Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left, a voice shouted across the fence.
Mrs. Whitfield, perhaps you ought to make an effort to know the neighbours first, replied Mrs. Margaret Barnes, handing over a steaming apple pie still glistening with butter. In a village you cant survive without a neighbour. One day the well runs dry, the next the lights flicker out.
Eleanor Whitfield dabbed her hands on her apron, took the heavy tin tray, and let the scent of cinnamon and baked apples fill the cramped kitchen of the old cottage shed inherited from her mother.
Thank you, Mrs. Barnes, but Im not very sociable, Eleanor said with a shy smile. I came here for peace, to sort through Mums things.
The dear child, I understand, the elder said, tucking a stray silver strand back under her headscarf. The heavens look kindly on Mary Whitfield. She was a good woman, a bright soul. Still, you should at least say hello to Violet Harper over the fence. Shes lived on the other side for thirty years. She and your mother never got along, but neighbours always lend a hand when needed.
Eleanor nodded, though she could already picture herself sipping tea alone while leafing through her mothers old photo album. After a messy divorce she finally earned a break at the advertising agency where she worked and decided to spend it in a quiet hamlet about 186 miles from London. She was there to arrange the estate, tidy the garden, and try to stitch her bruised heart.
When Mrs. Barnes left, Eleanor changed into a pair of faded jeans, a plain tee, tied a kerchief around her hair, and stepped out into the garden. Her mothers plot was overrun with weedsno one had tended it for almost a year since Mums passing. There was much to do: prune the old apple trees, restore the beds, mend the sagging fence.
Armed with pruning shears, she began trimming the runaway raspberry bushes at the very edge of the land. The thorny canes snagged her sleeves and scratched her palms, yet the work oddly soothed her. Physical fatigue dulled the ache inside her.
A rustle came from behind the fence, followed by a sharp voice: Who are you? What are you doing on Marys ground?
Eleanor straightened and saw an elderly woman with a weatherworn face, peering through the fence. A faded cotton headscarf hid her hair, and she clutched a pair of garden scissors.
Good day, Eleanor replied politely. Im Eleanor, Marys daughter. I inherited this house.
The woman squinted, studying her. A daughter? I never heard Mary had one. She never mentioned you.
A sting pierced Eleanors chest. Her relationship with her mother had always been tangled. After her parents divorce shed stayed with her father in London, while Mum moved here to the family home. They met rarely, mostly on holidays over the phone.
We havent spoken much lately, Eleanor admitted softly. And you must be Violet Harper? Mrs. Barnes spoke of you.
Mrs. Barnes? the neighbour scoffed. That gossipmonger who roams the village with her pies, always hunting for news. Yes, Im Violet. Ive lived here since your mother was still a braidhaired girl.
Eleanor smiled, picturing her mother as a youthful lass. Pleasure to meet you. I think Ill be staying a while, getting the garden in order.
Violet surveyed the tangled beds. Mary let the garden fall into neglect last year. She was very ill, didnt have the strength for it. I helped as best I could, but my back is no longer what it used to be. She frowned. Dont meddle with that raspberry patch. Its grown right up against my fence. If you break it, Ill lose my winter fruit.
Alright, Ill be more careful, Eleanor said, taken aback by the sudden edge in Violets tone.
All day she cleared paths, trimmed dead branches, and pulled weeds. By evening her hands throbbed from the unfamiliar labour, yet her spirit felt lighter. Something right lay in returning to earth, to roots.
The next morning a strange clatter woke Eleanor. Looking out, she saw Violet at the fence, fussing with something. She slipped on her shoes and hurried outside.
Morning, Eleanor called. Did you lose something?
Violet startled, holding a plastic bottle with its bottom sliced off. Im collecting slugs, she muttered. Theyre crawling from your plot, devouring my strawberries.
I havent had a chance to tend my beds yet, Eleanor apologized. Ill deal with them now. Want a hand with the slugs?
