12September2023
Ive finally settled into the old cottage that fell to me after Mums passing. The place sits on a quiet farm about 190miles north of London, a breath of country air after years of the citys relentless rush. I took a pause from my job at the advertising agency a rare threeweek leave to sort through Mums belongings and see if the land could mend some of the cracks inside me.
Dorothy Clarke, the lady who lives next door, appeared over the hedge shouting, Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left! She seemed furious, but before I could answer she handed me a steaming apple crumble, the scent of cinnamon and baked fruit filling my tiny kitchen.
Thank you, Dorothy, I said, wiping my hands on my apron. Im not much for chatting I came here for quiet, to go through Mums things.
She smiled kindly, adjusting a silver strand of hair that kept slipping from under her kerchief. I understand, dear. The heavens watch over Martha Collins now. She was a good woman, a bright soul. Still, you might at least say hello to Margaret Hughes over the fence. Shes been here thirty years. Your mother and she never got along, but neighbours always looked after each other.
I nodded, though part of me was already picturing afternoons alone, leafing through Mums faded photo album. Since my divorce, this escape felt like a chance to heal, to tend the overgrown plot Mum left untended for nearly a year.
After Dorothy left, I changed into my old jeans and a plain tee, tied a cotton bandana around my head, and stepped into the garden. The oncewellkept rows were choked with weeds, the apple trees thin and gnarled, the fence sagging in places. I grabbed the secateurs and started cutting back the wild raspberry that crept along the boundary. The thorns tore at my sleeves and scratched my fingers, but the physical effort dulled the ache in my heart.
A sudden rustle came from behind the hedge, followed by a sharp voice: Who are you? What are you doing on Marthas land?
An elderly woman with weathered skin and a faded linen kerchief stood watching me, garden shears in hand.
Good morning, I replied politely, Im Edward Turner, Marthas son. She left this house to me.
She squinted, surprised. A son? I didnt know Martha had one. She never mentioned you.
The words struck like a cold splash. My relationship with Mum had always been strained; after my parents split, I stayed with my father in London while she moved out here, and we only spoke on holidays.
I suppose youre Margaret Hughes? I asked, recalling Dorothys remark.
She huffed, Dorothyshes the gossip who flits around with her pies, trying to collect every morsel of news. Yes, Im Margaret. Ive been here since your mother was a braidhaired girl.
A faint smile cracked my mouth. Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while, getting the garden back in order.
Margaret inspected the tangled beds. Martha gave up the garden last year; she was terribly ill. I helped as best I could, but my back isnt what it used to be. She frowned. Dont meddle too much with that raspberry; its grown right up to my fence. If you damage it, my winter supply will suffer.
I promised to be careful, surprised by the sudden shift in her tone.
The whole day I cleared paths, pruned dead branches, and hauled out weeds. By dusk my hands throbbed, yet a quiet calm settled over me. There was something right about returning to the soil, to the roots that once held my family together.
The next morning a strange clatter woke me. Peeking out, I saw Margaret bustling near the fence, a plastic bottle with the bottom cut off in her hand.
Good morning, I called, Did you lose something?
She startled, brandishing the bottle. Those slugs are chewing my strawberries. Theyre coming from your plot.
I havent started the beds yet, I admitted, but Ill deal with them today. Want a hand?
She snapped, I can manage. Just watch your fence. Its falling apart; my tomatoes will tumble if it collapses.
Sure enough, several boards were rotting and a post leaned precariously. Behind her garden, neat rows of tomato plants were tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, I promised, but Im no carpenter.
She softened, You could call Bob Smith down the lane. Hes a jackofalltrades, good value for a few quid, and he works straight.
I thanked her and, over the following days, sorted through Mums belongings, occasionally pausing to flip through her old album or simply sit and reminisce. Each morning I watched Margaret tending her tomatoes, whispering to the vines, gently tying new shoots, and misting them with a homemade spray.
One day Ill have tomatoes as big as a bulls heart, she boasted, eyes sparkling. Martha was always jealous of my crop. She never had the citygirl hands for this.
I asked how she cared for them, and she eyed me skeptically. Why would you bother? Youll be back in London soon enough, wont you?
Im not sure yet, I said quietly. After the divorce I want a fresh start. Maybe here.
A flicker of something soft crossed her faceperhaps empathy, perhaps understanding. Alright, Ill show you, if youre interested. Come over tonight; well have tea.
