George Whitby lived at the very end of a quiet lane, in a modest but sturdy cottage. The walls, hewn by his father from thick pine logs, had darkened with age yet stood unshaken. The roof sagged a little on the eastern side but never let a drop of rain in. The front step had started to lean it was long overdue for repair, but his hands were too tired.
At a little over eighty, George still tended his garden not out of necessity but out of habit. Each morning, as soon as the sun brushed the tops of the apple trees, he slipped into the yard, grabbed a garden fork or a watering can depending on the task, and walked to his rows. Potatoes, onions, carrots, cucumbers everything grew in neat lines, just as his late wife Nora liked. Though his pension was enough and his children sent a few pounds now and then, he could not simply abandon the soil.
He had raised children, lived a decent life everything one expects. Now, in the silence of the empty yard, he sometimes caught himself thinking that the earth still awaited him every dawn steadfast, unchanging, his final companion.
His children had long moved away, and Nora had passed five years earlier. His son lived in Manchester, his daughter in Bristol. They called only occasionally, visiting once a year. Nora she never woke up one morning. She lay with her eyes closed, as if asleep, her lips a faint blue. He didnt realize at first.
Nevertheless, George kept digging in the beds, as if waiting for Nora to step out and shout, George, come in for tea! Occasionally, when the wind rattled the kitchen curtain, he imagined hearing her voice. He turned only emptiness.
No one called him. Only sparrows chattered under the eaves and the old cat Molly purred at his feet.
Next door, beyond a low hedge, lived a young family Simon, Laura, and their fiveyearold daughter Lucy. Their house, also old, had been painted a bright skyblue, as if a piece of heaven had dropped among the gardens. Simon, tall and bespectacled, was always tinkering fixing fences, building benches. Laura, slender and swift, spent hours at the sewing machine or hanging up laundry. And Lucy she was a whirlwind of energy and freckles, her two pigtails sticking out like little flags.
They had moved from the city a year earlier, bought the rundown house and set it straight. We were fed up with the noise, the endless rush and the smog, Simon had said. We wanted to be closer to people and to nature.
Simon worked from home what they called remote work. He sat at his desk, tapping away, his voice stern on the telephone. George didnt understand how one could earn a living without ever leaving a chair, but he respected the effort.
Laura took orders for sewn garments. The whirring of her machine often drifted across the yard, and soon dresses, shirts, even odd costumes for theatre or festivals hung on lines to dry. The hanging was likely just to keep them from wrinkling.
Lucy ran about the garden, chasing chickens, pulling at the flowers in Georges flower border. The sprightly girl, freckled, with her twin pigtails, laughed loudly one moment and then stared thoughtfully at a beetle the next. She was always getting into something.
One afternoon George saw her slip under the hedge and reach for his daisies.
Granddad, may I pick some of your flowers? she shouted, spotting him.
He momentarily thought of scolding her those daisies were Noras favourite but the bright spark in her eyes softened him.
Pick away, just dont yank out the roots, he said, waving his hand.
Lucy nodded eagerly and began to pluck the blossoms carefully, trying not to crush the petals.
George watched her and thought perhaps Nora had been the same in her youth lively, restless, with freckles on her nose.
The girl leaned over, and one of her pigtails slipped to the side. She deftly tucked it back behind her ear so it wouldnt get in the way and continued picking, muttering to herself:
This for mum this for dad and this for me
George couldnt help a smile.
What about me? he asked, surprised by his own jest.
Lucys round eyes widened, then she burst into giggles.
All the flowers are for you! You grew them! Ill get some for mum and dad too, she declared, holding out a bunch.
George took the daisies, feeling their faint, sweet scent. Nora always placed them in a jug of water on the windowsill.
Thank you, he muttered.
Granddad, why do you have so many flowers? Lucy persisted. We only have grass and two shrubs in our yard
My wife loved them, he replied simply.
Wheres your wife? she asked.
He paused. How to explain gone to a fiveyearold? But Lucy seemed to understand. She fell silent, then gently patted his hand.
Is she now up in the sky? she whispered.
Yes George said softly.
My grandmas up there too. Mum says shes become a star, Lucy added.
George nodded, unsure what to say. Then Lucy brightened:
Look, a butterfly!
She darted off across the garden, forgetting the daisies and the sorrowful thoughts.
