Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all Ive got left, shouted the woman over the hedge, her voice cracking with desperation.
Mrs. Clarke, you should at least get to know the neighbours first, replied Margaret Owens, handing over a steaming apple crumble fresh from the oven. Out here, you cant survive without a neighbour. You never know when a pipe will burst or the lights will go out.
Emily Whitaker wiped her hands on her apron, took the heavy tray, and inhaled the sweet scent of cinnamon and baked apples that filled her modest kitchen. The cottage, inherited from her mother, still smelled of old timber and memories.
Thank you, Mrs. Owens, but Im not much for conversation, Emily said, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I came here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
The dear Mary Stevenson was a good soul, the older woman said, tucking a stray grey strand behind her ear. But you ought to at least say hello to Violet Simmons over the fence. She lives right next door, thirty years on this land. She and your mother never got on, but neighbours always looked out for each other.
Emily nodded, though she imagined herself drinking tea alone, leafing through an old photo album of her mother. After a painful divorce shed finally earned a few weeks leave from the advertising agency in London and decided to spend it in the quiet countryside, three hundred miles north of the capital, to mend her broken spirit and tend to the inherited plot.
When Margaret left, Emily changed into a pair of old jeans and a plain tee, tied a headscarf, and stepped into the overgrown garden. Her mothers plot had been left to weeds for almost a year. There was much to do: prune the ancient apple trees, mend the beds, and fix the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, she began snipping at the wild raspberry thicket that brushed the property line. Thorns snagged her sleeves, scratched her hands, but the rhythmic work strangely soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache in her heart.
A rustle came from beyond the fence, followed by a sharp voice.
Who are you? What are you doing on Marys land?
Emily straightened and saw a weatherworn face peering over the fence, a faded cotton headscarf tied around her hair, garden shears in hand.
Good afternoon, Emily replied politely. Im Emily, Mary Stevensons daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her.
A daughter? I didnt know Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
Emily felt a sting. Her relationship with her mother had been strained. After her parents divorce shed stayed with her father in London while Mum moved here, meeting only on holidays.
We werent close in recent years, Emily said quietly. And you must be Violet Simmons? Margaret mentioned you.
Margaret? the neighbour scoffed. Shes the gossip who wanders the village with her pies, always hunting for news. Yes, Im Violet. Ive lived here since your mother was a girl with braids.
Emily forced a smile, picturing her mother as a youthful lass.
Nice to meet you. I think Ill be staying awhile, getting the garden in order.
Violet glanced at the tangled beds.
Mary let the garden run wild last year. She was very ill, couldnt tend it. I helped where I could, but my back isnt what it used to be. She frowned. Dont mess with that raspberry. Its grown right up to my fence. If you damage it, Ill lose my winter supply.
Alright, Ill be careful, Emily replied, surprised by the sudden change in tone.
The day passed in a blur of clearing paths, cutting dead branches, ripping weeds. By dusk her hands throbbed, but a lightness settled in her chest. There was something right about returning to the earth, to roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke Emily. She looked out to see Violet fiddling with something by the shared fence.
Good morning, Emily called. Lost something?
Violet jerked upright, clutching a plastic bottle with its bottom cut off.
Those slugs are gnawing my strawberries, she muttered. Theyre crawling out of your side of the garden.
I havent gotten to that part yet, Emily apologized. Ill take care of it today. Want a hand with the slugs?
No, Ill manage, Violet snapped. Just keep an eye on your fence. Its falling apart, and I cant have it collapsing onto my tomatoes.
Emily glanced at the rickety wooden fence; several boards rotted, posts leaned. Beyond it, Violets garden sported neat rows of tomato plants, stems tied to stakes.
Ill fix it, Emily promised. Do you have any advice? Im not much of a handyman.
Violet softened. You could call Mr. Parker. He lives on the next lane, good with everything, cheap too, and works honest.
Thank you, Ill do that.
The following days were a haze of sorting Mums belongings, occasionally pausing to turn the pages of an old album or simply sit and reminisce. Each morning Emily saw Violet tending to her tomatoes, speaking to the vines, gently binding new shoots, spraying them with some mysterious solution.
Your tomatoes are magnificent, Emily remarked one afternoon while watering her own beds. Ive never seen such large ones.
Violet straightened, pride flickering in her eyes.
These are Bullheart, an old heirloom variety. Mary always envied my crop. She never had the hands for ittoo cityslicked for the soil.
Could you teach me how to grow them? Id love to try next year.
Violet eyed her skeptically.
And why would you bother? Youll probably pop back to London after a week and leave this to someone else.
Im not planning to return just yet, Emily said softly. After the divorce I want to start over. Maybe here.
A flicker of understanding passed over Violets facepart sympathy, part recognition.
Alright, Ill show you, if youre interested. Come over this evening, well have tea.
That night Emily, carrying Margarets apple crumble, walked to Violets cottage. The house was as aged as her mothers, but meticulously maintainedfreshly painted porch, crisp curtains, a tidy garden with no stray leaf.
Over tea, Violet spoke of her tomatoes with a devotion that sounded like a mothers love for a child.
The secret is proper seedling. I soak them in a potassium permanganate solution, then let them germinate in warmth. I plant only on certain days of the lunar calendar
Emily listened, amazed at Violets encyclopedic knowledge. The conversation drifted.
