“Don’t get bored,” my mum said, hopping into the car and waving as she drove off. Dad and she headed off on a seaside break, leaving me for a whole month with Aunt Ethel, my dad’s sister, up in a tiny hamlet in the Kent countryside. The place looked more like a deserted farmstead, with a handful of halfcollapsed cottages and a few stubborn sheep wandering about.
Granddad and Grandma Joan were also off on their own holiday, while the other granny was tucked away in a health resort. I was thirteen, which meant I could have been left to my own devices, but Mum insisted I needed a holiday toothanks, Mum, for a break that involved a lot of quiet and a lot of staring at the ceiling.
Luckily I thought ahead and packed a stack of books: “The FifteenYearOld Captain,” “Dandelion Wine,” and “The Count of Monte Cristo.” I was a reading maniac; my parents even warned me I might go blind from the glare. But books were my mates, opening doors to magical, bewildering worlds. So I decided Id spend the whole summer lounging with a novelsounds like a perfect vacation, right?
Aunt Ethel was a sweet old soul who never piled work on me, but my older brother, whod gone off with his mates to the coast, had taught us both a thing or two about pulling our weight. I often found myself practically begging Aunt Ethel for a chore, which, looking back, sounds absurdimagine a modern teen on a countryside escapethecity retreat, begging for a job. The world has certainly changed.
One lazy afternoon I begged Aunt Ethel for permission to gather grass for the rabbits. I trudged to the far end of the garden and started ripping up the weeds with gusto. Then I heard a tiny, lilting voice humming a strange, aching tune.
“From cloud to cloud, take a bigger stride,” the voice sang, “take a bigger stride, not a smaller one”
I tiptoed closer, hoping to catch the words. The melody slipped into my memory, a faint echo. I leaned over the wobbly fence that separated our plot from the neighbours and tumbled straight into the next garden.
“Oi!” squealed a girl about my age, sprawled on the grass with a book. “Were you spying on me?”
“Nothing of the sort,” I stammered, “I just got a bit too close and fell.”
She popped an apple into her mouth, juice spraying everywhere, and chewed on it with a crunch.
“That’s a green apple,” I blurted.
“So?” she replied.
“And sour,” I added.
“Well, give it time and it’ll sweeten up,” she said, eyes twinkling.
“Maybe I dont have that time,” I muttered.
She rolled her eyes. “You daft”
“I’m not daft,” I protested.
She scoffed, “Then why do you think Ive got no time? I just told you I dont want to wait. Im growing up fast.”
“How?” I asked.
“Well, just seven years ago I was six, and now I’m thirteen,” she sighed. “Time flies, doesnt it?”
“Same here,” I said. “Seven years ago I was six, now I’m thirteen.”
She nodded. “Feel the rush?”
“What rush?”
“The rush of time. No point waiting for apples to ripen.”
“Apples?” I asked, completely lost.
“Yes, the apples! I’m Tamsin, by the way. And you?”
“Victor,” I answered.
“Victor? That’s a proper name,” she grinned. “Friends call me Vic, but you can call me V.”
And just like that, the summer stopped feeling dull. Tamsin and I explored every nook of the hamlet. I brought my dog, Scruffy, and the three of us turned an abandoned water tower into a makeshift ship, raided the roofs of derelict houses for hidden treasures, and generally behaved like a trio of mischievous pirates.
We promised to meet again the next year, but life got in the way and I didnt get back to Aunt Ethels place until autumn, when I was helping dig potatoes with Granddad and Grandma.
“Did Tamsin visit?” I asked, cheeks flaming.
“She did, but” I trailed off, remembering the old schoolyard diary wed kept on the ships log. Tamsin had scribbled clumsy, hilarious verses that meant the world to me.
“Hi,” the poem began, “I come each day at four, sitting and waiting”
They were the silliest, most heartfelt lines Id ever read.
