Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left, the neighbour shouts across the fence.
MrsBrown, you could at least introduce yourself to the others first, says Agnes Jones, handing over a steaming apple pie. In a village you cant survive without neighbours. You never know when a pipe will burst or the lights will go out.
Eleanor Smith wipes her hands on her apron and accepts the heavy tin. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples fills the cramped kitchen of the old cottage she inherited from her mother.
Thank you, MrsJones, but Im not very sociable, Eleanor says with an embarrassed smile. I came here for peace and to sort through Mums things.
MrsJones nods, tucking a stray grey strand behind her ear. Your mother, Mary Thompson, was a good woman, a bright soul. Still, you ought to at least say hello to MrsWhite next door. Shes been here for about thirty years. She and your mother never got along, but neighbours always lend a hand when needed.
Eleanor imagines herself sipping tea alone while leafing through her mothers old photo album. After her divorce she finally lands a holiday from the advertising agency where she works and decides to spend it in this quiet hamlet, three hundred miles from London, sorting the inheritance, fixing up the plot, and trying to mend her heart.
When MrsJones leaves, Eleanor changes into an old pair of jeans and a Tshirt, ties a kerchief around her hair, and steps into the garden. Mums plot has been overgrown for almost a yearno one has tended it since she died. Theres a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, restore the vegetable beds, repair the sagging fence.
Armed with garden shears, she begins snipping the wild raspberry thicket that runs along the boundary. The thorny canes snag her sleeves and scratch her hands, but the work strangely soothes her. Physical fatigue dulls emotional pain.
A rustle comes from the other side of the fence, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
Eleanor straightens up and sees an elderly woman with a weatherworn face peering over the fence, a faded cotton headscarf tied around her hair, garden scissors in hand.
Good morning, Eleanor replies politely. Im Eleanor, Mary Thompsons daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squints, studying her.
A daughter? I didnt know Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
Eleanor feels a sting. Her relationship with her mother had always been strained. After her parents divorce she lived with her father in London while Mary moved here to the family home. They saw each other only on holidays, mostly by phone.
We havent been close lately, she says quietly. And you must be MrsWhite? MrsJones told me about you.
MrsWhite huffs. That gossiping MrsJones runs round the whole village with her pies, just to collect news. Yes, Im MrsWhite. Ive been here since your mother was still in pigtails.
Eleanor smiles, picturing her mother as a young girl.
Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while. I want to put the garden back in order.
MrsWhite scans the tangled beds.
Mary let the place run wild last year. She was very ill and couldnt tend the garden. I helped as much as I could, but my back isnt what it used to be. She pauses, frowning. Dont mess with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up against my fence. If you damage it, my winter raspberries will be ruined.
Okay, Ill be careful, Eleanor nods, surprised by the abrupt tone change.
She spends the whole day clearing paths, trimming dead branches, pulling weeds. By evening her hands throb from the unfamiliar labour, but her mind feels lighter. Theres something right about returning to the soil, to her roots.
The next morning she wakes to an odd noise. Looking out the window she sees MrsWhite at the fence, fiddling with something. She slips on her shoes and steps outside.
Good morning, she calls. Did you lose something?
MrsWhite jumps, holding a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off.
Those slugs are crawling onto my strawberries, she mutters. Theyre eating everything.
I havent started treating the beds yet, Eleanor apologises. I can help with the slugs today.
MrsWhite snaps, I dont need your help. Ill manage. Just watch your side of the fence. Its falling apart, and my tomatoes will tumble over if it collapses.
Eleanor looks at the rotting fence: several boards are rotten, the posts lean. Behind it, MrsWhites garden boasts neat rows of tomato plants tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, and maybe you could give me some advice? Im not much of a handyman.
MrsWhite softens. Youll need to call MrPeterson. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. Hes cheap and works honestly.
Thank you, Ill give him a bell.
The following days pass in a blur of chores. Eleanor slowly sorts through her mothers belongings, pausing now and then to leaf through an old photo album or simply sit and reminisce. Every morning she watches MrsWhite tending her tomatoes, speaking to the plants, gently tying new shoots, spraying some homemade solution.
What beautiful tomatoes you have, Eleanor remarks while watering her own beds. Ive never seen such big ones.
MrsWhite straightens, proud. Bullheart, an old variety. Mary always envied me for growing them. Her hands were too citysoft.
Could you show me how to look after them? Id like to try next year.
MrsWhite eyes her skeptically. Why would you bother? Youll probably spend a week here in summer and then rush back to London. Who will tend them?
Im not planning to return right away, Eleanor replies softly. After the divorce I want to start anew, maybe here.
A flicker of somethingsympathy, perhapspasses over MrsWhites face. Alright, Ill tell you if youre interested. Come over this evening for tea.
That evening Eleanor brings MrsJoness apple pie to MrsWhites cottage. The house is as old as Eleanors, but impeccably kept: the porch freshly painted, curtains starched, no dust on the floorboards. Over tea, MrsWhite talks about her tomatoes with the devotion of a mother.
The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild potassium permanganate solution, then keep them warm to sprout. I plant only on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listens, amazed at the encyclopedic knowledge of her neighbour. The conversation drifts.
Wheres your husband? MrsWhite asks abruptly. Why only one child? Everyone nowadays has two or three.
