Oh, Mrs. Thompson, really, must we go through this again? Lucy sighed theatrically, adjusting her floppy sunhat and sinking deeper into the garden recliner. Her sunglasses were firmly in place, lending an air of mystery to a woman who was, in fact, only hiding her eyeroll. One hand cradled a glass of chilled elderflower cordial, the other was glued to her phone. She didnt spare a glance for her mother-in-law, who was busy mopping her brow with the back of her hand, leaning on a garden hoe in the middle of a wilting vegetable patch.
We agreed, remember? Lucy continued, sounding like a woman gently reassuring a wild animal not to eat her. The country cottage is for recharging not reenacting scenes from a Victorian workhouse. I come here for birdsong, not for the exquisite pleasure of rummaging through carrot beds. And besides, my nails are fresh, and after a week at the office, my back is basically made of complaint. I refuse to swap my swivel chair for a spade at the weekend.
Mrs. Thompson, whose name was Margaret but was always addressed formally (Lucys doing), heaved a sigh that seemed to lift all the pigeons off the telephone wire. The May sun was already glaring down a surprising heatwave had struck England and the soil was gasping for care. Weeds all but danced before her very eyes, choking the plucky green shoots that promised future carrots and beetroot. Nearby, her husband, Geoffrey, was puttering on a neighbouring patch, groaning as he straightened up every so often. He was well past seventy and moved much like a lawnmower on its last legs, but he was determinedly at it. Everyone knows, after all, that the land only rewards those who show it proper respect.
Lucy, Im hardly asking you to dig up the entire back field, Margaret attempted, quelling her irritation with maternal reserves. Its only the strawberries. Twenty minutes weeding, love. I simply cant keep up on my own, and just look at them the grass is winning. Henrys coming up for the weekend, you know how he loves a fresh strawberry.
Lucys reply was as effortless as her manicure. If Henry wants strawberries, the supermarkets that way, Margaret. Theres fruit all year round, havent you noticed? Strawberries, blueberries, even melons in March. Your garden patch ritual is charmingly retro pure post-war scrimping. Lets face it, once youve counted up petrol, seeds, and the price of your back pain rubs, that carrot costs more than a gourmet dinner.
It was, as anyone might suspect, an old argument, played out faithfully since Henry only son to Margaret and Geoffrey made the questionable decision to marry a city girl who thought gardeners was the name of a pub. The older generation still believed in stockpiling the fruits of summer a pantry full of home-grown, unsprayed, passionately uneconomic vegetables. Lucy, meanwhile, was at home with nothing but Wi-Fi and contactless payment. Why do battle with slugs and the English summer when you can just buy perfect produce in biodegradable packaging?
Henry, at this particular moment, was manning the barbecue grill, determined to remain Switzerland. He pitied his parents, who spent dawn to dusk nurturing the land, but he also dreaded Lucys Muhe-induced sulk, which carried all the subtlety of a vicars sermon on gluttony. Row avoidance was his main coping tactic: sometimes hed sneak out to do the odd chore at dawn, just so Lucy wouldnt mutter about being married to a serf. The trouble was, she disapproved of that too her philosophy was that no one should break a sweat on their days off, especially not her husband.
Just leave her, Mum, Henry shouted from the grill, as he flipped the burgers. Come on, well eat in a bit, then Ill water the beds this evening.
Waterings all right, son, Geoffrey said, popping up behind a wheelbarrow. But weeds dont wait for nightfall. Come on, Maggie, lets just do it ourselves.
Margaret pursed her lips but said nothing, turning back to the strawberry patch with grim determination and renewed vengeance upon the dandelions. What smarted more than the sun was the realisation: it wasnt just that the extra pair of hands would have helped. She loved the land; it was the indifference that stung. This was meant to be their family haven a patch of England made with care and sweat, not a resort for the younger generation to waft about as if on a spa weekend.
Thus the summer rolled lazily by. June melted into a scorching July. The pattern never broke: Henry and Lucy arrived on Friday nights, car loaded with marinated meat, drinks, and sometimes a sticky pudding. Lucy slept until midday, then wafted out in her bikini, laying a picnic blanket on the lawn (dutifully mown by Geoffrey) to sun herself. Margaret spun like a hamster in a wheel, between weeding, watering, pest patrol, and feeding the increasingly voracious guests. They all claimed fresh air makes you ravenous.
Lucys culinary contribution was limited to compliments. Oh, Margaret, your cottage pie is simply magnificent, shed say, helping herself to alarming seconds. And your cheese scones true genius! I could never compete. Margaret, starved for praise, would glow, and soon find herself at the stove again, while Lucy vanished to watch something on her tablet in the conservatory.
Things came to a head with the raspberries. The canes were slumping with plump, sweet fruit, all demanding urgent picking or the birds would beat them to it. And, inevitably, Margaret had a headache brewing some days, you just know. Lucy, she asked, could you pick the raspberries? Wont take long, and I could turn a jar of jam for you nice treat for winter.
