My Cheeky Allotment Neighbour Thought My Veggies Were Up for Grabs—But I Taught Her a Lesson She Won’t Forget

Author Walton MerrittReading 14 minViews 1

Oh come on now, love, dont be like thatwhats a couple of cucumbers between neighbours, eh? Yours will only end up going to seed, turning yellow, and then wheres the good in that? My grandchildren are visiting, and they need their vitamins. Dont be so stingy, were all friends herejust look, were right over the same fence!

Barbara leaned over the droopy wire mesh dividing our gardens, her round face set in a syrupy smile. One hand gripped an enamel bowl, already half-brimming with my strawberries, and with the other, she was helping herself to a sprig of blackcurrants from right under my nose.

I, meanwhile, was kneeling grimly amidst the carrots, wrestling with microscopic weeds, and just managed to straighten up. My back creaked like an old barn door. Wiping the sweat from my brow with my dirt-blackened hand, I gave Barbara a look heavy enough to flatten a potato. This were all neighbours here refrain, Id been hearing for three yearsever since my husband and I bought this ramshackle plot and turned it from a wilderness of nettles into a poster-child for the local horticultural society.

Barbara, I said, calm but firm, youve got strawberries too. Ive seen them. Why not pick your own?

Oh, those? Barbara waved a plump hand dismissively, utterly unashamed. Tiny things, tart as anything, and the birds have had most already. I just havent got your knack for all these feeds and fertilisers and what have you. Mines all natural, how Mother Earth intended. But youyours are enormous! Be a shame to let all that go to waste, especially since its just you and Peterhow could you possibly eat the lot? Youll burst!

I took a very deep breath. Barbaras logic was more impenetrable than a stone wall. She genuinely believed that anyone with a surplus was under a sacred obligation to share with the, lets call them, lazier among us. Never mind that her own garden was a right sorry state: gnarled apple trees, moss wolves the only thing thriving, beds barely seen a spade, and dandelions colonising the neighbourhood every spring. Barbara only came to her allotment to relax her soul as she put it: lying in her hammock, burning supermarket sausages over a couple of bricks, and blasting Classic Gold from a tinny portable radio.

I, on the other hand, am a gardening obsessive. I know every plant by name, order rare tomatoes online, get up at five to open the greenhouse, and water up until the stars are out. Every tomato, each cucumber is the child of my aching back and sleepless nights, my crusade against spring frost.

Barbara, put the bowl down, I said. Those strawberries are for my jam. I need every last one.

Oh really! she gasped, rolling her eyes theatricallly. Stingy old goat. You wont miss a handful. I only wanted the children to have a treat. Youre not going to snatch food from their mouths, are you?

And with that, before I could get to the fence, she stuffed a gigantic berry into her mouth, chewed times ten, and wafted smugly homeloot and all.

I just stood in the carrot patch, simmering with resentment. My husband, Peter, strolled up clutching a plane from the shed. Hed seen it all, but he shied from getting involved in womens squabbles.

Barbara at it again? he asked, smirking.

She certainly is, like a goat in someone elses patch. And its getting ridiculous, Pete. Last week she made off with the courgettes while we were in the shops. Claimed she thought wed forgotten themtheyd gone too big. Now shes just ripping the strawberries right in front of me.

Put up a solid fence then, Peter suggested. One of those metal jobbies. Six feet high, end of.

Cant, I sighed. Allotment rulesnothing but mesh or a picket, no solid fences. Has to let light through. Plus, after the new greenhouse, we dont have the cash for a big fence right now.

It only got worse as summer sweltered on. The tomatoes were blushing in bunches, cucumbers swelling green and crisp, peppers oozing with juiceand with each bumper crop, Barbara was appearing at the fence more and more.

One Saturday, Barbara hosted a gatheringpractically a music festival, if one likes warm lager and loud arguments. As dusk fell, she tottered to the fence, already somewhere south of sober.

Susan! she hollered (thats me), Be a dear, will you? Were out of nibbles. Could you spare a few of those lovely Beefheart tomatoes, maybe a bunch of herbs? Too far to the Tesco, and you know how guests are!

