‘The nurse said she will come by tomorrow to check the dressing on your nose and eye,’ Denise said far too cheerfully for someone with such bad news.
‘I don’t need that. I can check it myself,’ Violet said. ‘I have some mercurochrome in the cupboard from when Peter was a boy – nothing wrong with it.’
Denise gasped and Violet saw Peter’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
There wasn’t any mercurochrome but she liked saying things like that to stir the pot. It amused her and she knew the first thing Denise would do when they returned to her house was look for the bottle so that she could throw it away.
They were closer to Appleton Green and Violet felt her body relax at the thought of being back in the village.
The village consisted of little more than a cluster of stone houses, clinging to the banks around the River Dove. The walls of each building were made of limestone, and each one was the same but unique in its own way.
Each was named for a type of apple and Violet’s home was Pippin Cottage on Dove Lane. A simple stone cottage with a slate roof, a little bit askew, like a top hat, set at a rakish angle. The exterior of the cottage was a patchwork of greys, creams, and mossy greens, with a thicket of climbing roses hiding the front door, which was painted a robin’s egg blue, somewhat faded now. The door was visible through the tangle. The dogged flowers had long since asserted their ownership of the cottage, so Violet had let them have their way. It was too hard to tame nature at her age.
Every time she thought she might cut them back, then the height of summer would come and their fragrance would remind her that perhaps it was worth things being left alone.
The rest of the village had a few small shops, where she got her necessary household items delivered by Mrs Douglas. Mrs Harris ran the post office, which was also the tourist shop that opened three times a week. Other than that there was a pub and a village hall. If you wanted or needed more than that you had to drive to the village over, and Violet had let go of her car twenty years ago.
Looking out upon the lane and seeing her home again, Violet felt everything was going to be fine.
‘Home,’ she whispered to herself and she decided she would never leave it again, no matter what her son and his wife said.
Letter
To my sweet Lily, aged seven,
I’d like to start a new tradition as I sit here in the cottage. You left a few days ago with your mum and dad after we had a grand old time over the summer. This is the first time you stayed for the summer, and even though your mum and dad were worried you would be homesick, you told them in no uncertain terms you were home. It did make me laugh.
So I think after you have returned to your parents after each summer, I’ll write you a letter. It will be something you can look back on and it will help you remember the time we spent together when you’re older.
We have had a lovely summer, haven’t we? It’s funny how this little cottage seems to come to life when you get here, like it’s been waiting all year for you. You’ve loved being here since you were a little baby, crawling about the floor, trying to get into the wood basket, and now you’re running out the back door and into the garden with so much energy. I don’t know where you get it from; it seems to be endless with you. It’s as though you have sprouted wings while you are at Pippin Cottage. I know your mum doesn’t like that I don’t have many rules here, but we don’t mind. We don’t need rules during the summer; rules are for when you’re at school.
I enjoyed making the new curtains for your bedroom here, and I love the little stars you put on the ceiling. What a clever idea they are. When you're not here and I miss you, I’ll stand in the dark and look up at them and think of you back with Mum and Dad. I think it is a lovely room, and with the blackbirds nesting in the tree at the front, I will be able to hear them chatting as they flit about tending to their business.
I heard the owls again last night, and I know you like to hear them also. They have a soft call. It’s very soothing, I think. It’s a reminder to settle into bed and go to sleep. They do their work at night-time and we do ours during the day.
Little things have made this summer very special. We spent a lot of time in the garden and you have helped me plant the beans and the zinnias along the front path. You are quite the little gardener, or perhaps you just like being outside. I like watching you lying on a blanket under the apple tree, reading one of your books. It’s a peaceful spot, I agree.
I enjoyed making us daisy crowns this summer and I will get the photo of us framed. We look so happy. They don’t last long in the summer heat though, which is a shame.
We had fun exploring the old mill this summer and visiting the ducks. I saw a whole family crossing the bridge the other day after you had gone home. A mother and father duck and twelve little ducklings. Can you imagine having twelve babies to care for?
I’ve seen how much you’ve grown up this year. Seven is a big age, and you are very wise and love to sing and act out little plays.
You also love to look at the photo albums of when I was younger. It’s lovely to see and share those memories with you again.
We still love the summer evenings together. I like to read a book or watch some television with you, listen to the radio or play cards at the kitchen table. You’re very good at cards now, especially gin rummy, and you’ve beaten me more times than I will admit to your father.
I can hear the owls now as I write this little letter to you. I think they’re saying they miss you. Where is Lily? they call. It feels like you’re the only one in on the secret chat as you wait for them to call out from the woods.
The cottage misses you when you’re gone.
I look forward to the next holiday, Lily, and I will continue writing these for as long as you keep coming to see me.
So, my love, here’s to another summer. One day you might not remember these details, so when you do get these letters, perhaps they will tickle your memory once more and you will be reminded of the fun we had this summer.
With all my love,
Gran
