THE old man sat in the shade of his apple trees. The autumn sunshine still gave some heat, and the trees at this time of year would normally be full of ripe apples. Not so this year.

For nearly 40 years, his apple trees had provided him with an abundance of fruit at autumn time. Some years, the harvest had been better than others, and some trees gave their fruit easier than others. He’d learnt not to expect a good harvest, but hope for one, after caring for the trees in all the ways he’d learnt.

But he knew what the problem was. The trees were old. He had pruned them and cared for them in all the ways he knew, but now was the time to plant new trees if he was to enjoy an abundant harvest in future years.

But where to plant? He walked about his garden trying to decide the best location.

He was a very lucky man, it was an extensive garden and his life’s joy. He knew what was needed, the type of soil, the position so there was enough sunlight, sheltered so the spring buds would be protected from the chill winds. Then he realised the perfect place to create his new orchard: close by the wall at the far end of the garden.

He wanted to plant from seeds, and he used the technique his grandfather had taught him so many years ago. So he set to work, first preparing the soil, and then he began planting.

The trees would grow up together and help each other to flourish, he thought.

Years went by and his new trees did indeed grow. Passers-by would often see him standing admiring their progress.

But there were some unkind whisperers in the village, who said mocking things about the old man and his new apple trees.

“Does he not realise he will be dead before those trees bear fruit? What a foolish man to waste his time and energy on something he will never enjoy himself. If he had children it might make sense, but he doesn’t.”

The unkind whispers of course reached the old man’s ears. But it didn’t stop him standing by the new trees and admiring them, and helping them in the ways he knew, to grow healthily. As each year went by, the new trees got bigger and stronger, but the old man got weaker.

Then one spring, he was unable to venture into his garden to admire their blossom. People noticed his absence and they wondered about him.

Soon the news was out: he was very ill. One of his neighbours came to see him.

They had been life-long friends and every autumn the old man had shared his apples with her, giving her a large basket of them to share with her big family.

It was sadly their last meeting, for the old man passed away before the beginning of summer. When autumn arrived, the apple trees he’d planted bore their first fruit. It all seemed so sadly ironic.

But then one day during the autumn, the neighbour’s grandchildren came running into her house, looking excited.

“Gran, gran, look!” they called out, holding a handful of ripe, juicy-looking apples.

“They were lying in your garden, on the grass over there, can we eat them?”

She went to look. The old man had planted the new apple trees close to the low-lying wall where they had always had their conversations.

It was the place where they had made and maintained their friendship, always talking and catching up.

It was at this wall that he would hand over the basket of apples every autumn.

Now the apple trees he’d planted had grown tall, and some of the branches arched above her lawn. The trees seemed to be offering her apples.

She realised now why he’d planted the seeds there.

Then she noticed that some of the trees were growing by the old man’s other wall, which bordered the main road.

The old man used to leave a basket of apples by his gate for the children as they were walking to school. Now the trees arched over the grassy verge next to the pavement, displaying their fruit.

They were just out of reach, but if the children were inventive and cooperated with each other, they could find ways to pick them.

She reached up and picked a ripe-looking apple, just the way he’d taught her all those years ago when they’d first become friends. She looked at it and smiled.

She looked over the wall to the place he used to stand when they had their conversations. She would never see him standing there again, she thought, never have those conversations again.

But then she looked at the apple she had picked and smiled. Her sadness lifted and she looked at the trees.

“You’re still here,” she said quietly to the rustling branches, “and you’re still sharing your apples with everyone.”