Under the Pear Tree

When she first saw him Margot was on the train, tucked comfortably in her seat next to the window and enjoying the sights of the passing countryside. She was on her way home to the town she had grown up in, the town her grandmother still lived in. Every year on her birthday Margot took a week off work and spent it with her grandma, and every year the week was filled with baking, gardening, jam-making, and laughter. She would return to work and regular life in a state of bliss, with dirt under her nails, a belly full of tea and cake, and her grandmother's laughter still ringing in her ears. This year it was Margot’s twenty-fifth birthday, a decade since she had moved from her hometown. It was only an hour away by train, and because her grandmother lived in a small one-bedroom cottage Margot preferred to travel to and from each day. She enjoyed the quiet hour in the morning and the evening and would often read as the rock and sway of the train carriage lulled her into a state of relaxation.

As the train drew nearer to her destination that morning, the surrounding farmland and countryside grew more familiar. Margot was able to spot some of her favourite childhood haunts — the old stone bridge, much too grand for the creek it stood over, Mr. Lang’s lavender field beginning its yearly bloom, and Farmer Terry’s pear orchard. The pear orchard was her favourite of them all and the train ran close enough to its edge for Farmer Terry to wave at the passing passengers when he was out tending his trees. In the corner of the orchard closest to the train line stood a lone pear tree, separate from the others and overlooking them. It was large and ancient and acknowledged by the people of the town as the patriarch of the orchard. Peartriarch, Margot would think to herself with a chuckle.

It was this first morning — as the train took the slight bend towards Farmer Terry’s orchards — that she saw him. A man was standing under the ancient pear tree looking out toward the orchard. From her view, she could only make out a small portion of his profile, but there was something about the manner in which he stood that suggested he was waiting for someone or something. It was not a passive stance, not a relaxed intake of the beautiful surroundings, but a nervous one. His posture appeared wooden, alert, and expectant. As the train sailed around the bend and past the tree she could just catch a glimpse of something he held in his hands. He seemed to be fidgeting with it as he looked out over the orchard. Peculiar, she thought to herself. Quite peculiar. The train bell rang as it slowed in approach of the town station and when she stepped out and into the fragrant air, the giddy anticipation of being with her grandmother pushed the image of the mysterious man out of her mind. By the end of the day, she’d forgotten all about him, thinking instead of her grandma’s delighted laughter as she’d squashed berries in her hands, their red and purple juice dripping over her soft wrinkly fingers.

It wasn’t until the following morning that she remembered him. As the train went by the pear orchard, she saw him standing beneath the tree again, his shoulders set in that awkward wooden way. He seemed to be looking about him in anticipation and once more she saw in his hands the obscure object of the day before. She could not help but wonder why he was there. As she walked to her grandmother's house from the station she wondered whether to tell her about it and then decided against it. It was not her business to tell.

The next morning, on the third trip to her grandmother's, Margot closed her eyes as she rested her head against the glass window of the train. She hadn’t forgotten about the man this time, and as she neared the end of her journey and the train sailed toward the orchard, she found herself looking for him. Once more he stood beneath the old pear tree. This morning, however, it looked to Margot as though the stiffness in his shoulders had melted into a sombre slump. The train took the bend, and just before the trunk of the tree obscured him from view, he turned to look behind him and Margot caught the briefest flash of his face. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she was almost certain he had looked at her.

When Margot stepped off the train she started walking in the direction of her grandmother’s house. Her curiosity about the man burned in her like an itch desperately yearning to be scratched. Before she could think better, she found herself turning sharply in the opposite direction and walking swiftly toward Farmer Terry’s orchard. Something in her compelled her toward the man, urged her to find out why he had been there the last three mornings. She walked hastily in the direction of the pear trees, the spring air cool on her face. As she drew nearer and the patriarch tree appeared in the distance, she wondered how she would settle her intrigue. She had hardly thought of how, having been so suddenly driven by her urge to know why. Should she approach him directly and ask him why he was there? No, that hardly seemed appropriate. She would have to discreetly linger in the poplar trees that lined the edge of the orchard field and hope that he didn’t see her.

When she arrived, Margot moved quietly in the grass between the poplars. She could see him more clearly now, being perhaps only fifteen metres away. She could also see what he held in his hands — a small box. She watched him for a few moments. He seemed to go between looking at the box and then out at the orchard. It was obvious to her now that his demeanour embodied a resignation that she hadn’t seen on the mornings prior and an instinctive sadness welled in her for him. Margot quickly realised how vulnerable he might feel if he knew he was being watched and scolded herself internally for her snooping. She made up her mind to back away as stealthily as possible before she could be noticed lurking about.

Just before she tried to make her move the man sighed, looking at the small box in his hands again. He then turned to walk in her direction, putting the box in his trouser pocket and looking at the ground as he walked. Margot froze, unsure of what to do if anything at all. He looked up, his eyes suddenly on Margot, and stopped walking.

"I — I — I’m sorry.” she stammered. “It’s just that I —I’m sorry.” she gave up on whatever she was trying to say and turned quickly away, embarrassed by her nosiness. But just as quickly she changed her mind, turned back towards the man, and said “It’s just that I wanted to know what you were waiting for —” at the same time as he said, “Margot? Is that you?"

Margo froze again. The man, younger perhaps than she’d first thought, smiled, his entire countenance changing as he looked at her. Margo stayed stuck, confused, and unable to speak.

He looked down at his feet and then nervously up at her again, chewing the corner of his lip through a slight smile. After a moment he said, “I was waiting for you, Margot."

"For me?” she’d meant to sound stronger and more incredulous but it came out with a pathetic wobble. “But…but, I don’t know who you are."

As she said it she noticed the colour of his eyes. It was something like honey — if you held a jar of it to the sky and the sun shone through it. Recognition trickled into her mind, and she realised she’d seen those eyes before.

To be continued...