Don’t touch my tomatoes! They’re the only thing I’ve got left, shouted the neighbour over the hedge.
Mrs Whitaker, perhaps you should at least say hello to the people next door, replied Mrs Beatrice Hawthorne, handing over a steaming apple crumble. In a village you can’t survive without neighbours. You never know when a pipe will burst or the power will go off.
Eleanor Whitaker dabbed her hands on her apron and took the heavy tin. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the tiny kitchen of the old cottage she had inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Mrs Hawthorne, but I’m not very sociable, Eleanor smiled shyly. I came here for some peace and to sort through Mum’s things.
Oh, love, I understand, the old lady said, tucking a stray grey strand back under her headscarf. The heavens are open for Mary Stevens. She was a good woman, a bright soul. Still, you ought to at least wave to Valerie Simpson over the fence. She lives right next door; she’s been there for thirty years. She and your mum never got along, but neighbours always look out for 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 decided to spend it in a quiet village three hundred miles north of London, sorting the inheritance, tidying the garden and mending her broken heart.
When Mrs Hawthorne left, Eleanor changed into an old pair of jeans and a Tshirt, tied a linen headscarf, and stepped into the garden. Mum’s plot was overrun with weedsno one had tended it for nearly a year since her death. There was a lot to do: prune the ancient apple trees, restore the beds, and fix the sagging fence.
Armed with shears, she began trimming the wild raspberry bushes that hugged the boundary. The thorny canes snagged her clothes and scratched her hands, but the work strangely soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the emotional ache.
Suddenly, a rustle came from the other side of the fence, followed by a sharp voice:
Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
Eleanor straightened up and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face watching her intently over the fence. A faded cotton kerchief was tied around the neighbours hair, and she clutched a pair of garden scissors.
Good day, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor, Mary Stevens daughter. Ive inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her.
A daughter? I never knew Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
Eleanor felt a sting. Yes, her relationship with Mum had been complicated. After her parents split, she lived with her father in London while Mum moved out here to the family cottage. They met only on holidays and occasional phone calls.
We werent close in recent years, Eleanor said quietly. And you must be Valerie Simpson? Mrs Hawthorne mentioned you.
Hawthorne? the neighbour snorted. That gossipmongering old bat goes round the village with her pies, just to collect news. Yes, Im Valerie. Ive been here since your mother was still braiding her pigtails.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mum as a sprightly teenager.
Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying for a while. I want to get the garden in order.
Valerie scanned the tangled beds.
Mary only looked after the garden in the last year. She was very ill, never had the strength for it. I helped as best I could, but my backs given out now. She frowned. Leave that raspberry patch alone. Its practically grown into my fence. If you break it, Ill be left without any berries for the winter.
All right, Ill be careful, Eleanor promised, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.
The whole day she cleared pathways, pruned dry branches, and pulled weeds. By evening her hands throbbed from the unfamiliar labour, but her spirit felt lighter. Something right about being back to the soil, to the roots.
The next morning she was roused by an odd clatter. Looking out, she saw Valerie tinkering near the fence that separated their plots. Throwing on a sweater, Eleanor stepped outside.
Good morning, she called. Lost something?
Valerie jumped, holding a plastic bottle with the bottom cut off.
Those slugs are invading, she muttered. Theyre crawling from your side and gnawing through my strawberries.
I havent had a chance to treat my plot yet, Eleanor blushed. Ill sort it out today. Want a hand with the slugs?
Ill manage, Valerie snapped. Just mind your fence. Its falling apart; my tomatoes will tumble over.
Eleanor examined the rickety wooden fence. Several boards were rotten, the posts leaned. Behind it, Valeries garden sported neat rows of tomato plants, their vines tied to small stakes.
Ill fix it, she promised. Maybe you could advise me? Im not much of a handyman.
Valeries eyes softened.
You should hire Mr. Peter Thomas. He lives on the next lane, a proper jackofalltrades. He doesnt charge much and works honestly.
Thanks, Ill give him a bell.
The days that followed were a blur of chores. Eleanor gradually sorted through Mums belongings, occasionally pausing to flip through an old album or simply sit and remember. Every morning she spotted Valerie tending to her tomatoes, chatting with the plants, gently tying new shoots, and spraying something mysterious.
What lovely tomatoes you have, Eleanor remarked one day while watering her own beds. Ive never seen such big ones.
Valerie straightened, proud.
Bullheart, an old heirloom variety. Mary always envied my crop. Her hands were too cityslick for proper gardening.
Could you show me how to look after them? Id love to try next season.
Valerie gave her a wary look.
What for? Youll pop back to London after a week, wont you? Wholl tend them then?
Im not planning a quick return, Eleanor said softly. After the divorce I want to start afresh. Maybe here.
A flicker of somethingperhaps sympathycrossed the old womans face.
All right, Ill tell you, if youre interested. Come over tonight, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor, carrying Beatrices apple crumble, knocked on Valeries door. The house was as aged as her mothers cottage but immaculately kept. A freshly painted porch, spotless windows, curtains starched to perfection.
Over tea and crumble, Valerie spoke of her tomatoes with the devotion one reserves for children.
The key is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild bleach solution, then germinate them in warmth. I plant only on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, amazed at the encyclopaedic knowledge of her neighbour. The conversation drifted, inevitably, to personal matters.
Wheres your husband? Valerie asked abruptly. Why only one child? Everyone now has two or three.
Eleanor sighed. She usually kept her private life shut, but in the cosy kitchen the words slipped out.
Sergei and I were together for fifteen years. We wanted children, but nothing worked. We saw doctors, tried treatments Then he met a younger colleague, got pregnant almost straight away. Now hes with a new family and a little girl.
