**Love Through Loathing**
Margaret Whitmore stood by the window, watching her neighbour, Eleanor Dawson, hang laundry in the shared garden. Every movement seemed deliberately slow, as though Eleanor was stretching out the task just to linger in full view of everyone’s windows.
*”There she goes again, the show-off,”* Margaret muttered, gripping the edge of the curtain. *”As if anyone cares to look at her.”*
Meanwhile, Eleanor hummed to herself while pinning up freshly washed sheets. She was three years younger than Margaret but looked fresher at fifty-eight—hair always set, dresses pressed, shoes polished. And that posture! Straight back, chin up—it set Margaret’s teeth on edge.
They’d lived next door for over twenty years, and all that time, a quiet, inexplicable feud had simmered between them. It began with something trivial—Eleanor once remarked that Margaret was planting petunias all wrong in the front garden. Offered some advice. Margaret took it as an insult.
*”I know perfectly well how to plant flowers!”* she snapped. *”Don’t tell me how to live my life!”*
*”I only meant to help,”* Eleanor had replied, flustered. *”I had the same ones at my cottage—they were lovely.”*
*”Save your help for someone who wants it,”* Margaret huffed, turning away pointedly.
After that, greetings were stiff, if they happened at all. Mostly, they pretended not to see each other. Margaret found malice in everything Eleanor did—a new handbag was *showing off*, the scent of her baking drifting through the hall was *rubbing it in*, as if to say, *Look how domestic I am!*
*”Mum, why do you always pick on her?”* Margaret’s daughter, Claire, asked during a visit. *”She seems perfectly nice.”*
*”You don’t know her,”* Margaret grumbled. *”She acts all prim, but—remember when she *stole* the Wilsons’ cat?”*
*”Mum, the cat *chose* her! The Wilsons left it outside, and she took it in. That’s not theft.”*
*”Oh, of course! Saint Eleanor, isn’t she?”* Margaret slammed the fridge door.
Eleanor, for her part, was just as baffled. She’d tried—bringing over scones, offering to help with shopping—but Margaret rebuffed every olive branch.
*”No, thank you,”* she’d say coolly. *”I manage fine on my own.”*
She even refused the scones, claiming to be on a diet—though Eleanor had *seen* her buying custard tarts at Tesco.
*”I don’t understand her,”* Eleanor sighed to her sister over the phone. *”I’ve never done a thing to her, and she acts like I’m the enemy.”*
*”Some people are just like that,”* her sister said. *”Let it go.”*
But the coldness gnawed at Eleanor. She was chatty by nature, loved a good natter with neighbours—yet here was one who glared at her like she’d kicked a puppy.
Then, one icy evening, Eleanor slipped on the garden path, groceries scattering, knee throbbing.
*”Ow—blast it!”* she groaned, scrambling for rolling oranges.
Just then, Margaret stepped out. She paused—*Serves her right*, flashed through her mind—but shame instantly followed. The woman was hurt, freezing on the ground.
*”Here,”* Margaret said, offering a hand. *”Slowly now.”*
Eleanor clasped it gratefully, wincing as she stood.
*”Thank you,”* she whispered. *”Think I’ve done my knee in.”*
*”We’ll get your things first, then see to it,”* Margaret said briskly, gathering tins. *”D’you have antiseptic at home?”*
*”Should do.”*
*”Clean it well if the skin’s broken. And ice it—keep the swelling down.”*
They packed the bags, and Margaret helped her to the lift.
*”Thank you,”* Eleanor repeated. *”Don’t know what I’d have done.”*
Margaret merely nodded, but the moment lodged in her mind. Eleanor’s eyes—grateful, yes, but *surprised.* As if she’d expected Margaret to walk right past.
*”What sort of monster does she take me for?”* Margaret wondered later, stirring her tea.
The next morning, she heard Eleanor hobbling downstairs (lift broken again). Margaret peered into the hall.
