Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre the only thing I have left, shouted a voice through the picket fence, a trembling echo in the misty garden.
Eleanor Whitaker, clutching a flourdusted apron, had just set the heavy tin tray down on the cracked kitchen table. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples swirled through the little cottage shed inherited from her mother, a house that smelled of old stories and fresh pies.
Eleanor, you ought to introduce yourself to the neighbours first, said Mrs. Agnes Blake, sliding a steaming apple crumble across the table. In a village you cant live without a neighbour. One day the well might run dry, the next the electricity could flicker.
Eleanor dabbed her hands on the apron, smiling shyly. Thank you, Mrs. Blake, but Im not very sociable. I came here for quiet, to sort through Mums things.
Mrs. Blake adjusted the frayed ribbon tucked under her cap. Your mother, Mary Stead, was a good soul. Yet you should at least say hello to Valerie Seymour over the fence. Shes lived on the right side for thirty years. They didnt get along with your mother, but they always lent a hand when needed.
Eleanor nodded, though her mind drifted to a solitary tea with a dusty photo album. After a bitter divorce, she finally received a sabbatical from the London ad agency where she worked and decided to spend it in the Cotswolds, two hundred miles from the capital, trying to mend the cracks in her own heart while tending the overgrown plot left by her mother.
When Mrs. Blake left, Eleanor swapped her slippers for old jeans and a plain tee, tied a bandana around her hair, and stepped into the garden. The oncetended plot lay tangled in weeds, abandoned for nearly a year. She faced a mountain of chores: pruning gnarly apple trees, clearing the beds, repairing the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, she began to trim the wild raspberry thicket that clung to the very edge of the land. Thorns snagged her sleeves, scratches dotted her hands, yet the rhythmic snipsnip soothed her like a lullaby, dulling the ache inside.
A rustle rose from beyond the fence, followed by a sharp voice, Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
Eleanor straightened and saw an elderly woman, her face lined like weatherworn bark, staring through the slats. A faded cotton headscarf clung to her hair, and she held a pair of garden shears.
Good morning, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor, Mary Steads daughter. I inherited this cottage.
The woman squinted, studying her. A daughter? I didnt know Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
A cold pang struck Eleanors heart. Her relationship with Mary had always been tangled. After her parents split, shed stayed in London with her father while Mary moved to the family farm, visiting only on holidays.
We havent spoken much lately, Eleanor whispered. And you must be Valerie Seymour? Mrs. Blake told me about you.
Mrs. Blake? the neighbour snorted. That gossipmonger goes round the village with her pies, collecting news like a magpie. Yes, Im Valerie. Ive been here since your mother was still braiding her hair.
Eleanor imagined her mother, young and carefree, running through the fields. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while, getting the garden back in order.
Valerie glanced over the tangled rows. Mary let the garden fall in the last year. She was ill, never got to the soil. I helped where I could, but my backs no longer as supple. She paused, eyes narrowing. Dont mess with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up to my fence. If you break it, my winter will be ruined.
Ill be careful, Eleanor promised, surprised by the sudden edge in Valeries tone.
The day stretched into evening as Eleanor cleared pathways, snapped dry branches, and pulled weeds. By night her hands throbbed, yet her spirit felt lighter. There was a quiet rightness in kneeling in the earth, in feeling the pulse of the land.
The next morning a strange clatter roused her. From the window she saw Valerie bending over the fence, a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off in her hand.
Those slugs are invading, Valerie muttered, shaking the bottle. Theyre crawling from your plot onto my strawberries.
I havent started on the beds yet, Eleanor apologized. Ill deal with them today. Want a hand with the slugs?
No need, Valerie snapped. Just watch your own fence. Its collapsing; my tomatoes will crash through if you dont mind it.
Eleanor turned to the sagging wooden fence. Several boards were rotted, posts leaned like tired soldiers. Behind it, Valeries side boasted neat rows of tomato plants, their vines tethered to little stakes.
Ill fix it, Eleanor said, offering a hopeful smile. Maybe you could advise me? Im not much of a handyman.
Valeries expression softened. Youll need to call Mr. Peter. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. He doesnt charge much and works honestly.
Thank you, Ill do that.
Days slipped by as Eleanor sorted through her mothers belongings, pausing often to leaf through an old photo album or simply sit and remember. Each sunrise found Valerie tending her tomatoes, speaking to them in a hushed, reverent tone, gently binding new shoots, misting them with a mysterious spray.
Your tomatoes are magnificent, Eleanor remarked one afternoon, watering her own beds.
Valerie straightened, pride flashing in her eyes. Bullheart, an old heirloom. Mary always envied me for growing them. Her hands were too cityslick for the soil.
Could you teach me? Eleanor asked. Id love to try next year.
Valeries brow furrowed. Whats the point? Youll be back in London soon, wont you? Wholl look after them?
Im not planning to return right away, Eleanor replied quietly. After the divorce I want a fresh start. Maybe here.
A flicker of compassion passed over Valeries face. Alright, Ill show you, if youre interested. Come over tonight for tea.
That evening Eleanor carried Mrs. Blakes apple crumble to Valeries cottage, a building as aged as her own but impeccably kept. Fresh paint gleamed on the porch, curtains were starched, and the garden was immaculate.
