers here!
We sat down to tea with raspberry jam, naturally. Oliver looked tired, thinner, a touch older.
Hows Charlotte? I asked carefully.
Shes fine. Working hard. She was angry with you, yes. But well, Mum, we bought potatoes from the shops. They tasted awful. All watery, then turned black in a day. Even the expensive gherkins were just vinegar we threw them away.
I said to Charlotte, this is what comes of relaxing. You want decent food you have to put the work in. We had a real argument. But she came round, eventually. Yesterday, she said she felt uncomfortable about last summer, letting you both do all the work.
Oliver rummaged in his bag for an envelope.
Mum, Dad we worked out what proper farm produce costs. Potatoes, jams, the lot. Please take this its well, its compensation, for not helping. We want to buy some of your harvest. Fair and square.
Richard looked ready to protest hed never take money off his son but I rested my hand on his arm.
All right, Oliver. Well accept it. Not as payment, but as your investment in the next growing season. We need to patch up the greenhouse, buy compost, good seeds. Consider it your share.
I took Oliver to the cupboard for the emergency stock, fetched a big bag, and we filled it with jars of pickles, tomatoes, Charlottes favourite relish, a jar of wild mushrooms, a sack of potatoes, and carrots.
Thank you, he said. And next May, well come for the first Bank Holiday. Not to sunbathe. Ive found new polycarbonate for the greenhouse, Ill do the roof. Charlotte insists shell help with the flower beds and salad patch. Says gloves are fine for gardeners with painted nails.
Thats the ticket! said Richard, laughing. Plenty of work for everyone, and even a cup of tea tastes better after a long day outside.
After he left, I stood at the window for a long time, gazing over the snowy courtyard. Relief swept through me. The lesson was learned maybe it seemed harsh, but it was needed. Next summer, I knew, our cottage would see the whole family again. A real family, where everyone plays their part, and everyone values real work. And, Lord willing, the potatoes would taste better than ever because theyd be grown together, with no bitterness.
On their Christmas table, our pickles took pride of place. For the first time, Charlotte didnt offer a glib delicious. Instead, she said quietly,
Oliver, lets plant some more courgettes in spring, shall we? Ive found a recipe for home-made chutney supposed to be better than shop stuff. Id like to make it myself.
It was the best present Oliver could give me, and he told me about it himself later.
If you enjoyed this story, dont forget to leave a like and subscribe for more tales. Do you agree with Mrs Thompsons approach, or do you think she was too harsh? Id love to hear your thoughts in the comments!
