**Diary Entry**
The cottage sits in a quiet village near a small town in Yorkshire, nestled in a row by the riverbank. Next door live Val and Tammy, and beyond them, Grannys place. The other houses dont matter much to me right now.
Val bought the plot seven years ago, and the building work began instantlydiggers rolled in, labourers from Derby arrived, gravel was laid, piles driven, foundations poured. From May to September, the noise never stopped. A grand house rose, complete with a well, a summer kitchen, sheds, a garage, and a sauna. Val wasnt just bossing people aroundhe was hauling logs, tying rebar, mixing concrete, wiring circuits. Yorkshire folk are patient. They understoodthis wasnt a weekend project. Except for Granny. Every morning, her shrieking cut through the air.
The bus from town pulled up at dawn, and Granny was always first off. No one called her anything else. Shed bolt to her cottage in her grey smock, black headscarf, and scuffed shoes, clutching a battered tote and a five-litre jug of water. We dont drink from the riverits slow-moving, murky in summer. Some have wells, but the water reeks of sulphur, no matter how deep they dig. Only Vals well was drinkable, with a proper pump station.
But back to Granny. The second she stepped onto her patch, the complaints started. The diggers diesel fumes were choking her. The pile-driving was too loud. The labourers chattered too much. Vals house would shade her strawberries (though hed followed every regulation). She had a gift for finding fault. Val bore the brunthe was a tyrant, a brute, a bloody idiot. The insults never stopped.
Val kept working, ignoring her. But sometimes, during a smoke break by the fence, hed mutter in his rough Yorkshire brogue, “Granny, youre like a horsefly on a hot day. Either youll drain me dry, or Ill have to swat you.”
“Go on, threaten me, you mangy tom!” shed holler back. “Ill burn your fancy house down! Think you can scare me?”
Needless to say, my summers there werent exactly peaceful. I started avoiding the place.
A few years passed. Val and I werent close, but we got on. Turned out he had two passions: classic rock and tomatoes.
Hed play his stereo softly and vanish into his massive greenhouse. He knew everything about tomatoesevery new variety, every fertiliser schedule. Each spring, hed sterilise the greenhouse, lay fresh manure, top it with compost, drape the inside with fleece to protect seedlings from frost or scorching sun. Up here, its not like the southyou cant just plant and forget. Mornings, hed open the doors; evenings, hed shut them. Wind from the east? Only open the west side.
Ever heard a burly bloke talk to tomatoes like they were his kids? I have. Gentle, coaxing. Meanwhile, town gossip painted him as a tough bossfirm but fair.
Granny hadnt disappeared. She *hated* Vals music. Not a fan of The Stones, Bowie, or Pink Floyd. Every evening, shed bellow her opinions on his taste. Val would seethe, pour half a pint of ale, down it in one, switch off the stereo, and stomp inside. The music wasnt even loudjust too much for Granny.
Then came the floods. Rain hammered for weeks. The river swelled, dragging off fences, sheds, even dog kennels. People marked the rising water with sticks. When word spread that the lowlands near the marshes were submerged, everyone fled, terrified their cars would drown. Buses stopped. Val held out but finally bolted in his Land Rover. Halfway down the lane, he remembered Granny had been in her garden. He turned back.
“Go on, you devil! Ive moved my things to the loft. Im not leavingtheyll loot the place!”
Some cottages were swallowed. Ours stayed dry, the water stopping just inches short. A week later, the floods receded. Val rang me, frantic. Hed forgotten to open the greenhouse. In that heat, his tomatoes wouldve fried.
When we returned, Val brought a bottle of whisky. “Simon,” he said, “I dont get it. The greenhouse was watered. The doors were open. I *know* I didnt do it.”
“Granny stayed,” I said.
“Granny,” he echoed, glancing at her cottage. “No. Were sworn enemies.”
“Granny,” I repeated.
He knocked back his drink. “I dont believe it.”
“Granny.”
He left, silent and puzzled.
Granny had gone back to town when the buses resumed. She returned next day, lugging water bucketsher little pump mustve washed away. Slipped twice, soaked herself, but didnt swear once.
Val drove off. Later, I heard his engine. Granny caught the evening bus.
That night, hammering and sawing came from Vals place.
“Who were you fighting at midnight?” I asked next morning.
“Bought pipes and fittings. Grannys gone, so I ran a line from my pump to her plot. Saw her crawling along the bank yesterday”
Two weeks later, Val invited me for the first tomatoes and a barbecue. “Seven sharp,” he said. I brought whisky and homemade wine.
“Shall we start, or wait?” I asked as the coals glowed.
“Wait fifteen minutes.”
“For who? Toms already here.”
“Youll see.”
A knock at the gate. In walked Granny.
But not the Granny I knew. Her silver hair was neat, her flower-print dress clean, sandals on her feet, a shawl over her shoulders. Even amber beads around her neck.
“May I join you?” she smiled.
“Course, Mary Stevens,” Val said, grinning.
I was gobsmacked.
We sat late, drinking, eating. Stevens told us about her lifethe orphanage, raising two kids alone after her husband died, her grandkids scattered across the country. Forty years on the railways, a veteran. Then she and Tammy sang old wartime songs while Val and I smoked, sipped, and smiled.
“Val, Tammy says you wont go to the seaside cause youre worried about your tomatoes. Go. Ill water them. Open the doors.”
“Was it you who saved them in the flood?” I blurted.
“Aye. Saw how much work hed put in. The way he talked to them!” She cackled, shooting Val a look. “Felt sorry for the poor things!”
Val took that holiday.
After, we listened to rock againbut only from noon till two. For Mary Stevens.
