The Foreign Country Cottage
A year ago, the Wilsons bought a countryside cottage. Having reached his fifties, Edward felt a deep longing for a second home. His rural childhood brought back memories of the family house and tending the garden.
The small cottage, though modest, had been well kept. Edward repainted the wooden lodge, mended the fence, and replaced the garden gate.
There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard left much to be desiredfew trees and no shrubs, save for a small patch of raspberries.
“Dont fret, my dear, well get it sorted in time,” Edward said as he set to work.
Margaret bustled between the flowerbeds, approving her husbands plans.
On one side, the neighbours were pleasant, though they seldom visited, keeping their own property tidy. But the other side was sheer neglect. The fence leaned precariously, and the whole plot was overgrown with tall weeds.
Those weeds plagued the Wilsons all summer.
“Edward, its unbearablethose weeds are spilling into our garden. Its as if theyll take over the whole plot.”
Edward would then seize his hoe and attack the intruders with vigour. Yet the weeds seemed endless, always returning.
“Margaret, looktheir pear trees will do well this year,” Edward remarked, eyeing the neighbours weed-choked garden.
“And that apricot tree is exceptional,” Margaret replied, pointing to a tree laden with promise. Some branches even stretched into their own garden.
“Id like to meet these owners just once,” Edward sighed. “Perhaps theyll come at least to harvest.”
In spring, Edward couldnt resist watering the neighbours trees with his hoseit would have pained him to see them suffer in the heat.
But now, the relentless weeds gave no respite.
“They might have at least mown the grass once this summer,” Margaret grumbled.
The next time they arrived, the Wilsons marvelled at the apricot harvest. In that region, it was no surprisemany grew thembut on an abandoned property?
“No, Ill cut their grass,” Edward declared. “I cant bear to see this place choked by weeds.”
“Look, Edward,” Margaret said, gesturing to the heavy apricot branches drooping into their garden.
Edward fetched a small ladder. “Lets at least pick these before they rot. No ones shown up here.”
“But its not ours,” Margaret cautioned.
“Theyd go to waste anyway,” he said, plucking the ripest fruit first.
“Then lets gather raspberries for the grandchildren,” Margaret suggested. “Youve mown the grassfair exchange for the work.”
“It seems we could take it all. No one tends this placeit leans against our plot like an orphan, forgotten.”
(After the artist John Martin)
At work during a break, Edward joined his colleagues conversation. The delivery drivers swapped stories in a circle.
“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden the moment I turn my back. Theyve shaken my trees twice already,” lamented Nigel Hart, nearing retirement.
Hearing this, Edward felt sweat bead on his brow, recalling how he and Margaret had recently picked the apricotsand how the pears promised a fine harvest too.
“Wheres your cottage?” Edward ventured, dreading the answer.
“Over at the St. Albans Garden Association.”
“Ah,” Edward exhaled. “Ours is further uphill.”
“True, things ripen earlier up there,” Nigel admitted. “Ours comes later, but they still pilfereven dug up some potato plants. Ive half a mind to set a trap.”
“A trap could land you in trouble,” one man warned. “Thatll get you locked up.”
“But stealings allowed, is it?” Nigel fumed.
Returning home, Edward was overcome with guilty nostalgia for the day theyd harvested their neighbours fruit. Even if it wasnt Nigels plot, remorse gnawed at him.
As a boy, it had been different. Hed dashed through others gardens a few times, but only in play.
Here, theyd taken part of their neighbours apricotsand now eyed the pears.
True, Edward had planted young trees that would one day grow. But that apricot tree next door it was a shame to let it go to waste.
“No one will come,” Margaret reassured him. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”
“But I feel like a thief,” Edward fretted.
“Shall I throw the apricots away?” his wife asked. “Truth be told, Ive already given half to the children,” she added defensively.
“Leave it. Too late now.”
So the Wilsons spent the summer tending the neighbouring plot, clearing weeds. They watched the pears, hoping the true owners might appear.
But when the fruit finally fell, Margaret gathered a few in her apron.
In autumn, after tidying their own land, they cast a final glance at the neighbours. Even the fence seemed to plead, its sagging planks begging to be straightened.
Near the gate lay debrisremnants of some makeshift structure, rotting wood, shards of glass, scraps of fabric yet beside the rubbish, a few late flowers struggled to bloom.
_________
That winter, reminiscing over summer days, Edward felt a sweet wistfulness for the cottage.
With springs return, at the first blades of grass, the Wilsons returned.
“This year, do you think the owners will come back?” Margaret asked of the abandoned plot.
Edward sighed. “Poor garden. Such a waste, those trees”
When it was time to till the soil, Edward called a ploughman.
All the while, his gaze strayed to the neighbouring plot. He and Margaret had cleared the worst weeds to keep them from spreading, but that patch of earth needed turning too
“Listen, matewhat if we plough the next plot as well? Ill pay,” Edward offered.
“But Edward, what are you doing?” Margaret asked. “Its not ours.”
“I cant bear to see it go wild.”
“And what, tend other peoples land forever?” his wife reasoned.
“Waitafter lunch, lets go to the Garden Association. Well find out who owns it. These weeds vex me, and that neglected orchard”
_________
At the Garden Association, a woman with glasses perched on her nose flipped through a ledger. “The address againCherry Lane, 45?”
“Yes, thats the one,” Margaret said. “At least they should mow the grass and pick their fruit. Such a shame, that fine orchard going to ruin.”
“Well, its done now,” the woman assured them. “The owners abandoned it. Its public land.”
“So its ownerless?” Edward asked.
“Seems so. The last owners were elderlypassed away. Their closest kin, a nephew, refused the inheritance. No time for it.” She eyed them. “Fancy buying it?”
“Buy it? The land?”
“Yes. It wouldnt cost much. All the paperworks in order.”
“What do you think, Margaret? Shall we take it, since its legal?”
“You think we can manage it?”
“Well fix it up, leave it to the childrensomewhere to bring the grandchildren.”
_________
“Mountains out of molehills,” Margaret joked as they arrived at the plot.
“Seems weve adopted this garden. Its our child now,” Edward said.
“Right, Ill clear the rubbish myselfluckily Ive a trailer. Well weed it, free the orchard, then replace that fence.”
_________
By summer, Edward admired the treetops and flowers Margaret had planted. The soil of the old neighbouring plot seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.
“Look, our little gardens come good,” Edward rejoiced.
One weekend, the children arrivedtheir daughter Lily, her husband James, and the grandchildren. The eldest, Michael and Christopher, dashed ahead, while little Anna paused, entranced by the flowerbed, and Edward seized the moment to snap her picture.
“I like it,” James said, uncoiling the hose to water the potatoes. “We could plant currants,” he suggested.
“Thatll be your job next year,” Edward said. “Here, well leave a lawn for the children to play.”
“Ill buy them a paddling pool,” James promised. He eyed the fence. “Shall we, then? Replace this fence?”
“Lets,” Edward agreed. “After all, the lands ours now. Its as if it invited itself inand look how its flourished. Therell be raspberries aplenty this year.”
