Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all Ive got left, shouted a voice through the garden fence, raw and urgent.
Im sorry, dear, but you should at least say hello to the people next door, replied Margaret Clarke, handing over a steaming apple crumble that still smelled of cinnamon. In a village you cant keep to yourself. One day the water pipe bursts, the next the lights go out.
Eleanor Whitaker dabbed her hands on her apron, took the heavy tin tray, and inhaled the sweet scent of baked apples that filled her modest kitchen. The cottage, inherited from her mother Mary, had been waiting for her.
Thanks, Margaret, but Im not very sociable, Eleanor said, offering a shy smile. I came here for quiet, to sort through Mums things.
Ah, love, I understand, the old woman murmured, tucking a stray grey strand behind her ear. Mary was a good soul, a gentle heart. Still, you ought to at least wave to Violet Hargreaves over the fence. Shes lived on the right for thirty years. She and your mother never got along, but neighbours always help each other out.
Eleanor nodded, though in her mind she pictured herself sipping tea alone, leafing through an old photo album. After her divorce she had finally been granted a sabbatical from the advertising agency in London and decided to spend it in a quiet Cotswold hamlet, some 186 miles from the capital, sorting the inheritance, fixing the garden, and mending her own hurt.
When Margaret left, Eleanor changed into a pair of faded jeans and a plain tee, tied a bandana round her hair, and stepped into the overgrown garden. The plot had been left to weeds for almost a year since Mums death. Now she faced a mountain of tasks: pruning ancient apple trees, repairing the beds, and fixing the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, she began trimming the wild raspberry thicket that clung to the boundary. The thorns snagged her sleeves and scratched her hands, yet the rhythm of the work soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache in her chest.
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 with a weatherworn face, eyes fixed through the fence. A faded cotton headscarf sat on her hair, and she clutched a pair of garden scissors.
Good day, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor, Mary Whitakers daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her. A daughter? I never knew Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
A sting pierced Eleanors heart. Her relationship with her mother had been fraught. After her parents split shed stayed with her father in London while Mary moved back to the family home, their contact limited to occasional holiday calls.
We havent spoken much lately, Eleanor admitted softly. You must be Violet Hargreaves? Margaret told me about you.
Margaret? the neighbour sniffed. That gossipmonger who walks the village with her pies, hunting for news. Yes, Im Violet. Ive been here since your mother was a girl with braids running around the fields.
Eleanor imagined her mother as a sprightly teenager. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying a while. I want to get the garden in order.
Violet surveyed the tangled beds. Mary let the garden fall into neglect this last year. She was ill, never got to the plot. I helped as much as I could, but my backs not what it used to be. She frowned. Dont mess with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up to my fence. If you break it, my winter raspberry stash disappears.
Alright, Ill be more careful, Eleanor said, surprised by the sudden sharpness in Violets tone.
The day passed in a blur of clearing paths, snipping dead branches, and pulling weeds. By dusk her hands throbbed, but a lightness settled in her chest. There was something right about returning to soil, to roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke her. Looking out, she saw Violet busy at the fence. She dressed quickly and stepped outside.
Morning, Eleanor called. Did you lose something?
Violet startled, holding a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off. Those slugs are crawling from your plot, eating my strawberries, she muttered.
I havent gotten around to treating the beds yet, Eleanor apologized. Ill sort it out today. Want a hand with the slugs?
No help needed, Violet snapped. Ill manage. Just watch your fenceits falling apart, and my tomatoes will tumble if it collapses.
Eleanor glanced at the sagging timber fence. Indeed, several boards were rotted, the posts leaned. Behind it, Violets garden boasted neat rows of tomato plants, their fruit tied to little stakes.
Ill fix it, Eleanor promised. Any advice? Im a bit clueless with fences.
Violets eyes softened. You should call Mr. Patel. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. Hes reasonable and does honest work.
Thank you, Ill call him, Eleanor replied.
The following days were a quiet bustle. Eleanor sorted through her mothers belongings, occasionally pausing to flip through an old album or simply sit and remember. Each morning she watched Violet tending her tomatoes, speaking to the vines as if to old friends, gently tying new shoots, misting them with some secret spray.
What splendid tomatoes you have, Eleanor remarked one afternoon while watering her own beds. Ive never seen such large ones.
Violet straightened, pride evident. Bullheart, an old heirloom. Mary always envied my crop. Her hands were too cityslick for the soil.
Could you show me how to care for them? Id like to try next year, Eleanor asked.
Violet eyed her skeptically. Why would you? Youll be back in London in a week, then off again. Who will look after them?
Im not planning to return soon, Eleanor whispered. After the divorce I want to start anew, maybe here.
A flicker of somethingperhaps sympathycrossed Violets face. Alright, Ill tell you if youre interested. Come over this evening, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor, carrying Margarets apple crumble, walked to Violets house. It was as aged as her own, but lovingly maintained: fresh paint on the porch, starched curtains, a tidy garden.
Over tea, Violet spoke of her tomatoes with a devotion that sounded like talk of children. The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild chlorophyll solution, then warm them until they sprout. I plant only on certain days, guided by the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, amazed at the depth of Violets horticultural knowledge. Then the conversation drifted.
Wheres your husband? Violet asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyone now has two or three.
