Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left, shouted the neighbour through the hedge.
Eleanor, you should at least get to know the people next door, replied Agnes Brown, handing over a steaming apple cake. In a village you cant survive without neighbours. You never know when a pipe will burst or the power will go out.
Eleanor wiped her hands on her apron and took the heavy tray. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the modest kitchen of the old Cotswold cottage she had inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Agnes, but Im not very sociable, Eleanor said shyly. I came here for peace, to sort through my mothers things.
Agnes smiled, tucking a stray grey strand behind her ear. I understand, dear. Your mother, Martha Clarke, was a good woman, a gentle soul. Still, you might want to say hello to Martha Jones over the hedge. Shes lived on the righthand side of you for about thirty years. She and your mother never got along, but neighbours always helped each other.
Eleanor nodded, already picturing herself sipping tea alone while leafing through an old photo album. After her divorce she finally got a break from the advertising agency and chose to spend it in this quiet hamlet, a tidy 180 miles north of London. She was there to settle the inheritance, tidy the garden, and try to mend her broken heart.
When Agnes left, Eleanor changed into her old jeans and Tshirt, tied a headscarf, and stepped into the garden. Her mothers plot had been overrun with weedsno one had tended it for almost a year. There was a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, restore the vegetable beds, and fix the sagging fence.
Armed with secateurs, she began trimming the wild raspberry bushes that crept up to the property line. The thorny canes scratched her sleeves and nicked her fingers, but the work oddly soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache inside.
A rustle sounded from beyond the hedge, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Marthas land?
Eleanor straightened and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face watching her through the fence. The neighbour wore a faded cotton kerchief and clutched a pair of garden shears.
Good morning, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor Smith, Martha Clarkes daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her. A daughter? I didnt know Martha had one. She never spoke of you.
Eleanor felt a sting. Her relationship with her mother had always been strained. After her parents divorce shed lived with her father in London while her mother moved back to the family cottage. They spoke only on holidays.
We havent been close in recent years, Eleanor said quietly. And you must be Martha Jones? Agnes mentioned you.
Martha? That gossipmonger who goes round the village with her pies, looking for news? the neighbour snorted. Yes, Im Martha. Ive been here since your mother was still braiding her hair.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother as a young girl. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while. I want to get the garden in order.
Martha glanced over the overgrown beds. Martha Clarke left the farm in a sorry state last year. She was very ill, couldnt tend the garden. I helped what I could, but my back isnt what it used to be. She paused, then warned, Dont fuss with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up against my fence. If you damage it, my harvest suffers, and Ill have no raspberries for the winter.
Alright, Ill be careful, Eleanor replied, surprised by the sudden sharpness.
She spent the whole day clearing paths, cutting dead branches, and pulling weeds. By evening her hands throbbed, but she felt lighter inside. There was something right about returning to the soil, to her roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke her. Looking out, she saw Martha busy at the fence. She threw on a coat and hurried outside.
Good morning, Eleanor called. Did you lose something?
Martha jerked upright, clutching a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off. Those slugs are crawling out of your plot, eating my strawberries, she muttered.
I havent finished preparing the beds yet, Eleanor said apologetically. Ill deal with them today. Want some help?
No, Ill manage. Just watch your fence its falling apart, and my tomatoes will tumble over if it collapses, Martha warned.
Eleanor inspected the weatherworn wooden fence. Several boards were rotted, the posts leaned. Behind it, Marthas tidy tomato rows, tied to stakes, stood proud.
Ill repair it, Eleanor promised. Do you have a good handyman?
Marthas eyes softened. Call Tommy Hughes on Willow Lane. Hes a jackofalltrades, reasonably priced and honest.
Thank you, Ill do that, Eleanor said.
In the days that followed, Eleanor sorted through her mothers belongings, occasionally pausing to flip through an old album or simply sit and remember. Each morning she saw Martha tending her tomatoes, speaking to the plants, gently staking new shoots, and spraying them with a mysterious solution.
Your tomatoes are magnificent, Eleanor remarked one afternoon while watering her own beds. Ive never seen such large ones.
Martha stood a little taller. Bullheartthats the old variety. Your mother always envied me for growing them. She was more of a city girl.
Could you show me how to care for them? Eleanor asked. Id like to try next season.
Martha eyed her skeptically. Whats the point? Youll probably spend a week here in summer and then rush back to London. Who will look after them?
Im not planning to return right away, Eleanor admitted quietly. After the divorce I want to start anew. Maybe here.
A flicker of understanding crossed Marthas face. Alright, Ill teach you if youre interested. Come over tonight, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor took Agness apple cake and walked to Marthas cottage. The house was as aged as her own, but wellkept. Fresh paint brightened the porch, and neat curtains hung in the windows.
Over tea, Martha spoke of her tomatoes with the same affection shed reserve for children. The key is good seedlings. I soak the seeds in a mild potassium permanganate solution, then germinate them in warmth. I plant them only on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, amazed at Marthas encyclopedic knowledge. The conversation drifted to other topics.
