Dear Diary,
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left, shouted the woman on the other side of the hedge.
I could hear it through the clatter of a stillwarm apple crumble that Margaret Jones was handing over. Mrs. Hart, you might try saying hello to the neighbours first, she said, tucking a steaming slice into my hands. A village without neighbours is a lonely placewho knows when the water will burst or the power will flicker?
I dabbed my hands on the apron and lifted the heavy tin tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the cramped kitchen of the old cottage Id inherited from my mother, Martha.
Thanks, Margaret, but Im not much of a chatterbox, I admitted, a shy smile tugging at my lips. I came out here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
She nodded, smoothing a stray silver strand from under her scarf. I understand, love. Your mother was a good soul, a bright spirit. Still, you should at least greet Mrs. Valerie Brown over the hedge. She lives just to your right, has been here for thirty years. She and Mum never got along, but neighbours always look out for each other.
I managed a nod, though my mind was already drifting to the quiet of the garden, a photo album, and the quiet that followed my divorce. After a long stretch at the ad agency, I finally got a few weeks off and decided to spend them in this tiny Kent village, about 186 miles north of London, trying to mend both the land and my heart.
When Margaret left, I swapped my slippers for old jeans and a Tshirt, wrapped a kerchief around my hair, and stepped out into the garden. Mums plot was overgrown with nettlesno one had tended it since she passed away almost a year ago. There was a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, restore the vegetable beds, and fix the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, I tackled the wild raspberry thicket that clung to the boundary. The thorns snagged my sleeves and left scratches on my hands, but there was a strange comfort in the work. Physical fatigue dulled the emotional ache.
A rustle from the far side of the hedge snapped me upright, followed by a sharp voice. Who are you? What are you doing on Marthas land?
I straightened and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face peering over the fence, a faded cotton headscarf atop her head, garden shears in hand.
Good morning, I said politely. Im Emily Hart, Marthas daughter. I inherited this house.
She squinted, studying me. A daughter? I never knew Martha had one. She never spoke of you.
A pang hit my chest. My relationship with Mum had always been strained. After my parents split, I stayed with my father in London while Mum moved here. We only spoke on holidays.
We havent been close for years, I whispered. You must be Mrs. Valerie Brown? Margaret mentioned you.
She let out a short laugh. That nosy Margaret spins tales for her pies. Yes, Im Valerie. Ive lived here since Mum was still a cheeky girl with braids.
I imagined Mum as a young lass, laughing in the garden. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while, trying to get the garden in order.
Valerie surveyed the tangled beds. Martha let the place run wild last year. She was very ill and couldnt tend the garden. I helped as much as I could, but my backs not what it used to be. She frowned. Leave the raspberry patch alone. Its grown right up against my fence. If you damage it, my tomatoes will suffer, and I cant afford to lose them over the winter.
Alright, Ill be careful, I replied, surprised by the sudden sharpness in her tone.
The day slipped by as I cleared paths, cut dead branches, and pulled weeds. By dusk my hands ached, but my spirit felt lighter. There was something right about getting my hands in the soil, reconnecting with the roots of my family.
The next morning a strange clatter woke me. Peering out, I saw Valerie busy by the fence. I hurried out.
Good morning, I called. Did you lose something?
She startled, clutching a plastic bottle with the bottom cut off. Those slugs are on your side, crawling into my strawberries, she muttered.
I havent started the beds yet, I admitted, blushing. Ill deal with them today. Want a hand with the slugs?
No thanks, dear. Ill manage. Just watch your fenceits falling apart, and my tomatoes cant take any more knocks.
I glanced at the rotting wooden fence: several planks were rotten, the posts leaned. Behind it, Valeries neat rows of tomato plants dangled from stakes, bright red against the green.
Ill fix it, I promised. Do you know a good handyman?
She softened a notch. You could call Mr. Peterson down the lane. Hes handy and doesnt charge muchabout fifty pounds for a decent job.
Thank you, Ill give him a bell.
The following days blurred into chores. I sorted through Mums belongings, pausing now and then to flip through an old album or simply sit and watch the sunrise over the garden. Each morning I saw Valerie attending to her tomatoes, talking to the plants as if they were dear friends, carefully tying new shoots and spraying a mysterious solution.
What a marvelous crop you have, I once remarked while watering my own beds. Ive never seen tomatoes that big.
She puffed up proudly. Bullheartan old heirloom. Your mother always envied my tomatoes because her hands were too soft for the earth, being a city girl.
Could you teach me how to look after them? I asked, hopeful. Id love to grow some next year.
She eyed me skeptically. Why bother? Youll probably spend a week here in summer and then race back to London. Wholl tend them?
Im not planning to return just yet, I replied quietly. After the divorce I want to start anew, maybe here.
A flicker of sympathy crossed her face. Alright, Ill show you, if youre keen. Come over this evening for tea.
That night I carried Margarets apple crumble to Valeries cottage. Her home was as old as mine, but meticulously keptfresh paint on the porch, crisp curtains, a tidy garden.
