Love Through Hatred
Margaret Whitmore stood by her window, watching her neighbour Valerie hang laundry in the garden. Every movement seemed deliberately slow, as if Val was dragging it out to linger in plain sight.
“Showing off again,” Margaret muttered, gripping the curtain edge. “Thinks everyone’s watching her, doesn’t she?”
Valerie, meanwhile, hummed softly as she pinned up freshly washed sheets. Though three years younger than Margaret, she carried her fifty-eight years lightly—hair always neat, dresses pressed, shoes polished. That poised posture—spine straight, chin lifted—made Margaret grind her teeth.
They’d lived next door for over twenty years, and all that time, a quiet bitterness simmered between them. It started with a trifle—Valerie once remarked that Margaret planted her petunias wrong in the front garden. Offered advice. Margaret took it as meddling.
“I know how to tend my own flowers!” she’d snapped. “Don’t tell me how to live!”
“I only meant to help,” Valerie had said, flustered. “Mine grew beautifully at the cottage.”
“Keep your help to yourself!” Margaret had turned away pointedly.
Since then, their greetings were stiff, if they bothered at all. Margaret twisted every neighbourly act into a slight—Valerie’s new handbag was boasting; her baking, with its tempting smells, was a show of domestic superiority.
“Mum, why do you fixate on her?” asked Margaret’s daughter, Emily, during a visit. “She’s perfectly pleasant. What’s so awful about her?”
“You don’t know her,” Margaret grumbled. “All sweetness on the surface, but underneath—remember how she stole the Wilsons’ cat?”
“Mum, the cat moved in with her! The Wilsons left it outdoors. She fed it. That’s not stealing.”
“Oh, of course! Saint Valerie, never a fault!” Margaret slammed the fridge door.
Valerie, for her part, was equally bewildered. She’d tried to mend things—brought scones, offered to carry shopping. Each overture was rebuffed.
“No need,” Margaret would say coldly. “I manage fine.”
The scones went refused—”on a diet”—though Valerie had seen her buy cakes at the grocer’s.
“I don’t understand her,” Valerie sighed to her sister over the phone. “I’ve never wronged her. Why the hostility? Did I truly offend her somehow?”
“Stop fussing over her,” her sister replied. “People are odd. Not everyone will like you.”
Yet the chill wore on Valerie. She was sociable by nature, loved chatting with neighbours, sharing news. But next door lived a woman who glared as if she were the enemy.
One winter evening, Valerie slipped on icy pavement, spilling groceries across the snow. Her knee throbbed; she couldn’t stand.
“Ow—blasted ice—” she hissed, scrambling for rolling oranges.
Just then, Margaret stepped out. For a heartbeat, she paused. *Serves her right*, flashed through her mind—then shame followed. A woman lay hurt in the cold.
“Up you get,” Margaret said, offering a hand. “Slowly now.”
Valerie clutched it gratefully, wincing as she rose.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Knee’s badly bruised.”
“Gather your things first, then we’ll see.” Margaret wordlessly collected scattered items. “Have you antiseptic at home?”
“I think so.”
“Clean the scrape well. Ice it to keep swelling down.”
They repacked the bags, and Margaret helped her to the lift.
“Thanks again,” Valerie said, pressing the button. “I’d have been stranded without you.”
Margaret only nodded, turning away. But all evening, she replayed Valerie’s expression—grateful, yet startled, as if help from her was unthinkable.
“What did she expect?” Margaret wondered, steeping tea. “That I’d walk past? What sort of person does she think I am?”
Next morning, she heard Valerie struggling downstairs—lift broken again, errands urgent. Margaret peered into the hall.
“How’s the knee?”
“Sore, but bearable. Thanks for yesterday.”
“Was nothing.” A pause. “You off to the shops? I’m heading out. Could fetch your things.”
Valerie blinked. “You wouldn’t mind? Here’s my list—and money—”
“Keep your money. Milk, bread, cream. Anything else?”
“No, thank you. That’s plenty.”
When Margaret returned, Valerie met her with a warm fruitcake.
“For you. Baked it yesterday. Spiced apple.”