I straightened up, hose still in hand, watering the roses.

Barbara, my tomatoes arent ripe yet. And what is, I promised to my daughter tomorrow.

Oh stop exaggerating! Barbara yodelled, breath as boozy as a brewery. There they are, red as traffic lights. Surely you dont begrudge a few to your lovely neighbour? Ill buy you a bar of chocolate later.

No, I said, steely now. Absolutely not.

Barbaras smile turned to a snarl.

Well, fine, you keep your precious produce. May your tomatoes all burst on the vine! Call yourself a neighbour would squeeze a penny til it shrieked, the lot of you. Ugh!

She stalked off in a strop. That evening, her garden was alight with laughter and poison-tongued jokes. I heard the odd snippet: Londoners, the lot, clutch every penny Whod want her chemical-laden veg anyway My blood boiled, but I shut myself indoors and drowned out the racket with the telly.

Next morning, I stepped out and froze. The greenhouse door stood ajar. Heart pounding, I sprinted to the veg beds.

Yup. The bottom trusses of the heftiest tomatoes had been wrenched off. Some branches snapped, underripe fruit scattered in the dirt, and the coriander patch had a massive bald spot where dill and parsley had been snatched roots and all.

This wasnt just theft. It was a slap in the face.

Pete! I called, my voice wobbling.

He appeared, took one look, and scowled.

This is criminal, Sus. This is theft.

Oh Pete, whats the use? No proof, no cameras. Shell deny it, say were framing her. You know what Barbaras likeshed argue the grass was blue if it meant winning.

I peered over the fence. All quiet next doorthe house of hangovers. On her veranda, among the beer cans, sat a bowl of saladmy salad. Chunky slabs of my Beefheart tomato; my curly parsley unmistakeable.

Right then, I declared, steel in my voice, enough. I tried the nice way. Now, Ill try the clever way.

Peter eyeballed me. Nothing illegal, please Im not getting the law involved over a bucket of veg.

Not illegal. Just psychological. And a spot of chemistry.

By noon, Id dashed off to the big garden centre and returned with a yellow hazard suit, a respirator, a sprayer, a stash of blue food dye, and the cheapest, stinkiest liquid soap they sold.

That evening, as Barbara and her woozy friends slumped tea-guzzling in the sun, Operation Deterrent swung into action.

I donned the hazard suit, goggles, mask, and giant rubber gloves. Peter, for backup, put on his old fishermans coat and a surgical mask. The performance began.

Mixing up a bucket of blue-dyed, stinky soapy water, I made a spectacle, pouring it all into the sprayer. The smell was chemical warfare. The vivid blue goop coated the fruit and leaves like something from a sci-fi film.

Peter, stay back! I bellowed deliberately. This stuff is seriously potent! The label says full protection at all times!

I showered the veg liberally with my blue concoction. The effect was apocalypticeverything looked as though it had been struck by gamma rays.

Barbara was not slow to investigate.

Susan! What in heavens name are you doing? Smells like a sewage leak! Is there a fire? Has something infested your veg?

I paused, faced her (still masked for full effect), and called out, Worse, Barbara! I found a new virusmutating fungus. They say it can rot your entire crop overnight, only this experimental product can stop it. Thing ismassively poisonous. Birds, bugs, even peopledeadly if eaten before three weeks pass. Liver explodes, they say. Of course, after 21 days it all breaks down safely. But you wouldnt want to risk it.

Three weeks? Er and what if you just touch it?

Well, if you wash your hands immediately with acid or pure spirits you might escape. But if it gets in your mouth lordy, dont even think about it. Im burning this suit after Im done.

Barbara lingered, processing, then shuffled backwards to her house.

Oi! Dont finish the salad, you lot! Might taste off. Dont say I didnt warn you if anyones ill! she yelled.

Behind my mask, I grinned. Phase One: success.

For a week, Barbara scuttled nowhere near the fence, eyeing my blue tomatoes as if they were loaded with anthrax. Whenever her grandchildren drifted near, she shrieked, Get away from the border! Its poisonous! Breath it in and youll drop dead!

