“—I won’t let you do this, Margaret! Not without a fight!—Edward shouted, blocking the gate to the garden.
“—Move, Mother! The decision is made. The contractors arrive tomorrow to clear the land. The papers are signed.—Tomas took a deep breath, avoiding her gaze.
“—What papers? Who gave you the right to sell the field your father tilled for thirty years? The one you’ve mended every spring?—Margaret’s fists clenched, her silver hair fluttering in the breeze.
“—Don’t be dramatic, love. You’re not spry enough to fiddle about in the soil anymore. And what good is your rhubarb or cabbages? Everything’s in the shops.—Tomas reached for the gate, but she stepped forward again.
“—Shops?—she scoffed. —It’s all preservatives and lies! Your father’s in his grave, turning over at your words!
The argument under the old cherry tree, heavy with fruit, had turned into a shouting match. Rows of cabbages and swaying marrows filled the fields, the air thick with the scent of rosemary and ripe fruit. Overhead, the sky above Applecross was a deep cobalt, speckled with clouds drifting over the quiet village.
Tomas, once tall and proud but now silvering at the temples, felt his patience fray. He’d come from London with a clear plan: sell the land to the developer and bring his mother to a flat in Islington. The cottage, where his childhood had been spent, had leaked since the war, and Margaret’s strides had slowed with age. But she’d clung stubbornly to both.
“—Mama, be reasonable. You’re seventy-two. You toil in the garden like it keeps you alive.—
“—It does.—she softened, her voice quiet. —This is my life. What’s a cramped flat to me? I’ll suffocate in it.
“—You won’t. You’ll be with us. Emily’s even prepared a room for you. Lily asks when you’ll come.—
“—Lily’s a gem, of course.—Margaret’s face lit up. —But I won’t leave this house. It’s where everything is. Every corner holds your father’s memory.
Tomas sighed. His mother had always been as stubborn as the heather on the hills. Convince her was futile, yet he couldn’t abandon her here. A care home? Poison. A city flat? Unappealing. Yet rural life had grown perilous in her years.
“—At least help me gather the last harvest.—she pleaded. —These cherries, they’re the finest they’ve been in years.
He agreed, hoping the work might ease her resolve. Together, they fetched baskets and ladders from the barn.
“—Remember when Father made you water these cherries every morning?—she asked as they approached the trees. —You hated it. But now look at them. Bramleys, your favorite.
“—I do. But times change.—Tomas muttered, throat tight.
“—Times shift, but hearts stay the same.—Margaret handed him a worn basket. —Don’t forget where you come from, son.
The sun dipped low, casting crimson strokes across the sky. They worked side by side, Tomas watching his mother’s weathered hands and deepening lines. Yet in her eyes, the same fire glimmered—unyielding, as it had always been.
“—Your father said land’s alive.—she said at last. —It feels and remembers. Treat it with love, and it’ll reward you.
“—Mama, I didn’t sell the field for money. I’m just… worried. You’re alone here. No help, no proper care. What if something happens?—
“—Nothing will. Jane from the next farm visits daily. And old Simmons lives two fields over. We’ll outlive you yet!
“—Jane’s seventy too, and Simmons can’t walk far!
“—Don’t slight the old!—she reprimanded. —Jane brought me a punnet of strawberries yesterday. Lovely, even if they’re a bit muddled. And Simmons bakes pies that’d make the Queen weep.
Tomas shook his head. His mother lived in a world where neighbors were eternal and gardens outshone supermarkets. How to explain he just wanted to protect her? That every visit home, he’d lie awake fearing she might slip on the icy path or fall tending the soil?
“—You know Emily rang today?—Margaret said, carefully arranging cherries in the basket.
“—Emily? Why?
“—She said you’re killing yourself at work. Worried about you.—Tomas smirked. Emily had always sided with his mother in arguments.
“—She wants me and Lily to visit for the summer.—she continued. —Said Lily needs fresh air, less of that gadget nonsense. I thought, perhaps, you might come too. You both stay the season, and I’ll visit you at Christmas. Can’t have the place rotting empty.
“—You just thought that up.—Tomas eyed her.
“—Ask Emily if you doubt me!—she huffed.
By dusk, the baskets overflowed. Tomas trudged them home, Margaret bustling by the hearth with scones and a pot of strong tea.
“—Sit, son. Let’s talk.—she insisted.
The tea was steeped with mint and blackcurrants, the scones warm and buttery, a taste of his childhood.
