The Cottage
A small holiday village near a quiet town in Yorkshire. Our cottage sits in a row right by the riverbank. Next door is the home of Gary and Sharon, and just beyond that is Grannys place. Further along, of course, there are more houses, but they dont matter right now.
Gary bought his plot about seven years ago, and the building work started straight away. They brought in machinery, hired labourers, laid a gravel foundation, drove in piles, dug the pit, poured concrete, and put up a house and a sauna Work went on from May to September. Soon, an estate stood therea big house, a well, a summer kitchen, sheds, a sauna, a garage, and so on. Peace was hard to come by! Gary didnt just give orders; he tied rebar, hauled logs, mixed concrete, and wired the electricity himself. A proper hands-on bloke. People in Yorkshire are patient. They understood a man was building something lasting, not just a quick summer retreat.
Except Granny.
Every morning, her shouts pierced the air.
The bus from town pulls up. Granny steps off firstalways first! Nobody ever called her anything else. She rushes to her little house in a faded grey smock, a black headscarf, and scuffed shoes, clutching a battered oversized bag and a five-litre jug of water. We dont drink from the riverits not fresh mountain water but sluggish from the marshes, blooming green in summer. Most of us haul drinking water from town. Some have wells, but the water always stinks of sulphur, whether the wells twenty, forty, or sixty feet deep. Good only for watering plants. Those by the river have submersible pumps piping water straight inexcept Gary. His well has a pump station.
But I digress.
Granny storms onto her plot, and the screeching begins. The tractors too loud, the diesel fumes stink, the pile-driving shakes the ground, the workers talk too much, Garys house blocks the sun from her strawberries (though all the regulations were followed) Theres always something to moan about, but Granny was a *professional*. Gary was every name under the suna brute, a swine, a right git The insults never stopped, each one fouler than the last.
Gary kept building. He tried to ignore the shrieking.
But sometimes, stepping out for a smoke by the fence, hed mutter in his deep voice,
«Youre like a horsefly on a hot day, Granny. Either youll drain me dry, or Ill have to swat you.»
«Go on, threaten me again, you rotten sod!» shed bellow. «Ill burn your fancy house down! Think you can scare me?»
You can imagine what my summers were like. I tried to stay away.
A couple of years passed. Gary and I never became close, but we got on well. Turned out he had two passions: classic rock and tomatoes.
Hed put on his stereonot too loudand disappear into his massive greenhouse. Gary knew *everything* about tomatoes. He tracked every new variety, followed feeding schedules to the letter, replaced the soil every spring after fumigating the greenhouse, layered manure and compost, draped the inside with fleece to shield the plants from sun and frost, installed infrared lamps
Yorkshire isnt the south, where you just plant and water. Here, tomatoes are *work*. Open the greenhouse doors at dawn, close them at dusk. If its chilly or rainy, only open the leeward side
Ever heard a burly bloke talk to tomatoes like theyre his kids? I have. Gentle, coaxing, pinching off suckers, feeding them A proper softie. And yet, back in town, word was Gary was a tough bossfirm, fair, but no pushover. Wouldnt have guessed it.
Forgot about Granny? Big mistake. Turns out, she *hated* rock. Not The Clash, not Queen, not Pink Floyd Every daysometimes even at night if she stayed overwed hear her commentary on the musicians «racket» and Garys «awful taste.»
Gary seethed but never argued. At breaking point, hed knock back half a pint of whiskey, growl, switch off the music, and stomp inside. And mind you, the volume was reasonablefine for me and the neighbours.
Except Granny.
That year, the floods came. Rain poured for weeks. The moors soaked up what they could, but the river swelled, carrying off logs, fences, dog kennels, uprooted trees, sheds Terrifying. People marked the rising water with sticks, and when word spread that the lowlands were flooding, folks fled, fearing their cars would drown. Buses stopped running. Those without cars walked. Not quite panic, but close. The streets emptied.
Gary held out till the last minute, then tore off in his Land Rover. He got halfway before rememberingGranny had been in her garden the day before. He turned back.
«Go on without me, you devil!» she snapped. «Ive moved my things to the roof. I wont abandon my homeitll be looted!»
Some cottages were swallowed. Ours stayed dry, the water stopping just inches short. For a week, we didnt know. Gary and I phoned each other. He was beside himself. Not about the house or gardenhed forgotten to open the *greenhouse*. Sunny days, no water his tomatoes would *die*.
When the water receded, we returned. Gary came over with a bottle of whiskey, and we drank.
«Steve, I dont get it,» he said. «I got back, and the greenhouse was watered. Doors open. I *know* I didnt do itI left in a rush!»
I shrugged. «Only Granny stayed.»
«Granny?!» He scowled toward his houseand hers. «No way. Were sworn enemies!»
«Only Granny.»
«I dont believe it.» He drained his glass.
«Only Granny,» I said again.
Gary left in silence, deep in thought.
Granny caught the first bus back to town when the roads cleared. She returned the next day, lugging water for her gardenher little pump mustve been washed away. She slipped twice, soaked herself, but never swore.
Gary left and came back later, engine growling. Granny caught the evening bus.
That night, sawing and hammering came from Garys place.
«Neighbour,» I said next morning, «who were you fighting last night?»
«Bought pipes and fittings yesterday. Granny left, so I ran a line from my pump to her plot. Saw her crawling along the bank»
Two weeks later, Gary invited me over for the first tomatoes and a barbecue. Be there by seven. I brought whiskey and a couple of bottles of homemade wine.
«Shall we wait for the food, or have one now?» I asked.
«Nah, Steve. Give it fifteen minutes.»
«Who we waiting for? Toms already here.»
«Youll see.»
A knock at the gate. In walked *Granny*.
But not as I knew her. Her grey hair was neat, her floral dress clean, sandals on her feet, a pretty shawl over her shoulders. Even amber beads around her neck!
«Mind if I join you?» she smiled.
«Come in, Mary,» Gary grinned.
I was floored. *No way.*
We sat late into the night, eating, drinking, talking. Mary told us about her lifegrowing up in an orphanage, raising two kids alone after her husband died, her forty years on the railways
Then she and Sharon sang old songs.
Gary and I listened, smoked, smiled. Drank quietly.
«Gary,» Mary said later, «Sharon mentioned a spa trip. You should go. Ill water your tomatoes. Open and close the greenhouse. Dont worry.»
«Was it you?» I blurted. «During the floodyou watered them?»
«Course. Saw how much work hed put in. And the way he *talked* to them!» She cackled, shooting Gary a look. «Felt sorry for the *tomatoes*!»
Gary took that spa trip.
After he got back, we listened to rock againbut only from noon till two. For *Mary*.
