Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all Ive got left, shouted the neighbour over the hedge.
Mrs. Daisy Thompson, you ought to at least get to know the people next door, said Mrs. Dorothy Parker, handing me a steaming apple pie. In a village you cant live without neighbours. You never know when the water will burst or the lights go out.
I dabbed my hands on my apron and took the heavy tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the tiny kitchen of the old cottage Id inherited from my mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Parker, but Im rather shy, I said, forcing a smile. I came out here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
Ah, love, I understand, the old lady nodded, fixing a stray silver strand that had slipped from under her headscarf. Your mother, Margaret Hill, was a good woman, a bright spirit. Still, you should at least say hello to Mrs. Violet Simmons over the fence. Shes been living on the righthand side for about thirty years. She and Mum never got along, but neighbours always lend a hand when needed.
I smiled politely, though I was already picturing myself sipping tea alone while leafing through Mums old photo album. After my divorce I finally got a break from the advertising agency, and I decided to spend it in a quiet village about 180 miles north of London, sorting the inheritance, fixing the garden, and trying to mend my bruised heart.
When Mrs. Parker left, I changed into my faded jeans and a plain Tshirt, tied a small kerchief around my hair, and stepped into the garden. Mums plot was overrun with weeds nobody had tended it for almost a year since she passed. There was a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, tidy the beds, and repair the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, I began snipping the wild raspberry bushes that hugged the property line. The thorns snagged my sleeves and scratched my fingers, yet the work oddly soothed me. Physical fatigue dulled my emotional ache.
Suddenly a rustle came from the other side of the fence, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Margarets land?
I straightened up and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face peering over the fence. She wore a faded cotton scarf and clutched a pair of garden scissors.
Good day, I replied politely. Im Eleanor Hill, Margarets daughter. I inherited this house.
She squinted, studying me.
Your mother had a daughter? She never mentioned you.
A sting hit my chest. Yes, my relationship with Mum had always been strained. After my parents divorce I stayed with my father in London while she moved back to the family home. We spoke only on holidays.
We havent been close for years, I murmured. And you must be Mrs. Violet Simmons? Mrs. Parker told me about you.
Parker? the neighbour snorted. Shes the gossip who roams the village with her pies, always digging up news. Yes, Im Violet. Ive lived here since your mother was a schoolgirl with braids.
I imagined Mum as a young lass.
Lovely to meet you. I think Ill be here for a while, get the garden in order.
Violet surveyed the tangled beds.
Margaret let the place run wild last year. She was very ill, never got to the garden. I helped as best I could, but my backs giving out now. She frowned. Leave those raspberries alone. Theyre practically grafted onto my fence. If you damage them Ill lose my winter supply.
Ill be careful, I promised, surprised by the sudden harshness.
The whole day I cleared paths, cut dry branches, and pulled weeds. By dusk my hands throbbed, but my spirit felt lighter. There was something right about returning to the earth, to my roots.
The next morning I awoke to an odd noise. Looking out, I saw Violet fussing by the fence separating our plots. I dressed quickly and went out.
Morning, I called. Did you lose something?
She startled, holding a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off.
Im collecting slugs, she muttered. Theyre crawling out of your side and eating my strawberries.
Im sorry, I havent got around to treating the beds yet, I said, blushing. Ill deal with them today. Want a hand?
No, Ill manage, she snapped. Just watch your fence. Its falling apart; otherwise my tomatoes will tumble.
I glanced at the dilapidated wooden fence several boards rotted, posts leaning. Behind it, Violets garden boasted neat rows of tomato plants, their vines tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, promise. Maybe you could advise me? Im no handyman.
Violet softened a touch.
Youll need Mr. Peter Clarke. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. Hes cheap and honest.
Thank you, Ill call him.
The days slipped by as I organized Mums belongings, occasionally pausing to flip through her old album or simply sit and remember. Each morning I watched Violet tending her tomatoes, speaking to the plants, gently binding new shoots, and spraying them with some homemade mixture.
What a fine crop you have, I remarked one day while watering my own beds. Ive never seen such large tomatoes.
Violet straightened, pride shining in her eyes.
Theyre Bullheart tomatoes, an heirloom. Margaret always envied me for growing them. She was a city girl, never had a green thumb.
Could you show me how to look after them? Id love to grow a few next season.
She eyed me suspiciously.
Whats the point? Youll probably spend a week here in summer and then rush back to London. Wholl tend them?
Im not planning to return yet, I replied quietly. After the divorce I want to start afresh, maybe here.
A flicker of somethingsympathy or understandingcrossed her face.
Fine, Ill tell you if youre interested. Come over this evening, well have tea.
That night I took Dorothys apple pie and walked to Violets cottage. Her house was as old as my own, but impeccably kept. The porch was freshly painted, curtains starched, no dust in sight.
Over tea, Violet spoke of her tomatoes as if they were children.
The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild potassium permanganate solution, then germinate them in warmth. I plant only on certain days according to the lunar calendar
I listened, amazed at her encyclopedic knowledge, and the conversation slipped into other topics.
Wheres your husband? she asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyone nowadays has two or three.
I sighed. I rarely talked about my personal life, but in that simple kitchen, words flowed.