Eleanor sighs. She rarely talks about her personal life, but the cozy kitchen makes her open up. Serge worked with me for fifteen years. We tried for children, but nothing happened. He later fell in love with a younger colleague who got pregnant right away. He now has a new family and a little daughter.
MrsWhite shakes her head. Your Serge is a fool. You have a kind heart and strong hands. Losing a woman like you would be madness.
Eleanor finds herself smiling at the blunt honesty. It warms her unexpectedly.
The next day she hires MrPeterson to mend the fence. While he works, she tends the beds, gradually moving toward the edge of the plot. She notices several of MrsWhites tomato vines leaning heavily onto her fence, the fruit pulling the branches down.
MrsWhite! she calls. May I help tie up your tomatoes? Theyre about to break.
No answer. Determined, Eleanor grabs a few bamboo stakes from the shed, slips her hand through a gap in the fence, and tries to prop the heavy branches.
A sharp cry erupts:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left!
The neighbour lunges over the fence, face flushed with anger. Eleanor jerks her hand back, scraping a nail on the fence.
I was only trying to help Theyre falling
You dont need my help! MrsWhite pants, her face reddening. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing it!
MrPeterson, finishing the fence nearby, shakes his head. Dont be angry, love. Those tomatoes are like children to her. After her son died in a crash, theyre all she has left.
Eleanor watches the furious yet tender woman adjusting her vines, murmuring gentle words. The scene suddenly looks different.
That night she lies awake, thinking of MrsWhite and her tomatoes. At dawn she walks back to the fence.
MrsWhite, Im sorry about yesterday, she says, meeting the womans wary eyes. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just afraid the plants would fall.
MrsWhite stays silent, lips pressed together.
I thought maybe I could help with watering and weeding, Eleanor continues. And you could teach me how to care for tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
MrsWhite pauses, weighing the offer. Fine, she finally says. Come tomorrow at sixa.m. Do everything I tell you, no improvising.
Thus begin their joint mornings in the garden. Eleanor arrives at sunrise, and MrsWhite becomes a strict teachercriticising every movement, demanding redos if something is off. Over time her comments soften, and occasionally she nods approvingly.
One day, after they finish tying new shoots, MrsWhite suddenly shares:
My son was Michael. Bright, clever, studying engineering. He saved up for a motorbike and died on the road at twentythree.
Eleanor listens in stunned silence.
My husband broke his heart a year after Michaels funeral and died, MrsWhite continues. I kept living, didnt know why. Then spring came and I planted those tomatoes. I thought it would be my last crop, but they kept growing She gestures helplessly. As long as these tomatoes grow, I have a reason to live. Theyve been with me for twenty years, since Michael was gone.
I understand now why you guard them so fiercely, Eleanor whispers. Theyre more than just plants to you.
Your mother understood, MrsWhite says, nodding. We never got along, but when I fell ill three years ago she visited every day, watering my tomatoes while she was in hospital. When she came back they were still thriving, and we finally made peace.
Eleanor smiles, picturing her mother tending another neighbours garden.
I found her diary, Eleanor admits. She wrote about you: MrsWhitestubborn as a mule, but with a heart of gold. Her tomatoes are miracles.
MrsWhite breaks down, tears spilling onto her apron. She was a good woman. Its a shame you two barely spoke. She showed me pictures of you all the time.
Really? Eleanor asks, surprised. I thought she had forgotten me
No, dear! She was proud of you. She bragged about how smart you were, how you worked in a big firm in London. She just felt shy about visitingyou were always busy, and your flat was tiny, no room for her.
A lump rises in Eleanors throat. So much unsaid between her and her mother, so many missed chances.
Lets have tea, MrsWhite says decisively. I baked a cherry pie yesterday.
Over tea they talk moreabout the mother, the past, rural life. MrsWhite recounts amusing stories about Mary Thompson, and Eleanor feels as if shes meeting her mother anew.
You know, MrsWhite says suddenly, stay over at my place tomorrow. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed trays for next years crop. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? Eleanor asks, astonished. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? MrsWhite snorts. Your mother was Mary Thompson. Youve got her handsjust need the practice.
Eleanor smiles; for the first time in ages she feels she belongs. In the old family cottage, next to the cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and garden rows, she finds a new purpose.
I think Ill stay here permanently, she tells MrsWhite. I can work remotely, and travel to London on weekends when needed. My mother would have liked that.
MrsWhite nods, as if the decision were obvious. Of course, stay. A house without an owner feels empty. I need help with my tomatoes, and youll have yours too.
Beyond the fence, MrsWhites sturdy tomato plantsBullheart, a source of pridestand beside the small green tomatoes Eleanor just planted a month ago.
Next year, MrsWhite says, gazing at them tenderly, well harvest so much that the whole village will be jealous.
Eleanor looks at her handsroughened from the soil, streaked with garden earth under her nails. They once only typed on keyboards; now they plant, weed, and water. Hands like her mothers.
Thank you, MrsWhite, she whispers. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum for everything.
MrsWhite waves a hand, smiling. Thats what neighbours are for. Your mother would understand.
They stand at the fence, no longer a barrier but a bridge between two plots and two lives. Summer stretches ahead, full of chores and joys; autumn will bring a bountiful harvest, winter a time for storage and new plans, and spring will see them planting tomatoes together again. In this simple cycle of rural English life, Eleanor finally discovers the feeling she has been seekinghome, belonging, and continuity.