I busied myself quietly, and Peter and I laughed as we hosed the dye off the cucumbers by night and munched them at the dinner table, crunchy as ever. The blue tomatoes stayed blue, warding off foxes, birds, and Barb alike.

But old habits die hard. A week on, Barbaras curiosity began to perk up.

Susan! she called, hands on hips. Why are you eating your own cucumbers? You said three weeks! Or are you immune to your own chemicals?

I, lounging on the deck with coffee and a cucumber, didnt bat an eyelid.

These are from the shop, Barb. My own are still too riskysee how blue they are? These are Dutch, grown on glasswool, tasteless but safe.

Barbara grunted suspiciously and retreated, muttering something uncharitable about chemical nutcases.

Still, she kept her distance.

August came and harvest beckoned. By now the dye had mostly washed off the tomatoes, leaving only a faint blue blush around the stalk.

Barbara, it seemed, decided the coast was clear, or perhaps temptation finally overwhelmed her.

I had errands in town and locked up the garden tight. Before I went, I hung a freshly laminated sign on the fence, right by Barbaras patch:

NOTICE: CCTV IN OPERATION. Plot treated with third category agri-chemicals. Consuming produce without proper neutralisation leads to severe, irreversible digestive issues. The Allotment Committee has been notified. Trespassers will be reported to the police.

Of course, the camera part was an utter fib. But the bit about the committee and the chemicals gave it all the Oomph of officialdom.

When I returned two days later, I found a scene to behold. Barbara, red-faced and shrill, was showing the sign to Mr. Jenkins, our long-suffering allotment chairman.

Mr. Jenkins, would you look at this! Shes poisoning us! Chemicals everywhere! My grandson had tummy ache yesterday! Ban her, I say! Shes probably spying on me for Big Farm!

Mr. Jenkins, beset with hay fever and neighbour aggravation, looked over his glasses as I rolled up.

Morning, Susan. Theres been a concern about chemical use and, er, security cameras.

I greeted him. No illegal chemicals here, Mr. Jenkins. The signs just for would-be thieves. Seems there are two-legged pests on the plots lately. As for Barbaras familywell, if folk would keep to their own patch, theyd have no tummy trouble.

Me? Ive never! sputtered Barbara. Prove it! If you didnt catch me in the act, youve got nothing!

Oh, Ive got footage, I lied smoothly, staring her down. Swapped the dummy cameras for the real thing before I left. Motion-activated, too. Want to see the tape right now, Barbara dear, with Mr Jenkins as witness? You, over the fence Tuesday? Your guests pinching my dill on Saturday? I was just about to file a report downtown.

Complete bluff, but Barbaras face went polka-dot red. She had no clue if or when the cameras arrived, and a public shaming or a fine was more than even her cheek could risk.

Keep your nitro-veg! she shouted. Ill show youIll grow my own, and see if I care!

She marched off home, door slamming like a judges gavel.

Mr. Jenkins studied me, then the sign, then the blue-tinged tomatoes. His lips twitched.

Really that deadly, Susan?

Food dye and soap, Mr. Jenkins. Works on greenfly. Works even better on covetous neighbours.

He grinned. Ill allow it then. Good deterrent.

From then on, Barbara and I entered a state of dignified Cold War. She blanked me in the lane, regaling all and sundry that her neighbour was a witch and poisoner; I didnt contradict her, happy enough for my harvest to remain unmolested.

But then, the miracle. The next spring, when I came back for planting, I found Barbara hard at work on her own patchspade in hand, cursing, but actually digging her own beds. Not well, but persisting. At her side: trays of sorry-looking seedlings, clearly rescued last-minute from a sale.

I wandered over.

Barbara, dig too deep there and youll hit claymight want to work in a bit of sand.

I dont need advice! she snapped, then relented slightly. But this year itll be all mine. Natural. No chemicals. No funny business.

Too right, I laughed. Nothing tastes as sweet as what youve grown yourself.

By midsummer, Barbaras garden could claim wonky cucumbers and stunted tomatoes, but the pride with which she paced her patch would shame a Chelsea gold medallist. Strikingly, she never once peered over my fence or pinched so much as a chive. When you sweat for a crop yourself, you suddenly see the value in every leaf.

