Apples on the Snow… On the edge of the old Ashwood, right where the pines seem to prop up the sky…

Apples in the Snow…

On the very edge of Broad Oak, where ancient forests still stand sentry and the firs nudge the sky so close that it seems dusk never really leaves, lived John Edwards. Now, Johna true force of nature, that onewas the sort of chap you couldve carved out of oak. He spent a lifetime as the local groundskeeper, knew every single tree for miles, every badger set, every muddy lane the wild boar favoured. His hands were as huge as garden spades, tough and marked from decades of work and more than a bit of resin, truly ingrainedprobably permanent. And his heart? Well, his heart seemed hewn from the very same ancient woodsteadfast, sturdy, but inflexible.

John and his wife, Margaret, spent thirty blissful years together, hearts utterly in sync. They were the quintessential couple: youd stroll past in the evening and spot them settled on their porch. John would nudge a tune from his concertina, and Margaret, with her silvery hair, would join in with her soft voicesuch a perfect little duet that anyone passing would find themselves lingering just to listen. Their home was a picture: delicate lace curtains, window frames as blue as Margarets eyes, a bursting front garden, vegetable beds in perfect formation. Not a weed in sight.

I remember when they planted their apple orchard. John was out there digging away in the rich, dark earth, and Margaret, gentle as you like, arranged the saplings with all the care of a mother plaiting her daughters hair. Grow well, my sweets, shed whisper. Bear lovely apples for the little ones, wont you? John would look at her, wipe his brow, and beama smile I never saw on his face again.

The orchard was the pride of Broad Oak. Every spring it was a snowdrift of blossom; every autumn the air was honeyed with the scent of apples, crisp and juicy, the sort of apples that felt like biting into childhood.

But then fate, with all her cruelty, snatched Margaret away far too soon. She faded swiftly, illness turning her to little more than a wisp, and slipped from this world one night, hand in Johnseven then, gentle. Afterwards, grief carved John hollow. He never cried, mindnot the done thing, is it? Instead, his jaw clenched until his teeth ached, and overnight, his hair turned white as a barn owls wing.

Only his late-born daughter, Emily, anchored him after that. She was his glimmer in the gloom, the sole reason he stayed tethered to life in that forgotten forestry cottage. John adored hersmothered her, really, in a big-bear sort of way. Pity the poor spring breeze that dared tussle her hair. He was petrifiedright down to his size twelve bootsthat Emily would leave him too.

Youre my last hope, Emily-love, hed rumble, running a hand over her hair as if fending off evil spirits. Youll grow up, take over the house. I shant let you go, not ever. All we needs right here. That outside nasty worldtheres nothing there but heartbreak. Wolves in peoples clothing, you hear me?

Emily? She grew extraordinarythe pride of the village: hair golden as barley, eyes a springtime blue, brighter than her fathers but clear as the morning sky. Lets not forget that voice: when she sang a melody on the walk beyond the houses, even the birds would fall into awe. Her voice soaredjust like her mothers, only sharper, truer somehow. Emilys singing was a blessing straight from the heavens.

She dreamed of music school, city lights, stages and applause. Pored over music books, deciphered notes, and wore out Margarets ancient records on a scratchy old gramophone.

But Johnwell, Johns thoughts clung to the earth, rooted in sensible, stubborn county ways. Born here, work here, thats the ticket. He feared the city like he feared wildfiresdevouring and cruel. He saw the city as a hungry monster, swallowing hope.

Over my dead body! hed roar, house windows rattling from the power of his voice. Youll work on a farm, Emily. Marry Andy from the next farmhes got plans for a house and is handy with a hammer. Youll have babies and be sensibleno la-de-dah artist nonsense! Shameful, that is!

So, in one rain-soaked October, the dam finally burst. Quiet, obedient Emily packed her battered suitcase and pushed for the door. John all but explodedbellowed, stomped, delivered curses that echoed off the rafters.

You step out and youve no father! No home either! Dont come back!

When she vanished into the rain without glancing back, he grabbed the hatchet and with a mighty swing, left it wedged in the porch stepsplinters flying like blood drops.

No daughter of mine, he muttered to the empty house. Shes dead to me.

Twelve years ticked by. Time enough for a whole new world to grow. Winters came, springs followed, children grew up, left for the army or married, homes filled with new laughter. But Johns cottage became a monument to desolation. His once-proud orchard grew wild and unkempt, branches tangled together like pleading hands, the front steps sagged, and the hatchets rusty wound lingered, a permanent mark.

