Chapter 9
Jack had woken a full sixteen minutes before his alarm was set to sound, roused by some internal clock that had regulated his life since boyhood.
He lay still for a moment, listening to the calming silence of the land before the birds fully woke, his body already preparing for the day ahead, muscles remembering the previous one’s work.
The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he padded to the window. The first hint of peach-gold light was just beginning to illuminate the eastern edge of the orchard. Morning mist hung between the rows of trees, transforming the familiar landscape into something almost ethereal.
Jack rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the rough callouses on his palms scraping against his stubbled face.
The cottage was small but sufficient – a two-bed stone structure that had housed generations of Flynns before him.
The walls were thick, the ceilings low, everything built to withstand the elements rather than impress visitors.
The few furnishings were practical and well worn: an oak table his great-grandfather had apparently crafted from an ancient tree felled in a long-ago storm; the leather armchair by the hearth, its arms polished smooth by decades of use; the dresser stacked with neatly folded work clothes, nothing fancy.
Family photographs lined the mantelpiece in simple frames – his parents on their wedding day, a much younger one of his father, Tom, grinning with one arm slung over his mam’s shoulder.
Another solo shot of his mother, Margaret, in her nursing uniform.
The most prominent was a faded color snapshot of Jack himself at age ten, outside their old house, standing proudly beside his father with a bushel of apples between them.
In the photo, Jack’s smile revealed a missing front tooth, and Tom’s eyes crinkled with pride.
The cottage kitchen was compact and utilitarian. Jack filled the kettle and flicked it on with the practiced movements of daily ritual. While the water heated, he pulled back the curtains to let in the strengthening dawn light.
On a peg by the sink hung his father’s chipped mug – white ceramic with an old Liverpool FC logo in faded letters, the handle repaired with epoxy after a drop years ago.
Jack reached for it without hesitation, as he did every morning.
The ritual was so ingrained he scarcely thought about it anymore – three Barry’s tea bags into the pot, two minutes of steeping, then pour and the splash of milk added last. The comforting scent filled the kitchen as he poured, and wolfed down two slices of buttered toast.
Tom Flynn’s battered leather jacket hung by the door, its brown surface cracked and softened by years of work in all weather.
Jack ran his fingers over the still-damp collar as he pulled it on.
Outside, his work boots waited on the stone step, mud from yesterday’s labor and heavy rain still drying on them.
He tugged them on without sitting, balancing on each foot in turn with the ease of long practice.
As he straightened, he pulled his phone from the pocket of his flannel shirt and checked the weather app – clear morning, showers by afternoon.
Jack scoffed. We’ll see about that. Though he scrolled through the extended forecast with a frown, noting the projected overnight temps in particular. Early frost was always a concern this time of year all the same.
The door hinges protested with a metallic groan as he stepped outside, mug still in hand.
The orchard stretched before him in neat rows, trees planted with mathematical precision decades before his birth.
Morning mist lingered between them, curling around trunks and softening the edges of leaves and fruit.
Dew glittered on the grass beneath his feet as he walked, each step releasing the sharp scent of crushed blades.
The rising sun caught the eastern edges of the land, painting the uppermost branches in gold while the ground remained in cool shadow.
Jack cradled his tea in both hands, letting its warmth seep into his palms as he walked the first row of trees.
These were Cavan Russets, one of the oldest varieties, their fruit just beginning to develop the characteristic brownish patches that gave them their name.
He stopped at the third tree, setting his mug on the ground before running his hands along a low-hanging branch, fingers gentle but knowing.
‘Morning, old girl,’ he murmured, voice rough.
His fingertips traced the junction where branch met trunk, checking for the slight swelling that might indicate disease.
Finding nothing concerning, he moved to inspect the leaves; deep green and firm, healthy despite the dry spell they’d had in August. The fruit was sizing up nicely, each apple already displaying the distinctive flattened shape that marked the variety.
He continued along the row, his inspection both systematic and intimate. To an outsider, the trees might look identical, but Jack knew each one’s quirks and tendencies, could tell you which had suffered storm damage three seasons back, which had struggled with aphids last spring.
The eastern section held the Kilkenny Pearmains, their slightly conical fruit still predominantly green with just a hint of the crimson blush that would deepen as harvest approached.
Jack gave particular attention to a tree near the center of the block, which had shown signs of stress the previous season.
‘Better,’ he said quietly, tracing a calloused thumb over new growth that signaled recovery. ‘But we’ll keep an eye on you.’
Birds called from the trees, their dawn chorus in full voice.
A robin watched him with bright, curious eyes from a nearby branch, head tilted as if evaluating Jack’s work.
In the distance, he could hear the occasional vehicle passing on the lane that connected Goldenridge to the village – the world beyond the orchard boundaries slowly coming to life.
By the time Jack reached the cider press house, morning had fully arrived.
The building stood at the western edge of the main orchard by the main gate, its limestone walls and slate roof weathered by more than a century of Irish seasons.
Ivy climbed one corner, its glossy leaves contrasting with the rough-textured stone.
The heavy wooden door creaked as Jack pushed it open, releasing the layered scents of apple wood, fermentation, and the faint metallic tang of the old press machinery.
Inside, sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating the press itself at the center of the space – a massive copper structure reinforced with iron bands, its wooden slats darkened by decades of use.
Along one wall, stainless steel fermentation tanks gleamed, their modern efficiency a stark contrast to the traditional equipment beside them.
Jack crossed to the small office tucked in the corner, where a battered old desk held the orchard’s ledgers and paperwork.
He pulled out the chair – the same one his grandfather had used – and sat heavily, the wood groaning beneath his weight.
The previous season’s production records lay open where he’d left them, pages filled with neat columns of figures in his precise handwriting.
He pulled a more recent ledger from the drawer and flipped it open, comparing the numbers with furrowed brow.
The story they told wasn’t encouraging – costs rising steadily each year while wholesale prices remained stubbornly fixed.
Energy bills, equipment maintenance, extra labor during the harvest – everything demanded a higher spend while customers balked at even modest price increases.
Jack’s fingers tightened around his pen as he jotted calculations in the margin.
Goldenridge cider line was holding its own, winning awards and commanding higher prices from specialty shops and select pubs.
But the retail apple business – once the orchard’s reliable backbone – was being squeezed by massive commercial operations and imported fruit.
His knuckles whitened as he flipped to the next page, where projected expenses for the coming quarter were listed.
The irrigation system needed repairs, the cold storage facility was operating at reduced efficiency, and the small tractor they used for hauling bins during harvest was becoming increasingly temperamental with age.
Each item represented an expense they could ill afford.
The business wasn’t failing – not yet – but the trend lines pointed toward a future that made Jack’s jaw clench and his shoulders tighten with tension.
Four generations of Flynns had weathered agricultural hardships on this land, adapting and persevering through changing markets and challenging seasons.
He closed the ledger with a decisive snap, unable to stare at the troubling figures any longer.
The press house suddenly felt confining despite its spacious interior, the weight of responsibility pressing down like a physical force.
Jack stood, pushing the chair back perhaps more forcefully than necessary, and moved to the doorway.
He drew a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. The figures in the ledger told one story, but the orchard before him told another – one of persistence, resilience, and the steady rhythms of a life measured in seasons rather than quarterly reports.
His mind drifted back to earlier this year when three men had appeared at his gate unannounced.
The memory still burned like acid – their gleaming rental car raising dust on the gravel drive, their aftershave detectable before they’d even stepped from the vehicle.
Three identical suits in varying shades of gray, with identical smiles that assessed the orchard in terms of square footage and profit potential rather than the living heritage it represented.