The Cottage

The cottage sat at the end of the lane. It had sat there for decade upon decade, alone and unheeding of the world around it. It had watched generation after generation live, grow, and flourish within its walls. Parts had begun to crumble with age, its stone walls once painted a pristine white, chipping to reveal the stone beneath. The vines that crept up the walls had been removed over the years by countless hands, but there was no one left to clear them now.

It had originally been built by a farmer for his wife. He had begun labouring on the cottage the day she, the daughter of the local butcher, had accepted his proposal. He had laboured throughout their engagement, to build her the best house he could offer. The butcher had not wanted his daughter to marry the farmer, hoping she would make a more advantageous match. But the farmer had promised to build a beautiful home for his daughter and so he had consented.

 They had moved in the eve of their wedding, which had been celebrated throughout the village. The cottage was not nearly as grand as the farmer had promised, but it was well made. The farmer’s wife tended the home and raised their many children. The farmer woke each morning to the smell of baking bread and came home each evening to the smell of cooking stew. Their lives were simple, but happy and as their family grew, so did their farm. With many helping hands and loving hearts, the farm prospered and spread as the farmer was able to gradually buy the adjoining lands.

The wife and her daughters kept the cottage in good repair, cleaning and tending the garden. The constant growth of vines was routinely cleared by the women and the garden flourished under their green thumbs. In the spring, primroses, daffodils, and lily of the valley decorated the cottage, both inside and out. And a fire constantly danced in the hearth when the year grew cold.

Year after year, the children grew and the cottage stayed much the same. Eventually, the girls put up their hair and married, moving off to live with their husbands. The younger boys went off to find their fortunes and homes of their own, while the eldest stayed on. He had married a girl from the neighbouring village and after his parents died, they inherited the cottage and the farm.

Years passed and the village had changed. Strangers had come to the countryside, hoping to prosper from the fertility of the land. They had, for the most part, been successful, and with their success the village had grown. Competition had sprung up between tradesmen, as there was no longer just one butcher, cobbler, or tailor. Several pubs had opened, and the tradesmen and farmers in the village gathered in the evenings to drink and talk. They never gossiped of course, as that was women’s talk. They simply talked about their day’s work, what had happened in the village that day, and any other interesting news involving the village and the people therein.

From time to time, the women of the village visited each other for tea and a chat, sometimes taking long walks to enjoy the fresh air and pleasant scenery. Their days were, however, primarily consumed with looking after house and home. Cooking, cleaning, raising the children, and tending their husbands kept them busy from dawn to dusk. Their social calls revived them, when they could find the time.

While the village and the people grew and changed, the cottage at the end of the lane stayed the same. The new farmer and his wife had a new family, and they likewise grew and prospered. They occasionally visited the village, but mostly kept to themselves. They sold their wares at the village, and bought the necessities they could not grow on the farm. The wife and her daughters cleaned the house and tended the garden. In the spring, primroses, daffodils and lily of the valley decorated the cottage, both inside and out. And a fire constantly danced in the hearth when the year grew cold.

Like his father before him, the eldest son inherited the farm after his father died, while his brothers and sisters married and moved away. He married and after some time, had children who grew and flourished.

The village had grown and changed. People from far away lands had settled. People of many different shapes, religions, colours. The farmer did not like it.

He stopped going to the pub, choosing instead to go home to his wife and children. The dinner table was filled with grumbling and complaining. His wife and children were no longer permitted to go into the village to chat or play. They stayed on their land and the boys helped their father with the fields while the girls helped their mother with the cottage.

The only time the father now ventured into the village was to sell his produce, but even these visits became fewer and fewer. There were more farmers and more competition, and the farmer did not like it.

The villagers likewise began to dislike the farmer who glared at them with suspicion and contempt. When they tried to do business with them he was rude and boorish. He seemed to think he was better than them, that because they were different they were beneath him. Gradually they turned from his stall at the market, and spent their money elsewhere. And despite having excellent produce, the farmer’s stall became empty of patrons.

The cottage started to fall into disrepair, the garden overgrown. The wife and her children had grown tired of the man’s grumbling and complaining. They had grown tired of shabby clothes and isolation.

One day, the man went to the market and when he returned, he came empty handed to an empty home. He stood alone at the window, looking out over his solitary kingdom.

In the spring, there were no primroses, daffodils, or lily of the valley, inside or out. When the year grew cold, the hearth was still and empty, not a spark to be seen.

The cottage sat at the end of the lane. It had sat there for decade upon decade, alone and unheeding of the world around it. It had watched generation after generation live, grow, and flourish within its walls. Parts had begun to crumble with age, its stone walls once painted a pristine white, chipping to reveal the stone beneath. The vines that crept up the walls had been removed over the years by countless hands, but there was no one left to clear them now.