Free The Silver Bough by Lisa Tuttle Page A

he knew it; his eyebrows went up to his hairline in surprise. “With a walled garden, you say? That wouldn’t be Orchard House?”
    “How did you know?”
    “My father came from Appleton. He left the day he turned eighteen, but he was forever talking about it, and he sent us kids to stay with his parents in the summer holidays every year. We ran wild; there was nowhere we didn’t go. I remember that garden. It must have been very formal and beautifully tended at one time, but it was starting to go a bit to seed when I saw it.”
    “When was that?”
    “The seventies. Two old ladies lived there—well, they seemed old to me then! I think they grew most of their own food. I stole fruit from the garden—there were fruits I’d never seen before. Figs and apricots…I’d had them both, but only dried. I’d never realized before that you could pick and eat them fresh. But no apples. I thought that was really strange; it was called Orchard House, but there was no orchard. Not a single apple tree.”
    She had started to explain that the commercial apple orchards had been on land well away from the house and sold off before his time, but stopped when she saw he already knew.
    “You could certainly grow all kinds of fruit there, if you wanted,” he said. “I know Appleton gets a lot of rain, but that spot on the hill is a sun trap. Or were you thinking of something purely decorative?”
    “No, I like the idea of growing things I can eat.” She didn’t mention her qualms about clearing out the wilderness within the crumbling walls, or her original intention to leave it alone. None of that mattered. She should have known she wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to create her very own secret garden.
    They went on to discuss what she might plant, combinations of color and size and scent, how to make sure that everything didn’t come into bloom or ripen all at once but was staggered for longer-term enjoyment; bulbs, perennials, herbaceous borders, ornamental vs. edible; whether she’d have paved or graveled or grassy paths, with a bower at the center, perhaps, so she could sit and enjoy it all, and maybe a fountain…until she felt overwhelmed.
    “Look, hang on, it all sounds wonderful, but I’m going to be doing all this myself—and I’ve never actually gardened before! I have a house to fix up as well. Either I leave the walled garden for later, or I start with something simpler.”
    He was silent for a moment, then he said, “You know, the simplest thing
would
be an orchard. Apples are the easiest of all the fruit trees, and they’ve always been grown in Appleton. There’s loads of varieties to choose from, and within two or three years you should have your first crop. It’s best to plant in November, which gives you nearly four months to prepare.”
    Now, standing in the quiet, breathing darkness, listening to her trees murmur and softly creak, Nell was as close to happiness as she could ever be. The apple trees were like her children, although she would never have said so, not even to herself. She tended them and cared for them, and yet they needed her less than she needed them, which was as it should be. They’d given back a focus to her life, given her a reason for getting out of bed in the morning—and, indeed, in the middle of the night. She still had no idea what had shocked her awake—a distant explosion? a car crash on the road below?—but she’d seen for herself there was nothing wrong in
her
domain. Easy in her mind, she made her way back to bed.
     
     
    In the morning she didn’t give a second thought to what had disturbed her sleep but set off in her car for the town after her usual quick shower and frugal breakfast. The parking lot of the supermarket was crowded, and there were no spare trolleys in the bay where they were usually stored, but that was not particularly remarkable for a Saturday morning. She only guessed at something wrong when she walked through the automatic doors and