Blythe, we wont take much. Pack your famous apple crumble and a couple of jars of jam for the road, Graham said lazily, a grin tugging at his lips.
Blythe stared at the guest, stunned by his brazen request. How could he ask so shamelessly?
In her mind swirled the memory of the painstaking care shed taken to perfect the crumble, the endless hours shed spent readying the cottage for their arrival.
Now Graham, who hadnt lifted a hammer all week, lounged in the shade and demanded a takeaway feast.
She glanced at Arthur, who seemed oblivious to his brothers behaviour.
Graham, arent you asking for too much? Blythe asked, trying to stay calm.
Oh, give it a rest, Blythe! he waved off, not even turning. Were family, we must share. And youve got a whole pantry here!
A hot mix of resentment and anger rose inside Blythe.
The modest lakeside cottage, bought three years ago, had become a true sanctuary for her and Arthur. Summer here never allowed lazy days: early rises, weeding, berry picking, tending the hens, and winter stores. Every hand was worth its weight in gold.
So Grahams demand felt like an insult. He saw or chose not to see none of the labour that had built this place.
To him the cottage was a freerange resort, and Blythe and Arthur were merely staff.
It all began three weeks earlier when Graham called, proposing a stopby to help around the farm and get a bit of countryside fresh air.
Those words came out of nowhere. Graham and his wife Olivia were city folk through and through: clubs, pubs, cinema, weekend shopping sprees.
Help? Blythe echoed, a flicker of doubt in her voice.
But Graham pressed on, excitement evident:
Of course! Were family! Itll be easier for you, and well get some country air. Ive been meaning to pick raspberries, heat up the sauna
After hanging up, Blythe lingered on the porch, absently running her fingers over the hem of her apron. She knew Grahams habit: he loved to promise, rarely to deliver. Deep down she doubted, but Arthur, hearing the news, lit up:
Maybe theyll at least gather some berries. And look, my brother might even lend a hand with the fence.
The following days Blythe was a whirlwind of chores, as if the Prime Minister himself were coming to visit. She laundered and ironed the linens, prepared fresh towels, drove into town for supplies: fresh fish, meat for a barbecue, fruit, sweets anything to make the guests feel welcome.
Maybe itll turn out alright, she whispered to herself while hanging towels. Even a little help would be a blessing.
When Graham and Olivia finally arrived, Blythe met them with a smile, trying to mask her doubts. The couple looked relaxed, as if theyd just returned from a seaside holiday.
Here we are! Graham announced brightly, arms wide.
Blythe forced a grin and ushered them to the table. On the veranda lay salads, steaming pasties, and a jug of cold compote.
For half an hour they chattered cheerfully, swapping news, before Arthur gently laid out the plan for the coming days.
Tomorrow we start mowing, then well pick the berries. Lots to do, but well manage together.
Right, of course, Olivia nodded, though Blythe caught a flash of bewilderment and a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, as if the word mowing belonged to another world.
Blythe felt a cold premonition in her chest: the help shed been promised might turn out invisible.
The first day passed like a celebration. Blythe tried not to think about the waisthigh grass, the strawberry patches choked with weeds, and the buckets of apples waiting in the barn.
Graham was in his element: shouting jokes, snapping his fingers, bragging about being tired of the city and how lucky he was to escape to the country.
Olivia, in a new sundress, posed against the sunset and the lake, snapping dozens of photos.
Arthur smiled pleased that his brother finally arrived, hopeful the work would speed up.
But by the next morning the mood shifted.
Blythe awoke at dawn to the crow of a rooster, pulled on rubber boots, and stepped into the yard. Dew glittered on the grass; the air smelled of fresh cut hay. The chickens clucked, demanding feed.
She scooped grain, then glanced through the guestroom window at the closed curtains.
By eight shed fed the birds, filled a bucket with green cucumbers, and watered the beds.
Arthur emerged with a mug of tea and said:
Graham and Olivia have gone into town. Something urgent came up.
Blythe nodded silently, a prick of irritation rising inside. Shed hoped the helpers would at least stay for breakfast.
They returned at dusk, flushed and content. Graham emptied the boot of chips, fizzy drinks, and a tub of lager as if hed achieved a great feat.
Blythe, this place is practically a health resort! he shouted, flopping into a lounge chair on the veranda. Everything does itself!
The following day Blythe felt irritation building. She mowed alone, hauled heavy buckets, washed floors, cooked lunch.
Graham lounged in a hammock, lazily scrolling his phone, complaining of a headache.
I think Im catching a cold. Ill lie down today.
Olivia stretched on a beach towel by the water, snapping selfies. Her social feeds filled with new captions: #CountryEscape, #LifeIsGood, #NatureBreak.
