A young boy watches wide-eyed on the hill above his hometown. In the distance, but nearing ever closer, is his father. He’s arriving home from a long trip away to a place his mum won’t talk about to do things his mum won’t tell him about until he’s own enough, whenever that’s supposed to be.
Gazing intently, he makes out his father’s figure. They’re close to the town gates now. The boy leaps into an uneven run down the narrow winding paths, past the orchards and thatch-roofed houses and onto the busy streets of the town.
He turns the corner to find a toppled cart in the way. There are apples everywhere, split and rolling. Wasps, sniffing out the fresh fruit make a bee line for the sticky mess.
Past the cart, and through the crowd, the boy spots his father, his green patchy jacket held over his shoulder. Brow furrowed, his dad looks about for him.
Impatience grips the boy. He hops on the spot. From foot to foot, he hops, squirming as he looks around for a way past.
There it is.
He leaps into action. Pursing his lips, he launches himself up onto the felled cart, swatting away greedy wasps with his free hand.
The owner of the cart shoots him an angry glare. Startled, the boy slips on the apple juice soaked wood of the cart. It rocks beneath his feet as he lets out a cry. Apples fly in all directions.
“You!” shrieks the owner of the cart. It was Mr. Hebbage, who’d caught him stealing from the orchards just last week.
But there was no time to try to calm Mr. Hebbage down again. His dad was at the gate and this would be the first time he’d seen him in months.
The boy leaps up to grab the supports of the balcony above him. And with the quickly drying apple juice lending his hands a little extra stickiness, he swings back and then forwards.
For a moment, he’s weightless. Time slows. In a swarm of wasps, as Mr. Hebbage grabs at his ankles, the boy flies through the air, waving his hands around him like the limbs of a scrawny apple sapling in a coastal storm.
His feet hit the stone path and he throws himself into a sprint. Swatting at the stinging bugs and swerving through the crowd as he leaves Mr. Hebbage behind. His dad is only paces away. And as the people part, he father turns towards him. His eyes catch his son’s and, without looking away, the boy grinds to a halt.
Panting, sticky and smelling of apples, he had made it. And dad was home.
ANDEY FELLOWES 