Wheres your husband? Violet asked abruptly. Why only one child? Everyones having twins these days.
Emily sighed. She rarely spoke of her personal life, but the simple kitchen coaxed words out of her.
We were married fifteen years. We tried for children, went to doctors, treatmentsnothing. Then he met a younger colleague and she became pregnant almost immediately. Hes now with a new family and a little daughter.
Your exhusband is a fool, Violet declared, unflinching. Youre a good woman, hardworking. Losing someone like that youre brave.
Emily felt an unexpected warmth at the blunt honesty.
The next day she hired Mr. Parker to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, edging nearer to Violets border. A few of the hefty tomato plants leaned over, their fruit pulling the branches down.
Violet Simmons! Emily called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre bowing over.
No answer came. Determined, Emily fetched a few bamboo sticks from the shed, slipped her hand through a gap in the fence, and gently propped the heavy vines.
A sudden, piercing scream shattered the quiet.
Dont touch my tomatoes! Thats all I have left! the neighbour shrieked, lunging from the other side of the fence.
Emily jerked her hand back, nails catching a rusted nail.
I only wanted to help theyre falling
Dont need your help! Violet panted, face flushed with fury. Ive always done it myself and Ill keep on doing it!
Mr. Parker, nearby with his tools, shook his head.
Dont take it personally, he said. Those tomatoes are like children to her. After her son died in a crash, theyre all she has.
Emily stared at Violet, who was now tenderly adjusting the tomato vines, cooing to them as if they were her own. The scene shifted in her mind.
That night sleep eluded her; thoughts of Violet and her tomatoes whirred. At dawn she mustered the courage to approach again.
Violet Simmons, Im sorry for yesterday, Emily said, meeting the womans wary gaze. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just afraid the tomatoes would topple.
Violet remained silent, lips pressed together.
I thought, Emily continued, maybe I could come by to water and weed for you. And you could teach me proper tomato care. I really want to learn.
Violet lingered, weighing the offer.
Fine, she finally said. Come tomorrow at six. Do exactly as I say, no improvising.
Thus began their shared mornings. Emily arrived at first light, and under Violets exacting eye she learned to prune, stake, and spray. The old womans criticism was sharp, but slowly softened, and occasionally a nod of approval slipped through.
One crisp morning, after they finished tying new shoots, Violet spoke unexpectedly.
My son, Michael, was a bright lad. He went to university, became an engineer, saved up for a motorbike and crashed on a country road at twentythree.
Emily listened in stunned silence.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart gave out, Violet went on. I thought Id never live again. Then spring came, I planted these tomatoes. I thought it would be the last thing I ever did. But they grew, strong and red. She gestured at the vines. As long as these tomatoes live, I have a reason to live. Theyve been with me for twenty years now, since Michaels death.
I understand now why you guard them so fiercely, Emily whispered. Theyre more than plants to you.
Your mother saw it too, Violet nodded. We never got along, but when I fell ill three years ago, she visited daily, watered these tomatoes while I was in hospital. When she came back, every plant was thriving. Thats when we finally mended.
Emily imagined her mother, tenderly tending anothers garden.
I found Mums diary, Emily said, voice trembling. She wrote about you: Violetstubborn as a mule, but heart of gold. Her tomatoes are a miracle.
Violets eyes filled with tears, and she dabbed them with the edge of her apron.
She was a good woman, she whispered. Im sorry we barely spoke. She talked about you all the time, showed me pictures.
Really? Emily gasped. I thought shed forgotten me.
Never, Violet replied, smiling despite herself. She was proud of you, always spoke of your cleverness, your work in London. She just felt too shy to visitshe thought your flat was too small for her.
A lump rose in Emilys throat, a mix of regret and longing for the mother shed barely known.
Lets have tea, Violet said suddenly, brightening. I baked a cherry tart this morning.
Over tea they spoke of the past, of village life, of Mary Stevensons stories.
Tomorrow, Violet announced, stay over. The full moon is perfect for soaking seed trays for next years sowing. Ill show you how to select the best seeds.
Next year? Emily asked, surprised. Do you think I can manage?
Why not? Violet chuckled. Your mother was Mary Stevenson. You have her handsjust need the practice.
For the first time in a long while, Emily felt a sense of belonging. In that old house, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among apple trees and tomato vines, she sensed a new beginning.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely, fly to London for meetings, but this will be my home. Mum would have liked that.
Violet nodded, as if the decision were obvious.
Of course you should. A house empty of its owner feels lonely. And I need help with my tomatoesone alone is too much.
Beyond the fence, the proud Bullheart tomatoes glowed scarlet, while a few green seedlings they had planted together a month earlier peeked up shyly.
Next year, Violet said, eyes soft on the vines, well harvest so much the whole village will be jealous.
Emily looked at her hands, now calloused from soil, dirt clinging under her nails. They could still type on a keyboard, but now they could also sow, weed, and water. They felt like her mothers hands.
Thank you, Violet Simmons, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories, for everything.
Violet waved a hand, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Neighbours look after each other. Your mother knew that.
They stood together at the fencenot a barrier, but a bridge between two lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of chores and laughter; autumn promised a bountiful harvest; winter would bring preserves and new plans; and spring would see them planting again, side by side. In that simple cycle of rural English life, Emily finally found the home, the belonging, the continuity she had long searched for.
