*Love Through Loathing*
Margaret Whitaker stood by the window, watching her neighbour Eleanor hang her laundry in the shared garden. Every movement seemed deliberately slow, as if Ellie was stretching it out just to parade herself in front of everyone’s windows.
“Look at her, showing off again,” Margaret muttered, gripping the edge of the curtain. “Thinks the whole street’s watching, I bet.”
Meanwhile, Eleanor hummed a cheerful tune, pinning freshly washed sheets onto the line. She was three years younger than Margaret but looked a decade fresher at fifty-eight—always immaculate, from her perfectly styled hair to her polished shoes. That flawless posture, chin lifted like she owned the pavement, made Margaret’s teeth grind.
They’d lived next door for twenty years, and all that time, some inexplicable feud had simmered between them. It started over something trivial—Eleanor once remarked that Margaret was planting her marigolds wrong. Offered advice. Margaret had taken it as a personal insult.
“I know how to plant flowers, thank you very much!” she’d snapped. “Save your lectures.”
“I just thought I’d help,” Eleanor had said, flustered. “Mine grew beautifully in my old garden.”
“I don’t need your help!” Margaret had turned away pointedly.
Since then, their greetings were stiff at best; more often, they pretended not to see each other. Margaret found hidden slights in everything Eleanor did—a new handbag was bragging, the aroma of her baking was a deliberate show-off.
“Mum, why do you even care?” her daughter Beth would sigh during visits. “She seems perfectly nice. What’s the issue?”
“You don’t know her,” Margaret would grumble. “All sweetness and light, but underneath—remember when she *stole* the Bensons’ cat?”
“Mum, the Bensons left it out in the cold! She took it in and fed it. That’s not stealing.”
“Oh, of course! Saint Eleanor, always righteous!” Margaret would slam the fridge door for emphasis.
Eleanor, meanwhile, was just as baffled. She’d tried being neighbourly—offered cakes, helped with heavy bags—but Margaret rebuffed every olive branch.
“Thanks, I’ve got it,” came the icy reply. The cakes were always refused (“on a diet”), though Eleanor had seen her buy doughnuts at Tesco.
“I don’t get it,” Eleanor sighed to her sister on the phone. “I’ve never done anything to her. Does she *hate* me?”
“Some people are just sour,” her sister said. “Let it go.”
But the constant chill wore on Eleanor, who loved a good natter with neighbours.
Then, one icy evening, Eleanor slipped on the pavement outside, groceries scattering, knee throbbing.
“Blast it—!” she hissed, scrambling for oranges.
Margaret emerged just then, paused, and almost walked past—*Serves her right* flashed through her mind before guilt hit. The woman was lying in slush.
“Here,” Margaret said gruffly, offering a hand. “Up you get.”
Eleanor clung gratefully. “Thank you. Think I’ve banged my knee.”
“Let’s gather this first. Got iodine at home?”
“I think so.”
“Clean it well, then ice it.” Margaret silently helped collect the shopping, then steadied Eleanor to the lift.
“Don’t know what I’d have done without you,” Eleanor murmured.
Margaret just nodded, but the gratitude in Eleanor’s eyes—surprised, even—stung. *What did she expect? That I’d leave her there?*
The next morning, hearing Eleanor hobble downstairs (lift broken again), Margaret peeked out. “How’s the leg?”
“Sore, but manageable. Thanks again for yesterday.”
“Right. Off to Sainsbury’s? I’m heading there myself.”
Eleanor blinked. “You wouldn’t mind? Here’s my list—and the money—”
“Keep it,” Margaret said, snatching the list. “Milk, bread, yogurt. Anything else?”
When Margaret returned, Eleanor greeted her with a still-warm quiche.
“Made this last night. Spinach and cheese.”
“I don’t—” Margaret caught herself. “Actually… thanks. I like spinach.”
They hovered awkwardly—twenty years of frost, now thawing over pastry.
“Fancy a cuppa?” Eleanor ventured. “Since you’ve brought the quiche.”
Margaret meant to refuse, but nodded instead.
Eleanor’s flat mirrored Margaret’s in layout but was cosier—fresh flowers, framed photos.
“Lovely place,” Margaret admitted.
“Hardly. Tea’s brewing—sit down.”
They sipped in tentative silence, circling safe topics like the weather and rising egg prices.
“Who’s this?” Margaret nodded to a photo of a uniformed man.
“My late husband, John. Eight years now.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Cancer. Quick, at least.” Eleanor hesitated. “And you?”
“Divorced decades back. Beth’s in Manchester—rarely visits.”
After tea, Margaret stood to leave. “Thanks for the quiche.”
“Anytime. And thank *you* for the shopping.”
From then, the ice melted. Not friendship—too many years of mistrust—but civility bloomed. Margaret noticed Eleanor wasn’t haughty, just stiff from years at the till at Marks & Spencer. Her neat clothes weren’t showing off, just habit. The baking? Loneliness.
“All these years annoyed at her… for what?” Margaret mused. “Living differently?”
Eleanor, too, saw Margaret anew—not bitter, just worn down by solitude, Beth’s infrequent calls, a meagre pension. The sharpness wasn’t malice; it was loneliness talking.
They became fixtures in each other’s lives—not friends, but allies. Margaret fetched prescriptions; Eleanor shared veg from her allotment. They swapped *Radio Times* and gossip.
One spring morning, Margaret eyed her bedraggled marigolds.
“Maybe try something hardier?” Eleanor appeared, holding seed packets. “Nasturtiums. Tough, colourful—bloom till first frost.”
Margaret eyed them. “Think I can’t manage marigolds?”
“Why not? You’ve got green fingers—I’ve seen your tomato plants! Marigolds are just fussy.”
“Green fingers?”
“*Obviously.*”
Margaret took the seeds. “Fancy helping me plant them?”
They spent the morning digging, chatting about Beth’s goddaughter and *Strictly Come Dancing*.
“Truth is,” Margaret said finally, brushing soil off her knees, “I didn’t dislike you over flowers.”
“Then what?”
“You’re… put together. Made me feel scruffy. So I snipped.”
Eleanor laughed. “*Me?* I’m a wrinkle factory! I just dress up so I don’t *feel* invisible.”
They stared, realising two decades of walls built on misread glances.
“We’re idiots,” Margaret said.
“But we’ve figured it now,” Eleanor grinned.
Proper friendship followed—not picture-perfect, but real, with bickering and back-up. They had tea, watched *Corrie*, tutted at noisy neighbours.
Eleanor softened Margaret’s sharp edges; Margaret drew Eleanor out of her shell.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Eleanor said once, sitting on a bench watching their nasturtiums blaze. “We probably always loved each other—just took the scenic route through loathing.”
“Scenic,” Margaret agreed. “Glad we got here.”
The nasturtiums bloomed till autumn, just as promised. And two women—who’d nearly missed it all—met by the flowers daily, laughing at how stubbornness almost cost them something rare.
