Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left, shouted the neighbour through the hedge.
Mrs. Winifred Clarke, you should at least get to know the people next door first, said Eleanor Whitaker, handing over a steaming apple crumble. In a village you cant live without neighbours; a burst pipe or a blackout could happen at any moment.
Eleanor dabbed her hands on her apron and lifted the heavy tin. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the small kitchen of the old cottage she had inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Clarke, but Im rather shy, Eleanor replied, smiling faintly. I came here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
The old woman nodded, tucking a silver strand of hair that had slipped from her headscarf. The blessed soul of Margaret Hargreaves. She was a good woman, a gentle spirit. Still, you ought to say hello to Dorothy Hargreaves over the fence. She lives on the right, thirty years in this valley. She and your mother never got along, but neighbours always lend a hand.
Eleanor accepted the nod, though she already imagined herself sipping tea alone, leafing through a faded photo album. After her divorce she finally secured a break from the advertising agency and chose to spend it in this quiet hamlet, about a hundred and fifty miles north of London. She would tidy the inheritance, mend the garden, and try to stitch her own heart.
When Mrs. Clarke left, Eleanor changed into old jeans and a Tshirt, tied a kerchief around her hair and stepped into the garden. Her mothers plot was overrun with weeds; no one had tended it since shed died nearly a year ago. There was a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, restore the beds, repair the sagging fence.
Armed with secateurs, she began snipping the wild raspberry thicket that clung to the border. The thorny vines snagged her sleeves and scratched her hands, yet the work soothed her in a strange, dreamlike way. Physical fatigue dulled the ache inside her.
A rustle rose from beyond the fence, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Margarets ground?
Eleanor straightened and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face peering through the hedge. A faded cotton headscarf sat on her head and she clutched a pair of garden shears.
Good afternoon, Eleanor said politely. Im Eleanor, Margarets daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her. A daughter? I never heard Margaret had one. She never spoke of you.
A sting pierced Eleanors chest. Her relationship with her mother had always been tangled. After her parents split shed lived with her father in London while her mother moved back to the family home. Visits were rare, usually just a phone call on holidays.
We havent been close for years, she whispered. And you must be Dorothy Hargreaves? Mrs. Clarke told me about you.
Clarke? the neighbour snorted. That gossipmonger runs around the village with her pies, looking for news to serve. Yes, Im Dorothy. Ive been here since your mother was still braiding her hair.
Eleanor imagined her mother as a sprightly girl. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying awhile. I want to put the garden in order.
Dorothy glanced at the tangled beds. Margaret let the farm slip last year. She was very ill, never got to the garden. I helped as best I could, but my backs no longer what it used to be. She frowned. Dont meddle with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up to my fence. If you damage it, my winter will be ruined.
Alright, Ill be careful, Eleanor replied, surprised by the abrupt tone shift.
All day she cleared paths, trimmed dry branches, pulled weeds. By dusk her hands throbbed, but her spirit felt lighter. There was something right about returning to the earth, to roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke her. Looking out, she saw Dorothy at the fence, fiddling with something. She slipped on a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off.
Slugs are crawling from your plot, eating my strawberries, Dorothy muttered.
I havent treated the beds yet, Eleanor said apologetically. Ill take care of that today. Want a hand with the slugs?
No help needed, Dorothy snapped. Ill manage. Just watch your fence its falling apart, and my tomatoes might tumble over.
Eleanor examined the dilapidated wooden fence; several boards were rotted, posts leaned. Beyond it, Dorothys garden boasted neat rows of tomato plants tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, promise. Maybe you could advise me? Im not much of a handyman.
Dorothys eyes softened. Youll need to call Mr. Patel. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. He charges reasonable rates and works honestly.
Thank you, Ill ask him, Eleanor said.
The following days passed in quiet industry. Eleanor sorted through her mothers belongings, occasionally pausing to flip an old album or simply sit with a memory. Each sunrise she spotted Dorothy tending her tomatoes, speaking to the plants as if they were children, gently tying new shoots, spraying them with some mysterious solution.
What beautiful tomatoes, Eleanor remarked one morning, watering her own beds. Ive never seen them so large.
Dorothy straightened, pride evident. Bullheartan old heirloom. Margaret always envied my crop. Her hands were too citytuned for the soil.
Could you teach me how to look after them? Id love to try next year, Eleanor asked.
Dorothy regarded her skeptically. And what will you do then? Pop back to London after a week and leave these vines behind? Wholl tend them?
Im not planning to return yet, Eleanor whispered. After the divorce I want a fresh start, maybe here.
A flicker of somethingsympathy, perhapspassed through Dorothys eyes. Alright, Ill show you, if youre interested. Come evening, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor, bearing Winifreds apple crumble, walked to Dorothys cottage. The house was as aged as her mothers, but immaculately kept. Fresh paint gleamed on the porch, curtains were starched, not a speck of dust in the yard.
Over tea, Dorothy spoke of her tomatoes with a mothers affection. The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a weak solution of potassium permanganate, then keep them warm to sprout. I plant only on certain lunar days
Eleanor listened, amazed at the encyclopedic knowledge. The conversation drifted.
Wheres your husband? Dorothy asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyone nowadays has two or three.
Eleanor sighed. She rarely spoke of her personal life, but the simple kitchen coaxed the words out. Sergei and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, couldnt. He later found a younger colleague who became pregnant straight away. Hes now with a new family and a little girl.
