The Smiths bought their cottage a year ago. After turning fifty, Paul had an itching urge to get a place in the countryside. Memories of his rural childhood fueled the desire, reminding him of his parents’ house and garden.
The cottage they acquired was well-kept, although on the smaller side. They painted the wooden house, patched up the fence, and replaced the gate.
There was enough land for potatoes and some other bits, but the garden wasn’t much to speak of: not many trees, and those that stood were quite old, and there weren’t any shrubs except for a small raspberry patch.
“It’s all right, love, we’ll manage in due time,” Paul said as he set to work.
Natalie busily moved among the garden beds, agreeing with him.
On one side, the neighbors were nice, albeit seldom there, but they kept an eye on the cottage. On the other side, however, laid a neglected property—its fence was leaning, and it was overtaken by weeds.
This overgrown grass annoyed the Smiths throughout the summer.
“Paul, this is unbearable! The weeds keep creeping into our garden; soon, they’ll take over the whole plot.”
Paul grabbed a hoe and fiercely attacked the weeds. Regardless, the grass seemed to find its way through the cracks, almost intentionally.
“Nat, their pears will be good this year,” Paul remarked, eyeing the neighbors’ garden overtaken by grass.
“Look at their abundant apricots,” Natalie pointed out, indicating a tree promising a rich harvest. Some branches draped over the Smiths’ plot.
“I’d like to meet these owners at least once,” Paul noted wistfully. “Maybe they’ll show up to collect the fruit.”
Earlier that spring, Paul couldn’t resist and, throwing a hose over the fence, watered the neighbors’ trees—after all, it would be a shame if they withered in the heat.
But then there was no escaping the grass.
“They could at least mow the lawn once this summer,” Natalie lamented.
Upon returning next time, the Smiths were astonished by the apricot harvest. Not unusual for England anymore, with apricots growing in many gardens, but to have such a yield in an abandoned garden was remarkable…
“No, I’ve got to mow that grass,” Paul insisted. “I can’t bear seeing the place suffocate under weeds.”
“Paul, look,” Natalie gestured to the apricot branches hanging over, “right into our garden.”
Paul fetched a small ladder. “Let’s at least pick these before they go to waste; nobody’s shown up here all season.”
“Oh, but it’s not ours,” Natalie said hesitantly.
“Otherwise, they’ll just rot,” he said and started picking the ripe fruits first.
“Well, maybe we could gather some raspberries for the grandkids,” Natalie suggested. “You did mow the grass there, so it’s kind of in exchange.”
“Looks like everything here could be picked; no one wants this cottage, squashed into our plot like an orphaned kid, with no one caring for it.”
At work, during a break, Paul stopped to chat with the guys. The delivery drivers gathered to share their stories.
“Someone keeps shaking my trees on my allotment,” complained Nico, who was nearing retirement.
Paul broke into a sweat at his words, recalling how they’d collected the apricots the other day and how the pear looked promising too.
“Where’s your allotment?” Paul dared to ask, fearing the answer.
“Oh, down by Ashfield Garden Association.”
“A-ah,” Paul exhaled, relieved, “understood. Ours is at the top.”
“Well, yours ripens earlier,” Nico acknowledged knowingly. “And ours later, but they still steal—potatoes too—might as well set up a trap.”
“Traps aren’t safe,” the guys commented. “You could get in trouble.”
“But stealing, that’s okay?” Nico retorted indignantly.
Returning home, Paul was deep in thought, constantly replaying the conversation. Though the apricot garden wasn’t his colleague’s, his conscience nagged at him.
Sure, as a kid, he had raided other gardens once or twice—but that was just childhood mischief.
But here they got part of the apricot haul from the neighbor’s garden and were even eyeing the pears.
Of course, Paul had planted saplings—given time, they’d grow—but the neighbors’ apricots… it seemed a waste to see them perish.
“Nobody’s coming,” Natalie soothed. “If they haven’t shown up all year, they probably won’t.”