That evening I took Dorothys apple crumble and knocked on Margarets door. Her cottage, though as old as Mums, was immaculate: fresh paint on the porch, curtains starched, a tidy garden. Over tea she explained her tomato regimen with surprising detail: soaking seeds in a mild bleach solution, germinating them in a warm cupboard, planting on specific lunar phases. I listened, amazed at her encyclopedic knowledge.
She then asked, Wheres your husband?
I sighed. Sergei and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, but it never worked. He later found love elsewhere and now has a daughter.
She scoffed, Tomfoolery! You have a good heart, Edward, and capable hands. Losing a woman like youno sense at all.
Her blunt honesty warmed me oddly.
The next day I hired Bob Smith to mend the fence. While he worked, I kept at the beds, edging the plot nearer the boundary. Suddenly I noticed several of Margarets tomato bushes leaning heavily toward my fence, their fruit weighing the branches down.
Margaret Hughes! I called. May I help prop the tomatoes? They look about to snap.
No answer came. I fetched a few bamboo sticks from the shed and, through the gap in the fence, tried to brace the sagging branches.
A fierce shout erupted from the other side:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all Ive got left!
I recoiled, scraping my hand on a nail. I only wanted to help they were falling
Margarets face flushed red with anger. I dont need your help! Ive always managed on my own and will continue to do so!
Bob, finishing the fence nearby, shook his head. Dont take it to heart, lad. Those tomatoes are Margarets children. After her son died in a crash, they became her whole world.
Seeing her cradling the vines tenderly, murmuring soothing words, I understood the depth of her grief.
That night sleep eluded me; thoughts of Margaret and her tomatoes swirled. At first light I walked back to her garden, heart steady.
Margaret Hughes, Im sorry for yesterday, I said, meeting her wary gaze. I didnt mean to upset you. I only feared the plants would break.
She stared silently.
I know your back hurts, and bending is hard. Perhaps I could come by to water and weed? And you could teach me how to look after the tomatoes properly.
She considered, then finally agreed. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I say, no shortcuts.
Thus began our earlymorning sessions. Margaret proved a demanding teacher, correcting each movement, demanding I redo any slip. Over time her tone softened; occasionally she gave a nod of approval.
One crisp morning, after we had tied new shoots, she opened up.
My son Michael was brilliant, studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike and thenhe crashed on the road at twentythree.
She paused, eyes distant.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral. I thought Id have nothing left. Then spring came and I planted these tomatoes. They grew, stubborn and bright. As long as they thrive, I have a reason to keep going.
I whispered, Now I understand why you guard them so fiercely. Theyre more than just plants.
She nodded. Your mother, Martha, didnt get along with me much, but when I fell ill three years ago she visited daily, watering these very tomatoes while I lay in hospital. When she returned, the garden was still thriving, and that healed our rift.
A memory sparkedMarthas diary I had found among her things. I read a passage: Margaret is stubborn as a mule, but her heart is gold. Her tomatoes are a miracle.
Tears welled in Margarets eyes; she dabbed them with the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. I wish wed talked more.
I thought shed forgotten me, I said, surprised. But she was proud, always speaking of my work in London.
She chuckled. Shed brag about you, dear, even if she was shy to visityoure a busy one, after all.
The conversation drifted to tea and fresh cherry pie shed baked. Over the sweet slice, she asked, Would you like to stay for a night? The full moon is perfect for soaking seeds for next years crop.
I hesitated, then replied, If you think I can manage.
She shrugged, Whats impossible? Your mothers hands are yours now; you just need practice.
A warmth settled in my chest. For the first time in months, I felt a place to belongthis cottage, the overgrown garden, and the stubborn yet kind Margaret beside me.
I told her, I think Ill remain here for good. I can work remotely, dash to London on weekends, and still tend the land.
She smiled, The house needs a keeper, and I need help with the tomatoes. Together well grow a harvest the whole village will envy.
Beyond the fence, Margarets prized Bullheart tomatoes glowed ruby red, while beside them, tiny green seedlings we planted together peeked up.
Looking at my calloused hands, stained with earth, I realised they now knew both keyboard shortcuts and hoe strokes.
Thank you, Margaret Hughes, I whispered, for the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum, for everything.
She waved a hand, Neighbours help each other. Your mother would have liked that.
We stood at the fence, no longer a barrier but a bridge between two lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of planting and harvest, autumn promised bountiful fruit, winter of preservation, and spring of new beginnings. In that simple cycle of country life I finally found the home and belonging Id been chasing.
Lesson: sometimes the most ordinary thingsa ripe tomato, a shared fencecan mend old wounds and stitch together lonely hearts.