One evening, I spied Barbara shooing off some local boys chasing their football onto her patch.

Oi! Off you go! This isnt a football field, you knowits my veg! Blood, sweat, and tears, this is!

Peter and I exchanged a look over the barbecue and burst out laughing.

See, Pete, I said. And you said it should have been a fence. A little honest toil does wonders for neighbourly respect.

That autumn, Barbara herself wandered to the mesh fence, clutching a jar of cloudy brine with three lumpy cucumbers floating inside.

Here, she grunted, proffering her handiwork. Try them. Home-grown. Followed your recipe from that gardening magazine.

I accepted the jar as if it were a Fabergé egg.

Thanks, Barbara. Well enjoy them. And Ill save you some proper seeds for next yearthe Beefheart ones.

She hesitated, then shrugged, not quite hiding her smile. Only if you dont mind.

Dont mind at all, I replied. For anyone who puts in the graft, Im always happy to share.

We stood in companionable silence, looking out over the droopy, golden gardensmy chemical warning sign long vanished with the rain, but a new respect hung invisibly between our plots, stronger than any fence.

That year, I canned more tomatoes than ever. Not a single one pinched.

If you enjoyed the story, give us a follow and a like. Tell me belowhow do you fend off cheeky neighbours at your allotment?

I Know Best – What on earth is going on? – Dimitri wearily crouched before his daughter, inspecting the rosy patches on her cheeks. – Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and oddly grown-up, already used to these check-ups, her parents’ worried faces, endless ointments and pills. Maria approached and sat beside her husband, gently tucking a strand of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. At all. May as well be giving her water. And the doctors at the clinic… they aren’t doctors, more like who knows what. This is the third new treatment, and it’s made no difference. Dimitri stood and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Outside, the world was grey—the day promised to be as dull as all the others before it. They hurriedly packed up—Sophie bundled in her warm coat—and half an hour later, they were seated in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on so many medicines. It’s such a strain on her body, – she perched Sophie on her knee, and the little girl nestled close—familiar comfort. – It’s heartbreaking. – We wish we didn’t have to give them, – Maria sat at the edge of the sofa, fingers intertwined. – But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve eliminated everything—absolutely everything. She only eats the most basic foods, and still, the rash persists. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. We do tests, take samples, and the result… – Maria waved a hand – this result, here, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and smoothed Sophie’s collar. – Hopefully she’ll outgrow it. Kids sometimes do. But for now, no comfort. Dimitri gazed at his daughter. Small and thin. Big, thoughtful eyes. He stroked her hair, and memories flickered—snatching pastries from the kitchen as a child, begging for sweets, eating his mum’s jam straight from the jar… But his daughter? Boiled veg. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no treats, no proper children’s food. Four years old, on a diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else there is to cut, – he spoke quietly. – Her diet’s nearly nothing as it is. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the backseat; Dimitri checked her in the mirror every so often. At least she wasn’t scratching. – Mum called, – Maria spoke up. – She wants Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. – Theatre? – Dimitri changed gear. – That’ll be nice. Good distraction. – I thought so too. She could use it. …On Saturday, Dimitri parked outside his mother-in-law’s and carried Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes—woken too early. He picked her up, and she snuggled into his neck, warm and weightless as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor appeared on the porch, arms thrown wide as if welcoming a shipwreck survivor. – Oh, my dear, my little ray of sunshine, – she scooped up Sophie, hugging her close to her vast chest. – So pale, so thin. Her cheeks are hollow. You lot have worn her out with your diets, you’re ruining her. Dimitri thrust his hands in his pockets, holding back irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing it for her sake. There’s a reason, you know. – What sort of sake? