October Apples
Alice, you have to see it from my side. Theres only one flat, but there are two of us. Im the eldest, so the law says Im entitled to a bigger share. You must understand that.
I stood at the window, trying to keep my face composed as I gazed out onto the courtyard where the naked branches of the rowan trees swayed in the wind. I wasnt crying. I just watched the branches dancing and found myself thinking about how abundant the berries were this autumnvivid red, but the birds had gobbled up almost every last one.
I just dont understand, Martin, I said quietly, not turning around.
Come on, whats not to understand? Its a three-bedroom flat, right in the centre of Oxford. Im on the lease. Ive got a wife, kids.
And Im also on the lease.
Thats only temporary. Mum let you stay here after your divorce. But that doesnt make you a co-owner.
Finally, I turned to face him. Martin was fifty-seven, I was fifty-four. We grew up together in one box room, sharing a desk, a single shelf of books, and of course, our mum. Now he stood in my doorway, coat expensive and phone clutched casually, staring somewhere just above my head.
The solicitor said the will splits the flat equally. Thats not your decision, Martin.
I know what the solicitor said. He finally met my eyes. His look wasn’t angry or harsh, but rather tired, defeatedlike a man whos long since decided everything for himself. Id like to offer you a buy-out. Your half would fetch a tidy sum on the market, but theres no point in me taking out a mortgage. I can give you the money, just not all at once. Or
Or?
Or you take the cottage. Mums place in Marrowfield. Its old, but the lands good. Quarter of an acre, house, shedall of it. The docs say its worth about your half. Nearly, anyway.
I was silent. The rowan outside shook harder, and the last cluster tumbled to the earth.
You want me to move to the countryside.
I want us to sort things amicably. No courtrooms.
Ill think about it, I said.
Martin left without slamming the door. That almost stung. If hed slammed it, at least it would have shown he still cared.
Marrowfield was about seventy-five miles from Oxford. Id been there often as a child, and later, too, when Mum needed some country air. The last time Id gone was about eight years back, when she could still travel. The house was already getting old thensmelled damp, the porch roof sagged. But Mum always said she breathed better there, that the air was different.
When I called my friend Jane, she said,
Are you mad? Dont agree to that. See a proper solicitor.
Jane, Ive no money for solicitors. And no energy for court.
But youve got energy for the countryside?
I dont know. I hesitated. I have to go see it first. Have a look.
Youll see for yourself right away. Its got nothing.
Mum used to say the air was different there.
Jane sighed after a pause:
Al, I get wanting to run away from all this. I do. But that place isnt a solution. Its an escape.
Maybe thats exactly what I need.
Saturday, I took the train. October was already cold, and the trees along the rails had nearly lost their leaves. I watched fields blur by, scruffy hedgerows, tired garden plots with fences gone black from rain. I let my mind driftthinking stung too much, so I just watched.
Marrowfield proved tinyjust a handful of lanes, a corner shop, a church without a steeple. Mums cottage stood at the far end of the second lane, behind ancient apple trees, looking exactly as an abandoned old house should. Paint peeled from the shutters, the gate leaned at an odd angle, moss gathered on the steps. But the walls stood straight, and the old chimney was still intact.
I fiddled with the key, stepped inside. It smelled of disuse and dust, not rot. Three rooms: kitchen with a range, the sitting room, a bedroom with a tired little sofa. In the porch hung Mums old Macintosh. I touched the fabric, something tightened in my throat, but I didnt cry. I just stood, holding on to that coat.
The garden was overgrown, but the old apple trees were still living. A few late apples clung to the branchessmall, golden things. I picked one up, wiped it on my sleeve, took a bite. Sweet, with a hint of tartnesssmelled of autumn.
Back in Oxford, I called Martin.
Ill do it. Transfer the house.
Alright, he replied, and nothing more.
The move took two weeks. There wasnt much: books boxed up, linen, kitchenware, clothes. Jane helped load the car, muttering the whole time that I was making a mistake, but her voice had lost convictionit was just habit.
Will you visit, at least? Jane asked once the boot was loaded.
Of course. And you should come too.
Me, go to the country? She laughed, without much cheer. Itll be swarming with midges.
Its October. Not a midge in sight.
Next summer, then.
I began with the kitchen, as that seemed right. The range had to work before anythingthere needed to be heat, and somewhere to make soup. It turned out it did work, though the flue needed a clear out. The neighbour from over the road, Mr. Frederick Cooper, dropped by the second day. He made out as if it was a casual call.
