Love Through Hatred
Margaret Whitmore stood by her window, watching her neighbor Eleanor Fairchild hang laundry in the backyard. Every movement of Eleanor’s seemed deliberately slow, as if she was dragging it out just to linger in full view of the other flats.
“Look at her, putting on a show again,” Margaret muttered under her breath, clutching the edge of the curtain. “Thinks everyone’s eyes are on her, I bet.”
Eleanor, meanwhile, hummed quietly to herself as she pegged freshly washed sheets on the line. She was three years younger than Margaret but carried herself with a youthful lightness that made her seem far from her fifty-eight years. Always well-groomed, perfectly pressed dresses, polished shoes—every detail was immaculate. And that proud posture, chin held high—it set Margaret’s teeth on edge.
They’d lived next door to each other for over twenty years, and all that time, a quiet resentment had simmered between them. It had started with something silly—Eleanor once remarked that Margaret wasn’t planting her petunias properly in the front garden. Offered some advice. Margaret had taken it as a brazen intrusion.
“I know how to tend my own garden!” she’d snapped back. “Don’t tell me how to live!”
“I only meant to help,” Eleanor had replied, flustered. “Mine grew beautifully at my old place.”
“I don’t need your help!” Margaret had turned away pointedly.
After that, they exchanged stiff greetings, if they bothered at all. Margaret twisted every little thing Eleanor did into some hidden slight—a new handbag was flaunting, the scent of her baking drifting through the hall was just showboating.
“Mum, why do you always pick at her?” Margaret’s daughter, Jessica, would say when she visited. “She seems perfectly nice. What’s so awful about her?”
“You don’t know her,” Margaret would grumble. “All prim and proper, but underneath—remember how she ‘stole’ the Wilsons’ cat?”
“Everyone knows the Wilsons left it outside—she just took it in and fed it. That’s not stealing.”
“Oh, of course, she’s a saint, isn’t she?” Margaret would slam the fridge shut.
Eleanor, for her part, was just as bewildered. She couldn’t figure out what she’d done to earn such dislike. She’d tried making peace a few times—brought muffins, offered to help carry shopping bags—but Margaret always shut her down.
“No need, I’m fine,” she’d say curtly.
She wouldn’t even take the muffins, claiming to be on a diet—never mind that Eleanor had seen her buying cakes at Sainsbury’s more than once.
“I don’t understand her,” Eleanor sighed to her sister over the phone. “I’ve never done anything wrong, yet she acts like I’m the devil. Maybe I did say something off years ago?”
“Honestly, love, don’t waste your energy,” her sister said. “Some people just rub others the wrong way.”
But the constant coldness weighed on Eleanor. She was naturally warm, loved a good chat, yet here was this woman who looked at her like she was poison.
Then one winter evening, as Eleanor trudged home with heavy shopping bags, she slipped on icy pavement and went down hard, groceries scattering across the snow. Her knee throbbed; she couldn’t get up.
“Oh, blimey…” she winced, trying to gather tumbling oranges.
Just then, Margaret stepped out of the building. She froze for a second, a petty thought flashing—serves her right—but shame quickly followed. The woman was lying in the snow, hurt.
“Here, up you get,” Margaret said, holding out a hand. “Slowly now.”
Eleanor grasped it gratefully, wincing as she stood.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Think I’ve really bruised my knee.”
“Let’s get your bits first, then we’ll see to it,” Margaret said briskly, gathering the scattered shopping. “Got any antiseptic at home?”
“Should do.”
“Clean it properly if the skin’s broken. And ice it to keep the swelling down.”
They gathered everything, and Margaret helped her to the lift.
“Thank you again,” Eleanor said, pressing the button. “Don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
Margaret gave a stiff nod and turned away. But the moment lingered in her mind all evening—Eleanor’s surprised, grateful expression. As if she hadn’t expected kindness from her at all.
“What did she think I’d do? Walk past?” Margaret wondered, stirring her tea. “What sort of person does she take me for?”
