A Cottage by the River
It was a quiet holiday village near a small town in Yorkshire, nestled along the riverbank. Our cottage stood in a row of others, with those belonging to Walter and Margaret next to ours, and just beyond, Old Nan’s place. There were more houses down the lane, but they didnt matter much to us at the time.
Walter had bought the plot seven years prior, and work began almost at once. Machines rumbled in, labourers hauled gravel for the foundation, drove piles into the earth, and soon a grand house rosecomplete with a well, a summer kitchen, sheds, a bathhouse, and a garage. It was never silent. Walter didnt just bark orders; he worked alongside them, tying rebar, lugging timber, mixing concrete, and wiring the place. Yorkshire folk are patient. They understood a man was settling in for good, not just a season.
All except Old Nan.
Every morning, the bus rolled in from town, and who should be first off? Nan, of course. Always first. No one ever called her anything else. Shed march to her cottage in that same grey smock, black headscarf, and scuffed shoes, clutching a battered tote and a five-litre jug of water. The river wasnt fit to drink frommarsh-fed, it turned green in summer. Most hauled clean water from town, though a few had wells. Oddly, no matter how deep they drilled, the water reeked of sulphur, good only for watering plants.
But I digress.
Nan would storm onto her patch and the shouting began. The tractor was too loud, the diesel fumes foul. The pile-driving shook her walls. The workers chattered too much. Walters grand house would steal sunlight from her strawberries (though hed kept to every regulation). Theres always something to gripe about, but Nan was a master. Walter was every name under the suna brute, a villain, a fool. The tirades never ceased, each richer in curses than the last.
Walter ignored her, mostly. But once, leaning over the fence for a smoke, he muttered in his deep voice:
“Nan, youre like a horsefly on a summers day. Either youll bleed a man dry or hell have to swat you.”
“Oho, threaten me, will you, you wretch?” she shrieked. “Ill see your fancy house in ashes! High and mighty, scaring an old woman!”
Needless to say, my summers there werent exactly restful. I visited less often.
Years passed. Walter and I never became close, but we got on well enough. Turned out he had two passions: classic rock and tomatoes. Hed set his stereo to a reasonable volume and vanish into his greenhousea proper one, massive. Walter knew everything about tomatoes. New varieties, fertiliser schedules, soil rotation. Each spring, he fumigated the greenhouse, layered manure and compost, draped it in fleece to shield tender plants from frost or scorching sun, rigged infrared lamps.
Not like the South, where you just plant and water. In Yorkshire, tomatoes are a battle. Open the doors at dawn, shut them by dusk. Mind the wind, the rain, the chill.
Ever heard a great hulk of a man talk to his tomatoes? I have. Like they were his childrensoft, coaxing. Strange, for a man known in town as a hard boss. Stern, but fair. Yet here he was, whispering to seedlings. Well, I kept that to myself.
Youd think wed forgotten Nan? Hardly.
Turns out, she despised rock. Not a fan of Bowie, Queen, or Zeppelin. And she made sure the whole village knew it. Whenever Walter played his recordsnever loud, mindNans opinions rang out. On the artists, on their listeners, on taste itself.
Walter seethed but never bit back. At breaking point, hed down half a pint of bitter, growl, switch off the music, and stalk inside. He drank that half-pint daily. Didnt faze his health, but it wore on his nerves.
Then came the floods.
Rain lashed down for weeks. The moors soaked up what they could, but the river swelled anyway, dragging off logs, fences, dog kennels, sheds. People marked the rising tide with stakes. Word spread: the low road near the marshes was underwater. Cars fled before they drowned. The buses stopped. Those without vehicles trudged off on foot. Not panic, but close.
Walter held out longest but finally tore off in his Land Rover. Halfway down the lane, he rememberedNan had been in her garden yesterday. He turned back.
“Go on without me, you devil!” she snapped. “Ive moved my things to the loft. I wont abandon my home! Itd be picked clean!”
Some cottages drowned. Ours stayed dry, the water stopping a hands breadth shy. For a week, we didnt know. Walter and I rang each other. He was beside himself. Not for his house, not his gardenhed forgotten to open the greenhouse. Sunny days had baked his tomatoes. Theyd be dead without air, without water.
When the waters fell, we returned. Walter brought over a bottle of whisky. We drank.
“Listen, Simon,” he said. “I dont get it. The greenhouse was watered. Doors open. I know I left them shut in the rush.”
I shrugged. “Only Nan stayed.”
“Only Nan,” he echoed, glancing toward her cottage. “Nah. Weve been at each others throats for years.”
“Only Nan,” I repeated.
“Cant be,” he muttered, knocking back another swallow.
Nan left once the buses ran again.
Next day, she was back, hauling water in buckets. Her little pump mustve washed away. She slipped, soaked herself, but kept at it. Not a single curse.
Walter left, returned with a rumble of engine. Nan caught the evening bus.
That night, hammering and sawing came from his place.
“Neighbour,” I asked at dawn, “Who were you wrestling at midnight?”
“Bought pipes and fittings yesterday,” he said. “Ran a line from my pump to her plot. Saw her crawling along the bank like a beetle”
Weeks later, Walter invited me over for the first tomatoes and a barbecue. “Seven sharp,” he said. I brought whisky and homemade wine.
“Shall we start, or wait?” I asked as the coals glowed.
“Give it quarter of an hour.”
“Whore we waiting for? Toms already here.”
“Youll see.”
A knock at the gate. In walked Nan.
But not as I knew her. Silver hair neatly pinned, a flowered dress, smart sandals, a lace shawl. Even amber beads at her throat.
“Room for one more?” she smiled.
“Come in, Mary,” Walter grinned.
I was floored.
We sat late into the evening, eating, drinking. Mary spoke of her lifethe orphanage, raising two children alone after her husband died, the grandchildren scattered across the country. Forty years on the railways. A lifetime.
Then she and Margaret sang old songs. Walter and I listened, smoked, sipped our drinks. Smiled.
“Walter,” she said later, “Margaret mentioned you wont take that spa trip, fretting over your tomatoes. Go. Ill tend them.”
I couldnt help it. “Was it you, during the flood? Watered them? Opened the doors?”
“Aye,” she chuckled. “After all his workheard him talking to them! (She shot Walter a look, laughing harder.) Felt sorry for the poor things!”
Walter took that holiday.
After, we listened to rock again. But now, from noon till two, the old records played.
For Mary.