Over tea, Valerie spoke of her tomatoes with a devotion that made it sound as if she were discussing children. The key is good seedling. I soak them in a dilute solution of potassium permanganate, then warm them until they sprout. I plant only on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, amazed at the encyclopedic knowledge. The conversation drifted, as it often does in dreams, to other topics.
Wheres your husband? Valerie asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyone nowadays has two or three.
Eleanor sighed. Simon and I were together for fifteen years. We tried for children, but it never worked. He later found a younger colleague who became pregnant almost immediately. Now he has a new family and a little daughter.
Valeries eyes widened. Simons a fool. Youre a good woman, stronghanded. Losing you would be madness.
Eleanor felt a warmth she hadnt expected. The blunt honesty wrapped around her like a blanket.
The following day she hired Mr. Peter to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, inching nearer to the boundary. The heavy tomato bushes on Valeries side leaned toward her fence, their fruit pulling the vines down.
Valerie Seymour! Eleanor called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre about to topple.
No answer came. Determined, Eleanor took a few bamboo sticks from the shed, slipped her hand through a gap in the fence, and began propping the laden branches.
A shrill cry split the air. Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all Ive got left! The neighbours voice thundered from the other side of the fence, her figure lunging forward.
Eleanor jerked her hand back, a nail grazing her palm. I only wanted to help theyre falling
You dont need my help! Valerie rasped, her face flushed with fury. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing so!
Mr. Peter, nearby, shook his head. Dont be angry with her, love. Those tomatoes are like her children. After her son died in a crash, they became her whole world.
Eleanor stared at the trembling woman, now tenderly coaxing the tomato vines back into place, whispering soothing words. The scene shifted like a film reel, revealing a deeper layer of sorrow.
That night sleep evaded her; thoughts of Valerie and the tomatoes swirled. At dawn she walked back to the fence, heart steady.
Valerie, Im sorry for yesterday, she said, meeting the old womans guarded gaze. I didnt mean to upset you. I was only worried the plants would break.
Valerie remained silent, lips pressed together.
I thought perhaps I could come by to water and weed for you, Eleanor continued. And you could teach me how to care for the tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
Valerie considered this, weighing the offer. Very well. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I say. No improvising.
Thus began their shared mornings. Dawn painted the sky as they worked side by side, Valerie a stern tutor, correcting every misstep, yet gradually her critiques softened, and sometimes a nod of approval slipped through.
One crisp morning, after they had finished tying new shoots, Valerie spoke unexpectedly. My son Michael was a bright lad, studying engineering. He saved up for a motorbike and crashed on the road at twentythree. My husband died a year after his funeral, heart gave out. Im left here, tending these tomatoes. Theyre my reason to keep going. Theyve been with me for twenty years since Michael went.
Eleanor listened, the silence heavy with unspoken grief.
Now I see why you guard them so, she whispered. Theyre more than plants to you.
Valerie nodded. Your mother and I never got along. When I fell ill three years ago, she visited every day, watering my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she left, they were still thriving. Thats when we mended things.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother watering another womans garden. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Val stubborn as a mule, but heart of gold. Her tomatoes are miracles.
Tears welled in Valeries eyes, and she brushed them away with the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. Its a shame you barely spoke. She spoke of you often, showed pictures.
Really? Eleanor asked, surprised. I thought shed forgotten me
Never, dear. She was proud of you, talked about your work in London, your cleverness. She just felt you were too busy, your flat too small for visits.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat, a mixture of regret and longing for the mother shed barely known.
Lets have tea, Valerie said suddenly, a smile breaking. I made a cherry tart.
Over tea they lingered, sharing stories of Mary, of village life, of the whispering tomatoes. Valeries voice softened, recalling funny anecdotes about Mary Stead. Eleanor felt, for the first time, a thread weaving her past to the present.
You should stay the night tomorrow, Valerie suggested. Full moon is perfect for soaking seeds for next years crop. Ill show you how to select the best ones.
Next year? Eleanor asked, eyes widening. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? Valerie retorted with a chuckle. Your mothers hands were just like yours clever, only lacking practice.
Eleanors smile widened. For the first time in months she felt rooted, as if the earth beneath her feet had finally embraced her. She imagined a future in the old cottage, working remotely, commuting to London on occasional trips, and sharing the garden with her new neighbour.
I think Ill stay here for good, she declared. I can work from home, and Id love to keep the tomatoes alive for Mums memory.
Valeries eyes glittered. Of course, stay. A house without an owner gets lonely. And I could use help with those tomatoes; one pair is a burden enough.
Beyond the fence, the crimson Bullheart tomatoes glistened like polished rubies, while nearby tiny green seedlingsplanted together just a month before swayed in the breeze.
In the coming year well harvest enough to make the whole village jealous, Valerie said fondly, gazing at the rows.
Eleanor looked at her hands, now calloused from soil, the gardens scent lodged under her nails. They were hands that could type on a keyboard and now also sow, weed, and water. Hands that felt a kinship with her mothers.
Thank you, Valerie, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum for everything.
Valerie waved a hand, her smile warm. Were neighbours now. We look after each other. Your mother would have understood.
They stood at the fence, no longer a barrier but a bridge between two lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of chores and laughter; autumn promised a bounty; winter would bring preservation and new plans; spring would return with fresh seedlings. In that endless cycle of rural life, Eleanor finally felt the home she had been searching fora sense of belonging, of continuity, of healing.
The humble tomatoes had stitched together two solitary souls, proving that the simplest things can hold the deepest magic.
