Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left, the neighbour shouted across the hedge.
Mrs. Whitaker, perhaps you should first get to know the people next door, said Margaret Whitaker, handing me a steaming apple crumble fresh from the oven. In a village you cant survive without neighbours. You never know when a pipe will burst or the lights will go out.
I dabbed my hands on my apron and lifted the heavy tin tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the cramped kitchen of the old cottage I had inherited from my mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker, but Im rather shy, I said, smiling timidly. I came here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
Oh, love, I understand, the old woman said, smoothing a stray silver strand from under her kerchief. Your mother, Mary Townsend, was a good soul. Still, you ought to at least say hello to Winifred Smythe over the hedgerow. She lives on the right, has been here three decades. She and your mother never got along, but they have always looked after each other as neighbours should.
I nodded, though in my mind I pictured myself sitting alone with a cup of tea, leafing through Mums old photo album. After my divorce I finally managed to take a sabbatical from the advertising agency in London and thought a quiet life in the Cotswolds, about two hundred miles from the capital, would help mend the old wounds while I sorted the inheritance and set the garden straight.
When Margaret left, I changed into my worn jeans and a plain Tshirt, tied a small bandana around my hair and stepped into the overgrown garden. Mums plot had been left to weeds for nearly a year after her death. There was much to do: trim the ancient apple trees, repair the beds, and mend the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, I began trimming the wild raspberry thicket that pressed against the boundary. The prickly canes snagged my sleeves and scratched my hands, yet the work soothed a strange way. Physical fatigue dulled the ache in my heart.
Suddenly a rustle rose from beyond the fence and a sharp voice cut through the air.
Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
I straightened and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face peering over the hedge. She wore a faded cotton kerchief and clutched a pair of garden shears.
Good day, I replied politely. Im Eleanor Vickers, Mary Townsends daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying me.
A daughter? I never heard Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
A pang struck my chest. Yes, my relationship with Mum had been strained. After my parents divorce I stayed with my father in London while Mum moved here, visiting only on holidays.
We werent close in recent years, I said quietly. And you must be Winifred Smythe? Mrs. Whitaker spoke of you.
Whitaker? she scoffed. That gossiping hen who wanders the village with her pies, trying to collect every scrap of news. Yes, Im Winifred. Ive lived here since your mother was a girl with pigtails.
I imagined Mum as a youthful lass.
Pleasant to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a long whilegot to bring this place back to life.
Winifred surveyed the tangled beds.
Mary let the garden go to ruin in her last year. She was very ill and couldnt tend it. I helped what I could, but my back is failing now. She frowned. Dont mess with that raspberry patch too much. Its grown right up to my fence. If you damage it, Ill be left without raspberries for the winter.
Understood, Ill be careful, I answered, surprised by her sudden sharpness.
The whole day I cleared pathways, pruned dead branches, and pulled weeds. By evening my hands ached, but my spirit felt lighter. There was something right in returning to the earth, to my roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke me. Looking out, I saw Winifred at the fence, fiddling with something. I hurried out.
Morning, I called. Did you lose something?
Winifred startled, holding a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off.
Those slugs are invading, she muttered. Theyre crawling from your plot and eating my strawberries.
Im sorry, I havent had a chance to treat my beds yet, I said, flushing. Ill deal with them today. May I help you with the slugs?
No need, she snapped. Just mind your own fence. Its falling apart; my tomatoes will tumble over if you dont.
She gestured to the rotting wooden fenceseveral boards were rotten, posts leaned. Beyond it, Winifreds garden boasted neat tomato plants, their vines tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, I promised. Perhaps you could advise me? Im not much of a carpenter.
She softened a little.
Youll need to call Mr. Pettigrew. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. Hes reasonable and works hard.
Thank you, Ill find him.
The following days passed in a blur of sorting Mums belongings, dusting the cottage, and stealing moments to flip through her old album. Each morning I watched Winifred tending her tomatoes, speaking softly to the plants as she tied new shoots and sprayed them with some homemade concoction.
What splendid tomatoes you have, I remarked one day, watering my own beds. Ive never seen such large ones.
Winifred straightened, pride evident.
Theyre Bullheart, an old heirloom. Mary always envied my crop. She had city hands, not the soils.
Could you teach me how to care for them? I asked.
She eyed me skeptically.
What would you need them for? Youll be back in London after a week, wont you?
Im not planning to return soon, I replied quietly. After the divorce I want a fresh start. Maybe here.
A flicker of understanding crossed her eyes.
Very well, Ill show you if youre keen. Come this evening, well have tea.
That night I took Mrs. Whitakers apple crumble and walked to Winifreds cottage. Her home was as weathered as mine, but immaculate: the porch freshly painted, curtains starched, no dust on the sill.
Over tea, Winifred spoke of her tomatoes with the same affection a mother shows her children.
The secret is starting with good seed. I soak them in a mild potassium permanganate solution, then keep them warm until they sprout. I plant only on certain days by the lunar calendar
Her encyclopaedic knowledge of tomatoes fascinated me. The conversation drifted.
Wheres your husband? she asked abruptly. Why only one child? Everyone now has twins or threes.