Stupid Sergei, Dorothy declared. Youre a goodhearted, hardworking woman. Losing someone like you would be madness.
A smile curled Eleanors lips at the blunt honesty. It warmed her oddly.
The next day she hired Mr. Patel to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, gradually edging closer to Dorothys plot. Suddenly several of Dorothys large tomato bushes leaned toward Eleanors fence, their heavy fruit pulling the branches down.
Dorothy Hargreaves! Eleanor called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre sagging.
No answer came. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo sticks from the shed and slipped her hand through a gap in the fence, trying to steady the laden branches.
A piercing shout erupted:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! the neighbour screamed, rushing from the opposite side of the garden.
Eleanor jerked her hand back, grazing a nail in the fence. I only wanted to help theyre falling
You dont need my help! Dorothy gasped, her face reddening with fury. Ive always managed on my own and Ill continue!
Mr. Patel, nearby, shook his head. Dont mind her, love. Those tomatoes are like her children. After her son died in a crash, theyre all she has left.
Eleanor stared at the furious woman, who now gently coaxed the tomato vines, murmuring soft words. The scene shifted, taking on a different hue.
That night she lay awake, thoughts of Dorothy and the tomatoes turning over like a restless tide. At dawn she walked resolutely to the neighbours gate.
Dorothy Hargreaves, Im sorry for yesterday, Eleanor said, meeting the womans guarded stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was only afraid the plants would fall.
Dorothy said nothing, lips pressed tight.
I thought, Eleanor continued, your back aches, its hard to bend. Perhaps I could come by to water and weed? And you could show me the proper way to care for the tomatoes. I really want to learn.
Dorothy lingered in silence, weighing the offer. Finally she said, Fine. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you. No improvising.
Thus began their joint mornings in the garden. Eleanor arrived at sunrise; Dorothy instructed with a stern eye, correcting every movement, demanding redo if anything was off. Gradually her critiques softened, and occasionally Eleanor caught a nod of approval.
One morning, after they finished tying new shoots, Dorothy said unexpectedly, My son Michael was a bright lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike and crashed on the road when he was twentythree.
Eleanor listened quietly, fearing to break the sudden confession.
My husband tore his heart out a year after the funeral and passed away, Dorothy went on. And Im still here. At first I thought I couldnt go on. Then spring came and I planted tomatoes. I thought it would be my last crop, but they grew anyway. She spread her arms, speechless. As long as these tomatoes grow, Ill keep living. Ive tended them for twenty years now, since Michael was gone.
I see why you guard them so fiercely, Eleanor whispered. Theyre more than just plants to you.
Your mother understood, Dorothy nodded. We never got along, our temperaments clashed. But when I fell ill three years ago, she visited daily, watering my tomatoes while I lay in hospital. When she left, the plants were still thriving, and we finally made peace.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother caring for the neighbours tomatoes. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Dorothy stubborn as a mule, but her heart is gold. And the tomatoes are a miracle.
Dorothys eyes welled, tears slipping down the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. Its a shame you barely knew each other. She talked about you all the time, showed photographs.
Really? Eleanor gasped. I thought shed forgotten me
No, love! She was proud of you. She bragged about how clever you were, how you worked in a big firm in London. She only hesitated to visit because you were busy and your flat was tiny, no room for her.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat. So much unsaid, so many missed chances between her and her mother.
Lets have tea, Dorothy said suddenly, determination in her voice. I baked a cherry tart yesterday.
Over tea they spoke of the mother, of the past, of village life. Dorothy talked of Margaret with such affection that Eleanor felt she was meeting her mother anew.
Do come stay the night tomorrow, Dorothy suggested. The full moon will be perfect for soaking seed in preparation for next year. Ill show you how to select the best seeds for your own tomatoes.
Next year? Eleanor asked, surprised. Do you think I can manage?
Whats stopping you? Dorothy snorted. Your mother was Margaret, and you have her handsgood at everything, just need practice.
Eleanors smile widened. For the first time in ages she felt she belonged. In the old family cottage, beside the cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and beds, she sensed home.
I think Ill stay here forever, she said. I can work remotely, fly to London for meetings on weekends. And I feel Mum would be pleased.
Dorothy agreed with a nod, as if the decision were obvious. Of course. A house without an owner feels lonely. I need help with my tomatoes; one pair is too much for me. And maybe youll grow your own, not worse than mine.
Beyond the fence, Dorothys tidy rows of large red tomatoesBullheartstood proud. Beside them, tiny green seedlings that Eleanor and Dorothy had planted together a month earlier swayed.
Next year, Dorothy said, gazing at them tenderly, well harvest a crop that will make the whole village jealous.
Eleanor looked at her hands, now calloused from soil, the garden earth tucked under her nails. They were hands that could still type on a keyboard, now also sow, weed, and waterhands that felt like her mothers.
Thank you, Dorothy Hargreaves, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum for everything.
Dorothy waved a hand, a smile breaking through. Were neighbours, after all. We ought to look after each other. Your mother would have understood.
They stood by the fencenot as a barrier but as a bridge linking their plots and lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of chores and joys; autumn promised a bountiful harvest; winter would bring preserves and new plans; and spring would see them planting tomatoes together again. In this simple cycle of rural life, Eleanor finally discovered what she had long soughta sense of home, belonging, and continuity.
The tale of ordinary tomatoes mending old wounds and joining two solitary souls reminds us that the simplest things can hold deep, healing meaning.