Lucy eyed the thicket like a general surveying no-mans land. Oh, but the nettles, Margaret! Ill get stung. And the mozzies are murder out here. Honestly, shall I just nip to Tescos and buy you a pot of jam?
I dont want shop-bought! Margaret snapped at last. Thats just sugar and colour. This is natural, from our own patch. Is half an hour too much?
It is! squawked Lucy. Im not here as a fruit-picker. If you want jam, pick it yourself. Im sticking to figure-friendly snacks.
In the end, Henry did it while Lucy showered, emerging from the canes scratched but victorious. Margaret watched grim-faced, knowing full well her son was caught between two stubborn women. She bottled the raspberries herself, stacking neatly labelled jars in the cellar. Let it wait, she thought. Winter will ask what summer saved.
August arrived, ushering in the grand glut of tomatoes. The greenhouse Margarets pride and joy was heavy with glowing red, yellow, and purple fruits. There were cucumbers, too, crunchy and green, and the first sweet peppers. There was suddenly three times the work: picking, washing, potting, pickling, boiling brine, sterilising jars, you name it. The kitchen looked like a scene from Bake Off gone berserk.
Lucy surveyed the rows of cooling jars, breathing in the pickled cucumber aroma. Mmm, divine! Nothing beats a good gherkin. Do lets take some home, Henry adores them. You did make that chutney, didnt you? Your recipe toppled last years record we ate the whole jar in a week.
I did, replied Margaret shortly, still wielding her jar opener with a white-knuckled grip. She stood all day, only sitting down for lunch. Lucy nodded briskly. Splendid. Well take plenty. Shop ones taste of cleaning fluid. Yours are the best, Margaret.
Margaret exchanged glances with Geoffrey, who was sorting out onions nearby. Nothing needed to be said.
Then came September, time for the potato harvest the hard slog. Digging, lifting, sorting, drying, storing. Margaret desperately hoped the young folk might actually help. Shed planted enough for both families.
On Friday, however, her phone rang. Henrys sheepish voice: Mum, were not coming up this weekend. Lucys best friends having her birthday in London, and were heading to a posh place for dinner. Maybe next weekend?
Theyre promising rain, dear. If we wait, the potatoes will rot, Margaret said quietly.
Why not just pay someone local, Mum? Ill transfer you some money. Maybe rope in a lad from the village?
Click. Hiring the local odd jobbers (mostly part-time philosophers at the Red Lion pub) was pointless they had their own plots and, frankly, werent to be trusted farther than you could throw a marrow. So, Margaret and Geoffrey did it themselves: two days of aching backs, laboured tea breaks, hot water bottles, and ever more robust anti-inflammatory creams. Twenty-five sacks of first-class spuds, plus carrots, beetroot, courgettes, pumpkins. The cellar brimmed with neat rows of jams, pickles, and relishes.
A fortnight later, when all was dusted and the garden readied for winter, Henry and Lucy rolled up in their car, flung open the boot, and began unloading empty crates like they were moving house.
Hello, all! sang Lucy, looking positively gleeful. Right, seasons over time to take the lot home. Henry, get the crates down to the cellar, will you? Well need loads of apples for the balcony, at least five boxes. And three, maybe four sacks of potatoes, to last us till spring. Get the carrots, beetroot as well Ill sort the jars myself. Lots of gherkins, chutney, and, of course, raspberry jam, since you made it, Margaret.
Margaret stood at the window, watching her son fumble in the boot. The heat, mosquitoes, the heaviness of the watering can that left her arm aching… it all came back. So did Lucy, reclining with her elderflower cordial, predicting doom for homegrown veg. She took a breath.
Geoffrey, come here a minute.
He joined her at the window.
Well? she nodded outside.
Whatever you decide, love. No ones worked harder than you. He squeezed her hand.
Margaret straightened her headscarf and strode out onto the porch, just as Henry ducked into the shed for a spade and Lucy continued issuing orders like a minor royal.
Henry, wait, Margaret called, her voice ringing out across the garden.
He paused. Lucy froze on the step, bitten apple in hand.
Whats up, Mum? Lost the cellar keys? I know where they are, its fine.
You wont need them, Margaret said, perfectly calm. And you can put those crates straight back in the car empty.
Lucy blinked. Excuse me? Margaret, what are you on about? We came for our share. Its nearly winter!
Exactly, Lucy. Winter is coming you know the fable about the grasshopper and the ant? Those who dont toil, dont taste, as the saying goes.
Mum, you cant be serious. Henry looked stricken. But Dad said the crop was amazing! Its not fair we need some, itll only go off!
If it goes off, it goes off thats our loss. Or well sell it, or give extras to the neighbours who lent a hand when you were busy dining al fresco in Soho. But as for you, not even a single potato. Or a jar of jam.