Heard Alice, Margarets girl, has arrived.
The younger. Im Alice.
Frederick Cooper. I knew your mum, we wereneighbours.
Come in, then.
He wandered in, feeling at home, poked the stove, looked at the chimney.
It needs a good clean. Ill do it, dont fuss.
I can learn.
You could, he grinned, but better let me. Theres a bit of art to it.
While he worked, I tidied up the parlour. We chatted from separate rooms, which felt oddly natural.
Lived here long? I asked.
All my days. Born here.
Never wanted the city?
I did, back when I was young. The urge faded.
Whys that?
He was silent a bit.
Theres always something needs doing in town, always someones timetable. Here, its your own life, your own pace. See the difference?
I thought, then said that I did.
For the first few days, I felt wrapped in a peculiar numbness. Id rise with the light, as the country day starts early, and birds start their racket at sunrise. Id sip tea at the window, watch the apple trees, then pop to the shop for the basic groceries. Id clean, fix things, read a bit. Bed early every night.
Thoughts of Martin crept in, usually in the small hours. Not angry thoughts, just confused ones. When did we become strangers? Or maybe we always were; I just hadnt noticed. He was three years older, and those three years always separated us, like a low garden fenceeasy to see over, but not to cross.
By the end of the first week, I found a cat under the steps. Small and grey, with enormous yellow eyes. I brought out a piece of buttered toast, which the cat sniffed, then retreated.
Youre proud, I told her.
The next day, I tried with milk. She drank half and stayed.
Mr. Cooper saw her from his gate.
Ah, thats Pippa. Shes a straykeeps to herself. Drifts from house to house. Dont try and claim her, she wont let anyone.
Well see.
A week later, Pippa was claiming a spot on my sofa.
There was always something to dothe best thing about an old house, really. If your hands are busy, worry doesnt settle as easily in your mind. I fixed a hinge on the gate, painted the shutters, sorted the porch. Mr. Cooper brought over a stack of logs. I protested.
Youre a city girl, he said. You have to know how to stack em, else theyll go damp.
I want to learn.
You will. Next year, youll do it yourself, He studied me a little more closely. Planning to stay for good?
Not sure yet.
Will you stay the winter?
Most likely.
He nodded and left a decent pile of logs, enough to last a while.
November brought frost. The village grew quieter, seldom anyone about, just smoke curling from the chimneys. Lighting the range became a calming ritual. There was something genuine about it: open the hatch, set the kindling, strike a match, wait. Add a log or two. Shut the door and hear the fire come alive.
I phoned Jane.
Guess whatIm heating the house with a stove now.
And?
I like it.
Al how are you, honestly?
Better than Id have thought.
Well, thank heavens. I was worried youd drink yourself silly from loneliness.
Jane.
Alright, Ill hush. Want me to visit?
Do, just not now. Springtime. You can see the apple trees.
You go on about those trees like theyre something special.
They are. Mum planted them.
Jane sighed.
Ill come in spring, then.
Late November, I started baking again. It happened by chanceI found Mums old recipe book in a kitchen drawer. Her handwriting, tiny and neat, every recipe with a note. Apple cake with dried yeast. Grandmas pies. Simple honey loaf. I read through and decided to have a go at apple cake. I had a box of apples from the garden, stashed in the porch.
It wasnt perfectthe base a little burnt, the crust thick. But it smelled wonderful. I cut a slice and brought some over to Mr. Cooper.
He settled at the table, tried a bit, nodded.
Nice cake. Apples from the old trees?
From our garden.
Thats the Worcester Pearmain. Your mum always said its the best for baking. She made pies all the time.
I never knew. We didnt come out much, those last years.
She missed you, he said, simply.
I missed her too.
We fell into silence. Pippa hopped onto the windowsill, staring out at the dull daylight.
Did you have work in Oxford? he asked.
Bookkeeper. Twenty years, same company. Made redundant two years ago.
And now?
Living off savings. Not much, but enough for now.
He just nodded. That was all. No more, no fuss.
Is there anything to sell round here? Cakes and such? Is there a market?
Fridays, over at Redfield. Five miles away. People buy homemade stuff.
Five miles
I drive over Fridays for groceries. I could give you a lift.
Ill think on it.
No rush.
The first two Fridays passed by. On the third, I baked four apple cakes, wrapped them carefully, and joined Mr. Cooper on his drive. The market wasnt muchjust a covered shelter, a few rows. People were selling jam, potatoes, pickled onions, hand-knitted mittens. I found a spot, laid out the cakes.
