My neighbour was nicking my manure, sackfuls at a time in the night. Last night, I generously added a hefty dose of yeast to the pile.
Been round to my manure heap with your buckets again? It wasnt a question, reallya plain statement of fact.
Linda, my neighbour over the fence, didnt even so much as blink. She stood there in the middle of her veg patch, leaning on her hoe, giving me a look as if Id just accused her of war crimes against humanity.
Oh, come off it, Judith, what are you getting worked up about now? Youve got mountains of the stuff! Dont tell me youre stingy with a bit of manure for your childhood mate?
Its not just stuff, Linda. Thats nearly five hundred quid for a lorryload, plus delivery, I nodded at the noticeably dwindling pile in the back garden. And, for the record, its mine.
Oh, keep it then! she huffed, rolling her eyes like a prize actress. Heaven forbid I take a couple of bucketfuls for my cucumbers. My pension can barely stretch to the monthly bills, let alone buying manure by the truck like some people.
Linda knew exactly which buttons to press. She was always the victimblaming the council, the weather, sunspots, and, of course, me, because my tomatoes ripened before hers did.
I stomped back inside, anger lumping in my throat. It wasnt about the money; it was about the cheek of itthe barefaced nerve and the way she treated me like a mug.
Almost every night, about two in the morning, Id hear this telltale rustling. And it wasnt the sound of a petite bucket. Linda lobbed it with enthusiasmshovelling manure into thick black rubble sacks, stockpiling enough to outlast a siege.
Tom, my husband, was in the kitchen, slowly chewing a sarnie while half-heartedly tackling the crossword.
She been pilfering again? he asked, not bothering to look up.
Again. And then she has the gall to call me stingy.
Set a trap then.
Right, and explain how the neighbour ended up with a bear trap on her foot. It needs cunning, not brute force.
Looking out the window at her greenhousethe crowning glory of the streetI watched Linda pride herself on her special variety and her magic touch. Well, she certainly had a light hand when it came to lifting from my garden.
That night, I tossed and turned. I could hear dogs barking off in the distance, crickets, then… there, the sifting sound again. A shovel breaking into my carefully tended heap. I nurtured that manure with care, wrapped it in tarpaulin, looked after it. She just pinched it, like it was hers by right.
At first light, I stepped out on the porch. Linda was already out, bustling between her rows.
Morning, Judith! she called out, all honey. “Looks like your courgettes are going yellow, bit of trouble?
She was aglowif the marks were anything to go by, shed made off with at least three sacks last night.
Alright, Linda. Dont hold your breath.
Setting off towards the shed, I caught sight of the shelf stacked with garden supplies: seeds, fertiliser, and, right on top, a great yellow bag of dried yeast for feeding the strawberries. An idea formed immediately.
Linda stashed her loot in tough builders sacks, tying them tightly and hiding them in her warm greenhousejust right for a bit of fermentation.
I filled a bucket with warm water, tipped in the last of the sugar from the cupboard, and dumped in the yeast. The mixture fizzed energetically, putting out a stink and foreshadowing sweet revenge.
After dusk, before Linda went out for her nightly shift, I slipped round the back fence where I knew she sneaked over. There, I poured the heady mixture right into the top layer, stirring it in gently. Like a gift, reallytake what isnt yours, and you never know what youll receive.
Back inside, I scrubbed up, got into bed and felt strangely peaceful, as if things were set back in order.
What are you grinning about? mumbled Tom, almost asleep.
Just looking forward to sweet dreams, I said, pulling up the duvet.
That night was silent. No snuffling out by the fence, no bins rattling. She mustve gone about it quietly, not wanting to wake the street.
But the morning was anything but peaceful; instead of birdsong and coffee, we were woken by a shriek like a banshee on the warpath.
Both Tom and I shot up, Tom dashing to the window in his pants.
Whats happened? he yelped, squinting.
Throwing on my dressing gown, I went outside, and straight away the cool morning air was heavy with a sharp, sour tang. There stood Linda, gaping at her new polycarbonate greenhouse with both doors flung open.
And she lookedwell, unique. Brown splodges all over, as if shed lost a fight with an army of mud pies. I went to the fence, trying my best to look the picture of innocence.
Linda, you alright over there? Burst a pipe?
She turned slowly, panic and muck smeared across her face.
It… it exploded! she croaked. Judith! Its alive!
Peeking in through the mesh, I nearly whistled. Chaos reigned inside. Where once neat bags of treasure sat, there had clearly been a small war.
With the yeast mixing in that warm greenhouse, sealed in those tight sacks, gases built up fastuntil physics took over. The sacks ballooned up like party balloons, then bang! Manure blasted everywhere: walls, ceiling, floor. Her pride-and-joy peppers now looked shell-shocked.
What went pop then? I asked, as serenely as someone could standing in dressing gown and slippers.
The sacks! she squealed. I went in to check, and the first one went off! Then the rest! Judith, what did you put in there?!
Me? I asked, all wide-eyed. Linda, thats my manure from my heap. Nothing more than what the cow gave.
How it ended up neatly sacked in her greenhouse, now that… that was a genuine mystery.
Linda froze. You could see the gears turning in her mind. Admit it was mine and shed confessed to pinching it. Claim it was hers and shed have to justify the fireworks. She just stood, literally and figuratively, soaking.
This is sabotage! she spluttered finally. You tried to poison me!
With what? Natural fertiliser? I shrugged. Maybe its just your greenhouse karma. Or your light touch. Works in mysterious ways.
Tom emerged for a glance, snorted quietly, then disappeared lest he burst out laughing. Linda started hosing herself down as if she could wash away the embarrassment.
But that smellthere was no shaking that off. Not just manure now: the full bouquet of poetic justice.
By lunchtime, the whole village was buzzing about the mysterious explosion in Lindas greenhouse. The wildest theories were flyingillicit still, meteorite, sabotage. Linda said nothing, and just kept scrubbing with a vengeance.
She had to take out all her seedlings and replace the topsoilher supercharged brew was too powerful even for her champion marrows. That evening, she skipped the usual front-porch cuppaa rare event.
A week later, another lorryload of manure showed up for me. The new heap sat untouched. That night, I woke to a strange silenceno rustling, no shovelling, no bags sneaking away.
Under moonlight, my heap was pristine, not a mark on it.
Next morning Linda stalked past my fence, eyes averted. Shed taken to buying her compost from the garden centre nowshiny, expensive bags paid for with her own money.
Morning, neighbour! I called out. Howre your peppers coming along?
She paused, glared back. There was no sign of guilt, but the fear of unpredictable chemistry was plain as day.
Theyre fine, she muttered. On my own now, thanksno handouts needed.
Brilliant. And you know the secret fertiliser recipe if ever you need it!
She scowled and marched off. I went inside and brewed myself a strong cup of tea.
Satisfaction washed over menot triumph, not vindictiveness, just a sense of rightness. Everyone knew where things stood now. Mine was mine, and nobody dared touch what wasnt theirs.
You see, boundaries arent really defined by a fence. Theyre set by lessons learned the hard way. If you go poking about in someone elses pile, youd better be ready for what comes with it.
As for mewell, I now keep a spare packet of dried yeast in the shed, just in case. You never know when youll need it. Sometimes youve got to teach a lesson on your own terms.
