The next day, our neighbour was back, leaning over our garden fence as if nothing had changed. My wife walked over and politely told her, Weve got quite a lot on today, so we wont be able to chat like we did yesterday.
Barbara, still as inquisitive as ever, asked, What about tomorrow?
Much the same as today, Im afraid. In fact, its probably best if you dont drop by anymore, my wife replied, keeping an even tone.
My longing to live in the city had brought us nothing but headaches.
My wife inherited a cottage in the countryside. Back when her parents were alive, wed often visit. Evenings were the best, dinners spread beneath the old pear tree, conversations drifting until the sun disappeared. Thats how it always was when we stayed. In winter, her mother would light the Aga, pulling fresh scones and pies from the oven. The house would fill with warm, mouthwatering scents.
We loved country walks, sledging in the winter, nipping off for weekends. But once my wifes parents were gone, the visits slowed down. We didnt sell the cottage, intending to use it just as before. Of course, that never quite happened. Other commitments always got in the way, and gradually, our memories of the cottage faded into the background. Life moved on. The years slipped by unnoticed. Our son, Peter, met Emily, fell in love, and married her. Emily, often wistful, would say how wonderful it would be to escape to the country, if only for the summer.
Thats what brought the cottage back to our minds. My wife, Anne, and I decided to drive up ourselves, as nobody had visited for some time. Much was as we remembered, except the place was clearly neglected.
We agreed a good tidy was in order. Anne set about scrubbing the kitchen and changing the curtains, while I tackled the overgrown garden. Id feared the years of disuse would have ruined the place, but after a good clean, it looked charming again. The next day, Peter and Emily arrived. They pitched in, and by afternoon, the cottage was every bit as inviting as wed remembered. While the women started preparing supper, Peter and I tried to mend the old benches under the pear tree.
Thats when I noticed a woman watching us from just beyond the fence. She soon introduced herself, saying shed recently bought the next cottage. We, not wanting to appear unfriendly, invited her for dinner. She introduced herself as Barbara. She explained she lived alone, recently divorced, though shed bought a home for her daughter, who had three children of her own. Barbara talked endlessly, though I soon tuned her out. Suddenly, I felt something touching my ankle under the table.
Glancing down, I realised it was Barbaras foot, inching along my leg. I quickly shifted away, but she continued regardless. I felt awkward and desperately hoped Anne wouldnt see. Yet Barbara chattered on, oblivious to everyones discomfort. The children grew restless, and all I wanted was for our neighbour to leave. As Anne cleared the dishes, she remarked that Barbara seemed rather forward. I had to agree, though I didnt confess what shed tried under the table. It embarrassed me, but I had the feeling Barbara had behaved this way before.
The next day, she was back, hovering over our fence. Anne went outside and told her calmly that we were far too busy for guests today.
And tomorrow? Barbara pressed.
Tomorrow will be just the same as today. Please, dont come round any more, Anne said firmly.
That was brave of Anne. Barbara muttered for a while, but I paid no mind. Anne had done the right thing. Were straightforward people, and it was clear Barbara made us uncomfortable. Theres little point in keeping company with someone you dont trust.
Being polite and friendly is important, but so is setting boundaries. Sometimes, looking after your home and your peace is more valuable than keeping up false niceties. Real comfort, after all, comes from knowing when to say no.