“I just feel like I’ve taken something wrongfully,” Paul worried.
“Well, do you want me to throw out these apricots?” his wife asked. “Although I’ve already given half to the kids,” she added, justifying herself.
“Leave it, what’s done is done.”
Ultimately, the Smiths spent their summer laboring over the neglected cottage, battling weeds. They kept an eye on the pear tree, anticipating the rightful owners’ arrival. But when the fruits eventually fell, Natalie collected a few in her apron.
In autumn, tidying up their cottage and leaving it neat, they glanced at the neighbor’s. Even the fence seemed to look forlorn, as if begging to prop up the leaning boards. Near the gate lay a pile of debris from what used to be a temporary structure, leaving a mess behind. Rotting wood, glass, some rags…but even amid the debris, late autumn flowers struggled to bloom.
_____
During winter, longing for the summer days, Paul missed the cottage.
As spring approached, and the first green grass appeared, they returned to check on the plot.
“Think the owners will turn up this year?” Natalie wondered, referring to the abandoned garden.
Paul sighed regretfully. “Shame about the land, shame about the trees.”
When it was time to plow the gardens, he called up someone from an ad, showed them the work needed.
And all the while, he cast glances at the neighboring garden. The bigger grasses they had removed with Natalie, preventing further spread, but the soil could use a good plowing…
“Hey, mate, let’s plow the neighbor’s patch too. I’ll cover the cost,” Paul asked.
“Paul, what are you doing?” Natalie questioned, “That allotment isn’t ours.”
“I just can’t stand seeing that overgrown field…”
“And what, do we go on tending to someone else’s garden?” she reasonably questioned.
“Well, hang on, after lunch, let’s drop by the garden association to find out who owns it. I’m fed up with this persistent weed, and those trees deserve better…”
_____
At the garden association, a woman slid her glasses down her nose, leafing through a scribbled register. “Which address did you say – Maple Lane 45?”
“Yes, that’s the one,” Natalie responded. “At least they could do is look after the weeds and harvest the produce; such a lovely garden, it might go untended.”
“Oh, it’s all cleared up,” the woman said. “The owner gave it up, belongs to the council now.”
“So, it’s not owned by anyone now?” Paul asked.
“Seems so. The owners were elderly, passed away. Their closest relative, a nephew, didn’t want to deal with it, signed it away,” the woman eyed the Smiths. “Are you interested?”
“In what? The allotment?”
“Indeed. You could buy it, wouldn’t cost much. All documents are in order.”
“So, Nat, should we get the plot since it’s all legal?”
“Can we manage?”
“We’ll fix it up, hand it down to the kids; let them bring the grandkids.”
_____
“No trouble before, then we get a pig,” Natalie joked as they arrived at the cottage.
“We’ve adopted the place in a way, ours now,” Paul said.
“Well, I’ll haul the rubbish away—a bit of trailer will do—all leftover weeds, clear the garden from the thicket, then replace the fence.”
_____
In the summer, Paul admired the tree canopies and the flowers his wife had planted. The earth at the former neighbor’s garden seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, stretching toward the sun, greedily soaking up the large rain droplets.
“You see, our little orphan’s brightened up,” Paul rejoiced.
One weekend, the kids came over: daughter Lucy, son-in-law Oliver with the grandkids. The older boys, Mike and Alex, sprinted to the car, while little Annie paused by the flower bed, and that’s where granddad Paul captured the moment.
“I quite like it,” Oliver said, extending a hose to water the potatoes. “We could also start gooseberries,” he suggested.
“That’s for you next year,” Paul said. “There’s some lawn left for the kids to play on.”
“I’ll get them a pool,” Oliver promised. Then he looked at the fence. “Shall we cut to the chase and replace the fence?”
“Let’s do it,” Paul agreed. “The allotment’s ours now. It’s as if it asked us to adopt it—see how it’s cheered up…and there’ll be plenty of raspberries this year…”
