The Cottage
A quaint holiday village near a small town in the Yorkshire Dales. Our cottage stood in a row right by the riverbank. Next door lived Walter and Margaret, and beyond them, the old womans place. There were other cottages further along, but they dont matter just now.
Walter had bought the plot seven years earlier. Construction began immediatelydiggers rolled in, labourers from down south arrived, gravel was laid, piles driven, foundations poured. By summers end, the place had a grand house, a well, an outdoor kitchen, sheds, a bathhouse, and a garage. It was never quiet. Walter wasnt just bossing abouthe tied rebar, hauled timber, mixed concrete, and wired the place himself. A proper worker. Folks round here are patient. They understood a man building his home meant to stay. Except the old woman. Every day, her shrieking filled the air.
Morning. The bus from town pulled up. Out shed step, always first. No one called her anything but “Granny.” Shed scurry to her cottage in a faded grey smock, black headscarf, and worn-out shoes, clutching a battered tote and a five-litre jug of water. The river wasnt fit to drinkmarsh-fed, turning green in summer. Most fetched drinking water from town. Some had wells, but the water reeked of sulphur, no matter how deep. Only good for the garden. Those by the river used pumps and pipes. Walter alone had a proper well.
But I digress.
Granny would storm home, and the wailing began. The diggers reeked of diesel. The pile-driving was too loud. The labourers chattered. Walters house blocked sun from her strawberries (though hed kept to the rules). Theres always something to moan about, and Granny was a master. Walter bore every insultscoundrel, brute, idiot, monster. The abuse never ended, only grew fouler.
Walter kept building, ignoring the noise.
Sometimes, leaning on the fence for a smoke, hed mutter in his deep voice, Granny, youre like a horsefly on a hot day. Either youll take your pound of flesh, or someonell swat you.
Threaten me again, you wretched sod! shed bellow. Ill burn your fancy house down! Think you can frighten me?
Needless to say, my summers there werent peaceful. I stayed away as much as I could.
Years passed. Walter and I werent close, but we got on. Turned out he had two passions: British rock and tomatoes. Hed play his stereo softly and vanish into his greenhousea proper size, that. Walter knew everything about tomatoes. New varieties, feeding schedules, almanac-perfect timing. Every spring, hed fumigate the greenhouse, lay fresh manure, top it with compost, drape fleece inside to shield seedlings from frost or sunburn, hang infrared lamps for early and late seasons.
Not like down south, where you just plant and water. Here in the Dales, tomatoes needed tendingdoors opened at dawn, shut at dusk. Windy side sealed, leeward cracked. A proper dance.
Ever heard a burly bloke talk to his tomatoes? I have. Soft as with a child. Pinching suckers, whispering feeds. And yet, in town, they said Walter was a hard man at workno tyrant, but firm, fair, and feared. Here? Well, his secrets safe with me.
Forgot about Granny? Dont. She hated rock. Not Bowie, not Queen, not The Stones. Every evening she stayed over, the air rang with her opinions on the music and its listeners. Walter seethed but never bit back. At boiling point, hed down half a pint of ale in one go, growl, switch off the stereo, and stalk inside. The volume was fine for the rest of us. Not for Granny.
Then came the floods. Rain hammered for weeks (remember the 07 deluge? We were just 50 miles east). The moors soaked up the first downpours, but the river swelled, dragging logs, fences, kennels, shedsa right mess. Folk marked the rising water with sticks. Word spread the low roads were drowning. Cars fled. Buses stopped. Those without wheels trudged off. Not panic, but close.
Walter held out longest but finally roared off in his Land Rover. Halfway to town, he rememberedGranny had been in her garden yesterday. He turned back.
Go on without me, you devil! she snapped. Ive moved my things to the loft. Im not leavingfolkll loot the place!
Some cottages drowned. Ours stayed dry, the water stopping a hands breadth from the doors. For a week, we didnt know. Walter and I rang each other. He was beside himself. Not for the house or gardenhed forgotten to open the greenhouse. Sunny days, no water, his tomatoes would fry.
When the waters sank, we returned. Walter brought a jug of ale. We drank.
Steve, he said, I dont get it. The greenhouse was watered. Doors open. I know I left them shutI was in a rush, the water was rising. Asked around. Everyone scarpered.
Except Granny.
Except Granny, he echoed, eyeing her cottage. But were at each others throats!
Except Granny, I said again.
Cant be. He knocked back his drink.
Except Granny.
Walter left silent, puzzling.
Granny returned after the buses ran again. Next day, she was hauling water in bucketsher little pump mustve washed away. She slipped, soaked herself, but never swore.
Walter drove off, came back later. By evening, Granny had caught the bus home. That night, hammering and sawing echoed from his place.
Neighbour, I said next morning, whod you battle last night?
Bought pipes and joints yesterday. After Granny left, I ran a line from my pump to her plot. Saw her crawling with those buckets
Weeks later, Walter invited me for the first tomatoes and a barbecue. Seven sharp. I brought ale and homemade cider. The grill sizzled.
Do we wait, or start? I asked.
Give it fifteen minutes.
Who for? Toms already here.
Youll see.
A knock at the gate. In walked Granny.
But different. Hair neatly pinned, a floral dress, smart sandals, a lace shawl. Amber beads at her throat.
Room for one more? she smiled.
Course, Mary Stevenson, Walter grinned.
I was gobsmacked.
We sat late, eating, drinking. Mary spoke of her lifethe orphanage, raising two kids alone after her husband died, her grandbabies scattered across the country. Forty years on the railways, a veteran of labour. Then she and Margaret sang old music-hall tunes.
Walter and I listened, smoking. Smiling. Sipping.
Walter, she said, Margaret told me you wont take her to the spa, fretting over your tomatoes. Go. Ill tend them.
That was you? I asked. During the flood?
Aye. Saw the work hed put in. The way he talked to them She cackled, eyeing Walter. Felt sorry for the poor tomatoes!
Later, Walter and Margaret took that holiday.
After, we listened to rock againbut only noon till two, just for Mary Stevenson.
