Tomorrows Apples

Wilfred Vincent Crowther, 55 year old semi retired farm labourer sits on a chair that creaks more than his joints he leans forward to place his elbows on his old wooden desk and gently cups his face in his hands. He looks at himself in the small circular mirror perched on the windowsill and sees a worn out face floating in a sea of wrinkles staring back. ‘History always oozes from that bloody mirror’ he thought.

It’s a mild September night, the sun sneaks away looking for respite as a half lemon moon creeps up unnoticed. The desk is a kind relic of a troubled past, sat here staring out of the window always brought Wilfred happy memories of his mother sitting at the same desk in the old family home about four miles from here writing letters or sorting out bills with a five year old Wilfred on her knee. He tries not to think about the day he came home from school to be told by his father that his mother had passed away suddenly and was gone. Wilfred was 12 years old and he can remember the horror of wondering how his 7 year old sister would take the news. To lose someone so dependable snapped Wilfred’s life in half.

He can vaguely remember relatives he’d only seen once or twice before appearing at his family home. His father showed little emotion and Wilfred never saw any tears fall from his father’s eyes. He would never forget this. School became nothing friends he once had found other friends and Wilfred became a lost boy who spent the remainder of his school years wandering around his head looking for someone to surrender to. ‘I’m too deep’ he thought as he broke away from the sadness. He rose from his chair, wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea before returning to his desk.

There is a holy silence tonight in Hayloft Cottage, Wilfred’s home of 35 years. The birds have ceased courting and singing. The cottage is a picturesque century old detached stone building. It is a tiny place with two small bedrooms upstairs split by a very small bathroom. Downstairs has a small kitchen and living room which is reasonably spacious. Wilfred keeps a clean home the wooden floors are often waxed and polished. The interior walls are painted white to keep the place bright. There are very few pictures on the walls and no ornaments, he doesn’t like trinkets. The garden is neat, tidy and easy to maintain. Seasonal flowers rise and fall and there is a healthy apple tree residing at the end of a thirty food lawn. Wilfred loves this tree it reminds him of the times his younger sister Mary would come and stay and pick apples in the autumn. He always remembers his usually quiet sister saying, ‘I’m going to hide a bag of these unripe ones until they can be eaten, these are tomorrows apples’ Wilfred still smiles at this.

Wilfred left school at 14 and arrived at Stark Farm after overhearing that local farmer Jack Teague was looking for a young labourer. Teague was a kind hearted farmer who no longer works the soil or walks this earth. Jack Teague saved Wilfred’s life though Wilfred never had the courage to tell him this but has never stopped wishing he had. When Teague died several years ago his family sold the farm but left Wilfred the cottage and 2 acres of land in thanks for his years of service. Wilfred often looks back at the things Jack Teague taught him like the ethic of hard work, the beauty of what the earth produces to keep the human race alive, politeness and kindness to others. He shakes his head in admiration and wonders what might have happened to his life if he had not met Jack Teague.

Wilfred narrows his eyes and repoints the dim light of the table lamp closer to the piece of paper he’s about to write on. Steam sneaks upwards from the brown stained mug of tea. He was not a man for writing letters particularly one of such a profound nature. He had tried several times before to begin this correspondence but had failed to write a single sentence. This would frustrate him and he would often wander into the garden mentally kicking himself for not knowing where to start. He stares at the blank sheet of paper but could only think of excuses to put down the pen and do something else. He rubbed his eyes, scratched his head, yawned, stretched and turned his head left to right to ease the ache in his neck.

The barrier to opening up and pouring out emotions through a pen were still too big. What he was going to write would always remain secret because the letter was not going to be sent to anyone but getting that first line out was like trying to snare a ghost. ‘I shall start with my father then follow up with the story of my sister’ he muttered to himself knowing that whispering as a form of inspiration was not so great an incentive. It was 11pm Wilfred switched off the lamp climbed the eight stairs to his bedroom and fell into to bed. ‘I’ll definitely write that bloody letter tomorrow’ he said.

To be continued...   ©JMcN 2014