My ex, Sergey, and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, went to doctors, nothing. He later met a younger colleague who got pregnant straight away. Hes now with a new family and a little girl.
Goodness, what a fool, Violet said bluntly. Youve got a kind heart and strong hands. Losing a woman like you would be nonsense.
Her straightforwardness warmed my chest.
The next day I hired Peter Clarke to mend the fence. While he worked, I kept busy with the beds, edging closer to the boundary. I noticed several of Violets large tomato bushes leaning toward my fence, their fruit heavy enough to bend the branches.
Mrs. Simmons! I called. May I help you tie the tomatoes? Theyre sagging.
She didnt answer. I decided to act alone, fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed, and slipped my hand through the gap in the fence to steady the drooping vines.
A piercing shout rang out:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! the neighbour screamed, rushing toward me from the other side of the fence.
I jerked my hand back, grazing a nail on the fence.
I only wanted to help theyre falling
No help needed! Violet huffed, her face flushing crimson. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep on doing it!
Peter, still nearby, shook his head.
Dont take it to heart, love, he said. Those tomatoes are like children to Violet. After her son died in a crash, they became her whole world.
I stared at the angry neighbour, now gently coaxing the tomato vines, murmuring affectionate words. The scene took on a new, tender light.
That night sleep eluded me; I kept replaying Violets fury and sorrow. At dawn I marched back to her garden.
Mrs. Simmons, Im sorry for yesterday, I said, meeting her wary eyes. I didnt mean to upset you. I was only worried the plants would break.
She stayed silent, lips pressed.
I thought, I continued, perhaps I could come by to water and weed for you? And in return you could teach me how to look after tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
Violet lingered, weighing my offer.
Alright, she finally said. Come tomorrow at six. Do everything exactly as I tell you, no improvising.
Thus began our earlymorning sessions. I arrived at sunrise and we worked side by side. She was a stern tutor, correcting every movement, demanding I redo anything she deemed wrong. Gradually her criticism softened, and occasionally she gave a approving nod.
One day, after we finished tying new shoots, she opened up unexpectedly.
My son, Michael, was my pride. He was bright, studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike and tragically crashed on the highway at twentythree.
I listened, holding my breath.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart failure, she went on. I kept living, not knowing why. Then spring came and I planted these tomatoes, thinking it would be my last garden. They grew, and I realized as long as they thrive, I have a reason to live. Ive tended them for twenty years, ever since Michael was taken.
I see now why you guard them so fiercely, I whispered. They mean more than just fruit to you.
Your mother understood, Violet said, nodding. We never got along, our temperaments clashed. But when I fell ill three years ago, she visited daily, watering my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she returned, the plants were still healthy, and we finally made peace.
A smile spread across my face as I imagined Mum tending to Violets garden.
You know, I found Mums diary. She wrote about you: Violet stubborn as a mule, but with a heart of gold. And the tomatoes marvels.
Tears welled in Violets eyes, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron.
She was lovely. A shame you didnt speak more. She spoke of you all the time, showed photographs.
Really? I asked, surprised. I thought shed forgotten about me
Never, dear! She was proud of you, always bragging about how clever you are, how you work at a big firm in London. She just felt shy visiting you, saying you were too busy and your flat was tiny.
A lump rose in my throat. So much left unsaid between Mum and me, so many missed chances.
Lets have another cup of tea, Violet said suddenly. I baked a cherry pie yesterday.
Over tea we talked about Mum, the past, and village life. She recounted amusing anecdotes about Margaret, and I felt I was meeting my mother anew.
You know, she said, why dont you stay the night tomorrow? The full moon is perfect for soaking seed trays for next year. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? I asked, astonished. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? she retorted. Your mother was Margaret Hill. Youve got her handsjust need practice.
A genuine smile lit my face. For the first time in ages I felt Id found a place. In the old family house, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among rows of apple trees and tomatoes.
I think Ill remain here for good, I admitted. I can work remotely, pop into London on weekends, and I reckon Mum would be pleased.
Violet nodded, as if my decision were inevitable.
Of course, stay. A house without an owner feels lonely. And I still need help with my tomatoes; one pair is a burden enough. Perhaps youll grow yours, not worse than mine.
Beyond the fence, Violets prideful Bullheart tomatoes glistened, while beside them tiny green seedlings wed planted together a month earlier peeped out.
Next year, Violet said, gazing at them tenderly, well harvest a crop thatll make the whole village jealous.
I looked at my handscalloused from the soil, dirt clinging under my nails. They were no longer just keyboard warriors; they could plant, weed, water. Hands that felt as though they belonged to Mum.
Thank you, Mrs. Violet Simmons, I whispered. For the tomatoes, the stories about Mum for everything.
She waved a hand, her smile softening.
Nothing to it. Neighbours look after each other. Your mother would have understood.
We stood by the fenceno longer a barrier but a link between our plots and our lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of duties and joys, then autumn with its bounty, winter with its preserves and plans, and spring again when wed plant together. In this simple cycle of rural life, I finally discovered the home, the belonging, the continuation Id been searching for.
The tale of ordinary tomatoes mending old wounds and joining two solitary souls reminds us that the simplest things can hold deep meaning and healing power.
