Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all Ive got left, shouted the neighbour over the fence.
Im not sure youve even met the people next door yet, replied Mrs. Margaret Clarke, offering a steaming apple crumble. You cant live out here without neighbours. You never know when a pipe might burst or the lights go out.
Emily Whitaker dabbed her hands on her apron and took the heavy tin. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the modest kitchen of the old cottage shed inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Clarke, but Im not much for chatting, Emily said shyly, smiling. I came here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
Ah, love, I understand, the older woman said, tucking a stray grey strand behind her ear. Martha Stevens was a good soul, a bright spirit. Still, you ought to at least say hello to Agnes Brown over the fence. Shes been living on the other side for thirty years. She and your mother never got along, but they always helped one another as neighbours should.
Emily nodded, though she could already picture herself sipping tea alone while leafing through an old photo album. After her divorce shed finally earned a long break from the advertising agency in central London and decided to spend it in a quiet village about a hundred and eighty miles north of the city, clearing out the inheritance, fixing the garden, and trying to mend a bruised heart.
When Mrs. Clarke left, Emily changed into a pair of faded jeans and a Tshirt, slipped a headscarf on, and stepped out into the garden. Her mothers plot had become overrun with weeds; no one had tended it for nearly a year since Mum passed away. There was a lot to do: trimming the old apple trees, restoring the beds, and repairing the sagging fence.
Armed with a pruning shears, she tackled the wild raspberry thicket that ran along the edge of the property. Thorny branches snagged her sleeves and scratched her hands, yet the work oddly soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache in her chest.
A rustle came from the other side of the fence, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Marthas land?
Emily straightened up and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face peering over the fence, a faded cotton headscarf tied around her hair, garden scissors clutched in her hands.
Good morning, Emily replied politely. Im Emily, Martha Stevens daughter. I inherited this cottage.
The woman squinted, studying her.
A daughter? I didnt know Martha had a child. She never mentioned you.
Emily felt a sting. Her relationship with her mother had always been strained. After her parents divorce shed stayed with her father in London while Mum moved back to the family home. Theyd only spoken on holidays.
We havent been close for years, Emily said quietly. You must be Agnes Brown? Mrs. Clarke mentioned you.
Clarke, the neighbour huffed. Shes the town gossip, always traipsing around with her cakes to collect news. Yes, Im Agnes. Ive lived here since your mother was a little girl with pigtails.
Emily imagined her mother as a sprightly teenager.
Nice to meet you. I think Ill be here for a while. I want to get the garden in order.
Agnes surveyed the tangled beds.
Martha let the place go in her last year. She was very ill, didnt have the strength for the garden. I helped as much as I could, but my back isnt what it used to be. She frowned. Dont meddle with that raspberry patch. Its practically grown into my fence. If you break it, my harvest suffers, and I cant afford to go without raspberries over winter.
Alright, Ill be careful, Emily replied, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.
She spent the whole day clearing paths, cutting dead branches, and pulling weeds. By evening her hands throbbed, but a lightness settled in her chest. Something about working the earth felt right.
The next morning a strange clatter woke her. From the kitchen window she saw Agnes bent over the fence, fiddling with something. She hurried outside.
Morning, Emily called. Did you lose something?
Agnes straightened, holding a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off.
Those slugs are crawling out of your plot, eating my strawberries, she muttered.
I havent had a chance to treat the beds yet, Emily said apologetically. Ill deal with them now. Want a hand?
No thanks, Agnes snapped. Ill manage. Just keep an eye on your fence. Its falling apart, and it could collapse onto my tomatoes.
Emily glanced at the dilapidated wooden fence: several boards were rotted, the posts leaned. Behind it, Agness side boasted neat rows of tomato plants, their fruit tethered to stakes.
Ill fix it, Emily promised. Do you have any recommendations? Im not much of a handyman.
Agnes softened a little.
You could call Mr. Jones down the lane. Hes a jackofalltrades, doesnt charge much, and does a decent job.
Thanks, Ill give him a bell.
The days that followed were a blur of sorting through Mums belongings, occasionally pausing to flip through an old photo album or simply sit and reminisce. Each morning Emily watched Agnes tending her tomatoes, speaking to the plants as if they were children, gently tying new shoots and spraying a mist of something mysterious.
What beautiful tomatoes you have, Emily remarked one afternoon, watering her own beds.
Agnes straightened, pride in her eyes.
Bulls Heart, an oldfashioned variety. Martha always envied my crop. She never had the hands for ittoo citybound.
Could you show me how to look after them? Id love to try next season.
Agnes regarded her skeptically.
Why bother? Youll probably spend a week here in summer and then pack back to London. Wholl look after them then?
Im not planning to return just yet, Emily said quietly. After the divorce I want to start over, maybe here.
A flicker of understanding crossed Agness face.
Fine, Ill tell you what I know if youre interested. Come over tonight for tea.
That evening Emily took Margaret Clarkes apple crumble and walked to Agness cottage. The house was as old as her mothers, but spotless: freshly painted porch, crisply starched curtains. Over tea, Agnes spoke of her tomatoes with the affection one reserves for grandchildren.
