The Cottage
A quiet village near a small town in the Yorkshire Dales. Our cottage sits in a row right by the riverbank. Next door is the home of Barry and Margaret, followed by Grannys place. Beyond that, there are more houses, but they dont matter just now.
Barry bought the plot seven years ago, and construction began straight away. They brought in diggers, hired workers, laid gravel foundations, drove in piles, dug the pit, poured concrete, and built the house and the shed Work went on from May to September. Soon, an estate stood therea big house, a well, a summer kitchen, outbuildings, a shed, a garage, and more. Never a quiet moment! Barry didnt just give orders; he tied rebar, hauled logs, mixed concrete, and did the wiring. A proper hands-on bloke. Folks up north are patient. They understooda man was building a home, settling in for good.
All except Granny. Every day, her shrieking filled the air.
Morning. The bus from town pulls in. First off? Granny. Always first! Nobody called her anything elsejust «Granny.» Shed march to her cottage in a faded grey smock, a black headscarf, and scuffed shoes, clutching a battered tote bag and a five-litre jug of water. The river wasnt for drinkingtoo stagnant in summer. Most of us fetched «proper» water from town. Some had wells, but the water stank of sulphur, no matter how deep. Only good for watering plants. Those by the river used pumps and pipes. Except Barryhe had a proper well and a pump station.
But I digress.
Granny would storm onto her plot and start screechingthe tractor was too loud, the diesel stank, the workers talked too much, Barrys house would block the sun from her strawberries (though hed kept to all the rules) Theres always something to moan about, but Granny was a master at it. Barry was called every name under the suna brute, a swine, a right piece of work. The insults never stopped, only got fouler.
Barry kept building, ignoring her. But sometimes, during a smoke break by the fence, hed mutter in his deep voice:
«Granny, youre like a horsefly on a hot dayeither youll suck me dry or Ill have to swat you.»
«Go on, threaten me, you mangy dog!» shed bellow. «Ill burn your fancy house down, see if I dont! Who dyou think you are?»
No surprise, my summer wasnt exactly relaxing. I tried to stay away.
Years passed. Barry and I werent close, but we got on. Turned out he had two passionsclassic rock and tomatoes.
Hed play his stereo (not too loud) and head to the greenhouse. A proper setup he had, too. Knew everything about tomatoesnew varieties, fertilisers, schedules. Every spring, hed replace the soil, fumigate the greenhouse, layer manure and compost, hang thermal blankets to shield the plants from frost or scorching sun, set up infrared lamps Up north, its not like the southyou cant just plant and forget. Doors open in the morning, closed at night. Windy side shut, sheltered side open.
Ever heard a burly bloke talk to his tomatoes? I have. Like they were his kids. Gentle, coaxing. Pruning, feeding At work, he was tougha no-nonsense boss, strict but fair. But here? Well, Id never tell.
Forgot about Granny? So did we until we realised she hated rock. None of itnot Led Zeppelin, not The Stones, nothing. Every evening she stayed over, shed rant about «that racket» and the «lack of taste.»
Barry would seethe but never engage. At his limit, hed down half a pint of whisky, growl, switch off the music, and stomp inside. And yes, he did this daily. A man his size could handle it, but it wore on him.
Then came the flood. Rain poured for weeksthe moors soaked it up at first, but the river swelled. Logs, fences, dog kennels, shedsall swept away. Villagers marked the rising water, and when word spread that the low roads were flooding, panic set in. Cars fled, buses stopped. Barry held out but finally left in his Land Rover.
Halfway out, he rememberedGranny had been in her garden yesterday. He turned back.
«Leave me, you devil!» she snapped. «Ive moved my things to the loft. I wont abandon my homeitll be looted!»
Some cottages were submerged. Ours stayed dry, the water stopping inches short. A week later, we returned. Barry came to mine with a bottle.
«Steve, I dont get it,» he said. «The greenhouse was watered, doors open. I know I left it shutI was in a rush, the water was rising! Asked aroundeveryone left.»
«Except Granny.»
«Except Granny,» he echoed, glancing toward her place. «But weve been at each others throats for years!»
«Except Granny,» I repeated.
«Cant believe it.» He knocked back his drink.
«Except Granny,» I said again.
He left, lost in thought.
Granny returned the next day, hauling water in bucketsher little pump mustve been washed away. Slipped twice, soaked through, but didnt curse.
Barry left again, engine growling. Granny caught the evening bus. That night, hammering and sawing came from his place.
«Neighbour,» I asked next morning, «who were you wrestling with last night?»
«Bought some pipes and fittings. Grannys gone, so I ran a line from my pump to her plot. Saw her crawling along the bank, didnt I?»
Two weeks later, Barry invited me for the first tomatoes and a barbecue. «7 PM sharp.»
I brought whisky and homemade wine. He was at the grill.
«Shall we wait or start?» I asked.
«Give it 15 minutes.»
«Who for? Toms already here.»
«Youll see.»
A knock at the gate. In walked Granny.
But not the Granny we knew. Hair neatly tied, a floral dress, smart sandals, a lace shawl, even amber beads.
«Room for one more?» she smiled.
«Come in, Mary,» Barry said warmly.
I was gobsmacked.
We sat late into the nightkebabs, drinks, stories. Mary spoke of her childhood in the orphanage, raising two kids alone after her husband died, her 40 years on the railways Then she and Margaret sang old tunes while Barry and I listened, smoked, and smiled.
«Barry,» she said later, «Margaret told me youre skipping the spa trip over your tomatoes. Go! Ill water them, open the doors. Dont fret.»
«Was it you,» I blurted, «who saved them during the flood?»
«Aye. Saw how much work hed put in. And the way he talked to them!» She cackled, shooting Barry a look. «Felt sorry for the poor plants!»
Barry took that holiday.
After, we still listened to rockbut only from noon till two. For Mary.
Sometimes, kindness blooms where you least expect it. Even between a rock lover and his thorny neighbour.
