A small village near a quiet town in the Yorkshire countryside. Our cottage sits in a row right by the riverbank. Next door is Dave and Tammys place, then old Marys cottage. Beyond that, of course, there are more houses, but they dont matter right now.
Dave bought the plot next door about seven years back. The construction started straight awaydiggers, Polish builders, gravel foundations, piling, trenches, then the house and a little garden shed. From May to September, the place was buzzing. Soon, there was a proper estatebig house, water pump, summer kitchen, storage sheds, the works. Never a quiet moment! Dave wasnt just bossing people around; he was right in it, tying rebar, hauling logs, mixing concrete, wiring stuff up. People in Yorkshire are patient. They understood he was building a home, settling in for the long haul.
Except for Mary. Every single day, her voice would carry across the fields.
Morning. The bus from town rolls in. First off? Mary. Always first! Nobody ever called her anything elsejust “Mary.” Shed march to her cottage in this faded grey housecoat, a black headscarf, and worn-out shoes, lugging a battered shopping bag and a five-litre jug of water. The rivers no good for drinkingnot up here, not with the peat bogs upstream. Most of us bring bottled water from town. Yeah, some have boreholes, but the water stinks of sulphur, doesnt matter if its 20 metres down or 60. Fine for the garden, though. Anyone by the rivers got a pump running pipes straight to it. Except Dave. Hes got his own borehole and a proper pumping system.
Anyway, Mary gets home, and the shouting starts. The diggers too loud, the diesel fumes stink, the builders are chatting too loudly, Daves house is too big and blocks the sun from her strawberry patch (even though he followed all the rules). You know how it istheres always something to moan about. But Mary? She was a *professional*. Dave got called every name under the sunbastard, swine, idiot, you name it. The insults never stopped, just piled up with every passing day.
Dave kept building, tried to ignore it. But sometimes, during a smoke break by the fence, hed mutter in his deep voice:
“Mary, youre like a wasp on a hot dayeither youll get your sting in, or someones gonna swat you.”
“Go on then, threaten me again, you rotten sod!” shed yell back. “Ill burn your fancy house down! Who do you think you are, scaring me like that!”
Yeah. Real relaxing summer holiday for me. I started showing up less.
Couple years passed. Dave and I werent mates, but we got on alright. Turns out, he had two passionsclassic rock and tomatoes.
Hed put his stereo on at a reasonable volume and head to the greenhouse. Big thing, that. Knew everything about tomatoes, Dave did. Tracked new varieties, followed fertiliser schedules to the letter, swapped out soil every spring, fumigated the greenhouse, layered manure and compost, lined the inside with fleece to protect them from sunburn or frost, had infrared lamps for spring and autumn
See, up here in Yorkshire, its not like down south where you plant em, water em, and thats it. Noyou open the greenhouse doors in the morning, shut em at night. If its chilly, dont open the windward side. Rainy day? Same deal. We live like this!
Ever heard a bloke the size of a wardrobe talk to his tomatoes? I have. Like they were his kidssoft voice, gentle. Pinching off suckers, feeding em And yet, in town, word was Dave was a right hard case at work. Big boss, fair but tough. And here he was, cooing at his plants.
Not that Id tell anyone.
Forgot about Mary, didnt you? Well, turns out she *hated* rock music. None of itno Led Zeppelin, no Pink Floyd, none of it. Every day, sometimes even at night if she stayed over, wed get her loud opinions on the “racket” and the “tasteless oaf” playing it.
Dave would fume but never bit back. At boiling point, hed pour half a pint of whisky, down it in one, growl, turn the music off, and stomp inside. And Ill say againit wasnt loud. Fine for me and the neighbours. Except Mary, obviously.
Then came the floods. Rained for weeks straightremember when Leeds got hit? Were only 60 miles from there. The bogs soaked up what they could, but the river just kept rising. Took fences, logs, dog kennels, sheds with it. Nasty business. People put markers on the banks, tracked the water. Word came that the low roads by the bogs were underwater. Folks started fleeing, scared their cars would drown. Buses stopped running. Anyone without wheels walked out. Not panic, but close.
Dave held out till the last minute, then bolted in his Land Rover. Got halfway down the lane before remembering hed seen Mary in her garden the day before. Went back for her.
“Piss off without me, you swine!” she shouted. “Ive moved my stuff to the loft. Im not leavingtheyll loot the place!”
Some cottages went under. Ours stayed drywater stopped about six inches short. We didnt know for a week. Dave and I kept in touch. He was wrecked. Didnt give a damn about his house or gardenhed forgotten to open the greenhouse. Sunny days, no water his tomatoes would be dead.
When the water dropped, we went back. Dave came over with a bottle of whisky. We drank.
“Steve, I dont get it,” he said. “Got back, greenhouse was watered. Doors open. I *know* I didnt open emI was in a rush, water coming up fast. Asked around. Everyone left.”
“Except Mary.”
“Except Mary,” he repeated, glancing toward her cottage. “Nah. Weve been at each others throats for years!”
“Except Mary,” I said again.
“Cant be.” He knocked back his drink.
“Except Mary.”
He left quiet, thinking.
Mary went home when the buses started running again. Came back the next day, hauling buckets of water for her garden. Her little pump mustve washed away. Dave saw it too. Watched her slipping, falling, drenched, but stubborn. Not even a curse.
Dave left, came back laterheard his engine. Mary caught the evening bus.
That night, there was banging and sawing from Daves place.
“Mate,” I said next morning, “Who were you fighting last night?”
“Bought pipes and fittings yesterday. After Mary left, I ran a line from my pump to her place. Saw her crawling along the bank with those buckets”
Couple weeks later, Dave invited me over for the first tomatoes of the season. And a barbecue. “Be here at seven,” he said.
I brought whisky and a couple bottles of my homemade wine. Hes at the grill.
“Barbecue ready, or should we start without it?”
“Nah, Steve, give it 15 minutes.”
“Who we waiting for? Toms already here.”
“Youll see.”
A knock at the gate. In walks Mary.
But different. Hair neat, flowery dress, nice sandals, a pretty shawl. Even big amber beads.
“Mind if I join you?” she smiles.
“Course not, Mary,” Dave says, grinning.
Im floored. No way.
We sat for hours, drinking, eating, talking. Mary told us about her lifegrew up in care, raised two kids alone after her husband died young, grandkids scattered all over. Forty years on the railways, retired now.
Then her and Tammy started singing old songs.
Me and Dave just listened, smoked, smiled, drank.
“Dave,” she said later, “Tammy mentioned you two fancy a spa break, but youre fussing over your tomatoes. Go. Ill water em, open the doors. Dont worry.”
“Was it you?” I blurted. “During the floodyou watered his plants?”
“Course,” she said, laughing. “After all the work he puts in? And the way he talks to em!” She side-eyed Dave, cackling. “Felt sorry for the poor things!”
Dave took that holiday.
After, we still listened to rock. But now, from noon till two, Daves old stereo played for *Mary*.