An old lady in a green quilted coat bought the first one. She sniffed the crust:
Whats inside?
Apples, from my own trees.
No cinnamon?
No.
Pity. Oh, well, Ill take it anyway.
By the end, Id sold the lot. It wasnt a fortune, but it was something Id earned with my own hands.
On the way back, Mr. Cooper said:
So, how was it?
Sold out.
I saw. Try ginger biscuits next; those do well, especially near Christmas.
Mum never made ginger biscuits.
She didnt, but you might. You bake well. Dont be afraid.
I spent December in the kitchen, working through recipes, noting what worked and what didnt. I made two kinds of ginger biscuits, one with honey and ginger, the other with lemon zest. Mr. Cooper tasted bothhe preferred the first. Pippa sniffed and, as usual with food not for her, walked away.
One evening, I started taking photos with my phonefor no particular reason. A cake on the wooden table. Pippa on the windowsill. Sunset behind the apples. The fire glowing in the open range. Looking at them, I realised they had a kind of truth to them.
Jane messaged back:
Its impossibly beautiful. You cant really be in a villageit doesnt look like that!
It does, I wrote.
Post them somewhere. At least on MyCircle. Everyones mad about this stuff now.
So, I registered on MyCircle, called my page October Apples, posted a few photos. After a week, I had fifty followers. Two weeks, two hundred.
I couldnt work out what they liked. Just a kitchen, cakes, a cat staring out at the yard. But people commented: Just like Grannys. Wish I was there. Share the recipe?
I began to post short clipshow I made the dough, how to keep a fire lit, how to roll pastry. My voice stayed gentle, no showmanshipjust doing what I did. The following grew.
Jane rang me.
Youre an online star already!
Hardly. Just five hundred people.
Five hundreds not nothing. Do people write to you?
Sometimes. Theres a lady in Swindon who tries my recipes and sends me photos.
See? I worried youd shrivel up there. But instead youre in bloom.
Jane, really.
I mean it. You sound different.
I didnt answer straight away. Then:
Im good here. Better than I ever thought Id be.
Im glad. Really.
January came with snowstormsthree days that felt endless. The lane drifted, you couldnt reach the shop. I kept the fire going, fed Pippa. There were enough supplies. Mr. Cooper brought over some potatoes and homemade marmalade in a jam jar, tapping on the window to save bringing snow in.
All alright? he asked through the glass.
All good! I shouted back.
He nodded and tramped away through snow. I watched, realising how little I knew of his storywhether he had a family or ever had one. But that was fine too; some things dont need explaining.
During the snow, I found the money.
It happened while I was reaching above the stove for an old saucepan. High shelf, so I had to climb. Groping around, I found not just the pan, but a proper old tea tin, heavy. I climbed down, opened it up. Insidemoney, banded in neat stacks, and a slip of paper.
Mums crisp handwriting: To Alice. For a good life.
I sat at the table, tea tin in hand. I didnt count. Just sat, staring at that note. Pippa leaped onto the table, nuzzled my hand.
Did you know? I asked the cat.
She just purred and pressed against my hand.
It turned out there was plentynot a fortune, but enough to get through the winter without worry, buy a better range for the summer kitchen, maybe even tidy the porch. Mum must have been saving it for years. Little by little, for me.
I called Martin. Just to say.
Martin, I found Mums savings in the house. In an old tea tin. With a note.
Pause.
Much?
Enough.
Thatswell, its part of the estate, by rights. We should split it.
I hesitated, then answered steadily:
It says For Alice. Its Mums handwriting.
Alice, the laws the law.
Ive heard you, Martin.
I hung up, spent a minute just sitting. Then made tea. Pippa watched from the windowsill. I didnt call back.
February was clear and calm, the snow lying evenly, trees edged with frost. Id stand outside with my phone, taking pictures of the apple trees. In the winter light, they looked stern but beautiful. The photos came out well.
Id gathered over three thousand followers on MyCircle. A woman named Rita, who ran a small bakery in another town, messaged asking if Id sell her some biscuits. After dithering, I agreed. She ordered a batch of a hundred for Mothers Day.
Mr. Cooper helped me find cardboard boxes for packing, fetched them from Redfield.
Serious business now, he said, watching me stack biscuits in careful rows.
Maybe it is, maybe it isnt. Well see.
You know, he sat down, in my youth, I wished for something of my own. Never happened.