“I don’t—” Margaret caught herself. “That is—thank you. I do like apple.”
They hovered awkwardly on the landing. Decades of snubs, and now cake passed between them.
“Come in for tea,” Valerie blurted. “Since you’ve brought the cake.”
Margaret nearly refused—then nodded.
Valerie’s flat mirrored hers in layout, yet everything felt different—tidy, thoughtful. Picture frames crowded the walls.
“Lovely home,” Margaret admitted.
“Oh, it’s just—usual. Sit, I’ll put the kettle on.”
They sipped tea mostly in silence, trading idle remarks about rain and rising prices. The tension ebbed slowly.
“Who’s this?” Margaret nodded at a framed photo of a man in uniform.
“My late husband. Eight years now.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right. Cancer took him quickly.” Valerie exhaled. “And you?”
“Divorced ages back. My Emily lives up in Leeds—visits seldom.”
“Ah.”
Tea finished, Margaret made to leave.
“Thanks for the cake.”
“Thank *you* for the shopping.”
After that, something shifted. Not friendship—too much ice to melt—but the hostility thawed. They exchanged greetings, occasional chatter by the bins or in the grocer’s queue.
Margaret began noticing things: Valerie’s posture wasn’t haughtiness—it eased her bad back, relic of years as a shop assistant. Her neat clothes weren’t vanity, just habit. Her baking wasn’t smugness—she loved it, and an empty house meant no one to feed but herself.
“Odd,” Margaret mused by the window. “All those years resenting her—for what? Living differently?”
Valerie, too, reassessed. Margaret wasn’t cruel or bitter—just lonely. Emily rarely called; no grandchildren; pension stretched thin. That sharpness wasn’t malice, but hurt turned outward.
Gradually, they became fixtures in each other’s lives—not confidantes, but no longer strangers. Margaret fetched Valerie’s prescriptions when she was ill; Valerie shared veg from her allotment. They swapped newspapers, debated telly shows.
One spring morning, Margaret inspected her flowerbeds. The petunias she’d planted years ago were withering.
“Perhaps try something hardier?”
Margaret turned. Valerie held out a seed packet.
“Nasturtiums. Tough little things—bloom till frost. Mine at the allotment were glorious.”
Margaret studied the packet.
“Think I’d fail with these too?” Old resentment tinged her voice.
“Why would you? You’ve a green thumb—I’ve seen your tomato seedlings. Petunias are just fussy.”
“Green thumb?”
“Absolutely! Remember your balcony tomatoes? Plump as anything. I always meant to ask your secret.”
Margaret took the seeds, scanning growing tips.
“Maybe plant them together?” she ventured. “If you’ve time.”
“Love to.”
They spent the morning digging, planting, chatting—Margaret about Emily’s friend’s new grandson, Valerie about a detective series she adored.
“Truth is,” Margaret admitted, brushing soil off her hands, “I didn’t dislike you over flowers.”
“Why, then?”
“You were always so… put together. And I felt—drab beside you.”
Valerie gaped. “Me? I’m all wrinkles and bad knees!”
“Yet you look younger. That confidence—I thought it was disdain.”
“Good grief—I’m shy as anything! Head up so I don’t shrivel in corners. And you seemed so… untouchable. Like I wasn’t worth your notice.”
They stared, stunned by years of misread signals.
“Silly old hens, aren’t we?” Margaret sighed.
“Better late than never.”
From then, they became proper friends—not performative, but real, with squabbles and forgiveness. They went to cafes, critiqued soap operas, minded each other’s spare keys.
Margaret eased Valerie’s solitude; Valerie taught her to buy nice lipstick, to stop dressing like a woman half-dead.
“Think we loved each other all along,” Valerie said one evening, watching nasturtiums sway in the breeze. “Just took a long way round.”
“Suppose so,” Margaret agreed. “Glad we got here.”
The nasturtiums bloomed till autumn, just as promised—cheerful splashes of orange and gold. And every day, two women who’d nearly missed knowing one another met by the flowers, grateful they’dThe years that followed were filled with shared laughter over tea, quiet evenings with crossword puzzles, and the comforting certainty that neither would ever be alone again.