Last November, early, bitter frosts hit Broad Oak. Hardly any snow, but the ground black and ringing with cold, thermometer reading minus ten and dropping. Returning from a call one evening, I noticed smoke missing from Johns chimneynever a good sign if youre in Broad Oak. Everyone knows, no smoke means trouble.

My heart thudded. Not good. I slipped the gateodd, wide open. Even Barney, the ancient collie, barely stirred from his kennel, merely thumping his tail and whining.

Inside, it was colder than outside: grave-like chill, the water in the bucket frozen thick. The air, heavy with the odour of illness, old medicine, and that particular sort of lonely despair. John lay on his bed, shivering under a greatcoat, bed creaking with his trembling, teeth chattering a Morse code of distress.

John! I bellowed. What are you playing at?!

He peeled open red, fevered eyes, unseeing.

Maggie… he whispered, calling for his wife. Maggie, its so cold… Wheres Emily? Why isnt she singing? Please, tell her to sing The Willow Song

Delirious. Pneumonia. The man was burning up.

I wasnt going anywhere that night. I dug out the fire, got the stove roaring, the thick smoke barely visible now compared to the creeping frost. I jabbed in an injection or two. John moaned in his sleep, tangled in fever and guilt.

Emily, come home… dont go into the woods… Wolves. Forgive me. I did love you, I just…

I sat knitting beside him, listening to him mumble and weep, and found myself in tears too. The man had loved so hard, it had caged himand cost him those he loved most.

By dawn, the worst of it had passed, sweat pouring off him, the fever broken.

He opened his eyesfocussed again, but heartbreakingly sad.

Mary, he croaked. I waited for her, you know. Every day. Eyes glued to the window in the morning, ears pricked for the gate at night.

I know, I said, smoothing the blanket. She wrote sometimes. Sarah from the Post Office told me.

She did? Wherere the letters? I nailed the box shut! Thought shed forgotten me! Shed wiped me out of her life!

Sarah kept them back for you. Couldnt throw them away, the old softie.

At sunup, I legged it to the post office, Sarah only half-awake as she handed over a whole tin of letters. Handed the lot to John.

You shouldve seen him! His giant, battered hands shaking, tears splashing onto the paper, making the ink smear. He kissed the grandchildrens photos, crushed them to his chest, traced the faces with fingers as rough as old bark.

Two grandkids, Mary… two!

Amongst the letters, we found a torn slip with a partial phone number, only the start and a hint of an addresssomewhere in Birmingham. Lord help us, that city might as well be Mars. Writing would take ageshed be a bag of bones by the time they answered.

Ill go! Crawl there if I have to! John tried leaping out of bed.

Hold your horses, hero! I barked. Youre not fit for the corner shop, let alone Birmingham. Its the twenty-first century. Lets use some brains.

Over to Tom next door, our resident tech whizz, home from Manchester for the weekend to fix his mums boiler. I filled him in.

He fiddled with his specs, tugged on his silly snowman jumper, Aunt Mary, might be trickybut lets try. Facebook, LinkedIn Her husbands names Smith, right? Ah, here we go

We found her! A profile picture, status update: Missing the green hills of home. Tom typed out a message: Emily, its Tom from Broad Oak. Your dad is poorly. Please get in touch.

We waited. And waited. Rural internet is a cosmic joke: modem stuttering, weather howling, the connection flickers and gasps.

John sat beside me, pale as flour, necking Rescue Remedy by the mugful.

She wont reply, he muttered, eyes fixed to the threadbare rug. She wont forgive. Nor would I. I cursed her that night…

Thenping! A sound like the angels themselves.

Shes replied! Tom yelped. Shes given us a contact number.

Dialling, the ring seemed to crawl through treacle.

A man answered. Agitated.

Hello? Whos this?

John lost all words, sucking in air like a landed fish. I nudged him with an elbow.

Its… its John. Emilys father…

Silence. Heavy, aching. Then the man snapped absently:

Father, is it now? After all this time? Ten bloody years.

Let me speak to her, Emilys voice cut across, urgent.

Hello? Her voice was tired, wary.

Emily… John rasped, Love… Are you alright?

Another silence. Only a faint crackle.

Why are you calling? she asked at last, voice quivering, resolute. Whats happened?

Im dying, love, John told her, painfully honest. I was wrong. So wrong. I just wanted to hear your voice. Forgive, if you can.

She began to crynot loudly, but quietly, brokenly.

I dont know, Dad… I wrote hundreds of letters. I waited for so long. Im not sure I can…

Im not asking you to, not straight away, John whispered. Just knowI loved you. I just… I didnt know better.

Well come, she said suddenly, with iron in her tone. I cant let you go alone. Well come. Wait for us.

