Sunny Days in the Orchard

A David Sands Competition story by Helen L Brady

Oct 06, 2025

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Sunny Days in the Orchard by Helen L Brady

Sunny days weren’t the time for ghost stories. They were for firesides, and flickering candles in the dark, for shadows in the hallways and dark nights at All Hallow’s Eve. So why under bright, midday sunshine in their orchard full of leafy trees and beginning-to-ripen apples… did she have that chill down her spine, that creepy feeling she was being watched?

She paused and looked around her – she couldn’t see anybody. Perhaps it was her imagination? She’d snuck out from the house with her set work only half done because it was so hot and stuffy inside; she wanted to feel the soft breeze on her face and look up into the sky. She loved looking up at green leaves against the blue, and it was almost cloudless at the moment, just a few trailing puffs of white, so tenuous you’d have trouble imagining dream shapes into the slowly drifting wisps.

Maybe it was one of the farmer’s lads from next door spying on her. She knew they would come at dusk when the apples were getting riper, to pilfer a few to gnaw on as they swaggered down to the inn in the village; full of bravado and eager to try and cajole the barmaid back to the barn. She’s heard them before as they passed. She was too well hidden for them to see her, but she heard them:

‘’Ere John-Jo – try tellin’ ‘er she’s in fer a treat iffen she comes back to the hen-house fer a look at that mighty cock of yourn!’

‘Aye, John-Jo – tell ‘er she can stroke its feathers!’

‘I’d let ‘er do more than stroke it,’ called John-Jo, making a performance of holding his groin and waggling his hips. The other two laughed and all three pretended to crow as they strode down the track towards the village.

At the time, she had turned away in disgust, wrinkling her nose and pursing her lips. ‘Boys…!’ she’d muttered. Then, careful to make sure they’d gone, she’d climbed out from her hiding place behind the kink in the stone wall. There was a buttress there, designed to strengthen that part of the wall where the junction didn’t run true. She’d pulled out all the nettles and torn up the brambles some time ago. Now there was a grassy, dusty earthed patch, snug for a girl to hide in when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

That had been a few weeks ago. The bedroom she shared wasn’t close enough to the hen-house and barns to hear if the bar-maid really had been stupid enough to believe tales of a prize-winning cockerel. But now… it was well into harvest-time; the weather was fine – those lads would be hard at work in the fields getting in the wheat. Then why did she feel she was being watched? And by who?

She began to feel a bit cross as the thought of being caught, or chased away, soured her mood. She’d planned this since early in the morning – she would get ahead of her tasks, and then grab some bread and cheese and come down here to her special place. No one would miss her for at least an hour. She could settle down in the sun, her back against the rough stones and watch the changing patterns of the leaves against the sky. This was her time to just sit and be idle… no, not idleness… she was finding her inner peace.

She’d heard a friend of her father’s say that, when he’d visited some while ago. He was bringing news from the town, the problems: the government useless, taxes going up, foreigners working for low wages, taking bread from the mouths of locals, thieves right and left. He’d said to her father, ‘you must enjoy your inner peace down here,’. Here father had agreed and told the man to let him know when there was more news from parliament. She didn’t really know or care about news from the city, but she’d liked that phrase, “inner peace”.

Now she was on her way, carefully and quietly, to her special place at the far-end of the orchard, and unaccountably… she felt she was being watched. She’d paused at the gate to the orchard and made a performance of holding her stomach and leaning forward and moaning softly – if one of the dairy workers, or somebody from the household was watching, maybe they’d think she was having her monthlies and leave her alone. She’d had a good look around as she pretended to be in pain. No one was in sight. She’d slipped through the gate and skuttled beyond the berry bushes to the first rows of apple trees.

But she still felt strangely uneasy, though at least she knew she couldn’t be seen from the house. And of course… there couldn’t be anything …uncanny out here – not on a bright sunny day like this. Then she saw it. Somebody had assembled a ramshackle, flat-roofed, stone shack at the far side of the orchard against the wall – nearly on top of her special place! The nerve of them!

She stood stock still, then quickly darted behind a tree-trunk. How could they have got here and done that without anybody seeing? And the stones – had they pilfered slabs from the wall to build it? Her father would be furious about that! She peered carefully out from behind the trunk – no, the rest of the wall looked intact. She also realised, the slender apple tree wasn’t much of a hiding place – what if there was somebody in the shack? They could see her if they came to the door, but at least there weren’t any windows… So why had they built it here? It was their land, so the farmer can’t have built it for his animals. Her father didn’t like the smell of goats so he wouldn’t have had a pen built for them… not here. The pigs were only let into the orchard to forage after the apples had ripened and fallen – too soon for it to be for them. And too dark if there were no windows. Old William always said pigs need what humans need: light, air, plenty of good food and a place to shit. He was a bit coarse, was Old William… and a bit smelly. Cook wouldn’t have him in the kitchen parlour – he had to eat his supper in the porch or the outside pantry. Not that he minded much, he’d just cackle and say dining under the stars was fit for a king.

