Dont you dare touch my glasses! shouted the former friend, her voice echoing across the garden fence. Youd better mind your own eyes! Dont think I cant see whose direction you keep staring in!
So, youre jealous, are you? Tamara gasped with clear surprise, her English accent crisp as autumn air. Goodness me, whose lips are you pining for then? I know exactly what youre getting for Christmasa lip-zipping contraption!
Well, keep it for yourself! retorted Lydia, not about to be outdone. Or is it just that no contraption stands a chance with your lips these days? Think I havent noticed?
Tamara dangled her feet off the edge of her old mahogany bed and shuffled towards the mantelpiece, where her mothers silver-framed portraits still stood. There, she bowed her head and mumbled a morning prayer.
Truthfully, she wasnt especially devoutshe figured there was something or someone up there, running the show. The mystery was always who. Up in the English heavens, was it the universe, fateor the classic picture-book God with a beard and kind smile, peering down from a cloud over the rolling green countryside?
Tamara was well into her sixties, inching towards seventy now. At that age, she thought, best not pick quarrels with the Almighty. If He did exist, wouldnt be wise to risk it; and if He didntwell, what had she lost by being polite?
When her little ritual was done, Tamara added a few words of her ownfor luck, as always. Her heart lightened, she could face another eloquently troublesome English morning.
In Tamara Thompsons life, there were two persistent woes. And no, not the usual clichestraffic and taxesthat was old hat! Her true troubles were her next-door neighbour Lydia and, of course, her own grandchildren.
The grandchildren were simple enough: a new generation that didnt want to lift a finger. But at least their parents could square them awayit wasnt Tamaras headache.
But Lydia was another matter entirelya neighbour with a knack for stirring up a classic English row.
You see, in films, a spat between two legendary English actresses might come off as charming or even heartwarming, but real life was never quite so endearing. Especially when the barbs were undeserved.
Tamara did have an ally, though, in old Peter Goodwinknown in the village as Pete the Biker. His given name was Peter Eustace Goodwin, but nobody called him that.
His nickname was obvious: in his youth, Pete the Biker had adored roaring about on his old scooter, the pride of the village roads. Even now, the rusty skeleton of that scooter lay in his shed, gathering dust as his moniker stuck.
Once, the Thompsons and Goodwins had been inseparablethe husbands, the wives, all thick as thieves. Now, only Tamara and Pete remained; their other halves had long since found their resting place under St Marys yew trees.
Yet Tamara kept up the friendship. Shed known Pete since grammar school and valued his loyal friendship. In their school days, it was always the three of them: Tamara, Pete, and Lydiaback then, wholly innocent camaraderie.
Theyd strut about the high street, Pete in the centre, his two girlfriends linked on either sidea living teacup with two fine handles. Just the thing to keep from slipping.
As time passed, things changed. Their friendship faltered, and Lydias cordiality wilted into outright contemptthen, eventually, bitterness.
It was as if someone had swapped her for a crankier model. The change occurred after Lydias husband passed; before that, things had been relatively civil.
People change over time. The generous become miserly; chatterboxes, insufferable; and the jealous, well, the jealousy gnaws at them like woodworm in a chair leg.
Perhaps Lydia had grown jealous too. Tamara, after all, remained trim and spry for her age, while Lydia herself had turned plump and red-cheekedher waist long lost to the pies. She faded in comparison to her neighbour.
Worse, Pete showed Tamara more attention these daysshared jokes, laughter, even the odd secretwhilst with Lydia, things were cold and clipped.
He even stopped by Tamaras cottage more often. Lydia, meanwhile, would try in vain to lure him over with homemade lemon drizzle.
Maybe, Lydia thought, Tamara was cleverer. Certainly, her sense of humour was keener, and Pete never passed up a good laugh.
These days, Lydia would start up any old argument for the sake of it, latching onto the slightest pretext.
First, she harped on about Tamara’s outside loostanding in the same spot for decadesthat, suddenly, was an affront to her nose.
Your old loo stinks to high heaven! moaned Lydia.
Well, thats rich! scoffed Tamara. Its been there since the Queens Silver Jubileeyou only just noticed? And, with a mischievous glint, she added, Oh, and those sparkly new NHS spectaclesnothing good ever comes for free, you know!
Dont you dare mention my glasses! hollered Lydia. Just focus on yourself, Tamara. You think I dont notice which way your eyes dart?
So you ARE jealous! Tamara smirked, her voice a little sharper now. Tell you what, Lydia, Santas bringing you a magic zipper for your lips this year!
