Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre the only thing I have left, a voice shouted over the low wooden fence.
Eleanor Whitaker, perhaps you could at least get to know the neighbours, replied Mrs. Penelope Hawthorne, handing over a steaming apple crumble. In a hamlet you cant survive without a friendly face. You never know when a pipe might burst or the lights go out.
Eleanor dabbed her hands on her apron and took the heavy tin tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the cramped kitchen of the old thatched cottage she had inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne, but Im rather shy, Eleanor said with an embarrassed smile. I came here for quiet, to sort through Mums things.
Oh, dear, I understand, the old lady nodded, tucking a stray grey strand back under her headscarf. The heavenly realm of Mary Whitaker. She was a good woman, a bright soul. Still, you ought to at least say hello to Winifred Clarke across the fence. She lives right next door; shes been here for three decades. Your mother and she never got along, but neighbours always lend a hand when needed.
Eleanor nodded, though in her mind she was already picturing herself sipping tea alone, leafing through an old photo album. After a painful divorce she finally secured a sabbatical from her advertising firm and chose to spend it in a quiet village three hundred miles from London, sorting the inheritance, fixing up the plot, and trying to stitch her bruised heart.
When Mrs. Hawthorne left, Eleanor slipped into a pair of worn jeans and a plain tee, tied a linen kerchief around her hair, and stepped into the overgrown garden. Mums plot had been left to weeds for almost a year since her death. There was much to do: prune the ancient apple trees, revive the vegetable beds, and repair the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, she began trimming the wild raspberry thicket that hugged the boundary. The thorny vines snagged her sleeves and scratched her hands, yet the rhythmic snipping soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache inside her.
A rustle rose from behind the fence, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
Eleanor straightened and faced an elderly woman with a weatherworn face, peering intently over the fence. A faded cotton headscarf clung to her hair, and she clutched a pair of garden shears.
Good day, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor, Mary Whitakers daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her.
A daughter? I didnt know Mary had one. She never spoke of you.
A sting pierced Eleanors chest. Her relationship with her mother had always been strained. After her parents split she stayed with her father in London while Mum moved to the family cottage. Their contact was sporadic, mostly holiday phone calls.
We havent been close these past few years, Eleanor whispered. And you must be Winifred Clarke? Mrs. Hawthorne mentioned you.
Hawthorne? the neighbour snorted. That gossiping spinster runs around the whole village with her pies, just to collect news. Yes, Im Winifred. Ive lived here since your mother was still braiding her hair.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother as a sprightly girl.
Lovely to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while, getting the garden in order.
Winifred surveyed the tangled beds.
Mary let the garden fall to ruin in her last year. She was terribly ill, never got around to planting. I helped as best I could, but my backs no good any more. She frowned. Dont meddle with that raspberry patch. Its grown into my fence. If you damage it, Ill lose my winter raspberries.
Ill be careful, Eleanor agreed, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.
The day passed in quiet labor: clearing paths, snipping dead branches, pulling weeds. By twilight her hands throbbed from the unfamiliar work, but a lightness settled in her chest. There was something right about this return to earth, to roots.
The next morning Eleanor awoke to an odd clatter. Looking out, she saw Winifred fussing at the fence that divided their plots. She hurried outside, dressed quickly.
Morning, Eleanor called. Have you lost something?
Winifred startled, straightening. In her hand was a plastic bottle with the bottom cut off.
Im gathering slugs, she muttered. They crawl from your side and devour my strawberries.
I havent had a chance to treat the garden yet, Eleanor apologized. Ill deal with them today. Might I help with the slugs?
Ill manage, Winifred snapped. Just watch your own fence. Its falling apart, and my tomatoes will tumble if it gives way.
Eleanor glanced at the rotting wooden fence; several boards were rotsoftened, the posts leaned. Beyond the fence, Winifreds plot boasted neat rows of tomato plants, their vines tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, Eleanor promised. Perhaps you could advise me? Im not much of a handyman.
Winifreds expression softened.
Youll need to call Mr. Peters down the lane. Hes a jackofalltrades, cheap and reliable.
Thank you, Ill ask him.
The following days slipped by in a blur of chores. Eleanor gradually organized the cottage, sorted Mums belongings, pausing now and then to thumb through an old album or simply sit and reminisce. Each morning she watched Winifred tending her tomatoes, chatting to the plants, gently tying new shoots, spraying them with some mysterious solution.
What beautiful tomatoes you have, Eleanor remarked one afternoon, watering her own beds. Ive never seen such large ones.
Winifred stood a little taller.
Bullheart, an heirloom variety. Mary, your mother, was always jealous of my crop. Her hands were too refined for the soilmore suited to the city.
Could you teach me how to look after them? Id like to try next year.
Winifred eyed her skeptically.
And why would you? Youll probably come for a week in summer and then dash back to London. Wholl keep them?
Im not planning to return yet, Eleanor said quietly. After the divorce I want to start anew. Perhaps here.
A flicker of somethingsympathy, perhapsshimmered in Winifreds eyes.
Fine, Ill show you if youre interested. Come this evening, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor, clutching Penelopes apple crumble, walked to Winifreds cottage. The house was as aged as her mothers, yet impeccably kept. The porch gleamed with fresh paint, curtains were starched, the garden immaculate.
Over tea and crumble, Winifred spoke of her tomatoes with the affection one reserves for children.