She looked around and spotted some gooseberry bushes that had been left to get tall and overgrown. She scurried over and crouched behind them so she could watch the shack. Maybe it was Old William watching her? No, she was pretty sure she’d have caught a whiff of him by now. Just then she spotted two figures edging along the inside of the orchard wall, trying to look inconspicuous; they didn’t quite skuttle or slink, but they clearly were up to no good. The one carried a covered basket and one had a bundle under one arm.

She crouched lower so she could peer through the gooseberries rather than over the top of the bushes. There was a spiky haired man, not all that tall, carrying the bundle, and a short woman with a long plait of red hair hanging down her back, carried the basket. Her linen cap was on crooked and obviously her hair had come unpinned. She was scolding the man who had clearly fallen into something wet, all his clothes and the bundle were heavily splattered with thick shiny mud. Then she did catch a whiff… perhaps it wasn’t mud that he’d fallen into. The woman was clearly pretty cross about it. They got to the door, the woman said a word and it opened. She went inside, but put her hand on the man’s chest and made him pause. Whatever she said to him, he sat down meekly on the floor, bundle at his side, and began to unlace his boots. He took them off, then he unlaced his trousers and pealed them off. They were soaking wet and thick with… something definitely pig related; she could smell it quite strongly now.

She could also see the man’s well-shaped, quite muscular bare legs. His shirt was white where it had been tucked in, but above the waist at the front it was dark with mud. He stripped off his jacket, and she gasped – it looked like he was about to strip off his under-shirt – and he’d be naked! She swallowed and briefly debated whether she should close her eyes… but then, she had seen her baby brothers naked – a grown man couldn’t be that much different…

Her rapt anticipation was disappointed; the woman appeared back at the door with a bucket of water and threw it over him. The man yelped and let go of the hem of his shirt, which fell back into place. She immediately picked up a second bucket from inside the doorway and threw that over him too. He yelped again and protested, though she couldn’t quite catch all he said. There must be someone else inside the shack filling buckets for her… and where was the water coming from?

She was open-mouthed now, avidly watching the rather nice-looking man hopping from one bare leg to the other. The red-head pointed to his boots, bundle and trousers – evidently, they needed washing off as well. The woman went inside leaving the door open. There was another man with them! He came to the door, handed over a re-filled bucket, and started laughing at the sight of the bedraggled man, who was trying to wipe himself down with his hands. The soaking wet shirt clung tightly to the man’s body, outlining the muscles of his chest. He turned his back to her when he bent over to pick up his trousers and suddenly, she had a brief view of some very well-shaped pale buttocks and…

She gasped loudly and clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound. Both men evidently heard something, their heads snapped up and they both looked directly towards her. She crouched lower. When she ventured a glance seconds later; they had evidently poured water over the trousers and boots and were hurrying back inside grasping the wet clothes and bundle in their arms. It was only a few moments after that it was… gone! She blinked. She rubbed her eyes – the shack wasn’t there anymore. Not a sound, not even a whisper it had just vanished. She crossed herself and muttered a quick prayer against fiends from hell, then stopped, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to do that in public… but there had been men there - the one was certainly a grown man. She blushed at the memory of the brief flash that proved his manhood. Or were they demons? Or ghosts, were they ghosts?

Strangely, that curious feeling of being watched had also gone. She stood up slowly and made her way forward one hesitant step at a time. She didn’t know why she was surprised to see the large wet patch on the ground, and the flattened grass and nettles. Something had been there – it wasn’t a dream or her imagination. She opened her mouth with the half-formed thought of shouting for help… then closed it again. What could she tell the servants when they came running to her shouts? What could she tell her father and brothers when they wanted to know what she was doing out here on her own – when she knew there were militia men around from the pesky Parliamentarian Army. The King was a captive and was going to be put on trial; they said Parliament wanted him dead. They were still looking for his eldest son, Prince Charles. Once they’d captured him, the word was, they’d take revenge on all the landowners who supported the Crown, like her father… They might even be on their way here to drag him and her brothers away, even as she stood there.

No - better to say nothing about strangers in the orchard. Especially ones that vanished in the blink of an eye. They were just summer ghosts, sent to tease her with lewd thoughts, she told herself primly… But …she smiled at the thought, he had had a very nice arse!

Discussion about this post

Ready for more?