A cottage village near a small town in the Yorkshire Dales. Our place is in a row right by the riverbank. Next door live Barry and Maureen, and beyond them, Grannys cottage. Naturally, there are more houses further along, but they dont concern us right now.
Barry bought the plot seven years ago, and construction began immediately. Tractors rolled in, builders got to workgravel foundations, piles, trenches, concrete, timber frames for the house and a sauna. From May to September, the noise never stopped. Eventually, a proper estate emerged: a big house, a well, a summer kitchen, sheds, the sauna, a garage, the works. Peaceful? Not a chance. Barry wasnt just the foremanhe tied rebar, hauled logs, mixed concrete, ran wiring. A proper hands-on bloke. Folks in Yorkshire are patient. They understood a man was building a home, settling in for the long haul.
Except Granny.
Every morning, the bus from town pulled up, and out shed marchalways first. Nobody called her anything but *Granny*. Shed bolt to her cottage in the same grey smock, black headscarf, and scuffed shoes, lugging a battered tote and a five-litre jug of water. (Nobody drank from the riverit wasnt some pristine mountain stream but a slow, boggy thing that turned green in summer. Most of us fetched “proper” water from town. Some had wells, but the water reeked of sulphur, no matter how deep they drilled. Fine for watering plants, though. Those by the river had pumps running pipes straight to it. Barry, of course, had his own well and a pump station.)
Anyway, Granny would storm in, and the shrieking would start. The tractor was too loud, the diesel fumes stank, the pile-driving shook her cottage, the builders chattered too much, Barrys big house cast a shadow over her strawberries (though hed kept to all the regulations). Theres always *something* to moan about, but Granny? She was a *professional*. Barry was every name under the suna brute, a rat, a numpty, a right swine. The insults never stopped, each one saltier than the last.
Barry carried on building, tuning out the noise.
But sometimes, leaning on the fence for a smoke, hed sigh, deep and gravelly: “Granny, youre like a horse on a hot dayeither suck the life out of me or get swatted.”
“Ooh, threaten me again, you great lump!” shed bellow. “Ill torch your fancy palace, see if I dont! Think you can intimidate me?”
Needless to say, the peaceful countryside retreat Id imagined? Didnt happen. I started visiting less.
Two years passed. Barry and I werent mates, but we got on. Turned out he had two passions: classic rock and tomatoes.
Hed put on his stereo (not too loud) and vanish into his greenhousea proper big one. The man knew *everything* about tomatoes. Tracked new varieties, followed fertiliser schedules to the letter, swapped out soil every spring after fumigating the place. Manure, compost, shade cloth to protect seedlings from sunburn, infrared lamps for early frosts
Yorkshire isnt the Mediterranean. Down south, you stick a plant in the ground and it grows. Up here? Its a *mission*. Open the greenhouse at dawn, close it at dusk. Windy side? Keep the door shut. Rain? Adjust the vents.
Ever heard a burly bloke talk to tomatoes? I have. Like theyre his kids. Gentle, coaxingpinching off suckers, whispering feedings. And this from a man rumoured to be a right terror at work (some bigwig in Leeds, fair but tough). Yet here he was, doting on his plants.
Oh, you thought wed forgotten Granny? Think again.
Turns out, Granny *hated* rock. The Clash? Queen? Pink Floyd? Not a fan. Every evening she stayed over (instead of taking the bus back), the neighbourhood got treated to her *opinions* on Barrys taste in music.
Barry seethed but never engaged. Once he hit boiling point, hed down half a pint of bitter, growl, switch off the stereo, and stomp inside. (For the record, the volume was perfectly reasonableto everyone but Granny.)
Then came the floods.
Rain hammered down for weeks (remember that year Hull got swamped? Were just 50 miles west). At first, the bogs soaked it up, but eventually, the river burst its banks. Water surged, dragging logs, fences, dog kennels, shedsutter chaos. Folks marked the rising tide with sticks, then fled when the low roads flooded. Cars were abandoned, buses stopped running. Barry held out longest but finally roared off in his Land Rover then turned back. Hed spotted Granny in her garden earlier.
“Go on without me, you great oaf!” she snapped. “Ive moved my things to the loft. Im not leavingtheyll loot the place!”
Some cottages were swallowed. Ours stayed dry, the water just 15cm shy of the plots. For a week, we had no idea. Barry was *raging*not about his house, but his tomatoes. Hed forgotten to open the greenhouse. A week of sun, no water theyd be toast.
When the water receded, we returned. Barry turned up at mine with a bottle of whiskey.
“Steve, I dont get it,” he said, knocking one back. “I get back, and the greenhouse is *watered*. Doors open. I *know* I left them shutI was in a panic, the water was rising! Asked aroundnobody stayed behind.”
“Except Granny.”
“*Except Granny*,” he echoed, glancing toward her cottage. “But were at each others throats!”
“Except Granny,” I repeated.
“No way,” Barry muttered, draining his glass.
“Except Granny.”
He left in silence, chewing it over.
Granny caught the first bus back to town when roads reopened. Returned the next day and started hauling water in buckets. Her little pump mustve washed away. Barry noticed. Watched her slip, soak herself, but she kept at itnot even a swear.
Later, his Land Rover rumbled off and back. Granny left on the evening bus. That night, hammering and sawing echoed from Barrys plot.
“Neighbour,” I asked next morning, “who were you wrestling at midnight?”
“Bought pipes and fittings yesterday. After Granny left, I ran a line from my pump to her place. Saw her crawling along the bank like a drowned rat”
Two weeks later, Barry invited me over for the first tomatoes and a barbecue. “7pm. Bring beer.”
I showed up with a case and some homemade wine. He was flipping kebabs.
“Shall we wait, or start without?” I asked.
“Nah, give it 15 minutes.”
“Who for? Toms already here.”
“Youll see.”
A knock at the gate. In walked Granny.
But not the Granny we knew. Hair neatly pinned, a floral dress, smart sandals, a lace shawl, even amber beads.
“Room for one more?” she smiled.
“Course, *Marge*,” Barry said, grinning.
I nearly choked.
We sat late, eating, drinking. Marge told storiesraised in an orphanage, widowed young, two kids shed brought up alone, grandkids scattered across the country. Forty years on the railways, a veteran.
Then she and Maureen started singingold music-hall tunes. Barry and I listened, smoked, sipped and smiled.
“Barry,” Marge said later, “Maureen mentioned a spa break. Youre fussing over your tomatoes. *Go*. Ill water them. Open the doors.”
“Youre the one who saved them during the flood?” I blurted.
“Course. Saw how much work hed put in. And the way he *talked* to them!” She cackled. “Felt sorry for the poor things!”
Barry took that holiday.
After, we listened to rock againbut only from noon till 2pm.
For *Marge*.
