A Secret Meeting at the Old Churchyard
On a chilly autumn morning, Elizabeth and her cousin Katherine set out for an overgrown churchyard in the outskirts of Alderford to visit their family graves. Thick tendrils of fog curled between weather-worn headstones, and the harsh cawing of crows added a grim solemnity. The two stepped into a small wooden chapel, where the scent of candle wax and incense clung to the air. They lit candles for their departed loved ones, and with a heavy sigh, Katherine wrote her first note for her grandmother, Margaret. Then they made their way to their parents’ resting places, clearing away wilted leaves, polishing the headstones, and placing modest bouquets of daffodils in glass jars.
“Alright, Kate, shall we look for your grandmother Margaret’s grave?” suggested Elizabeth, tightening her scarf against the cold.
“Yes, let’s,” murmured Katherine, her heart tightening with a strange unease.
They wandered among the crumbling graves, where moss obscured inscriptions and ancient trees bent under time’s weight. At last, Elizabeth paused before a simple marker.
“Here she is, Kate—Margaret Wilkins,” said Elizabeth, wiping dust from the photograph. “Look, someone’s already been tidying up. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me, are you here for Margaret Wilkins?” A deep voice startled them.
Elizabeth turned sharply, her breath catching. Her eyes widened in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening.
“You had a vast garden back then,” the man continued, as if unaware of their shock. “Your grandmother always let us pick from it. The raspberries were sweet as honey, the cherries enormous—and white raspberries, too! No one else had those. Peas hung in long pods. Margaret loved feeding all the village children. Then you were born, Kate, and soon after, she passed. Fancy some tea?”
Elizabeth glanced at her cousin, who stood frozen.
“Kate, what’s wrong?” she asked, pouring tea into chipped cups.
“Nothing, go ahead,” Katherine replied, though her voice trembled.
After her husband’s passing, Katherine had grown closer to Elizabeth. With her daughter and grandchildren living far away, she missed the warmth of family. She knew little of Margaret, her father’s mother. The house where she was born was just a faint memory—they’d moved from the old thatched cottage when she was barely five. Her mother, Anne, had despised that house, never forgiving her mother-in-law for disapproving of her pregnancy.
“Your grandmother Margaret was kind,” Elizabeth went on, sipping her tea. “Your father, William, was her youngest—she adored him. Her older children married young, built lives elsewhere. Some left for work in London, others settled far off. She hardly knew their children. But William never left her side.”
At first, Margaret had resisted his marriage. He was fragile, she argued, and why bind himself when life had a way of pulling people apart? “Live for yourself, son,” she’d say. William hadn’t sought love, perhaps waiting for fate to intervene. Then, nearly forty, he met Anne. She was visiting her sister when he fell for her—slender, graceful, though already in her thirties.
To everyone’s surprise, Margaret approved. Age had softened her; she knew William would soon be alone. A wife would care for him—and for her. But children? Too late, she insisted. Yet Anne soon bore Kate. William blossomed with fatherhood, but Margaret took ill. Now, he thought only of his wife and child, not his mother. Anne, too, grew distant.
“Margaret died bitter,” Elizabeth murmured. “Old age and solitude took their toll.”
“Thank you for telling me, Liz,” Katherine said softly. “About the garden, about her. Father’s been gone so long, and Mum refused to speak of her. All I have are scraps of memory. Remember the barrel?”
“How could I forget?” Elizabeth chuckled. “You were tiny—barely three. When we spotted a frog inside, I lifted you to see. I must’ve misjudged—splash! Lucky Daniel was there, old Mrs. Thompson’s grandson. He fished you out.”
“Some cousin you were,” Katherine smirked. “I remember Dan. He tried comforting me, but I just bawled—not over the frog. That ridiculous green bonnet with the chin straps—I hated it. Dan was nearly grown, swinging me after. Mortifying, soaking wet in that bonnet! Never even saw the frog.”
“Kate, let’s visit our parents’ graves soon,” Elizabeth said. “The memorial days are near. Margaret’s not far from them—have you ever been?”
“Never,” Katherine admitted. “Dad died young, and Mum wouldn’t speak of Margaret. Just griped about escaping that damp, freezing cottage.”
“Pity,” Elizabeth sighed. “They might’ve reconciled. Well, shall we?”
On the day of remembrance, they returned to the churchyard. After lighting candles and leaving notes—Katherine’s first for Margaret—they tended their parents’ graves, polishing stones and setting fresh flowers.
“Ready to find Margaret’s, Kate?” Elizabeth asked. “It’s in the old section—been there fifty-odd years.”
“Let’s go. I spoke to Mum and Dad while tidying up. Told them I wanted to make peace.”
They wove through tangled growth until Elizabeth stopped. “Look—Margaret Wilkins, 1901–1985. Must be her.”
“It is!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Odd, though—it’s well kept. No weeds, lilies of the valley… Let’s add our flowers.”
“Visiting Margaret Wilkins?” A tall, silver-haired man approached.
“I’ve tended it years,” he said. “Never saw anyone come. Who might you be?”
Elizabeth gasped. “It—it can’t be! Daniel, is that you?”
“Liz? Blimey, is that little Katie?” His grin widened. “Here for my own—Mrs. Thompson, Mum, and Dad. Spotted you and thought…”
Katherine flushed. That blasted bonnet again!
“What a reunion,” Daniel laughed. “Walk with me? Our old home’s gone, but the orchard remains.”
Where the house once stood, a park now spread. Yet amid saplings, aged apple and cherry trees endured. Katherine’s heart leapt—Grandmother’s orchard? Daniel took her arm.
“See? Your trees. We all played beneath that willow. This place raised us—you, Liz, me…”
“Thank you, Dan,” Katherine whispered. For a moment, behind the boughs, she saw her father—young, smiling—her mother in a floral dress. And there, in the arbour, Margaret spooning cherry jam into bowls.
The wind stirred the branches, rustling old memories.
“They’ve made peace,” Katherine thought, tears brimming. “I saw it—they forgave each other.”
“Had enough reminiscing, girls?” Daniel winked. “Fancy tea at mine? A bachelor’s mess, but there’s ginger biscuits. You’re shivering. Kate—are you crying?”
“Just the wind,” she smiled. “We’d love to come. Thank you, Dan—for everything.”