Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left, shouted the neighbour through the fence.
Mrs. Whitaker, you should at least get to know the people next door, replied Agnes Baxter, handing over a steaming apple crumble. In a village you cant live without neighbours. You never know when a pipe will burst or the lights will go out.
Eleanor dried her hands on her apron and took the heavy tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the tiny kitchen of the old cottage she had inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Baxter, but Im not very sociable, Eleanor said with a shy smile. I came here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
Oh, love, I understand, the elderly woman said, tucking a stray grey strand behind her ear. Your mother, Mary Steadman, was a good woman, a bright soul. Still, you ought to at least say hello to Violet Simmonds over the fence. She lives on the right, been here about thirty years. She and your mother never got along, but they always helped each other as neighbours should.
Eleanor nodded, already picturing herself sipping tea alone while leafing through an old photo album. After a painful divorce she finally got a break from her advertising agency and decided to spend it in a quiet Kent village, two hundred miles from London. She was there to clear out the inheritance, tidy the garden, and try to mend a wounded heart.
When Mrs. Baxter left, Eleanor changed into her old jeans and Tshirt, tied a headscarf and stepped into the garden. Her mothers plot had been overrun with weeds for almost a year. There was a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, restore the beds, and repair the sagging fence.
Armed with shears, she began trimming the wild raspberry bushes at the very edge of the property. The thorns snagged her clothes and scratched her hands, yet the work strangely soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled emotional pain.
Suddenly a rustle came from beyond the fence, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
Eleanor straightened and saw a weatherworn woman with a creased face peering over the fence, a faded cotton kerchief tied around her hair, garden shears in hand.
Good day, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor Whitaker, Mary Steadmans daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her.
A daughter? I never knew Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
Eleanor felt a sting in her chest. Her relationship with her mother had always been strained. After her parents divorce she stayed with her father in London while Mary moved to the cottage. They met only on holidays, mainly by phone.
We havent been close these past years, Eleanor admitted softly. And you must be Violet Simmonds? Mrs. Baxter told me about you.
Baxter? the neighbour scoffed. Shes the village gossip, always trading pies for news. Yes, Im Violet. Ive lived here since your mother was a schoolgirl with braids.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother as a young girl.
Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while. I need to get the garden in order.
Violet surveyed the tangled beds.
Mary left the garden unattended last year. She was ill and couldnt tend it. I helped as best I could, but my back is no longer what it used to be. She frowned. Dont meddle with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up against my fence. If you damage it, my tomatoes will suffer this winter.
Alright, Ill be careful, Eleanor replied, surprised by the sudden change in tone.
All day she cleared paths, trimmed dead branches, and pulled weeds. By evening her hands ached, but her spirit felt lighter. There was something right about returning to the earth, to roots.
The next morning a strange noise woke Eleanor. Looking out, she saw Violet working on the fence. She hurried outside.
Good morning, Eleanor called. Did you lose something?
Violet jumped, holding a plastic bottle with the bottom cut off.
Those slugs are crawling from your plot onto mine, eating my strawberries, she muttered.
Im sorry, I havent gotten around to treating my beds yet, Eleanor said, blushing. Ill sort it out today. Need a hand with the slugs?
No help needed, Violet snapped. Just watch your fence. Its falling apart, and my tomatoes might tumble over.
Eleanor examined the rickety wooden fence. Several boards were rotted, posts leaning. Beyond it, Violets garden held neat rows of tomato plants tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, promise, Eleanor said. Maybe you can advise me? Im not much of a handyman.
Violets expression softened.
You should call Mr. Peters. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. He doesnt charge much and works honestly.
Thank you, Ill do that.
The following days passed in a blur of activity. Eleanor slowly organised the cottage, sorted Mums belongings, and often paused to flip through the old album or simply sit and reminisce. Each morning she saw Violet tending her tomatoes, speaking to the plants, gently tying new shoots, spraying them with a mysterious solution.
What lovely tomatoes you have, Eleanor remarked one day while watering her own beds.
Violet straightened, pride flashing in her eyes.
Bulls Heart, an old heirloom. Mary always envied me for growing them. Her hands were too cityslick for the soil.
Could you teach me how to look after them? Id like to try next year.
Violet eyed her skeptically.
Whats it to you? Youll probably spend a week here in summer and then drive back to London. Who will tend them?
Im not planning to return yet, Eleanor said quietly. After the divorce I want to start anew. Maybe here.
Something soft shifted in Violets gazeperhaps understanding, perhaps pity.
Fine, Ill show you, if youre interested. Come over this evening for tea.
That evening Eleanor, with a slice of Agness apple crumble, walked to Violets house. It was as old as her mothers, but immaculately kept. The porch was freshly painted, curtains starched, the garden spotless.
Over tea, Violet spoke of her tomatoes with the affection one reserves for children.
The trick is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild potassium permanganate solution, then keep them warm to sprout. I plant them on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, astonished at the depth of Violets horticultural knowledge. The conversation drifted to other topics.
Wheres your husband? Violet asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyones having twins these days.
Eleanor sighed. She rarely spoke of personal matters, but the cosy kitchen coaxed her out.