“—I know you mean well.—Margaret began, watching him. —But Tom, I’ve spent my life here. Your father built this cottage himself. Every nail and beam carries his spirit. How could I abandon it?
“—You could still live here summers. Winter in London with us. It’ll be easier for you.—
“—And the garden? The cherries?—
“—Margaret, it’s not the whole life. You said it yourself: this is the last harvest. Perhaps it’s time for rest?
She fell silent, gazing out the window as the stars speckled the night. Somewhere a fox barked; another answered back. The rhythm of the village echoed her memory.
“—You were scared of sleeping alone as a boy, weren’t you?—she asked suddenly.
“—What’s that got to do with—?—he frowned.
“—Father said, “Let the lad learn independence. Stop coddling him.” But I’d sneak in when you were asleep and sit by your bed. You think I don’t see you? How the city’s changed you. Your smile—stiff, unnatural. As if you’re at work, even when you’re not.
Tomas went still. The truth in her words struck him. London was deadlines, meetings, emails. At home, he’d hover over his laptop as Emily tucked Lily in. When had he last taken a proper walk with his daughter in the park?
“—I’ll cancel the sale.—he said, surprising himself. —But you must spend winter with us. Emily’ll be thrilled, and Lily… she’s desperate for you.
“—And the garden?—she asked, uncertain.
“—Return in spring, and I’ll help you replant.
“—And work? You’re always busy.—
“—I’ll take leave. It’s long overdue.—he said firmly.
The next morning, Tomas awoke to the scent of fresh scones. Margaret chattered in the kitchen, humming a folk tune.
“—Why such an early rise?—he yawned.
“—We’ve still the strawberries to pick and the potatoes to dig. Best get on with it if you’re to come back with a proper harvest.—she smiled, handing him a steaming cup.
In the garden, the strawberries waited—plump, red, glinting under the morning sun. Together, they picked, Tomas watching the life in his mother’s hands, the care with which she handled each plant.
“—Look at these!—she beamed, holding a handful. —I pruned them last year. Now, they’re as healthy as a Queen’s gown!
“—Taste these.—she offered. The sweetness mixed with a tang brought tears to his eyes. It tasted of his father’s hands, of summers spent picking fruit.
“—That’s not like the supermarket stuff, is it?—she asked.
“—No.—he whispered.
By noon, they’d filled pots with strawberries. Margaret planned some into jam and left others for jellies.
“—Tomorrow, the potatoes. The weather’s set to turn.—she declared.
That night, Tomas phoned Emily, sharing his decision.
“—I’m so glad, Tom! You made the right choice—she said. —You’d have missed her. She’d wither in the city.
“—But she’ll be with us in winter.
“—Of course! We’ve already tidied the spare room. I even bought those violets she loves for the windowsill.
Margaret sat on the porch, sipping tea as he hung up, her hands busy with strawberries.
“—I’ll take leave not just for spring, but for August too.—he said. —You’ll have Em and Lily. We’ll help with the harvest.
“—Good. Lily needs to know where food comes from, not just from shops.—she smiled.
In the days that followed, they dug potatoes, canned vegetables, and packed preserves. Tomas felt the city’s pressure fade, replaced by a quiet rhythm he’d forgotten.
“—See?—Margaret said, gazing at the rows of jars. —All from the field. How could you let this go?
“—I couldn’t, Mama.—he answered. —You’re right.
On his departure day, Margaret rose at dawn, packed him with parcels—jars of jam, pickled onions, a small smoked ham gifted by old Simmons.
“—Take these to Emily and Lily. Tell them to eat heartily. I’ll bring more by Christmas.
“—I will.
Before he left, she wrapped her arms around him—her touch as maternal as it was in his childhood.
“—Thank you, son. For listening. For helping me. It would’ve been harder alone.
“—Mama, it’s me who should be thanking you. For being you. For this garden. For—
“—What am I?—she asked with a grin.
“—Real. Like your strawberries.
The bus carried him back to London, his mind still with his mother, the garden, the last harvest that wasn’t truly the last. Life went on, as did the old trees, as did the taste of honest work. The land gave, as it always had, to those who honored it.
In London, Emily and Lily awaited, and soon, Margaret would return—tired from winter’s solitude but brimming with plans for spring. Tomas knew he’d take leave, ready to tend the soil once more. For roots ran deep, and the land, like family, was never to be forgotten.
The last harvest had been gathered, but many more remained. And Tomas, at last, would be there for each one.
The Final Harvest