I tried asking Aunt Ethel if she knew Tamsins address, but all she could recall was a surnameBorisova. Turns out, we both came from the same little town, and the Borisov family was as common there as crumpets at tea. I wrote my own address and phone number in the log, hoping Tamsin would spot it and give me a ring. I flipped through endless phone books, hunting for any Borisova, Borisov, or even a Boris, but none matched.
Years drifted by. One chilly autumn, I was driving to my mate Geoffs place, far from home, to swap floppy disksyes, those ancient storage squares. My sneaker was caked in slush and mud, the bus I was supposed to catch sputtered past, and I thought, Anythings better than staying here. I bent down to clean the muck when a bus roared by, and in the window I saw herTamsin.
I bolted after the bus, but it sped away, and she pressed her face to the glass, eyes wide. I wanted to be right there beside her.
Later, while my grandparents were away on a work trip, I was nursing a cold and listening to my grandma scold someone on the phone. Whos that? she asked.
Just some chatter, I muttered, wishing my old rotary phone had a caller ID.
When I finally got better, I took a parttime job despite my parents proteststhey said we had enough, but I needed cash for a proper phone. I bought a new handset, yet Tamsin never called again.
One day I was pushing a pram with my twomonthold nephew when a gaggle of girls passed by. One of them stared at me, and for a heartbeat I thought it was Tamsin, but shed already vanished. I kept looking, hoping for a reunion that never came.
A pragmatic friend finally pulled me aside. Youre stuck in a childhood fantasy, Victor. You had a friend once, and now youre an adult. She might be married with a couple of squirmy kids, or maybe shes forgotten you entirely.
I tried to argue, But she called, she was looking for me.
He shrugged, Maybe it wasnt really her.
All my mates were settling down, families popping up, and my parents kept asking when Id join the club. I was balancing work, a budding career, and the lingering image of a girl who ate green apples and talked about time slipping through her fingers. I knew intellectually I should let go, yet I kept glancing out of bus windows, flinching at every ring of my phone.
My girlfriend eventually threatened to leave; she wanted children and a stable life. I understood, but the thought of proposing seemed like it would sever the last thread tying me to Tamsin. Perhaps my friend was rightI was living in a dream and needed to grow up.
Finally, I gathered the courage. My girlfriend squealed with delight, my parents sighed with relief, and I felt a strange emptiness, as if something had slipped away.
One impulsive night I drove back to Aunt Ethels hamlet, not quite sure why. Maybe it was to say goodbye to my childhood, or maybe just to see the old oak tree one more time. I sprinted up to our ramshackle deck, the boards rotting in places, and there she was, perched at the very top.
Captain, have you abandoned ship? she asked, halfteasing, halfsad. Good thing youve got a firstmate. Otherwise the vessel would have drifted into oblivion.
Tams, I said, trying to hug her, but she turned away, tears in her voice, scolding the thirteenyearold captain.
I told you I have little time! My time rushes on. I have to eat green applesyesterday I was thirteen, today Im twentyseven.
I stepped closer, wrapped her in an arm I swore Id never release.
***
Granddad can we eat the apples yet?
Not yet, love. Why?
The old lady down the lane eats them green, says she cant wait for them to ripen.
Thats Tams for you. I now watch my wife, with whom Ive spent thirty happy years, nibble an apple and grin.
Listen, Vic, this is nonsense, she says, biting into the fruit. Time fliesyesterday I was six, today our granddaughter is six. Blink, and weve got a greatgrandson running around, also six.
Did you install the new engine, Captain? I ask, joking.
Done and dusted, she replies, smiling, then darts off to her chores.
I ran into an old flame once. She apologized for walking away. I couldnt live with you, you know, when you left for the countryside. She confessed shed been scared, and we talked about how memory works differently for everyone. We part on friendly terms, each carrying our own version of the past.
Now I look at my wife, and our sense of the moment is perfectly synced.
Tams
I love you.
I know.
From where? I nudge her.
Since you fell off that fence spying on me.
She laughs, Or maybe the fence collapsed on its own.
And thats the quirky twist: her maiden name was Vavilla, while her grandmother was called Borisova, because her granddads name was Boris. Funny how names get tangled in a small English village.