That fool Sergei, Valerie declared. Youve got a kind heart and strong hands. Losing a woman 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 Mr. Peter Thomas to mend the fence. While he worked, Eleanor tended the beds, inching closer to the edge of Valeries plot. Suddenly a bunch of heavy tomato vines from Valeries side began leaning over the fence, their fruit tugging the branches down.
Valerie Simpson! she called. May I help you tie the tomatoes? Theyre about to snap the fence.
No answer came. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo stakes from the shed, slipped a hand through the gap, and tried to steady the drooping vines.
A piercing shout rang out:
Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left! the neighbour screamed, rushing over from the other side of the fence.
Eleanor jerked her hand away, grazing a nail on the fence.
I only wanted to help theyre falling
I dont need your help! Valerie panted, her face flushed with fury. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep doing so!
Peter, still on the fence, shook his head.
Dont take it personally, love, he said. Those tomatoes are like children to Valerie. After her son died in a crash, theyre all shes got.
Eleanor stared, bewildered, at the furious woman now gently coaxing her tomato stalks, murmuring sweet nothings. The scene took on a different hue.
That night she lay awake, thinking of Valerie and her tomatoes. At dawn she walked back to the neighbours garden.
Valerie Simpson, Im sorry for yesterday, she said, meeting the womans guarded stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just worried the tomatoes would fall.
Valerie stared, lips pressed tight.
I thought, Eleanor continued, your back hurts, you cant bend much. Perhaps I could come over to water and weed? And you could teach me how to look after tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
Valerie lingered in silence, weighing the offer.
Fine, she finally said. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I say. No improvising.
Thus began their joint mornings. Eleanor arrived at sunrise, and together they tended the tomatoes. Valerie proved a strict tutorcriticising every movement, demanding redos when something was off. Gradually her rebukes softened; sometimes she even gave a approving nod.
One day, after they finished tying new shoots, Valerie surprised her:
My son, Michael, was a brilliant lad. He studied engineering, saved up for a motorbike and crashed on the road at twentythree.
Eleanor listened, fearful of pushing too far.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart gave way, Valerie went on. And here I am. I never thought Id keep going. Then spring came, I planted those tomatoes. I thought it would be the last time. But they grew, strong and bright she gestured helplessly. And I realised: as long as these tomatoes grow, I have a reason to live. Theyve been with me for twenty years now, since Michaels death.
Now I understand why you guard them so fiercely, Eleanor whispered. Theyre more than just plants to you.
Your mother understood, Valerie nodded. We never got along, our temperaments clashed. But when I fell ill three years ago, she came every day to water my tomatoes while I lay in hospital. When she left, the plants were still thriving, and we reconciled then.
Eleanor smiled, imagining her mum watering Valeries tomatoes.
I found Mums diary. She wrote about you: Valeriestubborn as a mule, but heart of gold. And the tomatoes a miracle, shed scribbled.
Valerie broke into tears, wiping them with the edge of her apron.
She was a good woman. Its a pity you two hardly talked. She spoke of you often, showed pictures.
Really? Eleanor gasped. I thought shed forgotten me
Oh, love, she was proud of you. Shed brag about how clever you were, how you worked in a big firm in London. She just never felt confident visitingit seemed you were always busy and your flat was tiny, no room for her.
Eleanor felt a lump rise in her throat. So many words left unsaid between her and Mum. So many missed chances
Lets have tea, Valerie declared suddenly. I baked a cherry pie yesterday.
Over tea they kept talkingabout Mum, about the past, about village life. Valerie shared amusing anecdotes about Mary Stevens, and Eleanor felt she was meeting her mother anew.
You know, Valerie said, stay over tomorrow night. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed stock for next year. Ill show you how to select the best seeds so your tomatoes will be topnotch.
Next year? Eleanor blinked. Do you think I can manage?
Whats a bit of gardening? the old lady snorted. Your mother was Mary Stevens. Youve got her handsjust need a bit of practice.
Eleanor grinned. For the first time in ages she felt shed found her place: in the old family cottage, beside a chatty yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines.
I think Ill stay here permanently, she announced. I can work remotely, pop into London for meetings on weekends. And Im sure Mum would be pleased.
Valerie nodded, as if the decision were obvious.
Of course, stay. A house without owners turns to a ruin. And I could use a hand with the tomatoesone alone is a heavy lift. Then maybe youll grow yours, not worse than mine.
Beyond the fence, neat rows of massive red Bullheart tomatoes glistenedValeries pride. Beside them, tiny green seedlings theyd planted together a month ago peeked up.
Next year, Valerie said, eyes soft, well harvest enough to make the whole village jealous.
Eleanor looked at her handsnow calloused from soil, specks of earth under the nails. Hands that once only typed on a keyboard now knew how to plant, weed, and water. Hands that felt a little like her mothers.
Thank you, Valerie Simpson, she said quietly. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum for everything.
The old woman waved, a smile tugging at her lips.
Thats what neighbours are for. Your mother would have understood.
They stood by the fenceno longer a barrier but a bridge between their plots and lives. Summer lay ahead, full of todos and delights; autumn would bring a bumper harvest, winter a stockpile and fresh plans, and spring would see them planting together again. In that simple, endless cycle of village life, Eleanor finally discovered what shed been searching for: a sense of home, belonging, and continuity.
The tale of ordinary tomatoes mending old wounds and linking two solitary souls reminds us that the simplest things can carry deep meaning and healing power. If you enjoyed the story, do give it a like and subscribe. Your comments are always welcome.
