**The Foreign Country House**
A year ago, the Harpers bought a cottage in the countryside. After turning fifty, Peter felt a growing desire for a second home. His rural childhood reminded him of family gardens and long summer days spent outdoors.
The little house, though modest, had been well-kept. Peter repainted the wooden beams, fixed the fence, and replaced the garden gate. There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard was lackingonly a handful of trees and a small patch of raspberry bushes.
“Dont worry, love, well get it sorted in time,” Peter said, 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 own land tidy. But the other side was a wildernessthe fence sagged, and the whole place was choked with weeds.
Those weeds became the bane of the Harpers summer.
“Peter, its unbearablethis grass is creeping into our garden. Itll swallow the whole plot if we let it.”
Peter would grab his hoe and attack the intruders with vigour, but they always seemed to return, relentless.
“Margaret, looktheir pear trees will do well this year,” Peter remarked, eyeing the neglected garden next door.
“And that apricot tree is exceptional,” Margaret added, pointing to branches heavy with fruit, some already drooping into their own yard.
“Id love to meet the owners just once,” Peter mused. “Maybe theyll come to harvest, at least.”
In spring, Peter couldnt resist watering the neighbours treeshed hate to see them suffer in the heat. But now, the unchecked weeds gave no respite.
“They couldve at least mowed once this summer,” Margaret grumbled.
The next time they arrived, they were astonished by the apricot harvest. In this region, fruit trees were common, but on abandoned land?
“No, Im cutting their grass,” Peter declared. “I cant stand watching this place suffocate.”
“Look, Peter,” Margaret said, gesturing to the apricot-laden branches hanging over their fence.
Peter fetched a ladder. “Lets gather these before they rot. No ones bothered to show up.”
“Its not ours,” Margaret cautioned.
“Theyll go to waste anyway,” he said, plucking the ripest ones first.
“Then lets pick raspberries for the grandchildren,” Margaret suggested. “Youve mowed their grassfair trade for the labour.”
“Its as if we could take it all. No one cares for this place. Its like an orphan, leaning against our plot.”
At work, during a break, Peter overheard the delivery drivers swapping stories.
“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden the moment Im gone,” complained Nicolas, nearing retirement. “Shook my trees twice already.”
Peter felt sweat prickle his neck, remembering the apricots he and Margaret had pickedand the pears still ripening.
“Wheres your cottage?” Peter asked, dreading the answer.
“Down in the St. Ives allotments.”
“Ah,” Peter sighed in relief. “Ours is further up.”
“Things ripen earlier where you are,” Nicolas admitted. “Mines always later, but they still raid itdug up potatoes last time. Almost set a trap.”
“A trap could land you in trouble,” another man warned.
“But theft doesnt?” Nicolas snapped.
That evening, guilt gnawed at Peter. As a boy, hed run through others gardensbut only in play. Now, theyd taken fruit from unseen neighbours. And he still eyed the pears.
Hed planted young trees, sure, but that apricot tree what a shame to waste it.
“No ones coming,” Margaret soothed. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”
“I feel like a thief,” Peter fretted.
“Should I throw the apricots out?” Margaret asked. “Ive already given half to the children.”
“Leave it. Too late now.”
So the Harpers spent the summer tending the neglected plot, pulling weeds, watching the pearshoping the owners would appear. But when the fruit finally fell, Margaret gathered a few in her apron.
In autumn, after tidying their own land, they glanced at the neighbours. Even the fence seemed to plead, its slats crooked and weary.
By the gate, debris littered the groundrotten wood, broken glass, scraps of fabric. Yet beside it, late flowers still struggled to bloom.
That winter, Peter felt a quiet longing for the cottage.
Come spring, at the first green shoots, they returned.
“Dyou think the owners will come this year?” Margaret asked.
Peter sighed. “Poor garden. Such a waste.”
When it was time to till the soil, Peter hired a ploughman. All the while, his eyes strayed to the abandoned plot. Theyd cleared the worst weeds, but the earth needed turning
“Listen,” Peter said. “What if we plough that side too? Ill pay.”
“Peter, what are you doing?” Margaret frowned. “Its not ours.”
“I cant bear seeing it wild.”
“So well tend other peoples land forever?”
“Waitlets check the allotment office. See who owns it.”
At the office, a woman peered over her glasses, flipping through a ledger. “Cherry Lane, number 45?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “At least they should mow. Such a shame, letting that orchard go.”
“Well, its done now,” the woman said. “Owners passed. Their nephew refused the inheritance. No time for it.” She eyed them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy it?” Peter blinked.
“Cheap, too. All paperworks in order.”
“What dyou think, Margaret? Make it legal?”
“Dyou reckon wed manage?”
“Well fix it up. Leave it to the childrensomewhere for the grandchildren to play.”
“Mountains of worries ahead,” Margaret joked as they surveyed the land.
“Seems weve adopted this garden,” Peter said. “Our stray.”
“Right. Ill haul the rubbish out. Clear the weeds, free the trees. Then well replace that fence.”
By summer, Peter admired the blossoms his wife had planted. The old plot seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.
“Look at our little gardencoming alive,” he said proudly.
One weekend, their daughter Lily arrived with her husband James and the grandchildren. The boys, Thomas and William, dashed ahead, while little Rose lingered by the flowers, earning a photo from Grandpa.
“I like it,” James said, uncoiling the hose. “Could plant currants next year.”
“Thats your job,” Peter said. “Well leave a lawn here for the kids.”
“Ill buy them a paddling pool,” James promised. Then he eyed the fence. “Soshall we fix this?”
Peter nodded. “Might as well. Its ours now. Like it invited itself in and look how its thrived. Plenty of raspberries this year.”
