Oi, dont you dare touch my glasses, you hear me? bellowed my ex-mate Margaret from the other side of the garden fence. Keep an eye on your own spectacles! Think I dont notice whose trousers youre ogling?
I was honestly taken aback. So, youre jealous, eh? I shot back. Now I see whos caught your fancy! I know what Im getting you for Christmasone of those lip-rolling machines! Your mouths been hanging open so long it might come in handy.
Oh, youd be better off keeping it yourself! Margaret retorted, not missing a beat. Or is it that not even a machine can roll that gob of yours in anymore? Think I dont spot your little games?
With that, I swung my legs off my tired old bed and made my way over to the cabinet, where I kept a tiny shrine of family photos and trinkets, and quietly mumbled my morning prayer.
Now, dont get the wrong ideaIm not exactly the churchy type. I believe theres something out there, sure. Someone or somethings got to keep this lot going, right? Whether you call it the universe, the spirit in the sky, or dear old Godpicture him as a sort of kindly bearded gent on a cloud, minding everyones business downstairs.
And anyway, at my ageseventys creeping up faster than the gas billyou dont want to risk falling out with the Almighty. After all, if hes not out there, no harm done. And if he is, better safe than sorry!
Once the daily ritual was done, I always felt a bit lighter in my chestready to face whatever nonsense the day would throw.
See, I had two real headaches in my life. And no, not taxes and traffic, like in the old jokes (far too tired, that one!). My troubles were Margaret next door and my grandkids.
At least with the grandkids, you know where you stand. Modern kids, want for nothing, do absolutely nothing. But hey, theyve got their mum and dad to keep them out of troublethats not my circus.
But as for Margaretshes become a first-rate pain in the neck. Her theatrics would leave even Dame Maggie Smith impressed! Thing is, itd be amusing if it werent so flipping relentless.
Back in the day, me and PetePeter Goodman, nicknamed Pete the Scooterwere mates, and Margaret was too. Pete earned the Scooter bit from his teenage years tearing up the village roads on one; roaring round as though he were Evel Knievel, only with a dodgier helmet and less speed.
Our families were close. Pete and his wife Janet, me and my late husband. Our better halves have long since checked into the village churchyard. But me and Peteold pals from primary schoolcarried on our friendship. Good bloke, Pete.
The three of usme, Pete, and Margaretused to be inseparable. There was nothing funny about it, just good honest friendship, although passersby loved the sight of us: Pete strolling down the middle with a woman on each arm, like the old two-handled mugs so beloved by pensionerssafe in case you drop one!
Of course, things change as you get older. Soon enough, Margarets friendliness dried up and turned to biteat first, just mild scorn, then outright nastiness.
It got worse after she lost her husband. I suppose everyone changesthrifty folk grow miserly, chatterboxes go to drivel, and envy turns people bitter.
Margaret had it bad. For starters, I was still trim despite the years, whereas shed slowly rounded out to a proper dumpling. And she knew it, standing beside me, hands on hips, glaring like she was Queen Victoria herself.
Then there was Pete, who more and more would come by for a cuppa and a laugh. Not with Margaret, mind. With me. Shed have to practically drag him to her place with the promise of home-baked scones (which, honestly, even the sparrows leave behind).
These days, Margaret had turned into a world-class nag. First, it was my loo, supposedly stinking up the placethough itd been in the same spot since before council cuts.
Well, I never! I told her, And this is only just now a problem? And just to get my own back, I jabbed, Oh, and those prescription specsbet you only got them because they were free on the NHS! You cant get anything decent for nothing!
Margaret was off again, Dont have a go at my glasses! Mind your own sight, miss I-see-everything!
To which I quipped, Its jealousy, Marg, plain and simple. Darling, youd best rein in those lips or youll trip over them. Santas bringing you that machine!
Oh, keep ityou need it more. Or have you run out of tricks?
Id like to say that was a one-off spat, but alas, no. Pete, listening to all this, told me to just get the loo indoors for a change.
My son and daughter clubbed together and paid for a decent inside toilet, and Pete himself filled in the old pit out back. Sortedone less thing for Margaret to winge about.