Why not?
He shrugged.
Different times. And I was a little timid.
You dont seem timid to me.
Not now, he smiled. But you dont wait for life to move, do you? You just crack on.
I wanted to say that I used to waitwait for life to sort itself, for my husband to take a stand, a boss to value me, my brother to act decently. But I said nothing, just kept packing biscuits.
Come spring, I found I was steady again. There isnt a precise word, but I felt itlike something inside that had been locked tight was slowly stretching out. Not in a single day. I just woke up one morning, and that weight that had sat in my chest since autumn wasnt there anymore. Pippa lay beside me, purring. Outside, the buds were coming on the apple trees.
Jane visited in April, as promised. She saw the house, the apple trees, Pippa, Mr. Cooperwho came to help lift a warped porch board. Jane didnt speak for a while, then said,
I thought you were hiding. But youre living.
Its not either-or.
No, trulyAl. Its good here. I never thought countryside could be like this.
You sound like me in October.
Maybe I do. She laughed. Show me how to light the fire.
We spent half the day at it. Jane was hopeless with kindling, scattering splinters everywhere, laughing at herself. Watching her, I realised I hadnt seen my friend this relaxed in years. Back in Oxford, she was always slightly frazzled, uptight. Here, she just sat by the range, watching flames.
Say, she said later, that Mr. Cooper, hes a widower, isnt he?
Ive not asked.
Al
Jane
Im just saying. He looks at you very intently.
Hes a polite man.
Maybe, she muttered, clearly unconvinced.
The May bank holiday, I worked in the gardendecided to plant more than just flowers. Courgettes, dill, few blackcurrants. Mr. Cooper brought over tomato seedlings.
From my own seeds, he said. Hardy plants.
What do I owe you?
Nothing. Neighbours help neighbours.
Mr. Cooper, you help me too much.
He set down the little tray, looked at me.
Does it bother you?
A bit. I dont want to be in your debt.
Youre not. His voice was calm, unoffended. You help me, too. You bring me pies, conversation. I live alone, and the chats mean as much as seedlings.
I thought, he is a good man. Just goodno hidden motives.
Thanks, I said.
Most welcome, he replied, setting about the seedlings.
Summer came warm. The apple trees flowered, so beautiful I couldn’t look awaywhite blossom over gnarled branches, the scent dizzying. I filmed a clip and posted it: Apples in bloom. The best thing Ive seen this year. Thousands watched. People wrote that they cried, that they wanted that life, that theyd forgotten what apple blossom could smell like.
Rita, the baker, messaged that business was booming and asked if I could supply her regularly. I said yes.
In June, Martin called. I saw his name and hesitated, but answered.
Hi, he said.
Hi.
How are you?
Fine. Gardens coming on.
I hear youve really made a go of things out there. Jane tells me.
Jane likes to talk.
Alice, I he coughed Im in a bad way. That building project I invested in collapsed. Partner ran off with the cash. Everythings gone.
I kept silent.
Im not asking for anything, he rushed. I just wanted you to know.
Why?
Dunno. Felt like I should. His voice shrank. Hows Mums house?
Its good. I fixed it up.
The roof?
Thats for later. Started with the fire, the porch, the gate.
On your own?
Neighbour helped.
I see. Long pause. Al, are you angry?
About what?
Well all of it. How things turned out.
I looked out at the apple trees. Pippa sat on the windowsill outside, looking into the garden.
No, Martin. Im not angry. Im living.
He was silent then said, ever so quietly:
Youve always been wiser than me. Just never said.
Not wiser. Just different.
We talked a little, nothing important, then said goodbye. I put the phone down and stood at the window a long while. Then I went into the garden with my watering can, tending the tomatoes. I let myself not think. Just watered.
August was bountiful: apples bigger than last year, each morning Id pick them, stack them in boxes. Some for cakes, some for jam. Mums recipe turned up in her notebookdark, thick jam, with cinnamon and cloves. Mr. Cooper said it tasted just like Margarets used to.
You remember it? I was surprised.
She gave me plenty. He smiled, warmth in his eyes. Your mum was a good woman.
I know.
Youre like hernot in your face, but your hands.
My hands?
She always did things with care, as if it all mattered. You do, too.
I just stirred the jam, listening to its bubblingthankful for the comparison.
MyCircle brought in advertiserssmall, but real. A kitchenware shop wanted to sponsor a post. I agreed, then another. The money wasnt much, but it made me smile. I told Mr. Cooper.