Wheres your husband? Martha asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyones having twins these days.
Eleanor sighed. Simon and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, but it never worked. He later met a younger colleague who became pregnant right away. He now has a new family and a little girl.
Martha shook her head. Simons a fool. Youre a kindhearted, hardworking woman. Losing someone like you would be madness.
Eleanor found herself smiling at the blunt honesty. It warmed her more than any tea.
The next day she hired Tommy Hughes to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, gradually moving toward the boundary. She noticed several of Marthas hefty tomato bushes leaning over the fence, their weight pulling the branches down.
Martha! she called. May I help steady the tomatoes? Theyre bending.
Martha didnt answer. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo sticks from the shed and, through a gap in the fence, propped the heavy branches.
A sharp cry split the air.
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! the neighbour shrieked from the other side, rushing toward her.
Eleanor jerked her hand back, grazing a nail on the fence.
I only wanted to help theyre falling
No help needed! Martha gasped, her face flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing so!
Tommy, nearby, shook his head. Dont take it personally, love. Those tomatoes are like children to Martha. After her son died in a crash, they became her only comfort.
Eleanor watched, stunned, as Martha tenderly adjusted the plants, murmuring soft words. The scene suddenly seemed less hostile.
That night she lay awake, thinking of Martha and her tomatoes. By morning she resolved to apologise.
Martha, Im sorry about yesterday, Eleanor said, meeting the neighbours wary gaze. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just worried the plants would break.
Martha remained silent, lips pressed together.
I thought, since your back hurts, maybe I could come by to water and weed? And you could teach me proper tomato care. I really want to learn, Eleanor continued.
Martha considered the proposal for a long moment. Fine. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I say. No improvising.
Thus began their shared mornings. Eleanor arrived at dawn, and Martha, a stern teacher, corrected every motion, demanding the work be redone if it wasnt perfect. Over time her critiques softened, and occasionally she gave an approving nod.
One crisp morning, after they had tied new shoots, Martha spoke unexpectedly.
My son Michael was a bright lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorcycle, and died on the road at twentythree. She paused, the words hanging heavy. My husband passed a year after the funeral, heart broken. I kept on living, though I didnt know why. Then spring came, I planted these tomatoes, thinking it would be my last crop. They grew anyway, and I realised as long as they grow, I have something to hold onto. Theyve been with me for twenty years now, ever since Michaels loss.
Eleanor listened, moved. Now I see why you guard them so fiercely. Theyre more than plants to you.
Martha nodded. Your mother and I never got along; our temperaments clashed. But when I fell ill three years ago, she came every day to water my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she returned, the plants were still thriving. Thats when we patched things up.
Eleanor smiled, imagining her mother tending the neighbours garden. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Martha stubborn as a mule, but a heart of gold. And the tomatoes theyre a miracle.
Tears welled in Marthas eyes, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron. She was wonderful. Its a shame you two didnt speak more. She always showed me pictures of you, praised how clever you were, how you worked in a big firm in London. She just feared shed intrude, thinking you were too busy and your flat too small for visitors.
Eleanor felt a lump rise in her throat. So many words left unsaid, so many chances missed.
Lets have tea, Martha said suddenly. I baked a cherry pie yesterday.
Over tea they talked moreabout the mother, the past, and village life. Marthas stories about Martha Clarke made Eleanor feel as if she were meeting her mother anew.
Then Martha offered, Come stay the night tomorrow. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed trays for next years planting. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? Eleanor asked, surprised. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? Martha replied with a grin. Your mother was Martha Clarke. You have her handscapable of anything, you just need practice.
For the first time in years, Eleanor felt she had found a place. In the old cottage, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines, she sensed a new beginning.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely, and travel to London when needed. Im sure Mum would have been proud.
Martha smiled, as if the decision were obvious. Of course, stay. A house without its owner feels empty. And I could use a hand with the tomatoesone is hard enough for me. Together well grow our own, and theyll be just as good.
Beyond the fence, Marthas proud rows of Bullheart tomatoes glowed crimson, while beside them, the small green seedlings that Eleanor and Martha had planted together a month earlier peeked up.
Next year, Martha said, eyes soft, well harvest enough to make the whole village jealous.
Eleanor looked at her handsnow calloused from digging, speckled with garden soil, nails stained with earth. They could still type at a computer, but now they could also sow, weed, and water. They felt like her mothers.
Thank you, Martha, she whispered. For the tomatoes, the stories about my mother for everything.
Martha waved her hand. Were neighbours. We look after each other. Your mother understood that.
They stood together at the fence, no longer a barrier but a bridge between their plots and lives. Summer lay ahead, full of chores and joys; autumn would bring a bountiful harvest; winter the quiet of storage and new plans; and spring would see them planting together again. In that simple cycle of rural English life, Eleanor finally discovered what she had been searching fora sense of home, belonging, and continuity.
The tale of ordinary tomatoes mending old wounds and linking two solitary hearts reminds us that the simplest things often hold the deepest healing power.
