Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all Ive got left, shouted the neighbour over the fence.
Mrs. Evelyn, you ought to make an effort to know the people next door first, replied Mrs. Margaret Clarke, handing over a steaming apple crumble. In a village you cant live without neighbours. You never know when the water will burst or the lights will fail.
Evelyn brushed her hands on her apron and took the heavy tin tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the modest kitchen of the old cottage shed inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Clarke, but Im not very sociable, Evelyn said with an embarrassed smile. I came here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
Mrs. Clarke adjusted a stray grey curl at the edge of her kerchief. I understand, dear. Mary Collins was a good woman, a gentle soul. Still, you should at least say hello to Mrs. Harriet Collins across the fence. Shes been here for thirty years. She and your mother never got along, but neighbours always looked out for each other.
Evelyn nodded, already picturing herself sipping tea alone while leafing through an old photo album. After her divorce she finally got a break from the advertising agency shed been working at and decided to spend it in a quiet hamlet some three hundred miles north of London. She was there to settle the estate, tidy the garden, and try to mend a broken heart.
When Mrs. Clarke left, Evelyn changed into a pair of old jeans and a Tshirt, tied a headscarf, and stepped into the garden. Her mothers plot had gone wild with weedsno one had tended it for almost a year. There was a lot to do: prune the ageing apple trees, repair the beds, and fix the sagging fence.
Armed with secateurs, she started trimming the overgrown raspberry bushes right along the boundary. The thorns snagged her clothes and scratched her hands, but the labour oddly soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache inside her.
A rustle came from beyond the fence, followed by a sharp voice: Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
Evelyn straightened and saw an elderly woman with a weathered face watching her through the fence. The neighbour wore a faded cotton kerchief and clutched a pair of garden shears.
Good morning, Evelyn replied politely. Im Evelyn, Marys daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her. Your mother had a daughter? She never mentioned you.
A sting hit Evelyns chest. Her relationship with Mary had always been strained. After her parents split, shed stayed with her father in London while Mary moved back to the family home. They spoke only on holidays.
We havent been close lately, Evelyn admitted softly. You must be Harriet? Mrs. Clarke told me about you.
Clarke? That gossipmonger goes round the village with her pies just to hear the latest, the neighbour snapped. Yes, Im Harriet. Ive lived here since your mother was a girl with braids.
Evelyn smiled, picturing her mother as a young woman. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while. I need to get the garden in order.
Harriet glanced at the tangled beds. Mary ran the farm all the way up until last year. She was very ill, never got around to the vegetables. I helped as best I could, but my backs not what it used to be. She frowned. Leave that raspberry patch alone. Its grown right up against my fence. If you damage it, my crop suffers and Ill have no berries for winter.
Alright, Ill be careful, Evelyn replied, surprised by the sudden change of tone.
The whole day she cleared paths, cut dry branches, and pulled weeds. By evening her hands throbbed from the unfamiliar work, but a lightness settled in her chest. There was something right about getting her hands in the soil, returning to her roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke her. Looking out, she saw Harriet fussing at the fence separating their plots. She slipped on a plastic bottle with a sliced bottom.
Those slugs are eating my strawberries, Harriet muttered.
I havent had a chance to treat the beds yet, Evelyn said apologetically. Ill sort it out today. Want a hand?
No thanks, Ill manage. Just keep an eye on your fence. Its falling apart and could collapse on my tomatoes.
Evelyn inspected the fence. Several boards were rotten, the posts leaned. Beyond it, Harriets garden boasted neat rows of tomato plants, their vines tied to stakes.
Ill repair it, and maybe you could recommend someone? Im not much of a carpenter, Evelyn offered.
Harriets eyes softened. You could call Mr. Patel on the next lane. Hes a handy sort, charges a fair price and works straight.
Thank you, Ill give him a call, Evelyn replied.
The following days passed in quiet industry. Evelyn sorted through her mothers belongings, occasionally pausing to flip through the old photo album or simply sit and remember. Each morning she watched Harriet tending her tomatoes, speaking to the plants, gently tying new shoots, and spraying them with some homemade solution.
Your tomatoes are magnificent, Evelyn remarked one afternoon as she watered her own rows. Ive never seen such large ones.
Harriet lifted her chin proudly. Bullheart, an old heirloom variety. Mary was always jealous that my tomatoes grew so big. Her hands were more suited to the city than the garden.
Could you teach me how to look after them? Id like to grow a few next year, Evelyn asked.
Harriet eyed her skeptically. Whats the point? Youll probably come for a week in summer and then head back to London. Wholl tend them?
Im not planning to return soon, Evelyn said quietly. After the divorce I want to start afresh, maybe here.
A flicker of understanding passed through Harriets eyes. Alright, Ill show you if youre interested. Come over in the evenings and well have tea.
That evening Evelyn, with Mrs. Clarkes apple crumble in hand, walked to Harriets cottage. The house was as old as her mothers but neatly kept. The front step had fresh paint, the curtains were starched, and the garden was immaculate.
Over tea Harriet spoke of her tomatoes with the same affection shed reserve for children. The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a dilute potassium permanganate solution, then germinate them in warmth. I plant only on certain days according to the lunar calendar.
