My neighbour was nicking my compost by the sackful in the middle of the night. Last night, I generously added some yeast to her usual haul.
Back to my heap with your buckets again, were you? I didnt even bother to frame it as a question; it was blindingly obvious.
Margaret, who lived over the fence, didnt bat an eyelid. She stood in the middle of her kitchen garden, leaning on her hoe, looking at me like I was the one up to no good.
Oh, Emily, dont get worked up. Youve got mountains of the stuff! Surely you can spare a little for your childhood friend?
Its not just stuff, Maggie. Thats nearly five hundred quid a lorry, plus delivery, I nodded towards the noticeably diminished pile at the end of my garden. And in any case, its mine.
Oh, dont be so stingy! she gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. I just took a couple of buckets to feed my cucumbers. My pension barely covers the gas bill, I cant be splashing out on compost like some people.
Margaret knew exactly how to play the victim. She always had someone to blame for her troubles the council, the weather, sunspots and naturally, me, because my tomatoes ripened before hers.
I went back inside, fuming. It wasnt really about the buckets, or even the money. It was her sheer cheek, and the sense she thought me a fool.
Every night, just after two, Id hear that familiar rustle. Not just a pail or two, either Margaret went at it like she was stockpiling for a siege, filling builders sacks to the brim and hauling them off.
Tom sat at the kitchen table, munching toast and idly pencilling in his crossword.
At it again? he asked without looking up.
Again. And called me greedy, into the bargain.
Well, set a trap, then.
Sure, and try explaining why the neighbours now got a wooden leg. Takes subtlety, not brute force.
I wandered over to the window to glance at her greenhouse the envy of the whole street, and Margarets pride and joy. Shed always go on about her special strain and her magic touch. Magic indeed, when most of it came from my heap.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. I lay there, listening a dog barking somewhere, a few crickets, and then, sure enough rustle, rustle. Spade biting into my well-earned compost. I tended that pile, covered it with tarpaulin, kept it perfect and there she was, helping herself like it was hers.
In the morning I went out onto the step; Margaret was already bustling round her beans.
Good morning, Emily! she called out in a sing-song voice. I see youve got yellowing courgettes sure theyre not coming down with something?
She was all aglow the trampled grass showed shed taken away at least three heavy sacks in the night.
All right, Margaret. Not if I spot you first.
I headed for the shed, caught sight of the shelf with the gardening supplies: seeds, feed, and a big yellow tub of dried yeast meant for the strawberries. Suddenly, a plan snapped into focus.
Margaret would stuff her loot into sturdy builders sacks, tie them tight, and stash them in her greenhouse so itd mature in the warmth. Well, warm and damp perfect for fermentation.
I tipped some warm water into a bucket, chucked in all the sugar left in my cupboard, poured in the leftover yeast the mix fizzed up nicely, smelling faintly of ale and vindication.
At dusk, with Margaret not yet prowling, I crept round the back way knew exactly where shed wiggle through the gap in the fence. There, I poured the whole bucketful into the top of the heap and stirred it through. If she liked taking things that werent hers, she could have a little extra with love from me.
Back inside, I washed my hands, feeling more balanced than I had in ages.
What are you grinning at? Tom murmured sleepily.
Going to have sweet dreams tonight, I replied, pulling up the covers.
That night, not even the usual clatter disturbed me Margaret must have really tried to keep quiet for once.
Morning, though, didnt greet me with coffee or birdsong. It was an almighty scream as if a banshee had been let loose in Margarets garden.
Tom and I shot up at once. He dashed to the window, still in his pants.
What the blazes? he shouted, peering out.
I threw on my dressing gown and stepped out into the cool air. There was a distinct sour tang hanging around the gardens.
Margaret stood by her pristine polycarbonate greenhouse, doors flung wide.
She looked well, extraordinary. Splotches of brown everywhere, as if shed been mistaken for an easel. I strode to the fence, feigning concern.
Margaret, whatevers happened? Have you had a plumbing disaster?
She turned to me slowly, a mixture of panic and that same brown mess plastered across her face.
It it just exploded! she gasped. Emily! It was alive!
I peeked through the fence and nearly whistled aloud. In her greenhouse, it was absolute carnage. The bags of my compost where shed hidden them had burst, coating her peppers and everything else in an unholy layer.
Warmth and moisture, plus all that yeast, had set off a fermentation frenzy inside those tightly sealed sacks. The pressure had mounted until bang! the plastic split, and the contents were fired everywhere even up the walls and onto the roof. Her beloved pepper bed looked like it had been through the Somme. In the middle of it all was Margaret, star of the show.
What blew up? I asked, ever so sweetly.
The sacks! she almost yelped. I went in to check, and one went off in my face! Then another! Emily, what did you put in them?
Me? I looked innocent. Margaret, its my compost, on my patch. I havent added anything but what the cow left behind.
How it all ended up in her greenhouse, handily bagged well, that was the real puzzle.
I watched her face you could almost see the cogs whirring. Admit it was mine, she owned up to pilfering. Claim it was hers, then why the explosion? Standing there literally and figuratively soaking it in.
This is sabotage! she finally cried. You wanted to poison me!
With natural fertiliser? I shrugged. Maybe your greenhouse just has bad vibes. Or someone put a curse on you? Arent you always saying youve got a magic touch?
Tom came out, took it all in, snorted into his hand, and quickly retreated before he howled with laughter. Margaret seized the hose, scrubbing herself raw but the stink stuck fast. Not just compost, but the unmistakable stench of defeat.
All day, the street buzzed with talk of bangs at Margarets. Theories were wild: someone brewing cider, or maybe a meteorite hit. Margaret herself stayed schtum, scrubbing her greenhouse until sunset.
She had to bin all her seedlings and change the topsoil the nutrient content now far too rich even for the hardiest specimens. That evening, for once, she missed her usual front step cuppa.
A week later, I had another load of compost dropped in the same spot. That night, not a murmur no rustle, no spade, no crinkling of bin bags.
It was all still there by morning. Moonlight picked out every lump untouched.
That day, Margaret walked past my fence, face turned firmly the other way. Shed started buying her fertiliser at the garden centre and paying for it herself.
Morning, neighbour! I called. Howre the peppers doing?
She paused, glared at me. No hint of remorse in her eyes, but a definite flicker of wariness about unpredictable chemistry.
Theyre growing, she grumbled. Managing fine, no thanks to your help.
Good. If you ever want the recipe for that special feed, you know where to find me.
She spat crossly and headed home. I went inside and made myself a proper cuppa.
It felt good. No gloating, no triumph. Just the proper order of things restored. My things stayed mine, and nobody else fiddled with them.
Turns out, boundaries arent about fences, but about making clear what youll put up with. If youre after someone elses pile, youd best be ready for what comes with it.
Now, I keep a tub of dried yeast handy, just in case. You never know when another cheeky magpie might come along and youve got to know how to have the last word.
