The Apples of Fate: A Homecoming
Margaret Watson stands in her orchard in Oakwood, gazing at the apple trees bending under the weight of their fruit. This year’s harvest is exceptional—round, red and golden apples with rosy cheeks tumble to the ground, filling the air with sweetness. She doesn’t bother gathering them; there’s hardly anyone left to eat them.
The village is nearly empty. The young have left for the cities, chasing better opportunities, while the few remaining elderly could be counted on one hand. In winter, lights glow in only four or five cottages.
“Lost in thought, Margaret?” a voice calls from behind. “Changed your mind about leaving?”
It’s her neighbour, Helen, pushing a wheelbarrow for apples.
“Oh, Helen,” Margaret sighs. “Take as many as you like—at least your goats will enjoy them. Take them all, honestly… Changed my mind? I wish I could, but my son’s already arranged the sale. Even took a deposit.”
“Shame to lose you,” Helen says, shaking her head. “Who knows who’ll move in? Doubt they’ll stay year-round—probably just weekenders.”
She falls silent, filling her barrow. Watching her, Margaret murmurs,
“Just look at this harvest. Can’t remember one like it. The moment I decide to leave, the garden, the land—they cling to me. Lord, how I struggled with this decision. Even now, I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
“Easier for your son,” Helen replies. “No more trekking out here. Shops, doctors—all close in town. No more chopping firewood or tending a garden.”
“True,” Margaret agrees, but her voice wavers. “But my heart stays here. My head knows, but my heart won’t let go. Helen, I’m leaving Whiskers the cat and old Scout with you. Look after them till I sort things out. Might take Whiskers to town, but Scout’s too old for a flat. That’s the trouble…”
“Don’t fret, Margaret,” Helen nods. “I’ll fetch Scout tomorrow. Whiskers will find his way—clever thing. Just don’t miss your coach. Hope we’ll meet again. Maybe you’ll come back… And you promised to visit—I’ll hold you to it.”
“Yes, yes,” Margaret mumbles. “Packed my bag—my son’s fetching the rest this weekend.”
She wanders through the cottage, lingering by the old hearth in the kitchen. Tears blur her vision, but time is slipping away. Stepping outside, she sits on a weathered stump by the lane.
Soon, a small coach rattles into view, groaning and clanking. Margaret bids the driver farewell and takes a window seat. She’s the only passenger—Oakwood’s the end of the line.
The road is pitted as ever, the recent rains flooding the potholes. The coach creeps along until, with a shuddering clunk, it lurches to a halt. The driver mutters and climbs out.
“What’s happened?” Margaret calls, leaning out.
Kneeling by the front wheel, he shakes his head. “Trouble. Need to call for help, or we’re stuck here all night.”
As he dials, Margaret feels an unexpected lightness. She steps down.
“We’re not far. I’ll walk back. If help doesn’t come, join me in the village. It’s late.”
“They’ll be an hour or so,” he says. “Sure you won’t wait? Repair’ll take time.”
“No,” she says firmly. “Only two miles—I’ve walked worse.”
“Manage alright?” he asks doubtfully.
“Of course!” She smiles. “Done harder treks—mushroom picking, fetching bread from the next village.”
Margaret strides briskly back to Oakwood, her bag light, her heart singing. Helen, returning with her barrow, spots her.
“Well, I never! What’s this mean?”
“Means the house wouldn’t let me go,” Margaret laughs. “Must call my son so he doesn’t wait. Coach broke down just past the village—wheel trouble. You know these roads.”
“Splendid!” Helen beams. “Come for supper. Your place’ll be bare, mine’s all hot. We’ll chat.”
Scout barks joyfully at his mistress, tail wagging. Whiskers darts inside, straight to his bowl.
Margaret sets down her bag and declares, “Lord, forgive me! What was I thinking? I’m not leaving—final answer.”
Whiskers mews in reply.
“Speaking for the Lord, are you?” She chuckles. “Or just agreeing?”
The cat rubs against her legs and leaps onto her lap.
“Wait—must call John, or he’ll worry,” she says, dialling.
“John, listen—coach broke down… Yes, just past the village. Not meant to be, seems. I’m home. Don’t wait—I’m staying. No, truth—wheel trouble. Only passenger. And John, I’m keeping the house. Sorry, love. Turn the buyers away, apologise for me.”
“Mum, you certain?” John asks. “Funny thing—buyers backed out today. Kept the deposit—left a few hundred quid for the hassle.”
“Perfect!” Margaret laughs. “Then I’m not selling. Now I’m sure.”
“Alright, we’ll sort it later,” John sighs.
“Sort what? Home’s where the heart is,” she says. “Forgive me, son.”
“What can I do with you?” He smiles. “That money’ll buy firewood for winters. Ordering some tomorrow.”
“Brilliant!” She grins. “See you with the wood then. Off to tell Helen I’m staying.”
Helen and her husband Nigel are preparing supper. They rejoice at the news.
“Toast-worthy moment,” Nigel declares, raising a glass. “Enough of this moving nonsense, Margaret. Stay put—give us all peace. We’re used to you—we’ll look out for you. And you’ve done plenty for us.”
“Agreed,” Margaret says tearfully, hugging them. “No more scares.”
“Besides,” she adds, “all signs said stay. Listen to the Good Lord.”
“And us while you’re at it,” Nigel winks.
They toast, sup, and laughter spills from their cottage late into the night.
A week later, John and his wife deliver the firewood. They stack it all day with Helen and Nigel’s help. Come evening, they gather at Margaret’s, spirits high as if the sale had never been mentioned. The sunset is breathtaking—they sit on the porch, admiring it.
“No place lovelier than ours,” Margaret murmurs.
John puts an arm around her. “Ours it is, Mum. Ours.”
