Don’t touch my tomatoes! They’re all I’ve got left! the neighbour shrieked through the fence, her voice cracking with raw panic.
Eleanor Whitaker clutched the wicker basket tighter, her breath shallow. She had only come to the old stone cottage in Little Whistleton to sort through her mothers belongings and find a quiet place to think after the wreck of her marriage. The cottage, inherited from her mother Martha Stoddard, sat three hundred miles north of London, surrounded by hedgerows that had gone wild in the year since the old womans death.
The morning had begun with Margaret Hargreaves, the neighbour across the lane, leaning over the garden fence, a steaming apple crumble balanced on a plate. Eleanor, dear, you really should get to know the people next door, she said, handing over the warm pastry. In a village you cant afford to be a stranger. You never know when the water will burst or the lights go out.
Eleanor dabbed her hands on her apron, the scent of cinnamon and baked apples filling the little kitchen. Thank you, Margaret, but Im not much for chatting, she replied, a shy smile touching her lips. I came here to be alone, to sort through Mums things.
Margaret chuckled, smoothing the silver hair that escaped from under her bonnet. Martha was a good soul, bright as a sunrise. Still, you ought to at least say good morning to Violet Spencer over the fence. Shes been living on the right-hand side of your plot for thirty years. She and my mother never got along, but neighbours always look after each other.
Eleanor nodded, though her mind already drifted to the image of herself sipping tea alone, leafing through an old photo album. After the divorce she finally earned a few weeks leave from the advertising agency in London, and shed taken this chance to escape the citys clamor and mend the bruises in her heart.
When Margaret left, Eleanor changed into a pair of faded jeans and a plain tee, tied a kerchief around her hair, and stepped into the overgrown garden. The oncetidy plot was choked with weeds; no one had tended it since her mother passed. There was a mountain of work aheadpruning the ancient apple trees, straightening the beds, mending the sagging fence.
Armed with garden shears, she began to cut back the wild raspberry vines that scrabbled along the boundary. The thorny branches snagged her sleeves and scratched her hands, but the repetitive motion soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache in her chest.
A rustle rose from the far side of the fence, followed by a sharp voice. Who are you? What are you doing on Marthas land?
Eleanor straightened, meeting the stare of a weatherworn woman whose face was lined like a wellread novel. She wore a faded linen headscarf and clutched a pair of garden shears.
Good morning, Eleanor said politely. Im Eleanor Whitaker, Martha Stoddards daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman narrowed her eyes, studying Eleanors face. A daughter? I didnt know Martha ever had one. She never spoke of you.
A sting hit Eleanors heart. Her relationship with her mother had always been strained. After her parents divorce shed stayed with her father in London while Martha moved back to the family farm. Their contact had been limited to holiday phone calls.
We grew apart in recent years, Eleanor whispered. You must be Violet Spencer? Margaret mentioned you.
Violet snorted. Margaret, that gossip monger, goes round the whole village with her pies just to hear the latest. Yes, Im Violet. Ive been here since your mother was a girl with braids in her hair.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother as a young woman. Nice to finally meet you. I think Ill be staying awhile. I need to get the garden in order.
Violet glanced over the tangled beds. Martha let the garden run wild last year. She was ill, couldnt tend it. I helped what I could, but my backs not what it used to be. She paused, her gaze sharpening. Dont mess with that raspberry patch too much. Its grown into my fence. Break it and Ill lose my berries for the winter.
Alright, Ill be careful, Eleanor replied, surprised by the sudden edge in Violets tone.
The day passed in a blur of clearing paths, snipping dead wood, and pulling weeds. By dusk her hands ached, but a quiet peace settled over her. There was something right about returning to the earth, to her roots.
The next morning a strange clatter roused her. She looked out the window and saw Violet fiddling with the fence that divided their plots. Throwing on a coat, Eleanor hurried outside.
Morning, she called. Did you lose something?
Violet jerked upright, holding a plastic bottle with the bottom cut off. Those slugs are crawling from your plot onto mine, eating my strawberries, she muttered.
I havent had a chance to treat the beds yet, Eleanor admitted, flushing. Ill deal with it today. Want me to help with the slugs?
No need, Violet snapped. Just mind your own fence. Its falling apart, and my tomatoes will tumble if it collapses.
Eleanor glanced at the weatherworn wooden fence: several planks rotted, the posts leaned. Beyond it, Violets garden boasted neat rows of tomato plants, their vines tied to stakes.
Ill repair it, Eleanor promised. Do you have any advice? Im not much of a handyman.
Violets expression softened. Youll need to call Tom Peterson. He lives on the next lane, a jackofalltrades. Hes cheap and works fair.
Thanks, Ill give him a bell, Eleanor said, feeling a sliver of hope.
Days slipped by. Eleanor sorted through her mothers old things, occasionally pausing to leaf through a battered photo album or sit on the porch and stare at the rolling countryside. Each morning she watched Violet tending her tomatoes, speaking softly to the plants, coaxing new shoots with a spray bottle.
Your tomatoes are magnificent, Eleanor observed one afternoon, watering her own beds.
Violet puffed up a little. Bullheartthats the old variety. Martha always envied me for growing them. She had city hands, not a farmers.
Could you teach me how to look after them? Eleanor asked. Id like to try next season.
Violet eyed her skeptically. What for? Youll be back in London in a week, wont you? Wholl keep them?
Im not planning to leave, Eleanor replied quietly. After the divorce I want to start over, maybe here.
Something flickered in Violets eyesperhaps sympathy, perhaps understanding. Fine, Ill show you if youre serious. Come over tonight, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor carried Margarets apple crumble to Violets cottage. The house, just as weathered as her own, was immaculate: fresh paint on the front door, crisp curtains, a tidy garden that seemed to grin at the setting sun.
