Page 41 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘Jack’s gone to make tea,’ she mumbled, changing the subject slightly. ‘Hope he has enough for three.’

‘Oh, he’ll have seen me coming up the path. Eyes like a hawk, that fella.’ Patrick gestured toward the wooden bench beneath the older tree. ‘Shall we sit while we wait? These old bones appreciate a rest more than they used to.’ He moved toward the bench with careful steps, one hand still lightly holding the walking stick. ‘Join me,’ he said then, patting the space beside him. ‘Best view of the orchard from this spot. My ’oul fella claimed you could see all the way to the lake on a clear day, though my eyes haven’t been able to confirm that for some years now.’

Molly settled beside him, the wood smooth and sun-warmed beneath her. From this vantage point, the orchard spread before them in orderly rows, the trees heavy with fruit in varying shades of green, gold, and red.

‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked, genuinely curious about this man whose lined face held so much history. And figuring for the first time that he might even have known her grandmother. Should she ask?

Patrick leaned back, his weathered hands coming to rest on his knees. ‘All my life,’ he said simply. ‘Born in the back bedroom of that cottage seventy-eight years ago come December.’

Molly studied him as he spoke, noting how his hands – those gnarled, capable hands that had tended apple trees for decades – moved expressively despite the swollen joints. His forearms, exposed where he’d rolled up his sleeve, were corded with muscle developed through a lifetime of physical labor and maintained through continued use.

‘The place gets in your blood,’ Patrick continued, his gaze roaming the neat rows with evident pride. ‘My father used to say Flynns had apple sap instead of plain blood in our veins. Some mornings I think he might have been right.’ He shifted slightly, adjusting his position with the careful movements of someone who had learned to manage chronic discomfort without complaint. ‘Jack tells me you’ve a keen interest in our story,’ he said, those sharp eyes returning to her face. ‘Not many visitors look beyond the pretty red apples in the shop.’

‘Like I told you last time, this place has true character,’ Molly replied honestly. ‘And history. That’s worth preserving.’

Something like approval flickered across Patrick’s features. ‘Indeed it is. Though the preserving gets harder each year, with the big commercial outfits pushing their bland, tasteless stuff.’

They fell silent for a moment, watching a pair of blackbirds dart between the trees in a flash of glossy wings. The orchard hummed with subtle wildlife, and Molly felt that time seemed to move differently here, measured in seasons rather than minutes.

The cottage door creaked, and they both turned to see Jack emerging with a tray of steaming mugs. He paused when he spotted them together, an unreadable expression crossing his face before he resumed his approach, boots crunching on the gravel path.

‘I see you’ve found one other again,’ he said, his tone careful, neutral.

Patrick smiled, the expression transforming his weathered face. ‘Just telling Molly here about the view. Whether you can really see the lake from here, or if that was just another of Paddy senior’s tall tales.’

Jack’s shoulders relaxed slightly at his great-uncle’s easy manner. He set the tray on a small table beside the bench – a weathered piece that looked as if it had served this purpose for generations of tea drinkers before them.

Molly accepted a mug with murmured thanks, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic. Steam rose in fragrant curls, carrying the scent of strong black tea and something else – apple blossoms? She wondered if it was her imagination or if everything here was infused with the essence of the orchard, even down to the tea they drank.

She sipped carefully, watching over the rim as Jack and Patrick exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them that indicated years of shared understanding.

‘The Spartans in the west section need attention before the frost,’ Patrick said, picking up what was clearly an ongoing conversation between them. ‘Saw signs of collar rot starting on two trees near the stone wall.’

Jack nodded, his earlier discomfort seemingly forgotten as they slipped into the familiar territory of orchard management. ‘Noticed it last week. Already treated them with copper paste, but we should probably plan for replacement next season.’

‘Shame,’ Patrick sighed. ‘Those were good producers.’

Molly subtly opened her notebook, inputting observations – not just about the orchard’s needs, which were hardly relevant to her marketing task, but about the men themselves. The way Jack’s face softened when discussing the trees, the respect with which he addressed his great-uncle despite clearly being the one in charge now. These were the human elements that would make Goldenridge’s story resonate.

‘The irrigation system needs more work before we shut it down for winter,’ Jack continued, his hands wrapped around his mug in a gesture that mirrored Molly’s own. ‘Some of those connectors are from the 1970s installation.’

‘Parts still in the shed?’ Patrick asked, his weathered fingers tapping thoughtfully against his knee.

‘Some. We’ll need to order more though.’ Jack took a long sip of his tea. ‘And the press roof has that leak over the storage area. Needs patching before the heavy rains come.’

Molly found herself unexpectedly fascinated by this glimpse into the year-round commitment an orchard required. Her grandmother had spoken of farming as a calling rather than just a profession, and now she understood why. The crop demanded constant attention, each season bringing its own challenges and tasks.

The conversation flowed easily between them, technical details interspersed with observations about weather patterns and reminiscences of past challenges. She found herself drawn into their world, the rhythm of their discussion as soothing as the play of sunlight through leaves and the distant hum of bees still working the late-blooming flowers in the flower bed.

Utterly relaxed, she found herself humming softly under her breath as she wrote.

The older man froze mid-sentence, his weathered hand tightening on his mug. ‘Where’d you learn that?’ Patrick asked, voice suddenly sharp with interest.

Molly looked up, startled by his tone, her fingers stilling on the notebook. The humming had been unconscious, a habit she’d picked up from years of hearing Nan sing while working. The melody had risen unbidden; an old Irish ballad Aoife often hummed while kneading bread or hanging washing.

Too late, she realized her mistake – this wasn’t some universally known Irish folk tune, but perhaps something specific to this region, or maybe even to her grandmother’s generation?

‘Not sure, really,’ she answered, her voice deliberately casual despite the sudden racing of her pulse. ‘My grandmother used to sing it, I think.’ Patrick’s gaze didn’t waver, those keen eyes studying her face with new intensity. If they started asking questions, maintaining her cover story that she was just an innocent tourist here to help would become trickier.