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though—just returned from a prison camp. – Skin and bone. Some childhood—she should be growing, not starved. She carried Sophie inside, not looking back, leaving the door to click shut. Dimitri lingered at the gate, a sensation nagging at the edge of his mind, some half-formed hunch that vanished like mist. He rubbed his forehead, waited one more minute listening to the quiet of this foreign yard, then sighed and returned to the car. A weekend without their daughter—a strange, nearly-forgotten feeling. On Saturday, he and Maria trawled the supermarket aisles, piling up groceries for the week. At home, he spent three hours fixing the leaky bathroom tap. Maria emptied wardrobes and packed old things into bags for the tip. The usual chores, but the absence of Sophie’s voice made the flat feel wrong, too empty. In the evening, they ordered pizza—the mozzarella and basil kind, forbidden to Sophie. Opened a bottle of red, sat talking about nothing much—work, their postponed holiday plans, the never-ending renovations. – It’s nice, – Maria said, then paused, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Peaceful. – I know, – Dimitri covered her hand with his. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday, he went to pick up their daughter just before sunset. The garden glowed orange beneath old apple trees. Mrs Taylor’s place, in the evening light, seemed almost cosy. Dimitri stepped from the car, pushed open the gate—its hinges groaned—and stopped short. Sophie was sitting on the porch. Mrs Taylor beside her, radiating sheer happiness. In her hands was a pastry. Big, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was devouring it. Cheeks smeared, crumbs on her chin, eyes sparkling—happier than he’d seen in ages. For a moment, Dimitri simply stared. Then a surge of hot anger swept up from his chest. He strode forward, snatched the pastry away. – What’s this supposed to be?! Mrs Taylor jumped, shrank back, her face turning red from neck to hairline. She flailed her hands, desperate to wave away his fury. – It’s just a tiny piece! No harm done, honestly. Dimitri wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up—she went quiet, clutching his coat in fright—and headed for the car. Buckled her in, hands trembling with rage. Sophie gazed at him, lips quivering, about to cry. – It’s okay, darling, – he stroked her head, forcing his voice to sound calm. – Just wait here for Daddy, alright? He shut the door and marched back to the house. Mrs Taylor was rooted to the porch, fiddling with her dressing gown, blotchy and pale. – Dimi, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he stopped short, exploding. – Six months! Six months, and we couldn’t work out what was wrong with our daughter! Tests, allergy screenings—do you have any idea what it all cost us? The stress, sleepless nights?! Mrs Taylor edged back toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dimitri advanced. – She’s been on boiled chicken and water! We’ve cut out every single possible allergen! And you—you secretly feed her fried pastries? – I was building up her immunity, – Mrs Taylor suddenly bristled, chin raised. – A little at a time, to get her body used to it. One bit more and it would’ve cleared up, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing—I’ve raised three kids! Dimitri looked at her, unrecognising. This woman he’d endured for years, for his wife, for peace—she was poisoning his child. On purpose. Convinced she knew better than any doctor. – Three kids, – he repeated quietly. Mrs Taylor paled. – Doesn’t mean they’re all the same. Sophie isn’t your daughter—she’s mine. And you won’t see her again. – What?! – Mrs Taylor clutched the rail. – You have no right! – I do. He walked to the car, shouts erupting behind him. But Dimitri didn’t look back. Started the engine. In the rear-view, his mother-in-law’s frantic silhouette flared behind the gate as he pulled away. At home, Maria met them in the hallway. One look—his face, their tearful daughter—and she understood. – What happened? Dimitri explained. Briefly, coldly, all emotion spent outside. Maria listened, face hardening. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, he told me. How could you?! Dimitri got Sophie into the bath—to wash away the pastry and tears. In the next room, Maria’s voice—sharp, unfamiliar—rang out. She scolded her mother as he’d never heard before. Her words finished loud and clear: “Until we’ve sorted the allergy—no visits, Mum.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. Today, a sponge cake with cream and strawberries sat on the table. And Sophie was eating it herself, big spoon, getting cream everywhere. Her cheeks—perfectly clear. – Would you believe it, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. – Doctor said it happens to one in a thousand, – Maria spread butter on her bread. – The moment we cut it out and switched to olive oil—her rash vanished in two weeks. Dimitri couldn’t stop watching his daughter. Rosy cheeks, shining eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally able to eat real food—cakes, biscuits, everything made without sunflower oil. Turns out, that’s a lot. Relations with his mother-in-law stayed chilly. Mrs Taylor called, apologised, cried down the phone. Maria kept her replies short and brisk. Dimitri didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga moved the plate closer. – Go on, love. Eat as much as you like. Dimitri leaned back in his chair. Outside, rain fell; inside, warmth and the scent of baking. His daughter was better. Nothing else mattered.