The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild solution of potassium permanganate, then warmsprout them. I plant only on certain moonphased days
Eleanor listened, amazed at the encyclopedic knowledge. The conversation drifted to other matters.
And wheres your husband? Winifred asked abruptly. Why only one child? Everyone now has twins or threes.
Eleanor sighed. She rarely talked about her personal life, but in the simple village kitchen, words poured out.
I was with Stephen for fifteen years. We tried for children, but nothing. We saw doctors, tried treatments Then he met a younger colleague, and she became pregnant almost immediately. Hes now with her and a little girl.
Stephens a fool, Winifred declared. You have kind eyes, strong hands. Losing a woman like you would be madness.
Eleanor smiled, warmed by the blunt candor.
The next day she hired Mr. Peters to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, inching toward the boundary. Suddenly she noticed several of Winifreds hefty tomato bushes leaning toward her fence, their fruit pulling the vines down.
Winifred! she called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre about to snap.
The neighbour stayed silent. Eleanor took matters into her own hands, fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed, and slipped a hand through a gap in the fence, trying to steady the laden branches.
A piercing cry erupted:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! Winifred shrieked through the fence, rushing from the opposite side.
Eleanor jerked her hand back, grazing a nail on the fence.
I only wanted to help Theyre falling
I dont need your help! Winifred gasped, her face reddening with fury. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing it!
Mr. Peters, hammer in hand, shook his head.
Dont take it to heart, love. Those tomatoes are like her children. After her son died in a crash, theyre all shes left.
Eleanor stared, stunned, at the angry woman cradling her vines, whispering gentle words. The scene shifted, taking on a new hue.
That night Eleanor lay awake, turning over the days events. At dawn she marched back to the fence.
Winifred, Im sorry for yesterday, she said, meeting the womans wary gaze. I didnt mean to upset you. I was only afraid the tomatoes would fall.
Winifred stayed mute, lips pressed thin.
I thought of this, Eleanor continued. Your back hurts, its hard to bend. Perhaps I could come by to water and weed? You could show me how to tend the tomatoes properly. I truly want to learn.
Winifred lingered in thought, then finally said, All right. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you, no improvising.
Thus began their shared mornings in the garden. Eleanor arrived at sunrise, and together they tended the tomatoes. Winifred proved a strict tutorcriticising every motion, demanding redos if something was off. Gradually her remarks softened; occasionally she offered a nod of approval.
One dawn, after they had finished tying new shoots, Winifred said unexpectedly,
My son Michael was a fine lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike, and crashed on the road at twentythree.
Eleanor listened in silence, fearing to disturb the confession.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart broken, Winifred went on. Im still here. I never thought Id go on, but spring came, and I planted tomatoes. I thought it would be my last sowing, yet they grew Theyve been with me for twenty years since Michaels death.
I see why you guard them so fiercely, Eleanor whispered. Theyre more than plants to you.
Your mother understood, Winifred nodded. We never got along, our temperaments clashed. Yet 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 reconciled then.
Eleanor smiled, imagining her mother tending Winifreds tomatoes.
I found her diary. She wrote about you: Winnystubborn as a mule, but her heart is gold. And the tomatoesmiracles.
Winifreds eyes welled, and she dabbed tears with the edge of her apron.
She was good. A shame you two didnt speak more. She talked about you constantly, showed pictures.
Really? Eleanor gasped. I thought shed forgotten me
Nonsense, love! She was proud of you. Shed brag about your cleverness, your job in London. She only hesitated to visit because you were busy, your flat tiny, no room for her.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat. So many words left unsaid, so many chances missed between her and her mother.
Lets have tea, Winifred declared suddenly. I baked a cherry tart.
Over tea they spoke of Mum, of the past, of village life. Winifreds stories about Mary Whitaker felt like rediscovering her own mother.
You know, Winifred said, eyes bright, stay over tomorrow night. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed for next years crop. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? Eleanor asked. Do you think I can manage?
What cant you manage? the old woman snorted. Your mother was Mary Whitaker. You have her handseveryone can do it, you just need practice.
Eleanor grinned. For the first time in ages she felt a place to belong. In the old family cottage, next to the irritable yet warm neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely, fly to London for meetings on weekends. And I think Mum would be pleased.
Winifred nodded, as if the decision were inevitable.
Of course, stay. A house without an owner feels lonely. I need help with the tomatoes; one pair is already a burden. And perhaps youll grow some of your own, not worse than mine.
Beyond the fence, Winifreds proud Bullheart tomatoes glistened crimson, while nearby tiny green tomatoes, planted together a month earlier, peeped shyly.
Next year, Winifred said, gazing at them tenderly, well harvest so much the whole village will be envious.
Eleanor looked at her hands, now calloused from soil, the earth caked under her nails. Hands that once only typed on keyboards now knew how to sow, weed, and waterhands that felt as much like her mothers as her own.
Thank you, Winifred Clarke, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories about my mother for everything.
Winifred waved her hand, a smile tugging at her lips.
Thats what neighbours are for. Your mother would have understood.
They stood at the fenceno longer a barrier, but a bridge between two lives. Summer lay ahead, full of chores and joy, then autumns bounty, winters stores, and springs new sowings. In that simple cycle of rural life, Eleanor finally found what she had been seeking: a sense of home, belonging, and continuation.
