My neighbour was nicking my compost by the bagful every night. Yesterday, I very generously sprinkled in some yeast.
Been round to my compost heap again with your buckets, have you? It wasnt a questionI was simply stating the obvious.
Linda, the neighbour over the fence, didnt even bat an eyelid. She stood smack in the middle of her vegetable patch, leaning on her hoe, casting me a look that screamed innocence, as though shed just been wrongly accused.
Susan, dont get your knickers in a twist, she said. Youve got mountains of the stuff! Surely you can spare a bit for your childhood friend?
Its not just stuff, Linda. Thats two hundred pounds per load, plus delivery, I said, nodding towards my noticeably shrinking compost heap in the back garden. And for the record, its mine, not communal.
Oh, dont be so tight! she huffed, rolling her eyes. Its only a couple of buckets for my cucumbers. I have to stretch my pension, you knownot all of us can buy compost by the truckload.
She always knew exactly which strings to pull. Linda was a pro at playing the victim: someone or something was always to blamethe council, the weather, solar flares, and, of course, me, because my tomatoes ripened before hers.
I stomped back into the house, annoyance prickling at my throat like a stubborn lump. It wasnt really about a bit of compost and it certainly wasnt the moneywhat grated was the sheer cheek and the feeling that I was being taken for a mug.
Every night, like clockwork at around two, Id hear that familiar rustle. This wasnt a case of just a bucket. Linda had ambition: shed stuff big black bin bags with compost, loading up like she was prepping for a siege.
Tony was slouched at the kitchen table, idly munching a sandwich and doing the crossword.
Has she been round again? he asked without looking up.
Again. And called me stingy to boot.
Well, leave a bear trap then.
Oh yeah, and explain why next doors lost a foot? No, I need brains, not brawn here.
I glanced out the window at her greenhousea local source of envy. Linda loved boasting about her special variety and green thumb. Oh, her thumb was light, alrightespecially when it came to my compost heap.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. I lay there listening: somewhere a dog barked, crickets chirped, thenthere it was again, rustle-rustle. The shovel crunched into the dense compost. Id tended that heap, covered it with tarpaulin, cared for it, and she just waltzed over and helped herself like it was her own.
In the morning, I stepped onto the porchLinda was already fussing over her vegetable beds.
Morning, Susie! she crowed. Looks like your courgettes are going a bit yelloware they under the weather?
She was practically glowingyou could spot the tracks where shed carted off at least three bags in the night.
Morning, Linda. Dont get your hopes up.
As I headed to the shed, my eyes landed on the shelf with all the gardening supplies: seeds, fertilisers, and a big yellow tin of dried yeast for strawberry feed. Suddenly, a plan fell neatly into place.
Linda always packed her loot into tough builders bags, tied them tight, and stashed them in the greenhouse to mature in the warmth. With a hot and humid greenhouse, the setup was ideal for fermentation.
I filled a bucket with warm water, tipped in all the sugar left in the cupboard, and then emptied in the entire tin of yeast. The mix fizzed alarmingly, bubbles rising, filling the air with a scent somewhere between a brewery and poetic justice.
After dusk, before Linda snuck out, I made my move. I sneaked round to the gap in her fenceher usual entrance. There, I poured in my brew, stirring it well into the top layer of the heap. Like a special touch with all my heart.
Back inside, I washed my hands thoroughly and went to bed, feeling Id finally restored the balance.
Whats got you grinning? Tony mumbled drowsily.
Sweet dreams ahead, I said, pulling the covers up.
The night passed quietlynot even the usual rustling woke me. Maybe Linda was being extra stealthy, I thought.
But the morning was no standard British morningthere was no gentle whistle of the kettle, nor birdsong. Instead, a shriek shattered the calm, as if someone had found a fox in the vegetables.
Tony and I jolted up at once. He rushed to the window in nothing but his boxers.
Whats going on?! he yelled, rubbing his eyes.
Wrapping myself in my dressing gown, I stepped outside into crisp morning air, now tinged with a sharp sour tang. Linda was standing in front of her brand-new polycarbonate greenhouse, with the doors flung wide open.
She looked well, dreadful. Splotched head to toe in brownish speckles, as though someone had gone wild with a paintbrush. I strolled up to the fence, feigning utter astonishment.
Linda, what happened? Burst a pipe in there?
She turned to me, her face a mix of horror and the same brown gunk.
It it exploded! she croaked. Susan! It was alive!
Peering through her fence, it was all I could do not to whistle with amazement. Mayhem had taken over the greenhouse. Where her precious booty had been neatly piled the night before, it now looked like a bomb had gone off.
The yeast had worked magic in the warmth and damp, sealed tight in those bags. Fermentation gas built up, the bags swelled up like party balloons, untilbang! Physics had its say.
The plastic split, sending compost careening in all directions. Every clear panel was plastered; the ceiling copped as much as the walls. Her pristine rows of peppers looked like a battlefield. And Linda stood in the centre of it allmornings tragic heroine.
So, what exactly blew up? I asked in my calmest tone.
The bags! she yelped. I went to check, and one just went BANG! And then another! Susan, what did you put in there?!
Me? I raised my eyebrows, all innocence. Thats my compost, on my propertyI havent put anything in, except what the cows provide.
As for how it ended up in her greenhouse, carefully divided and bagged, well, now that was a real mystery.
Linda froze. Her face said it all as her mind whirredadmit it was mine and shed admit to stealing; say it was hers, and then shed have to explain the compost fireworks. She stood, literally and metaphorically, dripping with the evidence of her own greed.
This this was sabotage! she finally sputtered. You tried to poison me!
With natural fertiliser? I shrugged. Maybe its just bad greenhouse vibes? Or the evil eye? You always did say you had a magic touch.
Tony stepped out, scanned the scene, stifled a snort, and darted back inside before laughter could betray him. Linda grabbed the hose and started scrubbing herself down in a panic, but the scent clung stubbornly. It was more than just fertiliser nowit was the undeniable whiff of defeat.
That day, the neighbourhood buzzed with gossip about the mysterious bangs from Lindas place. Theories ranged from homebrew distillery gone wrong to a meteorite strike. Linda herself kept a stoic silence, furiously scrubbing her greenhouse all afternoon.
She had to toss all her young plants and change the topsoilthe feed was too much now, even for the bravest courgette.
That evening, there was no sign of Linda at our usual front-garden natteralmost unheard-of.
A week later, I had another lorryload of compost delivered. The heap was dumped in its usual spot. That night, I woke to an unusual silence. No rustling by the fence, no shovels, no bags.
I stepped into the garden; the moon illuminated an untouched heap.
In the morning, Linda marched past my gate, nose in the air. Shed started buying fertiliser from the shopbright packaging, and paid for with her own money.
Morning, neighbour! I called. How are the peppers coming along?
She stopped, glared at me. There was no guilt in her eyes, but a very clear fear of unpredictable chemistry.
Growing, she muttered. I manage finewithout your hand-me-downs.
Brilliant. Well, if you ever want the special mix, you know the recipe.
She spat on the ground and hurried home. I put the kettle on and made a strong cup of tea.
I felt perfectly at peacenot triumphant, not mean. It just felt right. What was mine stayed mine. No one else touched what didnt belong to them.
Its not the height of a fence that sets boundaries, but the lessons we enforce. Dont go poking about in someone elses pile unless youre ready for the consequences.
And from now on, a tub of dried yeast has pride of place on my top shelf. You never know when another busy beetle might come alongits good to be prepared, and to remember that sometimes, the best response is a clever one.