— Whose little girl are you, love? ..— Come on, let me carry you home, you’ll warm up. I lifted her in my arms and brought her to my cottage. Before I knew it, the neighbours gathered round—news travels fast in an English village. — Good grief, Anna, where did you find her? — And what are you going to do with her? — Anna, have you lost your senses? What will you feed the child with? The floorboard creaked underfoot—reminding me yet again to fix it, though I never got round to it. I sat at my kitchen table and took out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch tapped the window, as if asking to come in. — What’s all the commotion, then? — I said to it. — Patience, spring will come soon enough. It’s funny to talk to trees, but when you live alone, the world around you feels alive. After those awful times I was left a widow—my dear Stephen lost to war. I still keep his last letter, creased and faded from countless readings. He promised he’d return soon, said he loved me, that we’d be happy… But a week later, I learned the truth. We never had children, perhaps just as well—there was nothing to feed them with back then. The village head, Nicholas Evans, always comforted me: — Don’t fret, Anna. You’re still young, you’ll marry again. — I won’t. — I replied firmly. — I loved once, that is enough. I worked at the farm from dawn till dusk. Foreman Peter would shout: — Anna Evans, off home with you! It’s late as it is! — I’ll manage, — I’d say. — As long as my hands still work, my spirit stays young. My little home was modest—a stubborn goat called Maggie, five hens to do a better job of waking me than any rooster. My neighbour Claudia would often joke: — Are you sure you’re not a turkey? Why do your hens always start up before everyone else’s? I kept my garden—potatoes, carrots, beetroot. Everything from the land itself. In autumn I’d preserve pickles, tomatoes, marinated mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar felt like bringing summer into the house. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was wet and cold. The drizzle lasted all morning, and by evening it froze. I went to the woods for firewood—needed fuel for the stove. After the storms, there was plenty of deadfall, just waiting to be gathered. Arms loaded, I headed home past the old bridge, when I heard someone crying. At first I thought it was the wind playing tricks. But no—it was a child, sobbing. I scrambled down beneath the bridge, and there she was—a little girl, muddy and soaked, dress torn, eyes full of fear. When she saw me she fell silent, shivering like a leaf. — Whose little girl are you? — I asked quietly, so as not to scare her more. She didn’t answer, just blinked at me, lips blue and hands swollen red from cold. — Frozen stiff, — I muttered. — Let’s get you home and warm you up. I scooped her up—lighter than a feather—wrapped her in my old scarf, held her close. And all the while, I wondered what kind of mother leaves a child under a bridge. I couldn’t fathom it. The wood I’d gathered was abandoned—it didn’t matter now. All the way home, the girl stayed silent, clutching my neck with her icy fingers. I carried her inside, and the neighbours were there in a flash—news spreads like wildfire in our village. Claudia was the first to burst in: — Oh heavens, Anna, where did you find her? — Under the bridge, — I replied. — Clearly abandoned. — Dear God… — Claudia gasped. — What are you going to do? — What else? She’ll stay with me. — Anna, have you gone mad? — Old Maude croaked. — How will you provide for a child? — Whatever God gives, I’ll make do, — I said. First thing, I stoked the stove and set water to heat. The girl was covered in bruises, skin-and-bones, her ribs sticking out. I bathed her in warm water, dressed her in my old jumper—no children’s clothes in my house. — Are you hungry? — I asked. She nodded shyly. I gave her leftover vegetable stew and thick slices of bread. She ate hungrily, yet her manners showed she wasn’t a stray, but rather raised in a home. — What’s your name? She stayed silent. Either afraid or unable to speak. I put her in my bed to sleep, curling up myself on the bench. I woke several times through the night to check on her. She slept, curled tight, whimpering in her dreams. At first light, I went to the parish hall—to report my find. The head, John Stephens, just spread his hands: — No word of any missing child. Maybe someone from the city left her… — What do we do now? — By law, she belongs in an orphanage. I’ll ring the council today. My heart ached: — Wait, John. Give me time—perhaps her parents will turn up. Meanwhile, let her stay here. — Anna Evans, think carefully… — There’s nothing