Dad’s Country Cottage It came as a complete shock to Olga, discovering her and Dad’s beloved cotta…

Dads Country Cottage

The news that her father had sold their beloved cottage came to Olivia quite suddenly, and entirely by chance. She discovered it during a phone call from the post office when she rang her mum, who was living in another city. It was the sort of thing you only see in films, when you become the accidental third participant in a conversationnot talking, just listening in on two other people by some cosmic mix-up, perhaps carelessness from the telephone operator connecting her with two others. For those few paid minutes, she overheard two voices from distant places sharing the life-changing event: the cottage had been sold, profitably so, and now… well, there was so much they could doeven help Olivia with a bit of extra money!

It was her mum and her mums own sister, Irenetheir voices achingly familiar, separated by eighty miles, their speech turning into electric signals, travelling down wires. Physics never came easily to Olivia, and her father would often urge her to study it.

***

Dad, why does the September sun feel so different?

What do you mean, Olive?

Im not sure. I cant put my finger on it. The light seems softer, not like August at all.

Thats down to physics, love! he chuckled, tossing her a giant, squashy applegleaming red and honey-scented. The position of the stars and planets is completely different in September! Catch!

Is it a Pippin?

No, of course not. Pippins arent ripe yet. Thats a Brown Russet.

She bit into the apple. The crunch released a white sugary froth that tasted like rain-soaked earth and sunlight. Varieties of apples, like physics, were a mystery to Olivia. And that was her biggest problem just then. Because Olivia, now in her third year at school, had been secretly in love with her physics teacher for the past two years. It was as if all light narrowed into a tunnel towards him, the heavens partedand yet the rules of matter and space would not fit the margins of her school notebook. Her father knew all this from the look in her eyes and her flagging appetite. Olivia had told him all about it a year ago, sobbing into his lap through the night while her mother was away at a spa. Her older sister studied far away in another city.

At the cottage, Dad was always cheerful and would whistle tunes, truly enjoying himself in a way he never did in their town flat. Usually indoors, Mum and her sister would take over the melody. Mum was a stunningly beautiful woman, head of the military librarya tall, striking figure with a wild copper mane she dyed with henna. Once every couple of months, shed come out of the bathroom with a great turban of hair, smelling of herbs and rain. People never missed her beauty. Dad, slightly shorter and almost ten years her senior, seemed ordinary beside her flaming locks and dramatic character. Olivia had overheard Mum say to her sister once, and had been quietly wounded:

Simons so unremarkable. But a man neednt be handsome.

Unremarkable next to Mums dazzling hair, loud gestures and headstrong ways. Mum worshipped comfort and neatness, but had to tolerate Dads soldiershis old army friendswho might crash overnight on their flats floor. While Dad was in the Army, his fellow soldiers would drop by, some passing through, others needing help to settle into a job. Dads soldiers. In 1960, hed been swept up in the major post-war army downsizinga million three hundred thousand men. He was discharged as a Major, and then worked as chief mechanic at the Ipswich Telegraph Office. These old comrades would later help Dad build the country cottage. They worked for nothing, helping dig up the wild grass and break ground, leaving behind a little house, one room and a veranda, where Olivia spent hours reading in summer sun. Dad would pass bowls of gooseberries, cherries and strawberries up to her on the roof. The happiest days. Mum didnt care for the cottage and rarely visited; she treasured her handsbeautiful, well-kept, with strong nailsOlivia admired them, Dad would kiss them and say with a conspiratorial smile:

These hands are best for lending books, not digging vegetable beds!

***

The first drops of September rain drummed on the verandas roofmerry, sprightly, not at all autumnal. Olivia shut her book.

Olivia, come down. Mum and Irenell be here soon. Help me sort lunch, Dads voice was somehow clearer here, among the trees.

Olivia lingered, staring up at the swollen, grey skyher face damp from rain. Hugging herself for warmth, she watched the sun pierce the clouds over neighbouring gardens. Forgotten were physics and its rigorous laws; her first term at university would write its own rules.

Shed quickly been assigned a room in halls, but for her first week in September shed lived in a rented room, sharing with the landlady and other students. Lectures immersed her in literature and language, and all her classmates were in awe of the teachers intellectual charisma. After classes, though, Olivia felt pressure-cooked by homesickness. She ate at the canteen and wandered the streets until dark. The fantastic beauty of the big city made her feel cold and isolatedso alone, it was as if she wasnt really herself walking up the steep hill near the university with barking dogs and tripping in new patent shoes that pinched her feet.

Back at the flat, the kitchen was filled with the scent of Dads apples, which hed brought in crates to thank the landlady. The sweetness, just turning, brought tears, and made her spirit fiercely restless.

When she moved into halls, she found her neighbours were German studentsViola, Maggie and Marion. By evening her head throbbed with foreign words, and shed step outside for air. The girls would fetch her, borrow cigarettes, always paying promptlyour English girls were always surprised. The Germans marveled at Olivias homemade chutneys, devouring them eagerly alongside fried potatoes. Once Olivias supplies ran out, theyd bring out their sausages. Come May, the Germans returned home, leaving piles of winter boots by the bins, boots bought for Russian winters. The English girls would quietly snap them up

***

Olive, shred the cabbage for me, Ill dig up the carrots. Broths ready.

