Appleby Farm by Cathy Bramley

Author:Cathy Bramley
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473525207
Publisher: Transworld Digital

Chapter 24

I was still sitting in the orchard, holding my letter to Charlie and wondering whether we could do something with all these apples in September (organic cider being my favourite idea) when Uncle Arthur lowered himself on to the bench beside me.

‘Word has it that you’ve had a rough morning.’ He patted my thigh. ‘Everyone’s in the kitchen gluing their jaws together with your auntie’s gluten-free biscuits and Lizzie passed on your news about Charlie. I’m sorry to hear that. Feel a bit responsible, too. Me and my dicky ticker,’ he tutted.

I slipped the envelope into my pocket and leaned my head on his shoulder.

‘You mustn’t feel guilty. I’m here because I want to be. I made my own choices. And you know what?’ I smiled shakily at him. ‘I don’t regret a single thing.’

‘That’s my girl.’

We sat in companionable silence. The birds were singing again and directly above us the sun was beginning to tunnel its way down through the swollen clouds.

‘I love this orchard.’ I sighed. ‘It’s so peaceful and pretty, and there’s something timeless about it.’

‘I know what you mean. I remember climbing these trees when I was still in short trousers. They’re bigger now, of course.’

‘What are – the trees or your trousers?’ I teased.

He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Well, if you’re still making jokes, you’ll survive.’

‘Oh, I’ll survive all right.’ I nudged him with my shoulder. ‘So. Is it just apple trees or do you have any pears?’

Uncle Arthur’s body began to shake and I peeled myself off him to find him chuckling.

‘What?’

‘You asked me that when you were eleven!’

‘Did I? And what did you answer?’

‘I said no, we had no pears. But I planted a pear tree especially for you and for three years nothing happened. Not a single pear. And the next year – whoosh. We had tons of them. I’ll show you.’

We stood up from the bench and made our way past some pecking hens to the smallest tree in the corner of the orchard.

‘Oh, yes,’ I laughed, ‘I remember now. Don’t remember a bumper crop, though.’

‘No. That was the summer you didn’t come to the farm. You went to visit your parents in Australia when you were about fourteen.’ His warm eyes met mine. ‘It was a quiet one that year.’

I thought of the two of them picking pears with no one to eat them and my heart pinged with love. And suddenly I had an urge to hear more stories – happy ones, preferably – about the farm. I felt as if time was running out and I needed to collect all his memories and store them up, like when you collect shells from a beach and later turn them over, one at a time, in your hand and remember just how perfect the day was.

I glanced back up at the tree and looped my arm through his. ‘There’s loads of fruit on it this year and I’ll definitely be here to eat them. Come on, fancy taking a walk round your farm with me?’

His face lit up.

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