Sergey and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, but nothing worked. Then he met a younger colleague who got pregnant quickly. Hes now with her and a little daughter.
Stupid Sergey, Violet said bluntly. Youre kind, you work hard. Losing a woman like you is madness.
Eleanor felt a warm smile rise. The neighbours blunt kindness was oddly comforting.
The next day she hired Mr. Peters to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, gradually edging closer to Violets plot. She noticed several of Violets large tomato bushes leaning toward her fence, heavy fruit pulling the branches down.
Violet! Eleanor called. May I help tie up your tomatoes? Theyre sagging.
The neighbour didnt answer. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed and slipped a hand through a gap in the fence to support the heavy branches.
A sharp cry split the air:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left! shouted the neighbour from the other side, rushing toward her.
Eleanor jerked her hand back, scraping her palm on a nail.
I only wanted to help they were falling
No help needed! Violet gasped, face flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own and Ill continue to!
Mr. Peters, nearby, shook his head.
Dont take it to heart, love. Those tomatoes are like her children. After her son died in a crash, they became everything to her.
Eleanor stared at the frantic woman, now gently coaxing the tomato vines, murmuring soft words. The scene suddenly seemed less hostile.
That night she lay awake, thinking of Violet and her tomatoes. At dawn she walked straight to the neighbours garden.
Violet Simmonds, Im sorry for yesterday, Eleanor said, meeting the womans guarded stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just worried the plants would break.
Violet stayed silent, lips pressed.
I thought, Eleanor continued, perhaps I could come by to water and weed for you? And you could teach me how to care for tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
Violet considered the offer for a long moment.
Alright, she finally said. Come tomorrow at six. Do everything exactly as I tell you. No improvising.
Thus began their mornings together in the garden. Eleanor arrived at sunrise; Violet was a strict tutor, correcting every movement, demanding redoings. Over time her criticism softened, and occasional nods of approval appeared.
One crisp morning, after they had finished tying new shoots, Violet spoke unexpectedly:
My son, Michael, was a bright lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike and crashed on the road at twentythree.
Eleanor listened in silence, fearing to push too far.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart failure, Violet went on. I kept living because because spring came and I planted these tomatoes. I thought it would be my last crop. Yet they grew, strong and red. As long as they grow, I have a reason to keep going. Theyve been here for twenty years, since Michaels death.
Eleanor whispered, Now I understand why you guard them so fiercely. Theyre more than plants to you.
Violet nodded. Your mother and I never got along. Our temperaments clashed. But when I fell ill three years ago, she visited daily, watered my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she returned, the plants were still thriving. Thats when we made peace.
Eleanor smiled, imagining her mother tending the neighbours garden.
I found my mothers diary. She wrote about you: Violet stubborn as a mule, but with a heart of gold. Her tomatoes are a miracle.
Violets eyes filled with tears, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron.
She was a good woman. Its a shame you two didnt talk much. She always showed me pictures of you.
Really? Eleanor asked, surprised. I thought shed forgotten me
Never, Violet said firmly. She was proud of you, talked about your cleverness and your job in the city. She only hesitated to visit because you were always busy and your flat was tiny.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat. So many words left unsaid, so many chances missed.
Lets have tea, Violet said suddenly, brightening. I baked a cherry tart.
Over tea they talked moreabout Mum, about the past, about village life. Violet recounted amusing anecdotes about Mary, and Eleanor felt as if she were meeting her mother anew.
Tomorrow, stay the night. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed beds for next year. Ill show you how to select the best seeds, Violet offered.
Next year? Eleanor asked, eyes wide. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? Violet replied with a grin. Your mother was Mary Steadman. You have her handscapable of anything, you just need practice.
For the first time in a long while Eleanor felt she belonged. In the old cottage, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines, she discovered a new purpose.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely and still travel to London when needed. Im sure Mum would have liked that.
Violet nodded, as if the decision were inevitable.
Of course, stay. A house empty of its owner feels lonely. And I still need help with my tomatoesone alone is a heavy burden. Together well grow a crop even better than mine.
Beyond the fence, Violets prized Bulls Heart tomatoes glistened rubyred, while beside them sprouted a few shy green seedlings Eleanor had planted with her own hands just a month before.
Next year, Violet said, gazing at them tenderly, well harvest so much the whole village will be jealous.
Eleanor looked at her handsroughened by soil, the same soil that once clung to her mothers nails. They could now type on a computer and also sow, weed, and water. They felt like her mothers.
Thank you, Violet Simmonds, she whispered. For the tomatoes, the stories about my mother for everything.
Violet waved her hand, smiling. Were neighbours, after all. We help each other. Your mother understood that.
They stood by the fenceno longer a barrier but a link between two plots and two lives. Summer lay ahead, full of caring and joy; autumn would bring a bountiful harvest; winter would bring preserves and new plans; and spring would see them planting again together. In this simple cycle of rural life, Eleanor finally discovered what she had been searching fora sense of home, belonging, and continuity.
The tale of ordinary tomatoes mending old wounds reminds us that the simplest things can hold profound meaning and possess a healing power that bridges lonely hearts.