The tiny kitchen windows were fogged from the long simmering. A giant cabbage lay like green lace on the chopping boardOlivia tore off a leaf to eat, earthy and delicious. With swift, cheerful strokes, she chopped. She opened the window to let in the scents of autumn leaves, bonfires and apples. Through the glass, she saw Dad digging, his spade sinking heavily, knowing his back ached. She threw down the knife, dashed out, and hugged him from behind. He turned, embraced her silently, kissed her hair.

That evening, her sister Irene arrived aloneMum had a headache and stayed home.

***

Later, there were university days, a student marriage, a job at The Innovator at the local aircraft works, Dads first heart attack, a daughter born, and even a divorce. Five years, so much happened. Her husband left for someone else, and Olivia lived with two-year-old Mary in a rented flat. Dad tried to visit every fortnight, bringing groceries and playing with his granddaughter.

Olive, dont get upset with Mum for not visiting as often as I do, all right? hed say. She gets motion-sick on the trains and you know, I think she might have a gentleman friend now

Dadcome off it! At her age?

Dad laughed, but his laugh had become bitter. He lapsed into silence, and Olivia suddenly saw how quite grey and weary hed growneven stopped whistling.

Dad, why dont I take a bit of leave next week? We could spend a weekend at the cottage, you, me and Mary.

***

The cottage was carpeted in leaves that last warm week of October, an Indian summer. They lit the stove, brewed tea with blackcurrant leaves, and Olivia quickly fried potato cakes. Dad raked leaves, Mary helped but then gleefully scattered them again. The butter sizzled and popped and from the orchard she heard Dad whistling.

As dusk fell, they built a bonfire. The lane was empty, the gardens silent. Dad threaded chunky slices of bread onto cherry twigs for Mary to toast. Olivia stretched her cold hands to the flames, mesmerized.

She thought back to her first student work placement on the moorsguitar songs, a dizzying sense of being in love with the starry night itself. Faces changed near the fire; each face hid its own secret and depth to its eyes. There shed met her future husband, and just this week at work shed been called to a union meeting to consider her Party membershipthe grilling over her divorce and supposed lack of morals made her want to cry. A colleague, stammering, finally stood up for her:

This is a meeting of louts, not decent folk!

How mad it would seem in years to come

When darkness finally settled, they doused the fire. A car pulled up at the gate. Mumstrikingly elegant in a bright trendy coatsaid a colleague had driven her over after work. Mary ran to her, Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum.

Whos your colleague?

Oh Simon, dont fussits just someone from work!

Dinner felt forced, Mary was cranky, Mum asked Olivia about work but seemed distant. Dad was silent, fixed his gaze on Mum, shoulders slumped. The evening was ruined.

***

A year later, Dad was gone. A massive heart attack; he slipped away in early October sunshine. Straight after the funeral, Olivia took leave to stay at the cottage. Mary went to her other grandmother.

Nothing seemed to work. The apple harvest was extraordinary. Olivia gave bucketfuls to neighbours and endlessly made jam with mint and cinnamon, Dads favourite. Dads old friend Peter, who used to join trips to Wisbech for saplings, came to help.

Ill stay a few days, Olive, dig over the veg patch and trim the apple trees, if you dont mind.

Mr Holland, you dont have to Thank you!

At Peters gentle Olive, her eyes filled with tears, and she was hit by a crushing sense of finalitygrief and loneliness. Until then shed hoped Dad would somehow return, that this was all simply a nightmare. In those first lonely mornings, at the border between sleep and waking, shed be confusedwhy does everything feel so awfully wrong. Then, in the final moment of waking, the cold knowledge returned: Dad was gone.

A sense of guilt overwhelmed her that she hadnt somehow kept him here.

Just dont sell the cottage, promise me. Ill keep coming, help when I can. Remember that apple treewe chose that together, you were just a child. On our way back from Wisbech, Simon kept talking about you, hardly mentioned your sister. You were a spark, so funny. Hed say, The trees will outlast me. He took forever with the saplingsId rush him, get impatient

Peter stayed three days, dug the garden, pruned apple trees, spread fertiliser, and, with Olivias permission, planted three bright yellow chrysanthemums by the doorstep.

Shouldve planted sooner, but its a warm autumn, theyll root. For Simon. The roses should be covered, leaves cleared, but thatll wait till next time.

They hugged goodbye. A drizzly rain started. Olivia watched from the gate till Peter had gone; he turned and signaledgo in. The rain worsened, drumming persistently on the roof. A brisk wind slammed the gate with a plaintive creak. Yellow petals from the chrysanthemums covered the threshold. Everything here was Dadsand always would be. The rain, the trees, the scents of autumn, the soil itself. So hed always be here. Olivia knew shed learn everything eventually. Shed visit with Mary till winter frost, only two hours by coach. Next spring, once the snow melted, she might even manage central heating. Shed quietly start saving. Maybe even choose a white currant bush in Wisbech with Peter, just as Dad had wanted

***

Six months later, at the start of April, when the first snow arrived, the cottage was sold. Olivia found out quite by accidenton a phone call home from a busy post office, returning from Wisbech. On the cubicle floor, wrapped in an old damp babys vest, she carried a young white currant seedling.

Life, Olivia realised, tends to take us by surprise, offering change whether we seek it or not. What matters is not the walls around us or the fruit trees we plant, but the memories we nurture and the lessons we carry forward. Home, after all, lives not in one placeits sown in all the hearts we touch, and it blossoms wherever we remember to love.