Over tea, she spoke of her tomatoes with a motherly affection. The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild potassium permanganate solution, then let them sprout in a warm spot. I plant them on days the moon is right, according to the old lunar calendar
I listened, amazed at her encyclopedic knowledge of tomatoes. Our conversation drifted, and she suddenly asked, And wheres your husband? Why only one child? Everyones having twins these days.
A sigh escaped me. I rarely discuss my personal life, but the homely kitchen coaxed the words out. Sergei and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children; it never worked. He later found a younger colleague, and they had a baby straight away. Hes now with his new family and a little girl.
Bless his heart, Valerie said, shaking her head. Youre a good woman, Emily. Losing someone like that you shouldnt be lonely.
Her blunt honesty warmed me unexpectedly.
The next day I hired Mr. Peterson to repair the fence. While he worked, I tended the beds, edging toward the boundary. Suddenly the heavy tomato plants on Valeries side leaned toward my fence, their fruit pulling the branches down.
Valerie! I called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre about to snap.
She didnt answer, so I fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed and slipped my hand through the gap, trying to support the sagging vines.
A shrill cry erupted: Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! Valerie lunged from the other side, eyes blazing.
I jerked my hand away, grazing a nail on the fence. I only wanted to help theyre falling
You dont need my help! she huffed, face flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own, and Ill keep on doing it!
Mr. Peterson, fixing a post nearby, shook his head. Dont take it to heart, love. Those tomatoes are like her children. After her son died in a crash, theyve been all shes got.
I watched Valerie tenderly adjust the vines, murmuring soothing words. The scene shifted in my mind; suddenly her fury seemed a mask for deep grief.
That night I lay awake, replaying the garden, the tomatoes, and Valeries sorrow. By morning I resolved to apologise.
Valerie, Im sorry about yesterday, I said, meeting her wary gaze. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just worried the plants would break.
She stayed silent, lips pressed tight.
I thought, since your back hurts, maybe I could come by to water and weed? And you could teach me the proper way to care for tomatoes. I spoke earnestly. I really want to learn.
She considered this for a long moment, then finally said, Fine. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you, no improvising.
Thus began our earlymorning routines. Valerie proved a stern tutorcriticising every movement, demanding I redo anything she deemed imperfect. Over time her remarks softened, and occasionally she gave a approving nod.
One day, after we finished tying new shoots, she said, My son Michael was a bright lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike, and then had a terrible crash on the motorway at twentythree. My husband died a year later from a broken heart. I kept living, planting these tomatoes as if they were my children. Theyve been with me for twenty years now, ever since Michael went.
I listened, silent, fearing to break her reverie.
Thats why I guard them so fiercely, I whispered. They mean more to you than just vegetables.
She nodded. Your mother and I never got alongdifferent temperaments. But when I fell ill three years ago, she visited daily, watered my tomatoes while I was in the hospital. When she left, the plants were still thriving, and we finally made peace.
A smile crept onto my face as I imagined my mother, Martha, tending to someone elses garden. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Valeriestubborn as a mule, but goldenhearted. And those tomatoes pure magic.
Tears welled in Valeries eyes; she dabbed them with the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. Its a shame you two never talked much. She showed me pictures of you, bragged about how clever you were, working in that big advertising firm in London. She was just shy about visiting, saying you were always busy and your flat was too small for her.
A lump rose in my throatso many unsaid words between Mum and me, so many missed chances.
Lets have another cup of tea, she said suddenly, brightening. I baked a cherry tart just yesterday.
Over tea we talked moreabout Mum, about the past, about village life. Valeries stories about Martha made me feel as though I were meeting my mother anew.
She then proposed, Come stay over tomorrow night. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed trays for next years crop. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? I asked, surprised. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? she replied with a grin. Your mother was Martha. Youve got her handsjust need the practice.
For the first time in years I felt a sense of belonging. Here, in my mothers old cottage, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines, I sensed a new home forming.
I think Ill stay here for good, I admitted. I can work remotely, pop into London for meetings, and Im sure Mum would be proud.
Valerie nodded, as if my decision were obvious. The house needs a lady. And I could use a hand with my tomatoesone pair of arms isnt enough.
Beyond our fence, her tidy rows of large red Bullheart tomatoes glowed, while beside them our own modest green seedlings, planted together just a month ago, strained toward the sun.
Next year, well harvest so much the whole village will be jealous, she said, eyes soft.
I looked at my hands, now calloused from the soil, dirt tucked under my nails. They were no longer just keys to a keyboard, but tools for planting, weeding, and wateringhands that felt like Mums.
Thank you, Valerie, I murmured. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum 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 stretched ahead, full of chores and joys; autumn promised a bountiful harvest; winter would bring preserves and new plans; and spring would see us planting together again. In that simple cycle of rural life, I finally found what Id been searching fora feeling of home, of belonging, of continuity.