He stood there with the flowers, then shuffled back into the house. On a dusty shelf he found an old water jug, wiped it clean, filled it, and set the daisies on the table just as Nora used to.
That evening a knock sounded at the door. Laura stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands.
Good evening, Mr. Whitby! We baked a cake and thought you might like a slice she began, stopping when she saw the daisies.
Thank you, George said. Come in.
Laura stepped inside, placed the tray on the table.
Did Lucy pick flowers today? Simon asked, smiling.
Yes, she was a good girl.
Little rascal, Laura laughed, her eyes twinkling. She must be a bother to you?
No, George replied earnestly. Sometimes I feel lonely.
Laura sank into a chair as if her legs could no longer hold her.
We were afraid at first this place would be too quiet. In the city you always have neighbours over the wall here its just the wind in the trees, she said.
Youll get used to it, George replied.
They fell silent, then Laura suggested, Would you like to join us for dinner tomorrow? Simon is planning a barbecue.
He hesitated he was used to his solitude, his quiet but remembered Lucys cheerful cry, All the flowers for you! He said, Ill come.
Laura smiled and rose, Then see you tomorrow.
When she left, George walked to the window. Across the lane the neighbours garden glowed, and through the curtain he could see Lucy hopping about, arms flailing, while Simon laughed and shouted something to her.
He sighed, glanced at the daisies in the jug, and whispered, Nora, it seems Im not alone after all. The silence in his house no longer felt so heavy.
The next morning began with a loud knock. George, just finishing his tea, muttered, Who could be so bold at this hour?
On the step stood Lucy, clad in enormous rubber boots that looked like her fathers, eyes shining.
Granddad, mum said youre coming to our barbecue today! Were already hauling firewood! Lets go! she exclaimed.
He was taken aback, remembering the invitation from the night before.
So youre invited for dinner he began.
Dads already marinating the meat! Lucy interrupted, grabbing his arm. And mums making another cake! You promised!
George glanced at his threadbare vest and worn slippers.
Hold on, dear, let me change first he tried.
No need! Lucy tugged him forward. Youre already looking dashing!
Ten minutes later he was sitting on a bench in the Whitbys garden while Simon tended a makeshift grill fashioned from an old oil drum. The morning sun beat down, yet beneath the sprawling apple tree a cool shade lingered.
George, do you think the coals are ready? a neighbour asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
George rose with a creak, peered into the grill and gave a satisfied grunt, Give it another five minutes, theyll be just right. See how theyre turning a light grey?
Laura brought out a platter of marinated meat, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the air.
George, youre our chief barbecue adviser today. My husband isnt much of a grill master, she said.
Simon wanted to protest but simply nodded, resigned.
Thus began the most unusual day in five years.
George instructed Simon on the art of a perfect barbecue while Lucy swirled around, trying to help and constantly getting in the way. Laura set the plates, chopping a fresh vegetable salad.
When they sat under the apple trees shade, George realized he was laughing at one of Simons jokes a crude, not very clever quip, yet somehow wildly funny in their company. Lucy, ketchupsplattered, solemnly poured compote from a jug, spilling half of it over the glasses.
Granddad, is it true you were a tank driver in the war? she asked, eyes widened.
The table fell silent. Simon and Laura exchanged a glance.
Liza! Laura scolded gently.
No, George answered, then smiled. I was just a lad, like you, hungry for anything.
He told them how after the war he harvested wheat on the collective farm, how once he found a frostbitten potato and declared it the best day of his life. Lucy listened, mouth agape, and when he finished she leapt up and hugged him.
Ill give you all my potatoes! All of them! she declared.
Everyone chuckled, and George felt a warm glow spread inside him.
Late that evening, as the first stars appeared, he walked home. Simon escorted him to the gate.
Thank you, Mr. Whitby. You you didnt realise how much this meant to Lucy and to us, Simon said.
George waved it off, Oh, dont mention it
No, seriously. We moved out here to be closer to people, but we ended up feeling more isolated. Until today Simon began.
George cut in, Come by tomorrow. Ill show you how to hillup potatoes properly. Your beds are already kneedeep in weeds.
Simon grinned broadly, Ill be there. Absolutely.
Back inside, George lingered before the photograph of Nora. You see, he whispered, you feared Id disappear without you
From the open window the chirping of crickets and Lucys laughter drifted in she was clearly still full of energy after the long day. George turned off the light and lay down.
For the first time in many years, he wasnt afraid of the night.
