The Gardener's Cottage – Part 1: Lemon Trees

"I am sorry for the shears," said Arturo.

"I don't mind them," said Frances. "They sound like someone eating very crisp toast."

He laughed, a deep, rusty laugh, and leaned on the gate. It was early morning on an estate in the green hills of Umbria. The cottage was small and old, built of pale stone with a terracotta roof, a stone doorstep worn by a hundred years of boots and a pergola heavy with vines. Beyond, a terrace of lemon trees climbed the slope in neat dark rows, hung with golden fruit. Bees droned. A cockerel crowed somewhere far off.

She was sixty-two, a retired English teacher from Bath, in a floppy hat and a cotton dress, with a cup of coffee and a paperback. He was sixty-seven, short and sturdy, in an old straw hat and baggy corduroys, with a sun-leathered face, a white moustache and bright, clever brown eyes. He had been the gardener here for fifty years, since the day he left school.

"You are the tenant," he said.

"For a year."

"You will not want to leave."

"I haven't been here a week."

"You will not want to leave." He smiled, shy and sure. "May I show you the lemons?"

He led her up the terraces, between the dark glossy leaves, shading his eyes against the sun. The air was thick with scent: lemon blossom and warm earth. He picked a fruit, cut it with a pocket knife and handed her half. It was sharp, fragrant and sweet at once. She closed her eyes.

"That is astonishing."

"They are the oldest on the hill. My grandfather planted them."

"They're lovely."

"They are tired," said Arturo. "Like me. But they still give."

She laughed softly. For weeks, she walked with him in the mornings, learning the trees. He taught her to prune, to graft, to read the weather from the leaves. She told him about Bath, about forty years of teenagers, about the husband she had divorced and had never quite stopped missing. He told her about his wife, a brisk kind woman, ten years dead.

"Can I ask you something?" said Frances.

"Yes."

"Why do you still work?"

"Because the trees do not know I am old," said Arturo.

"Green?" she said, a lemon leaf.

"Green," said Arturo, a twinkle. "Very green. Tomorrow, lunch under the pergola."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Long Lunch.