A sigh escaped Eleanor. She rarely talked about her personal life, but the simple village kitchen coaxed the words out. Sergei and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, but it never worked. He later met a younger colleague, they had a baby, and hes with them now.
Sergei was a fool, Violet declared without hesitation. You have kind eyes and strong hands. Losing a woman like you would be madness.
Eleanor found herself smiling at the blunt honesty. It warmed her like a hearth fire.
The next day she hired Mr. Patel to mend the fence. While he worked, she moved among the beds, edging closer to the boundary. She noticed several of Violets tomato bushes leaning heavily toward her fence, the weight of their fruit pulling the branches down.
Violet Hargreaves! she called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre bending over.
No answer came. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed, slipped a hand through the gap in the fence, and began propping the laden branches.
A fierce cry shattered the quiet. Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! the neighbour roared, lunging from the opposite side of the garden.
Eleanor recoiled, grazing a nail in the fence. I only wanted to help theyre falling
You dont need my help! Violet gasped, cheeks flushed with rage. Ive always managed on my own and I will continue!
Mr. Patel, nearby, shook his head. Dont be angry, dear. Those tomatoes are like children to Violet. After her son died in a crash, they became her only solace.
Eleanor stared at Violet, who was now gently coaxing the tomato vines, murmuring soothing words. The scene shifted, taking on a new hue.
That night Eleanor lay awake, the echo of Violets voice and the scent of tomatoes filling the dream. At dawn she walked to the fence, resolve firm.
Violet Hargreaves, Im sorry for yesterday, she began, meeting the neighbours guarded eyes. I didnt mean to upset you. I only feared the tomatoes would fall.
Violet remained silent, lips pressed.
I thought, since your back hurts, perhaps I could come by to water and weed? You could teach me how to tend the tomatoes properly. I truly want to learn, Eleanor offered.
Violet considered, then finally said, Fine. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I say, no improvising.
Thus began their shared mornings. Eleanor arrived at sunrise, and together they tended the tomatoes. Violet proved a stern tutor, correcting every movement, demanding redo after every mistake. Gradually her commands softened, and occasionally a nod of approval slipped through.
One crisp morning, after they had finished tying new shoots, Violet spoke unexpectedly. My son Michael was a bright lad, studying engineering. He saved up for a motorbike and crashed on the road at twentythree.
Eleanor listened, the silence heavy.
My husbands heart gave out a year after the funeral, Violet continued. Im still here, though I dont know why. At first I thought I couldnt go on. Then spring came, and I planted these tomatoes, thinking it would be the last time. They grew, stubborn and strong, and I realised as long as they live, Ill live too. Theyve been with me for twenty years, since Michaels death.
It makes sense now why you guard them so fiercely, Eleanor whispered. They mean more than just fruit.
Violets eyes softened. Your mother and I never got along; our temperaments clashed. When I fell ill three years ago, she visited daily, watering my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she returned, the plants were still thriving, and we made peace then.
Eleanor imagined her mother, in a hospital gown, tending another womans garden. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Violetstubborn as a mule, but her heart is gold. Her tomatoes are miracles.
A sudden, childlike sob escaped Violet, wiping tears with the edge of her apron. She was good. Its a shame you barely talked. She spoke of you often, showed me pictures.
Really? Eleanor gasped. I thought shed forgotten me
Never, love! She was proud of you, bragged about your cleverness, your job in London. She only hesitated to visit because you were busy and your flat was tiny, no room for her.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat, a mixture of regret and longing for the mother she never truly knew.
Lets have tea, Violet said abruptly. I baked a cherry tart this morning.
Over tea they spoke of Mary, of past grievances, of village life. Violet recounted whimsical tales of Mary, and Eleanor felt as if she were meeting her mother anew.
Tomorrow, stay the night, Violet suggested, eyes bright. The full moon is perfect for soaking seeds for next years crop. Ill show you how to select the best ones.
Next year? Eleanor asked, surprised. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? the old woman chuckled. Your mother was Mary Whitaker, and you have her handsgood with anything, you just need practice.
Eleanor smiled, for the first time in weeks feeling a sense of belonging. Here, in the old family cottage, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among rows of apple trees and tomato vines, she sensed a new home.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely, travel to London on weekends, and I know my mother would have approved.
Violet nodded, as if the decision were inevitable. Of course, stay. A house without an owner feels empty. I need help with the tomatoes; one alone is a heavy burden. And perhaps youll grow your own, not worse than mine.
Beyond the fence, Violets tomato bushes bore large, glossy fruitBullheart, her pride. Beside them, smaller green tomatoes that Eleanor and Violet had planted together a month earlier swayed gently.
In a few years well harvest enough to make the whole village jealous, Violet said, fondness in her voice.
Eleanor looked at her handsroughened by soil, specks of earth under the nails. They now knew both the click of a keyboard and the feel of a spade. Hands that felt her mothers presence.
Thank you, Violet Hargreaves, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories about my mother for everything.
Violet waved a hand, a smile playing on her lips. Thats what neighbours are for. 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 bountiful harvest; winter would bring preserving and planning; and spring would again see them planting tomatoes together. In this simple cycle of rural life, Eleanor finally discovered what she had been searching fora sense of home, of belonging, of continuity.