I sighed. I rarely discussed my personal life, but in the simple village kitchen the words flowed.
Sam and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, but nothing. He later met a younger colleague who became pregnant quickly. Hes now with a new family and a little girl.
Poor Sam, Winifred said bluntly. Youre a good-hearted, capable woman. Losing someone like thathardly a smart move.
Her straightforwardness warmed me oddly.
The next day I hired Mr. Pettigrew to mend the fence. While he worked, I tended the beds, inching closer to Winifreds border. Soon I noticed several of her tomato bushes leaning heavily toward my fence, their fruit pulling the branches down.
Winifred! I called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre bowing over.
She didnt answer. I took a few bamboo stakes from the shed and, through a gap in the fence, slipped my hand in to support the heavy branches.
A fierce shout erupted.
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! the neighbour bellowed, storming over the hedge.
I recoiled, grazing my hand on a nail.
I only wanted to help theyre falling
No help needed! Winifred rasped, her face flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep on doing it!
Mr. Pettigrew, finishing the fence nearby, shook his head.
Dont take it to heart, love, he said to me. Those tomatoes are like children to Winifred. After her son died in a crash, theyre all she has left.
I watched Winifred gently coax the battered vines, murmuring something tender. In that moment the whole picture changed.
That night sleep eluded me; Winifreds outburst replayed in my mind. At dawn I went back to her hedge.
Winifred Smythe, Im sorry for yesterday, I said, meeting her wary gaze. I didnt mean to upset you. I was only worried the plants would break.
She stared silently, lips pressed.
I thought, I continued, perhaps I could come by each morning to water and weed, and you could teach me proper tomato care? I truly want to learn.
She weighed the offer for a long moment.
Alright, she finally said. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you, and no improvising.
Thus began our shared mornings. At sunrise Id arrive, and Winifred, a stern tutor, would critique every movement, making me redo tasks until I performed them correctly. Over time her rebukes softened, and occasionally shed nod approvingly.
One crisp morning, after we had finished tying new shoots, she spoke suddenly.
My son Michael was a bright lad, an engineering student. He saved up for a motorbike and died in a crash at twentythree.
I listened, stunned by the sudden confession.
My husband, after his grief, died of a broken heart a year later, she went on. And I kept on. At first I thought I couldnt go on, but spring came and I planted these tomatoes. I thought it would be my last crop, yet they grew and thrived. As long as these plants live, I find a reason to live. Theyve been with me for twenty years now, since Michaels death.
I understand now why you guard them so fiercely, I whispered. Theyre more than plants to you.
She nodded. Your mother and I never got on; our temperaments clashed. Yet three years ago, when I fell ill, she visited every day, watering my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she returned, the vines were still robust. Thats when we made peace.
A memory of my mother tending to someone elses garden surfaced.
I found her diary, I said quietly. She wrote about you: Winifred stubborn as a mule, but with a heart of gold. Her tomatoes are a miracle.
Tears welled in Winifreds eyes; she dabbed them with the edge of her apron.
She was a good woman. Its a shame you didnt speak more.
I thought shed forgotten me, I admitted.
Never! she replied, voice softening. She was proud of you, always spoke of your cleverness, your work in the city. She just never visited she said you were always busy and your flat was too small for her.
A lump rose in my throat. So many words left unsaid, so many chances missed between me and my mother.
Lets have tea, Winifred said suddenly, brightening. I baked a cherry tart.
Over tea we spoke of Mum, of the past, of village life. She recounted funny anecdotes about Mary Townsend, and I felt as if I were meeting my mother anew.
Tomorrow, stay the night, she suggested. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed. Ill show you how to select the best ones for next years crop.
Will I manage? I asked, surprised.
Why wouldnt you? she retorted with a grin. Your mother was Mary Townsend. You have her hands you can do anything once youve had the practice.
A smile broke across my face. For the first time in a long while I felt a place I could belong. In that old cottage, beside a chatty yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines, I sensed a new beginning.
I think Ill stay here for good, I said. I can work remotely, travel to London when needed, and I think Mum would be pleased.
Winifred nodded, as if my decision were obvious.
Of course, stay. A house empty of its owner withers. And I still need help with these tomatoes; one pair is too much for me.
Beyond the fence the proud Bullheart tomatoes glistened, while beside them our own seedlingsgreen and hopefulswayed in the summer breeze.
Next year, Winifred said, eyes gentle on the vines, well harvest so much the whole village will be jealous.
I looked at my hands, now calloused from soil, the gardens earth clinging under my nails. They were hands that once only typed on a keyboard, now capable of planting, weeding, and wateringhands that felt like Mums.
Thank you, Winifred Smythe, I murmured. For the tomatoes, for the stories about my mother for everything.
She waved a hand, smiling. Were neighbours, love. We look after each other. Your mother understood that.
We stood at the fence, no longer a barrier but a bridge between our plots and our lives. Summer lay ahead, brimming with chores and joys; autumn would bring a bountiful harvest, winter the quiet of stored preserves, and spring the promise of new sowings together. In that simple cycle of country living, I finally found what I had long soughta sense of home, belonging, and continuity.