Each day Blythe grew more exhausted and irked. She rose at five, went to bed after midnight, washing dishes and tidying up after the guests.
The visitors never offered a hand they genuinely believed their presence alone was a gift.
Were here as guests, Olivia said when Blythe asked her to clear the dishes. Should guests be working?
From that moment Blythes smile was a taut line, and any request from the pair felt like a strike to her patience.
Slowly, inexorably, the atmosphere tipped toward a breaking point. By the fifth day she could no longer stay silent. The irritation that had been simmering since their arrival boiled over.
She spent the whole day in the garden, pulling weeds, hauling water, while laughter echoed from the veranda where Olivia, sprawled on a deck chair, chatted with friends.
When Arthur staggered back from the fields, covered in dust, Blythe met him with a hard stare.
I cant take this any longer, she said. They dont even wash up! Today Graham asked me to wash his shirt, and Olivia called breakfast something simple.
Arthur nodded, and they agreed to force the guests into tomorrows work: Graham would finally help Arthur fix the fence, Olivia would handle weeding the strawberries.
Blythe hoped at least theyd understand that a holiday needed a little labour.
Graham, tomorrow we need to mend the fence, Arthur said over dinner. Will you help?
Absolutely, absolutely, Graham waved, chewing a kebab, eyes glued to his phone.
It was clear his mind was on the messenger rather than the meadow.
The next morning Arthur rose early. The air was fresh, scented with hay and dew. He fetched tools from the shed, inspected the boards and nails, even brewed a strong tea for his brother to start the day on a good note.
He knocked on the guestroom door. Silence. He knocked again, louder. Only the hum of the airconditioner answered. When he opened the door, the room was empty.
On the bedside table lay a note:
Were in town, back by evening! BBQ tonight!
That evening Graham and Olivia trudged back, laden with bags of meat, crates of chips, and a tub of dried fish.
They laughed, complaining about horrendous traffic and the heat. Blythe, utterly spent, could barely stay upright on the porch.
We agreed on work for the plot, she said.
Ah, right, right, Graham replied carelessly, waving a bag of sausages. Well definitely help tomorrow! Promise.
But on the seventh morning he announced:
We have to leave urgently. Too bad we didnt get to help!
Then, grinning, he added:
Blythe, pack us your signature crumble and a couple of jars of raspberry jam for the road. Its just wonderful!
A fury rose in Blythes chest. A week of dawntodusk labour planting, cooking, washing, scrubbing, and caring for ungrateful visitorsculminated in a decisive refusal.
We wont give you anything, she said, voice steady though trembling. In a week you did not lift a finger.
Graham froze, disbelief flashing across his face. His cheeks flushed, eyes narrowed.
Thats how you are! he shouted, voice cracking into a howl. And what about hospitality? We came with hearts!
With what hearts? Blythe snapped. You came to relax on our account! I was the only one working while you lounged in the hammock and shopped!
Arthur, usually the peacekeeper, stepped beside his wife, placed a hand on her shoulder, and looked straight at his brother.
Graham, you volunteered to help. Instead you just ate, drank, and complained about the heat.
What are you talking about, Arthur! Graham roared, stepping forward. Were family! And youre demanding money for food! Shame on you, brother!
Olivia, standing by the railing, let out a loud sigh, raised her arms as if to fling away the whole scene, then clenched her jaw and stalked to the car.
She slammed the door shut, visibly incensed that a family gathering had ended in a scandal.
Lets go, Graham! she shouted from the passenger seat. They dont value us! And the family name
Graham turned to Arthur and Blythe, as if to say something, but merely brushed his hand away and strode to the car.
He slammed the boot shut, sliding into the drivers seat with a scowl twisted by anger, a mix of surprise and betrayal flashing in his eyes, as if the world had suddenly turned against him.
He shouted over his shoulder:
Keep your pies! he yelled, closing the door. Well never come back!
When the car vanished around the bend, Blythe and Arthur stood on the porch, a wave of relief mingling with lingering fatigue.
Arthur let out a heavy sigh and sank onto the step.
Hard lessons, but useful ones, he said, looking at his wife with understanding. No more freeloaders at our gate.
Blythe nodded, recognizing the truth in his words.
That evening they walked the fields, assessing the work still left undone. The fence still needed mending, the strawberries required weeding, the hay remained uncut.
They strolled slowly along the lane, listening to the night chorus of crickets. Blythe caught herself thinking that the weariness from honest toil felt sweeter than the exhaustion wrought by anothers entitlement.
Later, they lit a small fire in the garden, brewed tea with the very raspberry jam Graham had coveted, and watched the lakes surface glimmer.
From now on well only welcome guests who arrive with a pitchfork, not a phone, Blythe said, and they laughed, understanding that the essence of life lay in mutual aid and respect.