No help needed, Violet snapped. Ill manage. Just watch your fence. Its collapsing; otherwise my tomatoes will tumble.
Eleanor glanced at the sagging wooden fence. Several planks were rotten, the posts leaned. Beyond it, Violets garden displayed neat rows of tomato plants, their vines tied to little stakes.
Ill fix it, she promised. Perhaps you could advise me? Im not very handy with fences.
Violets expression softened. Call on Jim Potter down the lane. Hes a jackofalltrades, charges a modest fee and works honestly.
Thank you, Ill do that, Eleanor replied.
Days slipped by in a quiet bustle. Eleanor gradually sorted through the house, unpacked her mothers belongings, pausing now and then to turn the pages of an old album or simply sit and remember. Each morning she watched Violet tending her tomatoes, chatting with the plants, coaxing new shoots, misting them with some mysterious spray.
What gorgeous tomatoes you have, Eleanor remarked one day while watering her own beds. Ive never seen such big ones.
Violet straightened, pride evident. Bullheart, an old heirloom variety. Mary always envied my crop. She never had the hands for italways too cityslick.
Could you teach me how to care for them? Id like to grow some next year, Eleanor asked.
Violet regarded her skeptically. Why bother? Youll probably stay for a week in summer, then zip back to London. Wholl look after them?
Im not planning to return right away, Eleanor said quietly. After the divorce I want to start anew, maybe here.
A flicker of understanding crossed Violets eyes. Fine, Ill show you if youre interested. Come evening, well have tea.
That evening Eleanor took Mrs. Barness apple pie and walked to Violets cottage. The house was as aged as her mothers, but impeccably tidy. The front step gleamed with fresh paint, curtains crisply starched.
Over tea and slice of pie, Violet spoke of her tomatoes with the fervour of a mother speaking of children. The secret is good seedling. I soak the seeds in a mild solution, then germinate them in warmth. I plant only on certain days according to the lunar calendar
Eleanor listened, amazed at the encyclopedic knowledge of the older woman. The conversation drifted, as conversations do, to other topics.
What about your husband? Violet asked suddenly. Why only one child? Everyone nowadays has two or three.
Eleanor sighed. She rarely spoke of her personal life, but the homely kitchen coaxed the words out. Serge was my partner for fifteen years. We tried for children, it never worked. He later found a young colleague who became pregnant right away. Hes now with a new family and a little daughter.
Your Serge is a fool, Violet declared bluntly. You have a kind heart and capable hands. Losing a woman like you would be madness.
Eleanor felt a warm grin spread across her face. The neighbours bluntness somehow soothed her.
The following day she hired Jim Potter to mend the fence. While he worked, she tended the beds, inching closer to the boundary. She noticed several of Violets hefty tomato bushes leaning toward her fence, their weight pulling the branches down.
Violet Harper! she called. May I help tie your tomatoes? Theyre about to snap.
No answer came. Determined, Eleanor fetched a few bamboo sticks from the shed, slipped her hand through the fence gap, and began propping the laden branches.
A sudden, piercing shout erupted: Dont touch my tomatoes! Theyre all I have left! The neighbour roared from the other side of the fence, lunging toward her.
Startled, Eleanor jerked her hand back, the nail on the fence rasping her skin. I only wanted to help theyre falling
You dont need my help! Violet gasped, cheeks flushed with anger. Ive always managed on my own and Ill keep on doing it!
Jim, nearby, shook his head. Dont be hard on her, love. Those tomatoes are like children to Violet. After her son died in a crash, they became her only company.
Eleanor watched the furious neighbour cradling the tomato vines, whispering soothing words. The scene shifted in her mind, taking on a different hue.
That night sleep eluded her; thoughts of Violet and her tomatoes swirled. At dawn she returned to the fence, resolve steady.
Violet Harper, Im sorry for yesterday, she said, meeting the womans wary stare. I didnt mean to upset you. I was just afraid the tomatoes would fall.
