The Forgotten Orchard
A year ago, the Whitmores bought a cottage in the countryside. Nearing his fifties, Edward felt a deep longing for a second home. Memories of his rural childhood, of family gardens and fresh earth, tugged at his heart.
Though modest, the little house had been well cared for. Edward repainted the wooden beams, mended the fence, and replaced the gate. There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard left much to be desiredonly a handful of trees and a patch of raspberry bushes.
“Dont fret, love,” Edward said, rolling up his sleeves. “Well get it sorted in time.”
Margaret bustled between the flowerbeds, nodding at her husbands plans.
On one side, the neighbours were pleasant, though they kept to themselves, tending their own plot. But the other side was sheer neglectthe fence sagged, and the grass grew wild and tall.
That summer, the weeds became a torment.
“Edward, its unbearable,” Margaret sighed. “The grass is creeping into our gardenitll swallow the whole plot if we let it.”
Edward seized his hoe and attacked the invaders with vigour. Yet no matter how hard he worked, the weeds returned, relentless.
“Look, Margaret,” he said, glancing at the untamed orchard next door. “Their pear trees will bear well this year.”
“And that apricot tree is splendid,” Margaret agreed, pointing to a branch heavy with fruit, some already spilling into their garden.
“I wish the owners would show themselves just once,” Edward mused. “Perhaps theyll come for the harvest.”
Come spring, Edward couldnt resist watering the neighbours treesit pained him to see them suffer in the heat. But the relentless weeds gave no respite.
“They mightve at least mowed once this summer,” Margaret grumbled.
The next time they visited, they marvelled at the apricots. In that part of the country, such fruit was common, but on a neglected plot?
“No, Im cutting their grass,” Edward declared. “I wont watch this place choke under weeds.”
“Edward,” Margaret said, gesturing to the laden branches drooping into their garden.
He fetched a small ladder. “Lets take these before they rot. No ones bothered to come.”
“Its not ours,” Margaret cautioned.
“Theyll go to waste otherwise,” he said, plucking the ripest first.
“Then lets pick raspberries for the grandchildren,” Margaret suggested. “Youve done the mowingfairs fair.”
“Seems we could take it all. No one cares for this place. It leans against ours like an orphan.”
At work one day, Edward overheard his colleaguesdelivery drivers swapping stories.
“Someones been sneaking into my garden the moment my backs turned,” lamented Nigel Harper, nearing retirement. “Shaken my trees twice already.”
Edwards brow grew damp. He thought of the apricots he and Margaret had takenand the pears ripening soon.
“Wheres your cottage?” Edward ventured, dreading the answer.
“Down at the Hampstead Garden Society.”
“Ah,” Edward exhaled. “Ours is further up.”
“Things ripen earlier where you are,” Nigel admitted. “Mines always later, but they still raid itdug up potatoes once. Ive half a mind to set a trap.”
“A trapll land you in trouble,” another man warned. “Youll end up in prison.”
“And stealings allowed?” Nigel fumed.
That evening, guilt gnawed at Edward. As a boy, hed run through others gardensbut only in play. Now, theyd taken fruit from neighbours who might never return.
“Nobodys coming,” Margaret soothed. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”
“But I feel a thief,” Edward fretted.
“Shall I throw the apricots out? Though Ive already given half to the children,” she admitted.
“Leave it. Too late now.”
So the Whitmores spent the summer tending the abandoned plot, pulling weeds, watching the pears. When the fruit finally fell, Margaret gathered a few in her apron.
Come autumn, their own garden tidy, they gazed at the neighbours patch. Even the fence seemed to sag mournfully.
By the gate lay debrisrotted wood, shards of glass, scraps of cloth. Yet amidst the wreckage, late flowers struggled to bloom.
That winter, Edward felt a quiet longing for the cottage. When spring returned, they went back at once.
“Dyou think the owners will come this year?” Margaret asked.
Edward sighed. “What a waste. Those trees…”
When it was time to till, Edward hired a ploughman.
The whole while, his eyes strayed to the untamed land. Theyd cleared the worst weeds, but it needed proper work.
“Listen,” he said to the ploughman. “What if we did that plot too? Ill pay.”
“Edward, what are you doing?” Margaret frowned. “Its not ours.”
“I cant bear to see it wild.”
“Are we to tend everyones land forever?”
“Waitafter lunch, lets go to the Garden Society. Find out who owns it.”
At the Society, a woman peered over her glasses at a ledger. “Which plot? Cherry Lane, 45?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “They might at least mow. Such a shame, that lovely orchard gone to ruin.”
“Well, its done now,” the woman said. “Owners passed on. Their nephew refused the inheritanceno time for it.” She studied them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy it?” Edward said.
“Aye. Wont cost much. Papers are all in order.”
“What dyou think, Margaret? Make it ours?”
“Dyou reckon we could manage?”
“Well fix it up. Leave it to the childrensomewhere to bring the grandchildren.”
“Loads of trouble, this,” Margaret teased as they surveyed the land.
“Seems weve adopted it,” Edward said. “Our stray garden.”
“Right. Ill haul the rubbish myself. Clear the weeds, free the trees. Then well mend that fence.”
By summer, Edward admired the blossoms Margaret had planted. The old orchard breathed again, drinking in the rain.
“Look at it,” he said proudly. “Coming back to life.”
One weekend, their daughter Eleanor arrived with her husband George and the children. The boys, Thomas and William, raced ahead, while little Emily paused, enchanted by the flowersEdward snapped a photo.
“I like it here,” George said, uncoiling the hose for the potatoes. “We could plant currants.”
“Thats next years task for you,” Edward said. “Well leave a lawn here for the children.”
“Ill buy them a paddling pool,” George promised. He eyed the fence. “Shall we tackle this, then?”
Edward nodded. “Aye. Its ours nowas if it chose us. Look how it thrives. Raspberries will be plentiful this year.”