So this is some sort of punishment? Lucy shrieked. Youre teaching us a lesson? Youd let your own son go hungry? You cant possibly eat all that yourselves, its madness!
Its not punishment, Lucy, Margaret replied, her voice sure. Its just fairness. You spent all summer telling us our garden was old-fashioned, not worth the fuss, that supermarket goods are cheaper by far. Well then, by all means help yourself in the shops. Pre-washed, perfect, packaged goods. No need to get your hands dirty here.
But shop ones taste of chemicals! Lucy burst out. Yours are so much better!
And the difference, dear, is that ours come with the price of effort, Geoffrey added, coming to stand by his wife. If you wouldnt lift a finger for berries or tomatoes, you cant just waltz in for free samples at the end. Shops shut.
Henry flushed redder than a beetroot, shame cresting over him. He remembered his mothers gentle requests, his own feeble excuses, giving in to Lucys gripes.
Im sorry, Mum, Dad, he mumbled, unable to look at either. I I get it. Lucy, lets go.
Im not leaving! Lucy stamped a foot, hurling her half-eaten apple into Margarets flowerbed (Margaret winced, but didnt comment). This is outrageous! Ant, are you a real man or not? Your mothers lost her marbles! Ill tell everyone your parents are mean old misers!
Shut it! Henry snapped, loud as a football hooligan at the pub. In the car, now!
And that, truly, was a first. Lucy gaped, then swept to the car, slamming the door theatrically. Henry trudged over, squeezing his fathers hand and giving his mother a fierce, apologetic hug.
Go on, son, Margaret managed, her voice wobbly. Dont be bitter. Just understand: you cant keep taking without ever giving. Love is in the doing, not the saying. Respect matters most.
He nodded, went to the car, and they left. Silence settled on the old garden, interrupted only by a breeze rattling yellow leaves along the path.
Well, Margaret, Geoffrey sighed, arm round her shoulder. We may have been a bit hard. But needs must, hm?
Yes, Geoff. Otherwise, theyll never know that bread doesnt grow on trees.
The weeks passed in an awkward peace. Henry rang a couple of times, conversation stiff as a shirt after a bad laundry day. Lucy didnt ring at all.
True winter descended biting crisp air, snowbanked pavements. Margaret and Geoffrey stayed in their snug city flat, with their treasure trove of potatoes and pickles in the garage and on the balcony. Every meal a little triumph: fluffy potatoes, crunchy gherkins, homemade chutney.
A week before Christmas, the doorbell rang. Peering through the spyhole, Margaret saw Henry, alone and looking not so much like a grown man as a sixth-former at the end of an exam.
He brought a big bag and a bunch of flowers.
Hallo, Mum. May I come in?
Course, love. Geoff! Henrys here!
Soon they were gathered around hot tea and, notably, Margarets raspberry jam. Henry looked slimmed-down, serious.
Hows Lucy? Margaret asked cautiously.
Shes all right. Still at work. She was cross, of course but. He hesitated. We had to buy supermarket potatoes. Honestly, they were flavourless. And the pickles? All vinegar, no crunch. We trashed them.
Margaret poured more tea.
I told her, Thats what you get for all that relaxation. We had a big row. But she did start to think. Yesterday she even said maybe wed overstepped, that it wasnt fair expecting you to do all the graft.
He handed over an envelope.
Mum, Dad. Weve calculated what those farm shops around here charge for proper veg and preserves. Please this is to pay for some of your supplies. We want to buy a share properly. Fair and square.
Geoffrey started to object Im not taking money off my own son! but Margaret stilled him with a hand.
Thank you, Henry. Well take it, not as payment for food, but as a patch-up for next years sowing. Itll go on greenhouse repairs, seed, compost. Next summer, itll be everyones crop.
She fetched a cloth shopping bag from the cupboard and loaded it: a jar of crunchy pickles, tomatoes in their juices, Lucys favourite chutney, some mushrooms, a sack of potatoes and carrots.
Thanks, Henry said, his voice soft. And Lucy and I have decided well both come next May. Ill sort the greenhouse roof and Lucys agreed to take on the flowerbeds. Says theres such a thing as gardening gloves for a reason.
Right you are, Geoffrey grinned. Work for all. And after a days honest graft, a barbecue actually tastes as good as you think it will.
Henry left, grateful and a little wiser. Margaret stood at the window, watching the snow dust the streetlights, feeling a weight lift. Lesson given, finally received. Next year, she thought, the cottage will be a true family home again, with everyone pitching in; and if anything, the potatoes would somehow taste even better grown by all, not just by two old hands.
That New Years Eve, Margarets pickles had pride of place on Henry and Lucys table. And for the very first time, Lucy took a gherkin, paused, and said, You know, Henry, we should plant more courgettes next year. I found a recipe that trumps the shop stuff. Ill make it myself.
It was, without doubt, Margarets favourite Christmas gift, though she only heard of it after.
And they all ate happily ever after as long as nobody tried to show up empty-handed.