The key is good seedlings. I soak the seeds in a potassium permanganate solution, then germinate them in warmth. I only plant on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Emily listened, amazed at the depth of her neighbours horticultural knowledge. Their conversation drifted to other topics.
Wheres your husband? Agnes asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyones having twins these days.
Emily sighed. Sergei and I were together fifteen years. We tried for children, but it never worked. He later met a younger colleague who became pregnant almost immediately. Hes now with a new family and a little girl.
Sergei was a fool, Agnes declared bluntly. Youre stronghanded, good at work. Losing a woman like you would be a tragedy.
Emily smiled despite herself; the neighbours straightforwardness warmed her.
The next day she hired Mr. Jones to mend the fence. While he worked, she continued clearing the beds, inching closer to the boundary. A few of Agness heavy tomato bushes leaned over, their fruit pulling the branches down.
Agnes! Emily called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre bending over.
No answer. Determined, Emily fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed and slipped her hand through the gap in the fence to prop the branches up.
A sudden scream cut through the air:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left! the neighbour shrieked, rushing from the other side of her plot.
Emily jerked her hand back, snagging a nail.
I was only trying to help Theyre falling
You dont need my help! Agnes rasped, her face flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing it!
Mr. Jones, wiping his hands, shook his head.
Dont take it to heart, love. Those tomatoes are like children to her. After her son died in a crash, they became everything.
Emily watched in disbelief as Agnes gently straightened the tomato vines, cooing to them softly. The scene suddenly seemed less hostile, more tender.
That night she lay awake, turning over the days events. At first light she walked back to the fence.
Agnes, Im sorry about yesterday, she said, meeting the neighbours guarded stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was only worried the plants would break.
Agnes stayed silent, lips pressed together.
I thought, maybe I could come by to water and weed for you, and you could teach me how to look after the tomatoes properly, Emily continued. I really want to learn.
After a long pause, Agnes finally replied.
Alright. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you, and no improvising.
Thus began their joint mornings in the garden. Emily arrived at dawn, and Agnes became a stern tutor, correcting every movement, demanding redoes when something was amiss. Over time her critiques softened, and occasionally she offered a approving nod.
One day, after they finished tying new shoots, Agnes spoke unexpectedly.
My son, Michael, was a bright lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike, and then crashed on a country road at twentythree.
Emily listened, stunned by the sudden confession.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart broken, Agnes went on. I kept living, though I never knew why. Then spring came and I planted these tomatoes, thinking it might be my last crop. They grew anyway, and I realised as long as they thrive, I have a reason to keep going. Theyve been with me for twenty years now, since Michael was taken.
I see why you guard them so fiercely, Emily whispered. Theyre more than just fruit for you.
Your mother understood that, Agnes nodded. We never got along, our temperaments clashed. But when I fell ill three years ago, she visited every day, watered my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she left, the plants were still thriving, and we finally made peace.
Emily smiled, picturing her mother caring for the neighbours garden.
I found my mothers diary, Emily said. She wrote about you: Agnes stubborn as a mule, but her heart is gold. Her tomatoes are a miracle.
Tears welled in Agness eyes, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron.
She was a good woman. Its a shame you two barely spoke. She always showed you pictures, talked about you.
Really? Emily asked, surprised. I thought shed forgotten about me.
Never, love. She was proud of you, always said how smart you were, how you were making a name for yourself in London. She just felt shy about visiting, thinking you were too busy and your flat was too small for her.
A lump rose in Emilys throat. So many unsaid words, so many missed chances.
Lets have some tea, Agnes said suddenly. I baked a cherry tart yesterday.
Over tea they talked moreabout Mum, about the past, about village life. Agnes shared amusing stories of Martha, and Emily felt as though she was meeting her mother anew.
Tomorrow, why dont you spend the night here? Agnes suggested. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed trays for next years seedlings. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? Emily asked, startled. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? the old woman replied with a grin. Your mother was Martha Stevens. Youve got her handsjust need the practice.
Emily smiled, feeling for the first time that shed found a place to belong.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely, travel to London for meetings, and I feel Mum would be pleased.
Agnes nodded, as if the decision were inevitable.
The house needs a keeper, and I could use a hand with the tomatoes. One alone is a heavy load.
Beyond the fence, neat rows of large red tomatoesBulls Heartglowed in the morning sun, while a few smaller green ones, planted together a month earlier, leaned toward the fence.
Next year, Agnes said, eyeing the plants fondly, well harvest a crop that the whole village will envy.
Emily looked at her handsnow calloused from soil, dirt lodged under the nails. They could still type on a keyboard, but now they could also plant, weed, and water. Hands that felt as much like her mothers as her own.
Thank you, Agnes, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum for everything.
Agnes waved a hand, a smile tugging at her lips.
Neighbors look after one another. Your mother would have understood that.
They stood together by the fenceno longer a barrier but a link between their plots and their lives. Summer lay ahead, full of chores and small joys; autumn would bring a bountiful harvest, winter a time for preserving, and spring would see them planting again side by side. In that simple cycle of rural English life, Emily finally discovered what shed been searching for: a sense of home, of belonging, of continuity.