John replaced the receiver. He didnt look happy exactlymore like relief and fear had set up shop on his face.

Shell come. She thinks she must. Whether she forgives me… only God knows.

Mary! he wailed. Where will they even stay? This pigsty? The shame! The dishes! Ive let the place go to the dogs…

Hold steady! I snapped in my best nurses voice. Well sort it.

We rustled up half the neighbours; the house had never been so clean. John wandered around lost, convinced Emily would look right through him.

Thenthe morning arrived.

A battered Land Rover rolled in. Out stepped Emilya city woman now, poised, serious. The grandkids crept bashfully behind, and her husband tootall and stern.

John stood on the porch, twisting his cap. Emily paused at the gate, taking it all in: him, house, the old splintered step.

She waveredfighting with herselfresentment simmering, but also a flicker of pity for the sad, bent old man before her.

John shuffled towards her, nervous, awkward.

Hello, Em.

She fixed him with a look.

Hello, Dad, she murmured.

She reached out. Just a quick embrace, carefulpolite, almost. He froze, afraid to breathe. Then he clung to her, burying his face in her faux-fur collar, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Emily stood stiff for a momentthen tears, silent, slipped down her cheeks. No wild joy, just ache for the wasted years.

Inside, the tension hung thick and bitter. The children eyed John suspiciously; her husband, Michael, sized up the room and its owner, brow furrowed.

They sat at the table. Silence, broken only by the clink of spoons.

John couldnt laststood, poured himself a shot, trembling.

Thank you for coming, he stammered, eyes fixed on the tablecloth. Didnt expect it. Well, noI did, but I didnt dare hope. Michael, Emily… I lost everything without you lot.

Michael, arms folded, looked between his wife and John, saw Emilys hands shaking, and sighed, picking up his own glass.

All right, John, he said heavily. The pasts dead and gone. We came because Emily couldnt rest. Shes got too much heart, that girl. Lets drink to old friends meeting again.

And then little Jacktheir youngestpipes up:

Grandad, whys there no axe stuck in the porch? Mum said you once put it there…

Emily flushed, Jack! Eat your peas!

John smiled, bittersweet, Rust got it in the end, lad. Same as my anger. Ill show you the woods tomorrow, thoughthe living woods.

The ice began to melt, slowly but surely. After three days, they became almost comfortable again. John bustled, desperate to please; Emily spent most of her time silent.

On the third evening, Emily slipped into my surgery. Red-eyed, drained.

Aunt Mary, she whispered, have you got anything for a heavy heart? Its all a bit much.

I made her some peppermint tea.

Holding onto that grudge, love?

Cant seem to let go, she admitted, hugging the cup. Hes so old, so worn out… I almost feel sorry for him. But when I remember the rain, his shouting, the door slamming, it clenches my chest. Part of me wanted to come storming in and yell about it allhow I scrimped during uni, cried when Rebecca was born, no one there to celebrate…

And? I asked.

I couldnt, she sighed. Not when I saw him bent over, hands shaking. He punished himself far worse than I ever could. Hes survived twelve years in the prison he built himself. Whats the use in kicking a man already down?

Thats wisdom, Em, I said. Forgiveness isnt about forgettingits about pity. He meant well, just didnt know any better. He loved youwrongly, perhaps, but it was love.

Emily finished her tea in silence.

Do you know, today he checked Beckys slippers on the hearth, just like he did for me when I was little? And for a moment, the bitterness eased. Well manage, Aunt Mary. For the children, we will. In time, maybe the wounds will fade.

They left a week laterbut promised to come back in the summer. And they did.

By then, John was a changed man, back in his element. The orchard was restored, andwonder of wondersthe old apple trees that looked dead bloomed with white flowers.

I saw them one evening, sitting on the porch together, John and Emily, quiet and side-by-side. Becky twisted a daisy chain in the garden, dusk honeying the world.

John spied me, waved. His face was peaceful.

Emily gave me a small, sad smileno longer angry, only wistful.

Mary! John called, Come in for tea and apple jam! Emilys cooked up a batch, clear as amber!

So I joined them. We sipped tea on the veranda, the house scented with Coxs apples, summer, and quiet hope.

They say you can mend a broken cup, though the crack always shows. Sometimes, tea seems sweeter in that old cup, because you hold it dearer than anything new.

Life is as brief as a December afternoon. Blink, and its twilight, then night. Were so fond of telling ourselves, Ill forgive tomorrow, Ill phone next week, Ill come round at Christmas, but then may never arrive. Houses can grow cold, phones can fall silent, and sometimes, sadly, a letter may sit in a drawer forever unopened.