Page 8 of Second Act at Appleton Green
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The little hatchback that Lily was driving grumbled in protest as she traversed the narrow lanes that led to Appleton Green. She was forced to rely on half-remembered childhood visits and the occasional weathered signpost, because the satellite navigation system in her car had long since stopped working. As the car climbed a hill, a view of rolling hills covered in lush greenery and sprinkled with grazing sheep that appeared like cotton balls spread in front of her.
She never tired of the view. She slowed the car down to be safe, as sheep where known to stray and wander on the roads on occasion, but she also wanted to drink in being back in Appleton Green.
Lily was always struck by how little had changed when she drove through the village. At the corner still stood The Crumpetty Tree, its faded sign groaning softly in the wind. She saw elderly Mr Sharma in his front garden, pruning his prize-winning roses with accuracy despite the bend in his fingers from arthritis.
As she came around into the centre of the village she saw Mrs Harris, the proprietor of the post office, crossing the road. Lily waved at her and she took a moment to see who was waving at her and then recognised Lily and returned the greeting. She had been in Appleton Green since Lily was young and was a great friend to Gran.
Lily noticed Mrs Douglas, who owned the little shop, walking her corgi, and Lily parked her car.
‘Mrs Douglas? It’s Lily, Lily Baxter,’ she said. ‘Dad told me you found Gran outside the cottage.’
Mrs Douglas had left Edinburgh thirty years ago and settled in Appleton Green with her new husband but had never quite left Scotland. Her heart was still there but her life was in Appleton Green. Today Mrs Douglas was wearing a lightweight kilt in a red tartan, red trainer and a red bowling shirt and a scarf tied around her head like Rosie the Riveter. It was an odd combination but at sixty, it worked, like an ageing punk or Vivienne Westwood.
‘Oh hello, love,’ said Mrs Douglas. ‘How is she?’
‘I’m about to go and see her,’ Lily said. ‘But I wanted to thank you for calling the ambulance.’
‘Oh, love, it’s fine. She was in a terrible state when I found her,’ said the woman in her thick Scottish brogue.
The dog wagged its tail at Lily and she leaned down to pat it.
‘Hello, Wallace,’ she said to the dog. ‘You’re looking well. Last time I saw him he was a puppy.’
‘He’s fat is what he is. I have to walk him daily now, but it’s good for me also,’ said Mrs Douglas.
‘Do you need anything from the shop?’ the woman asked. ‘I closed it for a bit but I can reopen it for you.’
Lily shook her head. ‘No, I’ll go and see her and see what Mum and Dad have left for her.’
Mrs Douglas shook her head in dismay. ‘It’s a terrible thing. Do you think she will be able to stay alone at the cottage? Sometimes I wonder if she can’t get a little more help from the council. I have noticed the kitchen is a bit much for her to handle now. It does happen with age,’ she said, not unkindly but instead out of concern.
Lily sighed. ‘I think she needs a lot of help but I also think she would rather die than give up her independence. Mum said she’s been very obstinate.’
Mrs Douglas gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s hard with ageing parents and grandparents. I best be off but let me know if you need anything.’
‘I will. Thank you again. So much.’
Lily got back into her car and continued her drive to Pippin Cottage. Despite its modest size, Appleton Green was a close-knit community where, for better or worse, everyone knew each other’s business. She had no doubt that news of her return would be on the social telegraph line now. It was always exciting when new and familiar faces came to the village, and since Violet Baxter was the oldest resident, Lily’s return would be worthy of the grapevine.
Lily manoeuvred her vehicle around a bend with great care, narrowly avoiding the front garden of the local vet, Stephen, which was overrun with flowers, the cosmos daisies spilling over onto the path.
As she turned a corner, she applied the brakes quickly, allowing a family of ducks to approach the River Dove from the opposite side of the road. The river, as transparent as glass, meandered gently through the village and crossed by the old packhorse bridge. She saw a few tourists who were pausing with their cameras around their necks. The ducks wandered across the road: a mother and father and she counted twelve ducklings.
Once they had safely passed, she headed off again and there was Pippin Cottage, finally visible in the distance.
Lily exhaled a breath that she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding and she felt her body relax in what felt like the first time in a long time.
The cottage, much like its owner, has a certain offbeat charm. For most of her childhood, Lily had imagined she would one day live in Pippin Cottage and teach music and sing every morning in the little garden at the back. Ah the innocence of childhood, she thought as she parked her car on the road.
She and Gran had always said that the slate roof of the cottage was placed at a jaunty angle, as if it were a top hat that was worn with a hint of determination, like the Artful Dodger inOliver!The blue door, a little faded now, was still a pop of colour against the grey stone. The door had always reminded Lily of her grandmother’s blue eyes and now, seeing the door, she couldn’t wait to see Gran again.
She hadn’t seen her since Christmas when Gran came for lunch and then insisted that Peter drove her home again not long after. It had made Denise upset but Lily kind of understood. Gran had had Christmas for years in her own cottage and then, for the past few years, Peter and Denise had hosted, and it wasn’t the same.
Lily sat in the car with the window down, listening to the assortment of sounds around her. She heard sheep in the distance, the gentle clucking of hens from someone’s back garden, and the faint strains of Classic FM drifting from an open window. It was most likely one of Gran’s neighbours, Mrs Hughes, a retired music teacher who was the most devoted fan of classical music in the village.
Lily got out of the car, stretched and took a big breath as she did so. As the aroma of newly cut grass on the verge blended with the pleasant perfume of honeysuckle, a wave of peace washed over her. Perhaps she was romanticising it too much because she had spent nearly every summer holiday here as a child, but it was her favourite place. It was probably the place where she was most herself, and where she was completely present, not thinking about the future or the past – just being.
