Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all Ive got left, shouted the neighbour over the hedge.
I reckon you should at least say hello to the folks next door first, said Dorothy Parker, handing over a steaming apple crumble. You cant live out here without neighbours. You never know when a pipe might burst or the power goes out.
Eleanor Whitaker dabbed her hands on her apron and took the heavy tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the tiny kitchen of the old cottage shed inherited from her mum.
Thanks, Dorothy, but Im not much for chatting, Eleanor said with an embarrassed smile. I came here for peace and to sort through Mums things.
Darling, I understand, the old lady nodded, tucking a stray grey curl back under her headscarf. Marthas place was a lovely home. Still, you ought to at least wave to Violet Simmons over the fence. Shes been living there for about thirty years. She and your mum never got along, but neighbours always look after each other.
Eleanor gave a small nod, though in her head she was already picturing herself sipping tea alone while leafing through her mothers old photo album. After her divorce she finally snagged a break from the advertising agency and decided to spend it in a quiet village about 186 miles northwest of London, sorting the inheritance and fixing up the garden, trying to stitch up old wounds.
When Dorothy left, Eleanor changed into her old jeans and tee, tied a bandana around her hair and stepped into the garden. Mums plot had gone wild with weeds no one had tended it for nearly a year since she passed. There was a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, tidy the beds, mend the sagging fence.
Armed with secateurs, she started clipping the overgrown raspberry bushes right at the edge of the property. The thorny shoots snagged her shirt and nicked her fingers, but somehow the labour soothed her. The physical tiredness dulled the ache inside.
A rustle came from the other side of the hedge, then a sharp voice: Who are you? What are you doing on Marthas land?
Eleanor straightened up and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face peering over the fence, a faded cotton headscarf wrapped around her hair, garden shears in hand.
Good morning, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor, Margarets daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her. A daughter? I didnt know Margaret had one. She never mentioned you.
Eleanor felt a sting. Yes, her relationship with Mum had been strained. After her parents split, she stayed with her dad in London while Mum moved out here. Theyd only spoken on holidays.
We havent been close lately, she murmured. You must be Violet Simmons? Dorothy told me about you.
Dorothy, the neighbour snorted. Shes the gossip who roams the village with her pies, always hungry for news. Yes, Im Violet. Ive been here since your mum was a girl with braids winding around the garden.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother as a sprightly youngster. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying a while, getting the garden back in shape.
Violet glanced over the tangled beds. Martha ran the farm for the last year. She was quite ill, didnt have the strength for the garden. I helped where I could, but my backs giving up. She frowned. Dont mess with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up to my fence. If you break it, Ill lose my berries for the winter.
Got it, Ill be careful, Eleanor promised, surprised by the sudden tone change.
The whole day she cleared paths, trimmed dead branches and pulled weeds. By dusk her hands were sore, but her mind felt lighter. There was something right about getting back to the earth, back to the roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke her. She looked out and saw Violet fiddling with something on the fence. She slipped on her boots and went outside.
Morning, she called. Lost anything?
Violet jumped, holding a plastic bottle with the bottom cut off. These slugs are eating my strawberries, she grumbled.
Sorry, I havent gotten around to treating the beds yet, Eleanor blushed. Ill tackle that right now. Want a hand with the slugs?
No thanks, Ill manage, Violet snapped. Just watch your side of the fence. Its falling apart, and if it collapses my tomatoes will go with it.
Eleanor glanced at the rickety wooden fence several boards rotted, the posts leaning. Behind it, Violets garden boasted tidy tomato plants tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, Eleanor said. Any tips? Im not much of a DIYer.
Violet softened a touch. Youll need to call Pete the handyman. He lives on the next lane, good with all sorts of repairs, cheap and reliable.
Thanks, Ill give him a bell.
The days that followed were a blur of sorting Mums belongings, sifting through the old photo album, and occasionally pausing to sit with a cuppa and reminisce. Every morning Eleanor spotted Violet tending to her tomatoes, talking to the plants, gently tying new shoots, spraying them with some homemade mixture.
Those are huge tomatoes, Eleanor remarked one day while watering her own beds. Ive never seen anything like them.
Violet straightened, pride flashing in her eyes. Bulls Heart an old heirloom variety. Your mum always envied my tomatoes. She was cityslicker, not a farm hand.
Could you show me how to grow them? Id love to try next season.
Violet eyed her skeptically. What for? Youll be back in London after a week, wont you? Wholl look after them?
Im not planning to go back just yet, Eleanor admitted softly. After the divorce I want to start fresh, maybe here.
Something softened in the old womans gaze a mix of sympathy and understanding. Alright, Ill teach you if youre keen. Come over tonight, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor grabbed Dorothys apple crumble and headed to Violets cottage. The house was as old as her own, but impeccably tidy: fresh paint on the porch, curtains starched to perfection.
Over tea, Violet talked about her tomatoes as if they were children. The key is good seedling stock. I soak the seeds in a potassium permanganate solution, then warm them up to sprout. I plant only on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, amazed at the depth of Violets horticultural knowledge. Then the conversation drifted.