Maybe youll keep it! Lydia shot back. Face it! No gadget on earth can clamp that gob of yours shut. I see everything, Tamara!
She did indeed seetime and again. Pete, when told of the kerfuffle, suggested Tamara bring the outside loo indoors at last.
Her grown-up children pooled some pounds together so their mum could have a proper bathroom inside. Pete Goodwin himself filled in the old pit at the bottom of the garden.
Game, set, matchLydia would have to find something else to whinge about.
Of course, she did. Next, her complaint was that Tamaras grandchildren had plucked pears from Lydias treewhose branches, admittedly, hung far across Tamaras own plot.
They just thought it was ours! Tamara tried to explain, though, by her reckoning, the pears hadnt been touchedstill dangling by the dozen. Anyway, your hens have a fine old time scratching in my carrots!
Chickens cant help it, can they? Lydia barked, raising her tone. But childrenthey need discipline, not just giggles with the village romeo!
And so, the wheel turneda new day, a new squabble, always circling back to Pete.
The grandchildren were duly told off, and the pears soon went out of seasonproblem solved. But nonow Lydia claimed someone had snapped her apple branches.
Show me, then! Tamara pleaded. There was nothing there, not a twig out of place.
There, see?! Lydia jabbed at the air with her gnarled finger, while Tamaras own long, graceful hands looked all the more elegant in contrast.
A womans hands, Tamara thought, are her calling cardvillage or not! Image matters.
Pete the Biker had a solution: Chop them off, Tamara! Theyre growing on your side. Your garden, your rules!
But shell only shout more! Tamara worried.
Ill back you up, grinned Pete, twinkle in his eye. She wont dare.
And so, with Petes whirring saw for company, Tamara trimmed off Lydias encroaching branchesand Lydia said nothing at all, just watched from her window, lips pursed.
But then Tamaras patience wore thinthis time, it was Lydias flock of new hens whom shed let loose on Tamaras vegetable patch.
This new breed were far more disobedient, scratching up peas and lettuce like a plague.
Tamara asked her neighbour to keep them in check, but Lydia only sneered as if to say, What are you going to do about it?
There was always the temptation to nab a hen or two and cook up a roast for tea, but Tamara couldnt quite muster the cruelty.
It was Pete who, resourceful as ever, suggested a trick from the internetscatter extra eggs among the veg at night, then casually collect them in Lydias full view the next morning.
A stroke of genius! Lydia stood dumbstruck as Tamara paraded her full basket indoors. The hens never ventured onto Tamaras side again.
Surely, thought Tamara, this was peace at last. Lydia, lets just patch things uptheres nothing left to argue about, is there?
No luck. Now, Lydia complained about smoke and the tempting aroma wafting from Tamaras summer kitchenher stews and Sunday roasts offending Lydias nose.
Yesterday, it wasnt a problem. Today, its the end of the world! Perhaps I can complain about your roast chicken, Lydia? I hear theres a new council regulation about barbecues!
Wheres your barbecue? Tamara retorted. Do clean your spectacles once in a while, darling!
Even Tamaras famous English patience ran dry. Lydia was simply incorrigiblea marvellous word for hopelessly stubborn.
Maybe shell end up as a science experiment? sighed Tamara to Pete, as they shared a cuppa. Shed eat me alive if she could.
The constant strain was taking its toll; Tamara looked thinner, shadows under her eyes.
Shed choke on you! Pete promised. And Ive got a better idea than that.
A few mornings later, Tamara woke to the wailing of an old scooter horn and a cheery tune: Tammy, darling, come on outside!
There stood Pete, grinning fit to burst, astride his now-repaired mopedthe return of Pete the Biker!
You know why I was so glum, Tamara? he announced. Because my wheels had given out! Come on, love, hop onlets relive the old days!
With a childlike giggle, Tamara climbed onto the moped behind her old friendafter all, the Prime Minister had said sixty-five was the new fifty-five!
And off they zipped, two English pensioners racing into a new chapter.
Not long after, Tamara became Mrs GoodwinPete finally proposed, and she moved in with him, her heart a puzzle at last complete.
Lydia remained, unloved, unvisited, and perpetually soura perfect recipe for a fresh dose of jealousy. With no one left to argue with, her spite festered within.
So, beware, Tamarabetter not venture out, just in case! For what is village life, if not a songfull of sharp notes and comic turns?
And to think, all that fuss over the loo!
