A flutter to my left was a momentary distraction from myself. It was Aunt Margaret hanging clothes on her washing line. Although I was within sight, I sat down, as I didn't want her to know I'd passed her house without calling in.

I wanted to leave the hill, get back to Granny's to see Maria, yet I'd have to pass Margaret's, and she'd ask, "Any news?" And of course, the news I had couldn't be divulged, nor was it the kind she'd want to hear or believe.

I began to slide myself down the hill. Once out of Aunt Margaret's range, I stood up and began to walk, hoping the fields would lead me back to The House in The Hollow.

It wasn't long before I reached an obstacle. A wall of trees nestled in a valley created an impasse, or so I thought. About to turn back and ready to brace myself for Margaret's questioning, I heard crow's call, "Caw. Caw. Caw."

His song suggested a place behind this green curtain, and I paced up and down until I found a narrow gap through which I could squeeze. Wanting to protect my face from any scratching brambles, I edged in backwards until I felt the release from the foliage and space behind me. Standing straight, I turned and saw that I was in an orchard.

The only other orchard I knew of was the one that belonged to St Pat's College, a forbidden place that could only be visited by trespass. This place seemed to belong to no one. I felt it was mine – my own secret orchard.

"Hello Crow, where are you?" I asked. His lack of response told me he'd flown away, but I was happy he'd led me here.

The complete stillness and tranquillity instantly eased me. Looking around, I saw the trees stood and flourished in their own space; the branches of older trees were free to reach out unencumbered by their younger siblings, who were not yet bearing fruit. They each had their own appearance, which gave them distinct personalities. I felt I was with a family who welcomed me, a stranger, into their home.

Walking to the family's elder, I reached up and plucked one of its low hanging fruit. I marvelled at the beauty of the apple, its colour a pale green smudged by swathes of pink, its shape, perfectly round. It seemed almost sinful to bite this natural gift.

But bite it, I did – the juice, sweet and warm, seeped down my chin. Sitting down, I feasted on its flavour, savouring every bite as it salved my thirst and satisfied my yearning for sweetness – the perfect dessert.

As I sucked the last remnants of juice from the core, I knew why the St Pat's boys risked reprimand to feast on this forbidden fruit. Standing up, I reached for another but swiftly retracted my arm when I saw this was not my secret space – I was not alone in the orchard.

Tensing, I feared I was to be punished for feasting on what was not mine.

......

He stared at me through large, sad eyes – a donkey. I stared back, "Have you been here all this time?" I didn't expect an answer; it was me thinking aloud. Besides, I liked talking to animals; it was a source of comfort.

Donkey stood still, the only movement being his slow doe-eyed blink. We both stared for some time, staking each other out. Eventually, I made the first move and put one step forward. Donkey didn't flinch. But something behind him did, and I immediately took that step back.

My punishment was coming.

A man emerged from the foliage and stood alongside the donkey. I instantly became defensive, "I'm sorry, is this your orchard? I didn't mean to come. I just found it when I was trying to get back to my Granny's," I babbled.

He put a soot-blackened hand on the donkey's back. "There's no harm in us being here, the Smith's don't bother," he tilted his head backwards, "not like the bishop beyond at the college," he said, his voice slow and soothing. He smiled – one single tooth in the bottom of his mouth stood like a lone iceberg in a sea of black; it made me laugh, and I at once felt at ease with this man.

"What has you laughing?" he asked.

I checked myself and respectfully stopped giggling, "Nothing."

"I'm Gerard Smith," I said by way of introduction.

His gummy grin lit up his age-ravaged face, almost black with dirt, "You'd be a nephew of Jim and Margaret, home from England?"

"Yep, that's me."

His smile widened, "Then this is your orchard." He reached up, plucked a piece of fruit, and handed it to me, "Have another of your Granny Smith's apples."

His appearance struck me as I ate the apple. It was a hot day, yet he wore a heavy suit, complete with shirt and tie, fastened tight at the neck. Time had blackened his clothes, and when I looked at the shirt collar, I could only faintly see where the collar ended, and his neck began. The aged fabric had fused to his skin. I deduced that constant wear had glued the clothes to his body. My eyes travelled to his feet. He wore wellington boots, the bottoms of which were wrapped in newspaper, bound tightly with brown string that wound all the way up the boot to his knee, binding the boots to his lower legs.

His hand fumbled in his pocket, "Can you read?" he asked, pulling me from my private appraisal of his apparel.

"Yes, I'm a good reader for my age."

He moved towards me, the donkey shadowing his every move. When he stopped in front of me, his odour hit me – a stinging smoky smell that tickled my nose. He pulled from his pocket a blue piece of paper and handed it to me,

"Read this out for me, will ya."

I took the paper, "Can't you read?" I asked.

He nodded, "I can, but it's nice to hear someone else say the words," he said, with his solo toothed grin.

I opened the single piece of paper and looked at the handwriting in blue ink. It was joined up lettering, and I had to concentrate carefully to decipher it.

Eventually, I saw the words and read aloud – 'My Dear Johnnie. We had a terrible thunderstorm here, and Mrs Warren died of the fright. We were at her funeral yesterday. I hope you are keeping well. I am

great.

Do write soon.

Yours Evelyn.'

I looked to him; his head tilted sideways, his grin stretched wide, yet it was sadness that I saw on his face. Handing him back the letter, I asked, "Who's Evelyn?"

He gently folded the paper and placed it back in his pocket, "That's my sister."

With a jolt, my sister's predicament returned to me, "Why is Evelyn writing to you? Where's she gone?" I asked, trying to suppress my self- interest.

When Johnnie didn't immediately answer me, I imagined a place where Demon-Damned-Sisters were sent to die of fright simply by listening to the weather and other natural phenomena.

Stepping forward, I asked, "Johnnie, did something happen to Evelyn?"

When he looked at me, I saw his old eyes were wet, "I wouldn't know; she left home long ago."

"Why did she leave?" I asked.

With wistful eyes, he said, "Daddy passed to heaven, and not long after, Mammy joined him up above." He wiped an eye with the back of his palm, dampening the deep ravines that crisscrossed his aged face, "A lock-a-years later, Evelyn took a notion and off she left the homeplace." He swivelled his head, "She took the heart of the home with her, so she did." His grin returned, "But I have her letters; they're

a comfort to us, aren't they?" he said, patting the donkey's back.

His patting hand drew my attention to something I hadn't noticed, "There's grass growing on his back," I said, chuckling.

Johnnie giggled with me, "He has his own meadow, so he has," his hand brushing the grass.

I had an urge to bring the conversation back to his sister, "What's that thing you said Evelyn took, a notion?" I asked.

He thought a moment, "I wouldn't know." He paused before continuing, "Notions happen in people's heads; who knows what they are?"

Intrigued, I asked, "Are notions good or bad?"

He smiled, "They could be either, I suppose." I wanted to ask him if 'notions' were the same as 'possessions,' but I couldn't, partly because I was afraid of his answer, but more because I wasn't ready to talk about Maria with another human being.

No, I would keep my knowing between Crow and me – for now.

......

I liked my new friend, Johnnie. I felt Evelyn's 'notion,' and Maria's 'possession,' gave us a connection, and I promised to visit him again. But I'd left him in haste, as his letter had given me a thought. Maybe Maria was planning on leaving like Evelyn and was writing that postcard to me – I sprinted to The House in The Hollow, desperate to read the postcard.