The neighbor knew too much
“Margaret! Margaret, wait!” called out their neighbor, Albert Fletcher, waving his arms as he hurried after the woman in the hallway. “Where are you off to in such a rush? We need to talk!”
“I haven’t time, Albert—I’m fetching my granddaughter from nursery,” Margaret tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her path.
“The little one can wait. This is serious. It’s about your husband, James.” Albert’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling fervor. “Do you know where he was yesterday?”
Margaret froze. Something clenched in her chest, but she refused to let it show.
“Of course I know. At the allotment. Tending to the potatoes.”
“The allotment?” Albert smirked. “Funny. Because I saw him at three in the afternoon on High Street. Outside Boots. With a woman. They were… very close.”
The words struck Margaret like a hammer. James had left early, claiming he’d be back by supper. When he returned, he was exhausted, dirt on his clothes, grumbling about his aching back from digging.
“You’re mistaken,” she said softly. “James was at the allotment all day.”
“Mistaken?” Albert pulled out his mobile. “There’s a photo. Not the best, mind—taken from a distance—but that’s definitely your James.”
She didn’t want to look, yet her eyes darted to the blurry image. The hunched posture, the way he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets—yes, it could be him.
“Who is she?” Margaret whispered.
“Ah, that I don’t know. But I’ll find out. Got connections, Margaret. People everywhere.” He tucked his phone away, adopting a sympathetic tone. “Don’t take it too hard. Men, eh? Weak in the knees for a pretty face. Might be nothing serious.”
Margaret turned toward her flat, legs trembling. Behind her, Albert called cheerfully, “If I learn more, I’ll let you know! Neighbors ought to help each other, after all!”
At home, Margaret sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window. Forty-three years married. Forty-three! Two children raised, two grandchildren doted on. Could he really be so foolish now, at their age?
James returned from work as usual, kissed her cheek, washed his hands, and sat for dinner.
“How’s the allotment?” Margaret asked innocently, watching him.
“Fine. Got the potatoes sorted, thinned the onions. Back’s killing me.” James stretched, his spine crackling. “Be back tomorrow—weeds won’t pull themselves.”
“Didn’t pop into town? Boots, perhaps—for balm?”
He frowned. “Why would I? Had what I needed. Did you want something from there?”
Margaret turned toward the stove. Either he lied flawlessly—or Albert was wrong. But the photo…
“James, did you see Albert today?”
“Our neighbor? Briefly, in the lift this morning. Odd fellow—kept asking where I was going, why. Like a detective.” James narrowed his eyes. “What’s he told you?”
“Nothing important. Just making small talk.”
That night, sleep eluded Margaret. She tossed, listening to James’s steady breathing. Forty-three years sharing a bed—now doubt slithered in. Another woman? At their age?
The next morning, James set off for the allotment as always. He kissed her goodbye, took his thermos and lunch.
“Back by supper,” he said. “Might swing by the fishmonger if they’ve anything good.”
Margaret watched him leave. Within half an hour, the doorbell rang. Albert stood there triumphant.
“Margaret, may I come in? News.”
She sighed. “Come in.”
Albert settled at the kitchen table, clearing his throat dramatically.
“Right. About that woman—I’ve learned her name. Lydia Moore. Works at St. Mary’s GP surgery, a nurse. Widowed three years back. Lives alone, kids up north.” He paused, savoring the moment. “She and your James have known each other six months. Met in the waiting room.”
“How do you know all this?” Margaret whispered.
“My wife’s cousin works reception there. Says they’re always together—cafeteria, benches outside, chatting. And”—Albert leaned in—”your husband sees the cardiologist every week. Did you know?”
Margaret paled. James had never mentioned heart trouble. Always claimed he was fit as a fiddle.
“I didn’t,” she admitted.
“See? Hiding it. Why hide honesty?” Albert nodded smugly. “I’d follow him. See where he *really* goes.”
“I can’t spy on my own husband!”
“It’s your *right* to know! Fine—your choice.” He stood. “Just doing my neighborly duty.”
After he left, Margaret slumped at the table and wept. Forty-three years of trust—now shattered.
James returned that evening with fresh haddock. As he cleaned them, he chatted about fishing, the weather—ordinary, familiar. Could he really deceive her?
“James,” she ventured. “Have you been to the doctor lately?”
He stilled. “Why?”
“We’re not young. Need to look after ourselves.”
“I’m fit as ever. Why would I need a doctor?” His shoulders tensed.
“If something *were* wrong, you’d tell me?”
“Course I would.” He eyed her. “Has someone said otherwise?”
“Nobody. Just worry.”
The next day, James left for the allotment. Half an hour later, Margaret followed. She felt absurd—a character in a cheap mystery.
James appeared near St. Mary’s at eleven. He ducked into Boots, then the surgery. A stout woman in a nurse’s uniform greeted him. They spoke briefly before heading inside.
Margaret’s pulse roared. Albert hadn’t lied.
An hour later, James reappeared with the nurse. They conferred by the entrance; she jotted notes, handed him a slip. He pocketed it, shook her hand, and left.
Margaret approached the security guard. “That nurse—is she Lydia Moore?”
“Aye, tends to Dr. Harris in cardiology. Fancy an appointment?”
Margaret walked home dazed. So he *was* ill. Why hide it?
At home, she paced. When James returned, she studied his worn face.
“How was the allotment?”
“Fine. Weeds are vicious.”
She inhaled. “Albert said he saw you in town. Near the surgery.”
James set down his fork. “Did he?”
“James—what’s *wrong* with you?”
“Nothing,” he lied. Then, quietly: “My heart. Three months ago, at the allotment—thought it was the end. Saw the doctor—he said it’s bad. Might need surgery.”
“*Why didn’t you tell me?*”
“Didn’t want you worried.”
Margaret clutched his hand. “You old fool! We’re in this together!”
James sighed. “Lydia—she’s just the nurse. Explains the meds, the diet.”
“Albert insisted it was an affair.”
James snorted. “Lydia? She’s near sixty! Just does her job.”
Later, Albert returned, eager. “Well? Any revelations?”
“Yes. James *has* been seeing that woman—his *nurse*. He’s got heart trouble.”
Albert deflated. “Oh.”
“Next time, get your facts straight before stirring trouble.”
Albert slunk away.
That evening, Margaret and James laughed over supper. “Imagine—me, a spy!” she said.
James grinned. “And me, a lothario!”
Trust, she realized, was fragile—easily shattered by idle gossip. But it was also strong enough to outlast nosy neighbors and foolish secrets.
Albert kept his distance after that. James improved—no surgery needed. Lydia remained their occasional advisor.
And Margaret learned: just because someone knows too much doesn’t mean they understand a thing.