*”How’s the knee?”*
*”Still sore, but manageable. Thanks again for yesterday.”*
*”It’s nothing,”* Margaret paused. *”You off to the shops? I’m heading out myself—could fetch your bits.”*
Eleanor blinked. *”You wouldn’t mind? Here’s the list—and the money—”*
*”Don’t be daft,”* Margaret waved it off. *”Milk, bread, butter. Right. Need owt else?”*
*”No, ta. That’s plenty.”*
When Margaret returned, Eleanor met her with a warm fruitcake.
*”For you. Made it yesterday. It’s got raisins.”*
*”I don’t—”* Margaret caught herself. *”Actually—thanks. I like raisins.”*
They hovered awkwardly on the landing. Twenty years of frost, and now *cake*?
*”Fancy a cuppa?”* Eleanor ventured. *”Since you’ve gone to the trouble.”*
Margaret meant to refuse—but nodded instead.
Eleanor’s flat mirrored hers in layout, but homely touches softened it—framed photos, potted ferns.
*”Lovely place,”* Margaret admitted.
*”Oh, it’s just bits and bobs. Sit down—kettle’s on.”*
They sipped tea, chatting stiffly about weather and rising bread prices. But the air grew lighter.
*”Who’s this?”* Margaret nodded at a photo of a man in uniform.
*”My late husband. Eight years now.”*
*”Sorry—didn’t know.”*
*”Pancreatic cancer. Quick, in the end.”* Eleanor hesitated. *”And you?”*
*”Divorced decades back. Claire’s in Bristol—visits when she can.”*
*”Ah.”*
Margaret stood to leave. *”Thanks for the cake.”*
*”Ta for the shopping.”*
After that, the ice thawed. Not friendship—too much history—but the hostility faded. They exchanged nods, sometimes comments about bin days or bargain finds at Aldi.
Margaret began noticing things: Eleanor’s posture wasn’t *haughty*—her back ached from years as a shop assistant. The tidy outfits? Just how she’d always been. The baking? Not *spite*, but sheer joy in it—and an empty house to fill.
*”Funny,”* Margaret mused by the window. *”All these years resenting her—for what? Living differently?”*
Eleanor, too, revised her opinion. Margaret wasn’t *nasty*—just lonely. Claire rarely called; no grandkids; pension stretched thin. That sharpness? Not malice, but weariness.
Gradually, they became fixtures in each other’s lives—not mates, but no longer foes. Margaret fetched prescriptions when Eleanor had flu; Eleanor shared veg from her allotment. They swapped *Radio Times*, grumbled about the dodgy heating.
One spring morning, Margaret inspected her withered petunias.
*”Might try something hardier?”* Eleanor appeared, holding seed packets. *”Marigolds, maybe? Tough as old boots, bloom till frost.”*
Margaret eyed them. *”Think I’d muck those up too?”*
*”Why would you? Your tomato pots last summer were *brilliant*—always meant to ask your secret.”*
Margaret took the seeds, scanning the packet.
*”Fancy planting them together?”* she asked abruptly. *”If you’re not busy.”*
*”Love to,”* Eleanor smiled.
They spent the morning digging, planting, chatting—Claire’s best friend’s new baby, that trashy detective show Eleanor adored.
*”Y’know,”* Margaret brushed soil off her knees, *”I didn’t dislike you over the flowers.”*
*”Why, then?”*
*”You’re *pretty*. Polished. Made me feel like a frump.”*
Eleanor laughed. *”Pretty? I’m *wrinkled*! I only hold my head high because—well, if I slouched, I’d vanish into myself.”*
They stared, stunned by decades of misread signals.
*”Proper daft, aren’t we?”* Margaret sighed.
*”Better late than never,”* Eleanor grinned.
From then, they were proper friends—not performative, but real. Tea at each other’s kitchens, *Strictly* viewings, shared taxis to bingo.
And as the marigolds bloomed bold and bright under the summer sun, Margaret and Eleanor finally understood that sometimes, friendship isn’t about grand gestures—just showing up, seeds in hand, ready to grow something new together.
