*The Apples of Fate: A Return Home*
Mary Whitlock stood in her garden in Willowbrook, gazing at the apple trees sagging under the weight of their bounty. This year’s harvest was unlike any other—red, golden, and blushing fruit tumbled to the ground, filling the air with sweetness. She hadn’t even bothered picking them. There was hardly anyone left to eat them.
The village was nearly empty. The young had fled to the city for better prospects, and the elderly could be counted on one hand. In winter, lights glowed in only four or five houses across Willowbrook.
“Daydreaming again, Mary?” came a voice behind her. “Changed your mind about leaving?”
It was her neighbour, Helen, rolling a wheelbarrow for apples.
“Oh, Helen,” Mary sighed. “Take as many as you like. At least your goats will enjoy them. Clean the lot if you want… Changed my mind? I wish I could, but my son’s already got an offer on the house. Even took a deposit.”
“Shame to lose you,” Helen tutted. “Who’ll move in? Strangers, most likely. And they won’t stay—just city folk wanting a weekend bolthole.”
She fell silent, plucking apples while Mary watched.
“Never seen such a harvest,” Mary murmured. “Just as I’m about to leave, the garden and the land cling to me. God, how I struggled to make this decision. And even now, I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
“Your son’s thinking of convenience,” Helen said. “No more trekking out here. Shops, doctors—all on his doorstep. And no more chores—no firewood to chop, no veg to tend.”
“True,” Mary agreed, but her voice wavered. “But my heart stays here. My head knows, but my heart won’t let go. Helen, I’m leaving Whiskers and old Bailey in your care. Just till I sort things. Might take Whiskers to the city, but Bailey’s too old for a flat. Poor old boy…”
“Don’t fret, Mary,” Helen nodded. “I’ll fetch Bailey tomorrow. Whiskers will march over himself—clever little thing. Just don’t miss your bus. Hope we’ll meet again. Maybe you’ll come back… And you’d better visit. I’ll hold you to that.”
“Yes, yes…” Mary mumbled. “Packed a bag already. My son’s fetching the rest at the weekend.”
She wandered through the house, lingering by the old Aga in the kitchen. Tears blurred her vision, but time was slipping away. Stepping outside, she perched on a weathered stump by the lane.
Soon, the rickety village bus rattled into view, groaning and clattering. Mary exchanged pleasantries with the driver and took a window seat—the only passenger, as Willowbrook was the end of the line.
The road was its usual bumpy self. Rain had left potholes brimming with water, slowing the bus to a crawl. Then, with a dismal crunch at a particularly vicious bump, it shuddered to a halt. The driver muttered and climbed out.
“Trouble?” Mary called, leaning out.
The driver crouched by the front wheel and shook his head. “Proper done in. Need a tow, or we’re sleeping here.”
He dialled for help while Mary—to her own surprise—felt a wave of relief. She stepped off the bus. “We’ve not gone far. I’ll walk back. If help doesn’t come, you’re welcome in the village. It’s getting late.”
“They’ll be an hour or so,” he said. “Sure you won’t wait? Though we’ll still have the fixing after.”
“No, I’m heading home,” Mary said firmly. “Only a mile or so. I’ve walked worse.”
“You certain?” he frowned.
“Absolutely!” She grinned. “These legs have tramped further—mushroom picking, or off to the next village for bread.”
With a spring in her step, she marched back to Willowbrook. Her bag felt lighter, her heart singing. Helen, trundling her wheelbarrow home, spotted her on the road.
“Well, I never!” she cried. “What’s this, then?”
“The house wouldn’t let me go,” Mary laughed. “I’ll call my son so he doesn’t wait. Bus broke down just past the village—something with the wheel. You know our roads.”
“Brilliant!” Helen beamed. “Come for supper. Your fridge’ll be bare, and I’ve got hot food. We’ll have a proper natter.”
Bailey, spotting Mary, wagged his tail furiously. Whiskers darted inside, straight to his bowl.
Mary dropped her bag and announced, “Lord, forgive me! What was I thinking? I’m not going anywhere. Full stop.”
Whiskers meowed in agreement.
“Speaking for the Almighty, are you, Whiskers?” Mary chuckled. “Or just approving my choice?”
The cat rubbed against her legs before leaping onto her lap.
“Hold on—I must call John. He’ll worry,” she said, dialling her son.
“John, listen—the bus broke down… Yes, just past the village. Seems it’s not my fate to move. I’m home already. Don’t wait, I’m not coming. No, really—wheel trouble. Only passenger. And John? I’m staying. Sorry, love. Tell the buyers no. Apologise for me.”
“Mum, you’re sure?” John asked. “Funny you mention it—the buyers backed out today. Can you believe it? Left a few hundred quid as compensation, though.”
“Even better!” Mary crowed. “No sale, then. Now I *know* I’m staying.”
“Alright, we’ll sort it later,” John sighed.
“What’s to sort? Home is home,” Mary said. “Sorry, love.”
“What can I do with you?” John chuckled. “We’ll spend that money on firewood. Two winters’ worth. I’ll order it tomorrow.”
“Lovely!” Mary cheered. “I’ll expect you with the wood. Off to tell Helen the good news.”
Helen and her husband, Nigel, were fixing supper. They rejoiced as much as Mary at the news.
“This calls for a toast,” Nigel declared, raising his glass. “Enough of this moving malarkey, Mary. Stay put and put *us* out of our misery. We’re used to you—we’ll not let you down. And you’ve done plenty for us.”
“Agreed,” Mary sniffled, hugging them. “No more scares.”
“And most of all,” she added, “every sign pointed to staying. Should’ve listened sooner.”
“And to us, while you’re at it,” Nigel winked.
They toasted, feasted, and laughter spilled from their windows late into the night.
A week later, John and his wife delivered the firewood. They stacked it all day with Helen and Nigel’s help. That evening, they gathered at Mary’s. The mood was bright, as if the thought of selling had never crossed their minds. The sunset that day was breathtaking. They sat on the porch, soaking it in.
“Nowhere’s lovelier than here,” Mary murmured.
John wrapped an arm around her. “Ours, Mum. Always ours.”
