The Foreign Country Cottage
A year ago, the Wilsons bought a country cottage. Having hit his fifties, Peter felt a strong urge to own a second home. His rural childhood reminded him of the family house and gardening.
The little cottage, though modest, had been well kept. Peter repainted the wooden cabin, fixed the fence, and replaced the garden gate.
There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard left much to be desiredonly a handful of trees and no bushes, except for a small patch of raspberries.
“Dont worry, love, well kit it out in time,” said Peter, rolling up his sleeves.
Margaret bustled between the flowerbeds, nodding at her husbands plans.
On one side, the neighbours were pleasant, though they rarely visited, keeping their own property tidy. But the other side was utter neglectthe fence sagged, and everything was choked with weeds.
Those weeds were the bane of the Wilsons summer.
“Peter, this is unbearablethose weeds are creeping into our garden. Its like theyre staging a full-scale invasion!”
Peter grabbed his hoe and waged war on the intruders. But the weeds seemed inexhaustible, always bouncing back.
“Margaret, looktheir pear trees are doing nicely,” Peter remarked, eyeing the overgrown garden next door.
“And that apricot tree is exceptional,” Margaret added, pointing at one heavy with fruit. Some branches even drooped into their own plot.
“Id love to meet these neighbours just once,” Peter sighed. “Maybe theyll show up to harvest at least.”
Come spring, Peter couldnt resist watering the neighbours treesit wouldve been a shame to let them wither in the heat.
But now, those relentless weeds left no peace.
“They couldve mowed the grass just once this summer,” Margaret grumbled.
The next time they arrived, the Wilsons were stunned by the apricot harvest. In this region, it wasnt unusualmany grew thembut on an abandoned plot?
“No, Im cutting their grass,” Peter declared. “I cant stand watching the place suffocate under weeds.”
“Look, Peter,” Margaret said, gesturing at the apricot-laden branches dangling into their garden.
Peter fetched a small ladder. “Lets pick these before they rot. No ones shown up.”
“Thats stealing,” Margaret cautioned.
“Theyll go to waste anyway,” he said, plucking the ripest first.
“Then lets pick raspberries for the grandchildren,” Margaret suggested. “Youve mowed their grassfairs fair.”
“Its like we could harvest the whole lot. No one cares for this placeits just leaning against ours like an orphan.”
(adapted from the artist John Martin)
At work during a break, Peter joined his colleagues chat. The delivery drivers swapped life stories in a huddle.
“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden when Im not lookingtheyve shaken my trees twice now,” moaned Nigel Baxter, nearing retirement.
Hearing this, Peter felt sweat prickle his forehead, remembering how he and Margaret had recently picked those apricotsand the pears promised a fine haul too.
“Wheres your cottage?” Peter dared to ask, dreading the answer.
“Over in the St. Albans Garden Association.”
“Ah,” Peter exhaled. “Ours is further up.”
“Things ripen earlier your way,” Nigel admitted. “Ours lag behind, but they still come pilferingdug up some potatoes too. Makes me want to set a trap.”
“Setting traps lands you in trouble,” one man warned. “Youll end up in prison.”
“But stealings fine, is it?” Nigel fumed.
Back home, Peter was haunted by guilty nostalgia for the day theyd picked the neighbours fruit. Even if it wasnt Nigels place, remorse gnawed at him.
As a lad, it had been different. Hed dashed through others gardensbut just a few times, for fun.
Here, theyd taken apricots meant for unseen neighbours. And now, the pears tempted them.
Of course, Peter had planted young treestheyd grow in time. But that neighbours apricot such a waste otherwise.
“No ones coming,” Margaret soothed. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”
“But I feel like a thief,” Peter fretted.
“Want me to bin the apricots?” Margaret offered. “Actually, Ive already given half to the kids,” she added sheepishly.
“Too late now.”
So the Wilsons spent summer tending that neglected plot, fighting weeds. They watched the pears, hoping the owners might appear.
But when the fruit finally dropped, Margaret gathered a few in her apron.
In autumn, after tidying their own land, they cast a last glance at the neighbours. Even the fence seemed to sag mournfully, pleading for its boards to be straightened.
By the gate, rubble from some makeshift structure lay strewnrotten wood, broken glass, scraps of cloth. Yet beside the mess, late flowers struggled to bloom.
That winter, reminiscing on summer days, Peter felt a sweet ache for the cottage.
When spring returned, with the first blades of grass, the Wilsons hurried back.
“This year, dyou think the owners will come?” Margaret asked of the abandoned plot.
Peter sighed. “Poor garden. Such a waste”
When it was time to till, Peter hired a ploughman.
All the while, his eyes strayed to the neighbouring plot. Theyd cleared the worst weeds, but the soil needed turning too
“Listen, matewhat if we plough that side as well? Ill pay,” Peter offered.
“Peter, whatre you doing?” Margaret asked. “Its not ours.”
“I cant bear to see it wild.”
“So well tend other peoples land forever?” she reasoned.
“Waitafter lunch, lets visit the Garden Association. Find out who owns it. This weed business is driving me mad.”
At the Association, a woman peered over her glasses at a ledger. “Address again? Cherry Tree Lane, 45?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “At least they should mow it. Such a shamethat lovely orchard going to ruin.”
“Well, its done now,” the woman said. “Owners gave upits council land.”
“So no owner?” Peter asked.
“Seems not. The old couple passed. Their nephew refused the inheritanceno time for it.” She eyed them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy it? The land?”
“Yes. Wont cost much. All legal.”
“What dyou reckon, Margaret? Make it ours?”
“Think wed manage?”
“Well fix it up, leave it to the kids. Bring the grandkids here.”
“As they say, mountains out of molehills,” Margaret joked as they arrived.
“Looks like weve adopted this garden. Our stray,” Peter said.
“RightIll haul the rubbish myself. Got the trailer. Clear the weeds, free the orchard, then well replace that fence.”
By summer, Peter admired the treetops and flowers Margaret had planted. The once-abandoned soil seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.
“Lookour little gardens come good,” Peter cheered.
One weekend, the family arriveddaughter Lillian, son-in-law Jack, and the grandkids. The older boys, Michael and Charlie, raced to the car, while little Anna paused, enchanted by the flowerbed. Peter snapped a photo.
“I like it,” Jack said, uncoiling the hose for the potatoes. “Could plant gooseberries next year.”
“Thats your job,” Peter said. “Well leave a lawn here for the kids.”
“Ill get them a paddling pool,” Jack promised. Then he eyed the fence. “Soshall we?”
“Lets,” Peter agreed. “After all, its ours now. Like it invited itself in and see how its thrivingraspberries galore this year.”