Only now, she was shrieking about the grandchildren nabbing pears off her tree. Never mind that the branches grew right over my garden boundary! I tried to explain, Marg, love, the boys just thought the fruit was ours! (Nothing had been picked, mind you.)
And if her chickens started scratching away at my carrots? Chickens are simple creatures! Margaret snapped. Boys need raising proper, not giggling around with pensioners all day!
And so it went, back and forth. I gave the grandkids what for, and anyway, the pear season passed. But then, Margaret swore someoned snapped her trees branchesthough there wasnt so much as a twig out of place.
Here, show me! I said, inspecting for breaks that didnt exist. Margaret just wagged her gnarled finger at nothing, all the while enviously eyeing my handsmy fingers, even in old age, still slim and neat.
Thats when Pete suggested, Why not prune em? Theyre on your side! Your garden, your rules!
But shell scream the village down! I whispered.
Not if Im there! Whats she going to do? Ill back you up! Pete assured me.
Sure enough, Margaret watched from behind her curtains as Pete sawed awayand for once, didnt make a peep.
But then my patience ran thin with her new breed of fancy chickens scratching up all my neat seedbeds. When I asked Margaret to keep them in her garden, she just smirked as if to say, Go on then, what are you going to do?
There was the temptation to nab one for Sunday dinner, but Im far too soft-hearted for that. Pete, ever the problem-solver, had a better idea: Lets lay eggs amongst your seedlings overnightshell see you collecting a proper clutch in the morning and wonder what sort of magic your soils got!
It worked! Margaret gawked as I strolled back indoors, arms full of eggs. After that, her hens never set foot in my patch again.
Youd think thatd call for a truce? Fraid not. Next it was the dreadful smoke wafting over from my shed, where Id cook until the first autumn frosts. Suddenly, she was claiming it offended her, even though shed been making bacon butties herself the week before.
My patience finally snapped. Maybe you need new glasses, Margaretcant even see your own barbecue! By then, shed really worked herself up to legendary status.
Sitting with Pete one afternoon, nursing cups of milky tea, I sighed, Shell be the death of me, that one. Shed eat me alive if she could!
Nah, Pete grinned, shed choke! But listen, Ive got a plan.
A couple of days later, just as the sun began to poke through the mist, Pete came puttering up on his old, newly-mended scooter, grinning from ear to ear and calling out, Emma, love, come out! I finally fixed the scooterlets relive our youth!
And you know what, I did. Because, lets face it, nowadays pensioners are active seniorsold age has been officially cancelled. Off we went, me and Pete, looking every bit the part, wind in our hair, riding into a brand-new chapter.
Not long after, Pete Goodman asked me to be his missus for real, and I moved in with him. So, I guess you could say I became Emma Goodman in all senses!
As for Margaret? Well, shes still there: cross, alone, and round as a plum pudding. If thats not something to be envious about, what is?
But now, with no one left to argue with, all that bitterness just sits inside her. And everyone knows, if you cant let it out, itll gnaw at you.
So, wish me luck, mate. And if you ever think village life is dullwell, buckle up! Honestly, all that fuss about the toilet was for nothingAnd every so often, when Pete and I cruise past Margarets place, her face pressed flat against the glass, I give her my brightest, most mischievous wave. Sometimes she half-raises her handhabit, maybe, or just to show shed heard my engineand for a split second, I see the old sparkle that was there before all the squabbles and sour looks.
Lifes funny. You spend years crossing swords with someone, thinking thats what keeps your blood moving, when all along, happiness was revving outside your gate, waiting for you to jump on.
So here I am, still cheeky, still nimble, wind tangled in my hair and laughter tangled in my heart. Turns out happiness isnt about who wins the battle of wits over the fenceits about who remembers to laugh loudest, love longest, and live like theres always another pear tree to pinch fruit from.
And if I ever start tutting too much or eyeing up someones trousers, wellat least now, Ill have Pete to nudge me, and the whole road ahead to ride, two wrinkled fools braving the world together. As for Margaret, maybe one day shell forgive the pears, the hens, and even my big gobbut if not, thats her story to tell.
Mines just beginning again, and I wouldnt swap it for all the eggs in Manchester.
So heres to second chapters and stubborn neighbours, to scooters and silliness, and to loving wellwhether youre seventy or seventeen.
After all, isnt that what keeps us young?