more to think about. It’s decided. I named her Mary—after my mother. I hoped her real parents might turn up, but no one ever did. Perhaps that’s for the best—I grew to love her with all my heart. It was hard at first—she never spoke, only her eyes searching my home as if looking for something. She woke up screaming, trembling with fear. I held her close, stroked her head: — It’s alright, sweetheart. Everything will be alright now. I stitched clothes for her out of old dresses—dyed in all colours, blue, green, red. Not fancy, but cheerful. Claudia was amazed: — Anna, you’ve got golden hands! I thought you only knew how to handle a spade. — Life teaches you both sewing and mothering, — I replied, secretly glad for her praise. Not all in the village were understanding, especially old Maude—whenever she saw us, she’d cross herself: — No good can come of this, Anna. Bringing in a foundling—asking for trouble. No doubt her mother was bad—that’s why she abandoned the child. The apple never falls far from the tree… — Enough, Maude! — I snapped. — Other people’s sins aren’t for you to judge. That child is mine now, end of. Even the farm head frowned at first: — Think about it, Anna Evans, maybe she’d be better off in the orphanage? They’d feed and clothe her properly. — Who will love her, though? — I challenged. — There are enough orphans there already. He shrugged but soon helped—sometimes sent milk, sometimes grains. Bit by bit, Mary grew brighter. At first one word at a time, then sentences. I remember her first laugh—I was reaching up to hang curtains and toppled off my chair. Sitting there rubbing my back, she burst out laughing—clear and bright. My pain vanished instantly in her joy. She started helping in the garden. I’d give her a little hoe—she’d step beside me, copying everything, more stamping down weeds than pulling them. But I never scolded, just delighted to see her full of life. Then tragedy struck—Mary came down with a terrible fever. Burning up, raving. I ran to our local medic, Simon Peters: — For heaven’s sake, help! He only spread his hands: — Medicine? All I’ve got for the whole village are three aspirin. Wait—they may send more next week. — Next week? — I cried. — She might not last till morning! I ran to the town—nine miles of mud. Shoes ruined, feet sore, but I made it. The young doctor there, Michael Alexander, looked at me—filthy and soaked: — Wait here. He brought out medicine, explained how to use it: — No pay needed, — he said. — Just get the girl better. For three days I never left her bedside, mumbling prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, her fever broke and she quietly said: — Mum, I want water. Mum… She called me mum for the first time. I wept—joy, relief, everything at once. She wiped away my tears with her little hand: — Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt? — No, — I replied. — I’m just happy, sweetheart. After her illness, she was changed—loving, chatty. Soon she started school—the teacher couldn’t praise her enough: — Such a bright girl, picks up everything instantly! The villagers grew used to her; even old Maude thawed, dropping off pies for us. She grew fond of Mary after the child helped stoke her fire during a bitter cold snap. The old woman was laid up and hadn’t prepared wood. Mary volunteered: — Mum, let’s go to Maude’s? She must be so cold alone. They became friends—the old grump and my little girl. Maude shared stories, taught her knitting, never spoke again of foundlings or bad blood. Time passed. Mary was nine when she first mentioned the bridge. We sat together in the evening; I was darning socks, she rocking her homemade doll. — Mum, do you remember how you found me? My heart jumped, but I kept calm: — I remember, love. — I remember it a bit too. It was cold, and frightening. There was a woman crying, and then she left. My knitting needles fell from my hands. But she went on: — I don’t know her face, only her blue scarf. And she kept saying, “Forgive me, forgive me…” — Mary… — Don’t worry, Mum, it doesn’t upset me now. I just recall sometimes. And you know what? — she suddenly smiled. — I’m so glad you found me that day. I hugged her tight as my throat tightened. How often I’d wondered—who was that woman in the blue scarf? What drove her to leave her child under a bridge? Hunger, a drunken husband? So many things can happen in life. It’s not mine to judge. That night I lay awake, thinking how fate turns. Used to be, I felt cheated by life, condemned to loneliness. Yet it was all preparing me for the greatest task—to shelter and warm an abandoned child. From then on, Mary often asked about her past. I hid nothing, always trying to cushion the