The old woman stayed silent, lips pressed.
I thought, Eleanor continued, your back hurts, its hard to bend. Perhaps I could come by to water and weed? And you could teach me how to look after the tomatoes properly. I really want to learn.
Violet lingered in thought, then finally replied, Alright. Come tomorrow at six a.m. Do exactly as I say, no improvising.
Thus began their shared mornings in the garden. Eleanor arrived at dawn, and together they tended the tomatoes. Violet was a strict teacher, correcting every motion, demanding redo if anything was off. Gradually her criticism softened, occasionally replaced by a nod of approval.
One morning, after they had finished tying new shoots, Violet said unexpectedly, My son Michael was a bright lad, studying engineering. He saved up for a motorbike and crashed on a country road at twentythree.
Eleanor listened, the silence heavy.
My husband died a year after Michaels funeral, heart giving out, Violet went on. And Im still here. At first I thought Id never get on. Then spring came, I planted tomatoes, thinking it would be the last time. They grew, strong and red. While they flourish, I keep living. Those vines have been with me for twenty years, ever since Michaels gone.
I see why you guard them so fiercely, Eleanor whispered. Theyre more than plants to you.
Your mother understood, Violet 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 was in hospital. When she left, they were still thriving, and we made peace.
Eleanor smiled, imagining her mother tending a neighbours tomatoes. I found her diary. She wrote about you: Violetstubborn as a mule, but her heart is gold. And the tomatoes marvels.
Violets eyes filled with tears, a childlike sob, as she dabbed them with the edge of her apron. She was a good woman. Its a shame you two didnt speak more. She talked about you often, showed pictures.
Really? Eleanor asked, surprised. I thought shed forgotten me
Never, dear. She was proud of youyour work in London, the big agency. She just felt shy visiting, thinking you were too busy, your flat too tiny for her.
A lump rose in Eleanors throat. So many words left unsaid, so many chances missed.
Come, lets have tea, Violet said suddenly, determination in her voice. I baked a cherry pie.
Over tea they talkedabout Mum, the past, village life. Violet spoke of Mary Whitfield with such affection that Eleanor felt she was meeting her mother anew.
And you know, Violet said, stay over tomorrow night. The full moon is perfect for soaking seeds for next years crop. Ill show you how to select the best ones.
For next year? Eleanor asked, eyebrows raised. Do you think I can manage?
Whats stopping you? the old woman snorted. Your mother was Mary Whitfield. You have her handsjust need practice.
A genuine smile spread across Eleanors face. For the first time in ages she felt shed found a place. In that crumbling cottage, beside a cantankerous yet kind neighbour, among rows of apple trees and tomato vines, she sensed home.
I think Ill stay here for good, she said. I can work remotely, fly to London on weekends. And I think Mum would be happy.
Violet nodded, as if the decision were inevitable. Of course. An empty house feels lonely. And I could use help with my tomatoes; one woman cant do it all. Soon youll have your own crop, not worse than mine.
Beyond the fence, Violets tomatoeslarge, blushing Bullheart vinesstood proud. Beside them, small green seedlings that Eleanor and she had planted together a month earlier peeped up.
Next year, Violet said, eyes soft on the plants, well harvest a bounty that will make the whole village jealous.
Eleanor looked at her handsroughened by soil, dust under the nails, the same hands that once clicked keyboards now coaxing life from earth. Thank you, Violet Harper, she whispered. For the tomatoes, for the stories about Mum for everything.
The old woman raised a hand, a smile tugging at her lips. Neighbors we are. We look after each other. Your mother knew that.
They stood at the fenceno longer a barrier but a bridge between two plots and two lives. Summer stretched ahead, full of chores and joys; autumn promised a rich harvest; winter would bring preserves and plans; and spring would see them planting together once more. In that simple cycle of rural life, Eleanor finally discovered what she had been seekinga sense of belonging, a home, a continuity. The humble tomatoes had stitched together old wounds and bound two solitary souls.