What happened to your husband? Violet asked abruptly. Why only one child? Everyones having twins these days.
A sigh escaped Eleanor. She rarely spoke of her personal life, but the cosy kitchen made the words flow. Stephen and I were together fifteen years. We tried for kids, nothing worked. Then he met a younger colleague, she got pregnant straight away. Hes with her now, they have a little girl.
Stephens a fool, Violet declared. Youre a good girl, hardworking. Losing someone like that, youd think youd go mad.
Eleanor found herself smiling at the blunt honesty. It warmed her in a way she hadnt expected.
The next day she hired Pete to mend the fence. While he was at work, she kept at the beds, inching closer to Violets border. Suddenly she saw several of Violets heavy tomato vines leaning toward her fence, the big fruits pulling the branches down.
Violet Simmons! she called. Can I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre sagging.
There was no answer. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed, slipped a hand through a gap in the fence and tried to support the heavy branches.
A piercing scream shattered the calm. Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all Ive got left! the neighbour shrieked, hurrying over from the other side of the hedge.
Eleanor jerked her hand back, a nail catching her palm. I only wanted to help theyre falling
No, I dont need your help! Violet gasped, her face flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing it!
Pete, busy with the fence nearby, shook his head. Dont take it to heart, love. Those tomatoes are like her children. After her son died in a crash, theyre all she has left.
Eleanor watched the furious yet tender old woman coax the tomato vines back into place, murmuring soft words. The scene shifted in her mind.
That night sleep eluded her; she kept replaying the garden, Violets fierce love for her tomatoes. At dawn she marched back to the hedge.
Violet Simmons, Im sorry about yesterday, Eleanor began, meeting the womans guarded stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just worried the tomatoes would break.
Violet stayed silent, lips pressed together.
I thought, since your back hurts, maybe I could come over to water and weed for you? And you could show me the proper way to look after tomatoes. I really want to learn, Eleanor offered.
Violet hesitated, then finally said, Fine. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you, no improvising.
Thus began their earlymorning garden sessions. Violet proved a strict teacher she critiqued every movement, sent Eleanor back to redo things if they werent perfect. Gradually her tone softened, and occasional nods of approval appeared.
One morning, after theyd finished tying new shoots, Violet surprised her. My son Michael was a bright lad, studying engineering. He saved up for a motorbike and wrecked it on a country road at twentythree. After his funeral, my husbands heart gave out a year later. I was left alone, thinking Id never get on. Then spring came, I planted these tomatoes, thinking theyd be my last project. They grew, and I realised as long as theyre here, I have a reason to live.
Eleanor listened, stunned by the raw confession.
I get why you guard them so fiercely, she whispered. Theyre more than plants to you.
Your mother understood that, Violet replied. She and I never got along, but when I fell ill three years ago she came every day to water my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she left, the plants were still thriving, and we finally made peace.
Eleanor smiled, imagining her mother caring for a neighbours tomatoes. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Violet stubborn as a mule, but her hearts pure. Her tomatoes are miracles.
Tears welled in Violets eyes, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. Im sorry we didnt talk more. She always spoke of you, showed me pictures.
Really? Eleanor gasped. I thought shed forgotten me
Never, my dear. She was so proud of you always bragging about your cleverness, your job in London. She just felt embarrassed to visit, thinking you were too busy and your flat was tiny.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat. So many words left unsaid between her and Mum, so many missed chances.
Lets have another cup of tea, Violet said suddenly, brightening. I baked a cherry pie yesterday.
Over tea they talked about Mum, the past, and village life. Violets stories about Margaret made Eleanor feel as if she were meeting her mother anew.
Come stay the night tomorrow, Violet eventually suggested. The full moon is perfect for soaking seeds for next years crop. Ill show you how to pick the best ones.
Next year? Eleanor asked, surprised. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? the old woman laughed. Your mother was Margaret Steadman. Youve got her hands just need the practice.
For the first time in ages Eleanor felt shed found a place. In that old family cottage, next to a gruff yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines, she sensed a home.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely and still pop into London when I need to. Mum would have liked that.
Violet nodded, as if the decision was obvious. Of course, stay. A house without an owner feels hollow. And I could use a hand with my tomatoes its getting tough for one.
Beyond the fence, Violets prized Bulls Heart tomatoes glowed crimson, while a few smaller green ones the ones theyd planted together a month earlier peered out.
Next year well harvest enough to make the whole village jealous, Violet declared, eyes soft on the plants.
Eleanor looked at her calloused hands, dirt under her nails, hands that now knew both keyboard shortcuts and how to plant, weed, and water. They felt a little like her mothers.
Thank you, Violet Simmons, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum for everything.
Violet waved a hand, smiling. Were neighbours, love. We look after each other. Your mother knew that.
They stood together by the fence no longer a barrier but a link between their gardens and their lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of chores and joys, then autumn with a bountiful harvest, winter with preserves and plans, and spring again with new seedlings. In that simple cycle of rural English life, Eleanor finally found the belonging shed been searching for.