truth: — You know, child, people sometimes face choices with almost no way out. Maybe your mother suffered terribly deciding what she did. — Would you have ever done that? — she peered into my eyes. — Never, — I said firmly. — You are my joy, my blessing. Years flew by. Mary was top of her class, sometimes bursting home— — Mum, Mum! I read my poem in front of everyone today, and Miss Maria said I have a real gift! Her teacher, Maria Potter, often spoke to me: — Anna Evans, your girl must go on with her studies. Such a rare talent for words and language. You should see her work! — Where could she study? — I’d sigh. — We’ve no money… — I’ll help tutor for free; it would be a shame to waste such promise. So Maria tutored Mary—nights bent over books at our table. I’d bring them tea and homemade jam, listening as they discussed Shakespeare, Keats, Austen. My heart swelled—my girl soaked up everything. In her final year, Mary fell in love for the first time—with a new boy come to our village. She was heartbroken at times, scribbling poetry into a notebook she hid under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, though my heart ached for her—all first loves are bittersweet. After graduation, Mary sent off papers to teacher training college. I gave her everything I had and sold our cow—dear Daisy, I hated to part with her, but what else could I do? — No, Mum, — Mary protested. — How can you get by without the cow? — I’ll manage, love. There’s still potatoes, and hens laying. You need to study. When the acceptance letter came, the whole village celebrated. Even the farm head came to offer congratulations: — Well done, Anna! You raised a daughter and educated her. Now our village has its own scholar. I remember the day she left. We stood at the bus stop, waiting, arms around each other, tears streaming down her face. — I’ll write every week, Mum. And come home every break. — Of course, you will, — I said, heart breaking. The bus vanished over the hill, and I kept standing, unable to move. Claudia came and put her arm round me: — Come on, Anna, there’s plenty needing doing at home. — You know, Claudia, — I said, — I’m happy. Some have blood children, but mine was sent by God. She kept her promise—letters came often, each one a celebration. I read and reread them, knew every word by heart. She wrote of lectures, new friends, the city; between the lines, I read her longing for home. In her second year, she met her own James—a history student. She mentioned him in letters, shyly, but I sensed straight away—she was in love. That summer she brought him home, to meet me. He was serious and hard-working, helped me fix the roof and fence, made friends with neighbours. Evenings he sat on the porch, sharing stories from history that captivated us all. It was clear how deeply he cared for my Mary—never took his eyes off her. When she came for summer visits, everyone came to see what a beauty she’d grown into. Old Maude, now very frail, always crossed herself: — Lord, I was against you taking her in. Forgive me, I was a foolish old woman. Just look at the happiness she’s grown to! Now Mary teaches in the city—her own pupils, as Miss Maria taught her. She married James; they live together in love and harmony. They gave me a granddaughter—Annie, named after me. Little Annie is the spit of Mary as a child, only bolder. When they visit, she fills the house with clamour—always exploring, touching, climbing. I delight in her energy—a home without children’s laughter is like a church without bells. So here I sit, writing in my diary, while outside the snow swirls again. The floorboards still creak, the birch still taps the glass. But now, the quiet carries peace and gratitude—for every day lived, every smile of my Mary, for fate leading me to that old bridge. On my table stands a photo—Mary, James, and little Annie. Beside it, the old scarf I wrapped her in that day. I keep it to remember. Sometimes I stroke it—feeling the warmth of those days return. Yesterday Mary wrote again—she’s expecting another baby, a boy this time. James has already chosen a name—Stephen, for my late husband. So our family goes on; the memories will live. The old bridge is long gone—a sturdy new concrete one stands in its place. I rarely go by now, but each time I stop for a moment. Just thinking—how much life can change in a single day, a chance moment, a child’s cry on a damp March evening… They say fate tests us with loneliness so we learn to cherish those close. But I think otherwise—fate prepares us for the ones who need us most. It doesn’t matter if it’s blood—only that we heed the call of the heart. Mine, that day under the old bridge, did not lead me astray.