The next morning, she heard Eleanor struggling down the stairs—lift broken again—clearly heading for the shops. Margaret poked her head into the hall.
“How’s the knee?”
“Still sore, but bearable. Thanks for yesterday.”
“Yeah, well.” Margaret hesitated. “You off to the shops? If it’s just a few things, I could… was heading out myself anyway.”
Eleanor blinked in surprise.
“You wouldn’t mind? I’d be so grateful. Here’s the list—and the money.”
“Don’t be daft.” Margaret took the list. “Milk, bread, eggs. Got it. Anything else?”
“No, that’s plenty, thanks.”
When Margaret returned, Eleanor met her with a freshly baked cottage pie.
“For you. Made it yesterday—just cool now.”
“I don’t—” Margaret caught herself. “I mean… cheers. I like a good cottage pie.”
They lingered awkwardly on the landing. After all these years of frost, now here they were, swapping food like mates.
“Come in for tea?” Eleanor offered suddenly. “Since I’ve handed you the pie and all.”
Margaret nearly refused, but something made her nod.
Eleanor’s flat mirrored hers in layout but was worlds apart in style—everything neat, tasteful. Photos on the walls, flowers on the sill.
“Lovely place,” Margaret admitted.
“Oh, it’s nothing special. Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.”
They drank tea quietly, small talk about weather and rising prices easing the tension.
“Who’s this?” Margaret nodded to a framed photo of a man in uniform.
“My husband. Passed eight years back.”
“Sorry, didn’t realise.”
“S’all right. Cancer. Went quick—six months.” She sighed. “You?”
“Divorced ages ago. Got a daughter, but she’s up in Manchester. Rarely visits.”
“Ah.”
When the tea was done, Margaret stood.
“Thanks for the pie.”
“Anytime. And cheers for the shopping.”
After that, things shifted. Not quite friendship—too many years of distance—but the hostility faded. They’d greet each other properly, exchange a word or two in the shop queue.
Margaret began noticing things—Eleanor’s posture wasn’t vanity, it was back pain from years as a shop assistant. The baking wasn’t showing off; she just enjoyed it, living alone with no one to cook for.
“Strange,” Margaret mused by the window. “All that anger… over what? Her just living her life?”
Eleanor, too, reassessed. Margaret wasn’t cruel or bitter—just lonely. Daughter barely called, no grandkids, pension stretched thin. That sharpness wasn’t malice; it was exhaustion.
Slowly, they became fixtures in each other’s lives. Not friends, exactly, but no longer foes. Margaret brought medicine when Eleanor was poorly; Eleanor shared veg from her allotment. They swapped newspapers, gossiped about building drama.
One spring morning, Margaret frowned at her wilted petunias.
“Maybe try something different?” Eleanor’s voice came from behind her. She held out a packet of nasturtium seeds.
“These are hardy—bloom till first frost. Had them at mine—gorgeous, they were.”
Margaret eyed the packet.
“Think I can’t manage them?” An old edge crept in.
“Why wouldn’t you? You’ve got a green thumb—saw those tomato plants on your balcony. Stunners, they were. Always meant to ask your secret.”
Margaret took the seeds.
“Maybe we could plant ’em together? If you’ve time.”
“Love to,” Eleanor smiled.
They spent the morning digging, planting, chatting—Margaret about Jessica’s goddaughter, Eleanor about some telly drama.
“Y’know,” Margaret brushed soil off her hands, “I didn’t hate you over the flowers.”
“What, then?”
“You’re too bloody put-together. Made me feel like a frump next to you.”
Eleanor laughed.
“Me? I’m an old wrinkly!”
“And yet you look ten years younger. Always thought you looked down on everyone.”
“God, no! I’m shy! Hold my head up so I don’t disappear into myself!” She gestured at Margaret. “You seemed so… untouchable. Like I wasn’t worth your time.”
They stared at each other, realising the absurdity.
“Bloody idiots, aren’t we?” MargaretThey chuckled together, watching the first bright blooms of the nasturtiums unfold, grateful they’d finally found their way past pride to kindness.
