The Foreign Country Cottage
A year ago, the Wilsons bought a countryside cottage. After turning fifty, Peter felt a strong urge to own a second home. His rural childhood reminded him of the family house and gardening.
The small cottage, though modest, had been well kept. Peter repainted the wooden shed, fixed the fence, and replaced the gate.
There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard left much to be desiredfew trees and no shrubs, save for a small patch of raspberry bushes.
“Dont worry, love, well get it sorted in time,” said Peter, rolling up his sleeves.
Margaret bustled between the flowerbeds, nodding at her husbands plans.
On one side, the neighbours were friendly, though they seldom visited, keeping their property tidy. But on the other side, it was utter neglect. The fence leaned precariously, and tall weeds choked the land.
Those weeds plagued the Wilsons all summer.
“Peter, its unbearablethese weeds are spilling into our garden. Its as if theyll take over the whole plot.”
Peter grabbed his hoe and hacked at the weeds with vigour. But they seemed endless, always creeping back.
“Margaret, looktheir pear trees will do well this year,” Peter remarked, eyeing the overgrown garden next door.
“And that apricot tree is exceptional,” Margaret added, pointing to one heavy with fruit. Some branches even drooped into their garden.
“I wish I could meet these owners just once,” Peter said regretfully. “Perhaps theyll come to harvest at least.”
In spring, Peter couldnt resist watering the neighbours trees with his hoseit pained him to see them suffer in the heat.
But now, the relentless weeds gave no respite.
“They couldve mowed just once all summer,” Margaret grumbled.
The next time they visited, the Wilsons marvelled at the apricot harvest. For the region, it wasnt unusualmany grew thembut on an abandoned property?
“No, Im cutting their weeds,” Peter declared. “I cant stand watching this place suffocate.”
“Look, Peter,” Margaret said, gesturing to the apricot-laden branches hanging into their garden.
Peter fetched a small ladder. “Lets pick these before they rot. No ones shown up.”
“Its not ours,” Margaret cautioned.
“Theyll go to waste anyway,” he said, plucking the ripest fruit first.
“Then lets pick raspberries for the grandchildren,” Margaret suggested. “Youve mowed their weedsfairs fair.”
“Its as if we could take the lot. No one tends this place. Its like an orphan leaning against our plot, forgotten.”
At work during a break, Peter joined his colleagues chat. The delivery drivers swapped stories.
“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden the moment Im gone,” lamented Nigel Harris, nearing retirement. “Theyve shaken my trees twice already.”
Peter felt sweat bead on his brow, recalling the apricots he and Margaret had pickedand the pears promising a fine harvest.
“Wheres your cottage?” Peter dared to ask, dreading the answer.
“Down in the Kent allotments.”
“Ah,” Peter sighed. “Ours is further up.”
“Things always ripen earlier your way,” Nigel admitted. “Ours come late, but they still raid it. Dug up some potatoes tooIve half a mind to set a trap.”
“A trap could land you in trouble,” another man warned. “Youd end up in jail.”
“And thefts allowed?” Nigel fumed.
Back home, Peter was haunted by guilt over picking the neighbours fruit. Even if it wasnt Nigels, the remorse gnawed at him.
As a lad, hed dashed through others gardensbut only for fun, a handful of times. This was different. Theyd taken part of someones apricot harvestand now eyed the pears.
True, Peter had planted young trees that would one day bear fruit. But that apricot tree next door such a shame to let it go to waste.
“No ones coming,” Margaret soothed. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”
“But I feel like a thief,” Peter fretted.
“Should I throw the apricots away?” Margaret asked. “Ive already given half to the children,” she added defensively.
“Leave it. Too late now.”
So the Wilsons spent summer tending the neighbouring plot, battling weeds. They watched the pears, hoping the owners would appear.
When the fruit finally fell, Margaret gathered a few in her apron.
In autumn, after tidying their own land, they cast a last glance at the neighbours. The sagging fence almost seemed to plead for its planks to be straightened.
Near the gate lay rubbleremnants of some makeshift structure, rotting wood, broken glass, scraps of fabric. Yet beside the mess, late flowers struggled to bloom.
That winter, reminiscing about summer days, Peter felt a sweet nostalgia for the cottage.
Come spring, at the first green shoots, the Wilsons returned.
“This year, do you think the owners will come back?” Margaret asked of the abandoned plot.
Peter sighed. “Poor garden. Such a waste of good trees.”
When it was time to till the soil, Peter hired a ploughman.
All the while, his eyes strayed to the neighbouring plot. He and Margaret had cleared the worst weeds, but the earth needed turning
“Listen, matewhat if we plough that side too? Ill pay,” Peter offered.
“But Peter, its not ours,” Margaret said.
“I cant bear seeing it wild.”
“And whatare we to tend others lands forever?” she reasoned.
“Waitafter lunch, lets go to the allotment office. Find out who owns it. These weeds vex me, and that neglected orchard”
At the office, a woman with glasses perched on her nose flipped through a ledger. “The addressCherry Lane, 45?”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “They might at least mow the grass. Such a shame, that lovely orchard going to ruin.”
“Well, its settled now,” the woman said. “The owners abandoned it. Its council land.”
“So no owner?” Peter asked.
“Seems not. The last were elderlypassed away. Their nearest kin, a nephew, refused the inheritance. No time for it.” She eyed them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy the land?”
“Yes. Itd be cheap. All paperworks in order.”
“What dyou think, Margaret? Shall we take it, since its legal?”
“Can we manage it?”
“Well fix it up, leave it to the childrensomewhere to bring the grandchildren.”
“Mountains out of molehills,” Margaret joked as they walked the plot.
“Seems weve adopted this garden. Its our child now,” Peter said.
“RightIll clear the rubbish. Thank goodness for the trailer. Well weed the orchard, then replace that fence.”
By summer, Peter admired the treetops and Margarets flowers. The old neighbours land seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.
“Lookour little gardens come good,” Peter said proudly.
One weekend, their children arrived: daughter Lily, son-in-law Jack, and the grandchildren. The older boys, Tom and Harry, dashed ahead, while little Emily paused, enchanted by the flowers. Peter snapped a photo.
“I like it,” Jack said, uncoiling the hose for the potatoes. “We could plant currants next year.”
“Thatll be your job,” Peter said. “Well leave a lawn here for the kids to play.”
“Ill buy them a paddling pool,” Jack promised. Then he eyed the fence. “Shall we tackle this?”
“Lets,” Peter agreed. “After all, the lands ours now. Its as if it invited itself inand see how its thrived. Therell be raspberries galore this year.”
