The Orchard Season – Part 1: Windfalls

"Not that ladder," said Robert.

"Why not?"

"It wobbles."

"I'm sixty," said Gillian, with great dignity, from the third rung. "I am perfectly capable of climbing a wobbly ladder."

"I know." He stood at the bottom with both hands planted firmly on the frame. "I'd like to hold it, in that case."

She laughed, and went on picking.

It was early October in a Kent orchard, golden and warm, with long rows of apple trees heavy with fruit and the air full of wasps and woodsmoke. Gillian, a retired headteacher from Canterbury, had signed up for the harvest as a volunteer, partly for the exercise and partly because her house had become too quiet. Robert, sixty-three, the owner, was tall and stooped and sunburnt, in a battered waxed jacket, with a quiet way of explaining things that made her want to listen.

"Cox on the left, Bramley on the right," he said. "Twist, don't pull. Lay them gently. Apples bruise."

"Like children."

"Like most things."

They worked side by side through the long days, filling crates, talking. Gillian told him about thirty years of morning assemblies. Robert told her about his late wife, a botanist, and the trees they'd planted together. At lunchtime they ate cheese and chutney sandwiches on a hay bale in the sun.

On the last Friday, with every crate full and the light turning amber, Robert held out a perfect Cox apple on his palm.

"Last one of the season," he said. "I saved it."

"For me?"

"For you." He cleared his throat. "Gillian, I wonder if you'd like to have supper at the farmhouse. I make a tolerable pie."

She smiled and took the apple. "I would like that very much."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cider Weather.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cider Weather.