So, you get paid for baking now? he mused, curiosity genuine.
And for chatting about it. Odd, isnt it?
Not at all. People used to buy books for such things. Now they watch.
Would you watch?
He considered:
Yours, probably.
Why?
Because its honest. People can spot the real thing. Sometimes, they want polish. But when that wears thin, they seek whats honest.
Have you ever tired of the polish?
He lingered in the doorway:
Lived my whole life amongst whats real. Never knew anything else.
September, Martin turned up without warning. He arrived at the door one Sunday, overnight bag in hand, looking as though hed aged a decade in a year.
I opened up, took him in. He looked smaller somehowless in stature, more in spirit.
May I come in? he asked.
Of course.
I set the kettle going. Martin sat, surveying the kitchen, noticed Pippa on the windowsillshe eyed him warily.
A cat, he said.
Pippa.
You always said you didnt like cats.
She chose me. I just agreed.
I poured tea, set out cake and biscuits. Martin took a biscuit, chewed slowly.
Tastes good.
Mums recipe.
A silence settled. Then he said,
I lost everything, Alice. Nearly everything. Flats gone, handed over as collateral. Katie and I are renting a room off her sister.
The children?
Theyre with us. Its cramped, but for now.
I listened and felt nothing but a weary sort of comprehension. Not gloating or pityjust acceptance that life puts people where theyve led themselves.
Are you going to ask me for something? I asked plainly.
No. He looked up. I just wanted to admit that I was wrong. About the flat. I thought it was practical, but it wasnt.
You were thinking of your family.
I was thinking of money. Its not the same.
Pippa hopped down, crept over to sniff Martins hand. He held out a finger; she withdrew, but didnt flee.
Lovely house, Martin said. Youve improved it.
Ive worked at it.
Clearly. He glanced at the curtains, shelves, range. Are you really living heretruly?
Truly.
Are you happy?
I cradled my cup in my hands.
I am.
After a pause, he said softly:
Youre under no obligation to forgive me. I know.
Im done holding grudges, Martin. Ive let go. Thats simpler.
Is that forgiveness?
Perhaps.
He stayed until evening. We walked the garden, I showed him the apple trees, explaining which was the Worcester, which the Bramley. He listened, even asked questions. It felt strange, but easylike people who have been strangers realize it neednt last forever.
Mr. Cooper passed the gate, waved. I waved back.
That your neighbour? Martin asked.
Thats him.
Good man?
Good.
He watched us, then me.
Youre not alone here.
No, Im not.
He left at dusk, lingered at the door.
May I visit again? Just visit.
Yes.
He nodded, drove off, headlights vanishing into night.
I stood by the gate, then went inside. Pippa waited at the threshold. I picked her up, she started to purr instantly.
Next morning, Mr. Cooper dropped by, carrying apples from his own trees. A different sortbig, streaks of red and gold.
Try this. Discoverysweeter than your Worcester.
Theyre beautiful. I took one. You coming to market on Friday?
Of course.
You always go.
You always go with me. Habit now.
I bit into the applesoft, sweet, with a fresh bite. October was near, trees just beginning to yellow. A whole year had passed, and I had lived every day of it.
Mr. Cooper, I asked, are you happy, here in Marrowfield?
He shrugged, thinking.
I never thought in those terms. But, yes. I think I am.
I am, too, I said quietly. It still surprises me.
Surprises?
That you can start again. At fifty-four.
He turned and looked at me.
Why not?
Feels late, somehow.
Says who?
I didnt reply right away. Pippa stretched on the step, yawned, curled up again.
I used to think so. Less now.
Thats a good change. He hefted a crate of apples, testing the weight. Friday, eight oclock?
Eight, I nodded.
He set off for the gate.
I stood on the porch, watching him go. The October morning was pale, a little cold. The apple trees in gold, a few fruit still hanging, the very last. Somewhere a dog barked, the sound carrying far in still air.
My phone pingeda message from Jane:
Are you there? Are you alright?
I glanced at the screen, then at the trees, then typed:
All fine. Octobers here.
Janes reply came quickly:
And what does that mean?
I thought a moment. Pippa rubbed against my ankle.
It means its nearly apple pie time. Will you come?
No immediate reply. Then:
Let me think.
Think, I wrote.
I put the phone away, stepped from the porch, and wandered over to the apple trees. Picked one up from the ground, wiped it on my sleeve, took a bite. Sweet, a touch of sharpness. Just as it was a year ago.