Evelyn listened, amazed at Harriets encyclopaedic knowledge of tomatoes. Their conversation drifted to other topics.
Wheres your husband? Harriet asked abruptly. Why only one child? Everyone nowadays has two or three.
Evelyn sighed. Sergei and I were together for fifteen years. We tried for children, but it never worked. He later met a younger colleague who became pregnant almost immediately. He now has a new family and a little daughter.
Stupid Sergei, Harriet scoffed. You have a good heart and hardworking hands. Losing a woman like you would be foolish.
Evelyn felt a smile tug at her lips. The blunt honesty warmed her.
The next day she hired Mr. Patel to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, gradually moving toward the boundary. She noticed several of Harriets large tomato bushes leaning toward her fence, heavy fruit pulling the stems down.
Harriet! she called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre sagging.
Harriet didnt answer. Determined, Evelyn fetched a few bamboo poles from the shed and slipped her hand through the gap in the fence to prop up the heavy branches.
A sudden, sharp cry split the air: Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left! shouted Harriet from the other side, hurrying toward her.
Startled, Evelyn jerked her hand back, grazing a nail on the fence. I only wanted to help theyre about to fall
No help needed! Harriet wheezed, her face flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep on doing so!
Mr. Patel, who was repairing the fence nearby, shook his head. Dont be cross with her, love. Those tomatoes are like her children. After her son died in a crash, theyre all shes left.
Evelyn watched the furious neighbour gently coax the tomato vines back into place, murmuring soft words. The scene suddenly seemed different, tinged with sorrow.
That night she lay awake, thinking of Harriet and her tomatoes. At dawn she walked over to the fence.
Harriet, Im sorry for yesterday, she said, meeting the womans wary stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just afraid the plants would break.
Harriet stayed silent, her lips pressed together.
I thought, Evelyn continued, maybe I could come over to water and weed for you? You could show me how to look after tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
Harriet contemplated for a long moment. Fine, she said at last. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you, no improvising.
Thus began their mornings together in the garden. Evelyn arrived at first light, and Harriet, a stern tutor, critiqued every movement, demanding she redo anything that wasnt perfect. Over weeks her comments softened, and occasionally she gave a approving nod.
One day, after they had finished tying new shoots, Harriet spoke unexpectedly: My son Michael was a bright lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike and then crashed on the road when he was twentythree.
Evelyn listened quietly, afraid to disturb the confession.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart failure, Harriet went on. And here I am. At first I thought I couldnt go on, but spring came and I planted these tomatoes. I thought it would be my last crop, and they just kept growing theyve been with me for twenty years now, ever since Michael was taken.
Now I see why you guard them so fiercely, Evelyn whispered. They mean more than just vegetables to you.
Your mother understood that, Harriet said, nodding. We never got on, our temperaments clashed. But when I fell ill three years ago, she visited every day, watered my tomatoes while I was in the hospital. When she came back, they were all still thriving. Thats when we made peace.
Evelyn smiled, imagining her mother tending Harriets plants. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Harriet stubborn as a mule, but with a heart of gold. And the tomatoes a marvel.
Harriets eyes welled up, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. Im sad we didnt speak more. She talked about you all the time, showed me photos.
Really? Evelyn gasped. I thought shed forgotten me
Dont be daft, love! She was proud of you. She bragged about your cleverness, your job in London. She just never felt right dropping by she thought you were busy and your flat was too small for her.
A lump rose in Evelyns throat. So much left unsaid, so many missed chances.
Lets have some tea, Harriet announced suddenly. I baked a cherry tart yesterday.
Over tea they talked of mothers, of the past, of village life. Harriet spoke of Mary with such affection it felt like hearing about a sibling.
You know, Harriet said, why dont you stay the night tomorrow? The full moon is perfect for soaking seed trays for next years sowing. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? Evelyn asked. Do you think I can manage?
Whats there to stop you? Harriet chuckled. Your mother was Mary. Youve got her hands, just need the practice.
For the first time in a long while Evelyn felt she had found a place. In that old maternal house, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines, she felt at home.
I think Ill stay here permanently, she said. I can work remotely and still pop into London when needed. Im sure Mum would be pleased.
Harriet nodded as if it were the obvious thing. Of course, stay. An empty house is a sad one. I could use a hand with the tomatoes; one pair of arms is getting old. And youll grow your own, not worse than mine.
Beyond the shared fence, Harriets tidy rows of bright red Bullheart tomatoes stood proudly, while beside them sprouted the small green seedlings Evelyn and Harriet had planted together a month before.
Next year, Harriet said, gazing at them tenderly, well have a harvest thatll make the whole village jealous.
Evelyn looked at her own hands, now calloused from soil, the gardens loam embedded under her nails. Hands that could type on a keyboard and now also sow, weed, and water. Hands like her mothers.
Thank you, Harriet, she whispered. For the tomatoes, the stories about Mum for everything.
Harriet waved a hand, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. What are neighbours for? Your mother wouldve wanted that.
They stood at the fence, no longer a barrier but a bridge between their plots and their lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of chores and joys; autumn would bring a bountiful harvest; winter a time for preserves and plans; and spring again, when they would plant new tomatoes together. In that simple cycle of country life, Evelyn finally discovered the feeling she had been searching fora sense of home, belonging, and continuity.