Over tea, Violet spoke of her tomatoes with the reverence of a mother. The key is good seedling stock. I soak the seeds in a mild potassium permanganate solution, then germinate them in a warm spot. I only plant on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, amazed at the depth of Violets horticultural knowledge. The conversation drifted, and Violet asked abruptly, Wheres your husband? Why only one child? Everyones having twins these days.
A sigh escaped Eleanor. She rarely spoke of her personal life, but the cottages cosy intimacy coaxed the words out. Serge was my husband for fifteen years. We tried for children, nothing. He later found a younger colleague, got a baby, and left. Hes now with his new family.
Violets eyes narrowed. That scoundrel. Youre a good woman, Eleanor, with kind eyes and capable hands. Losing a man like that it takes a strong heart.
Eleanor felt a surprising warmth at Violets blunt kindness.
The next day she hired Tom Peterson, who arrived with a toolbox and a friendly grin, promptly fixing the fence. While he worked, Eleanor tended the beds, inching ever closer to the boundary where Violets tomato vines drooped under the weight of ripe fruit.
Violet! Eleanor called. May I help you tie the tomatoes? Theyre bending over.
No answer. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed and, through a gap in the fence, slipped her hand in to prop the heavy branches.
A bloodcurdling shout cut through the air. Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left! Violet roared, storming toward her, face flushed with fury.
Eleanor recoiled, her hand grazing a nail in the fence. I only wanted to help theyre going to fall
Violets voice cracked. I dont need your help! Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing it!
Tom, still on the other side, shook his head. Dont take it to heart, love. Those tomatoes are like children to her. Her son died in a crash; she clings to them now.
Eleanor watched, stunned, as Violet gently straightened the vines, murmuring soothing words. The scene shifted in her mind, the anger melting into something tender.
That night sleep eluded her. She replayed the days turmoil, the fierce protectiveness over the tomatoes, and the quiet desperation behind Violets outburst. At first light she walked back to the fence, heart pounding.
Violet, Im sorry for yesterday, Eleanor said, meeting the old womans wary stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just worried the plants would break.
Violet stayed silent, lips pressed.
I thought maybe I could come by each morning to water and weed? And you could teach me how to care for the tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
Violet stared for a long beat, then sighed. Alright. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I tell you, no improvising.
Thus began their dawn rituals. Eleanor arrived at the crack of day, and together they pruned, tied, and whispered to the plants. Violet was a demanding tutor, correcting every motion, yet her criticism softened over time, and occasional nods of approval slipped through.
One crisp morning, after theyd finished securing a new set of vines, Violet spoke in a hushed tone. My son, Michael, was a bright lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike, and died on the highway at twentythree. My husband, after his funeral, had a heart attack and passed a year later. I was left with nothing but these tomatoes. I thought Id give up, but spring came, and I planted again. They grew, and theyve been my reason to live for the past twenty years.
Eleanor felt the weight of the confession settle between them. I understand now why you guard them so fiercely, she said softly. Theyre more than just plants to you.
Violets eyes glistened. Your mother and I never got alongour temperaments clashed. Yet three years ago, when I fell ill, she visited every day, watering my tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she left, they were still thriving. Thats when we made peace.
Eleanors throat tightened. She remembered the diary shed found among her mothers things, where Martha had written, Violetstubborn as a mule, but with a heart of gold. Her tomatoes are a miracle.
Tears welled in Violets eyes, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. Im sorry we never talked more. She showed me pictures of you, kept them close.
Really? Eleanor asked, surprised. I thought shed forgotten me
Never, dear. She was proud of you, always bragging about your city job. She only felt shy about visitingyoure a busy London lady, after all.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat, a mixture of regret and newfound connection.
Lets have another cup of tea, Violet said suddenly, brightening. I baked a cherry tart yesterday.
Over the tart, they spoke of Martha, of village life, of the future. Violets stories about the old woman were laced with humor, and Eleanor felt as though she was meeting her mother anew, through the lens of a neighbour.
Tomorrow, stay the night, Violet suggested. The full moon is perfect for soaking seeds for next seasons seedlings. Ill show you how to select the best ones.
Next year? Eleanor asked, eyebrows raised. Do you think I can manage?
Whats that? Violet scoffed. Your mother was Martha Stoddard. Youve got her handsjust need the practice.
A genuine smile spread across Eleanors face. For the first time in months, she felt a sense of belonging. The old cottage, the overgrown garden, and the gruff yet caring neighbour were stitching a new life for her.
I think Ill stay here permanently, she said, voice steady. I can work remotely, travel to London on weekends, and I think Mum would have liked this.
Violet nodded, as if the decision had always been obvious. The house needs a keeper, and I need help with my tomatoes. Ones a handful; together well manage.
Beyond the fence, Violets tomato rows glowed with the deep red of Bullheart tomatoes, while a few smaller green fruits, planted together with Eleanor a month prior, peeked out shyly.
In a few years, Violet mused, watching the plants, well have a harvest that makes the whole village jealous.
Eleanor looked at her handscalloused, soilstained, still capable of typing on a keyboard but now also of planting, weeding, and watering. They felt like an extension of her mothers.
Thank you, Violet, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories, for everything.
Violet waved her hand, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. Were neighbours now. We help each other. Your mother would have wanted that.
They stood side by side at the fence, no longer a barrier but a bridge between two lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of chores and laughter; autumn promised a bountiful yield; winter would bring preservation and plans for spring, when theyd plant again together. In that simple, cyclic rhythm of countryside living, Eleanor finally found the home, the belonging, the continuation she had been searching for.
The tale of ordinary tomatoes stitching together two lonely souls proved that even the humblest things can carry deep meaning and healing power.
