Oh, come off it, neighbour! Whats the big deal? You cant spare a couple of cucumbers? Yours will just go overgrown, turn yellow. My grandchildren are visitingthey need their vitamins. Dont be a miser. Were practically family, living this close!
Maureen was peering over the ankle-high chain-link fence dividing our allotments, a honey-sweet smile stretched across her wide face. In one hand, she clutched an enamel bowl, already half-full with my strawberries. With the other, she was making a rather cheeky beeline for my blackcurrant bush, which by all known property rights, was most definitely not hers.
I was on my knees in the carrot patch, weeding out invisible sprouts, when I heard her. My back cracked alarmingly as I straightened. I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of a muddy hand and fixed Maureen with the look only years of fending off neighbours with wandering hands can cultivate. This were family lineId heard it since the day Jim and I bought this patch of neglected land and transformed it into a horticultural poster child.
Maureen, I said, calm yet unwavering, Youve strawberries of your own. Ive seen them. Why not pick yours?
Oh, but theyre hardly worth the trouble! Maureen waved a dismissive hand, undaunted. Tiny things, sharp as lemons, and the weevils have had a party with the lot. I cant do what you domessing about with all those fancy feeds and sprays and whatnot. Mines all natural. But your strawberries are like apples! Itd be criminal to let them go to waste. Besides, theres only you and Jimhow will you get through all that? Youll burst.
I exhaled sharply. Maureens logic could battle a tank and come out unscathed. In her worldview, abundance was a moral obligation to share, and a lack (mainly due to idleness) was a badge of entitlement.
Her patch was a sorry sight: knobbly apple trees thick with moss, beds so wild they only saw a hoe on special occasions, and an army of dandelions blowing wishes all over the neighbourhood. Maureen only came to the allotment to rest her soul: lazing in a hammock, burning discount sausages on bricks, and blasting Radio 2.
I, meanwhile, was a gardening nut. I knew every lettuce by name, bought rare tomato seeds online, was up by five to open the polytunnel, and didnt finish until Id watered everything, usually long after sunset. Every tomato and cucumber meant an aching back and lost sleep when frosts hit unexpectedly.
Maureen grinned impishly, still hovering over the currants. Put the bowl down, Maureen, I warned. Im saving those strawberries for jam. Every berry counts.
Oh, dont be such a Scrooge! she rolled her eyes melodramatically. Its just a handful, for the kids. You wouldnt really take food from a childs mouth, would you? Before I could reach the fence, she popped a gigantic berry into her mouth, chewed in front of me, floated triumphantly back to her house, booty in tow.
I stood in the carrot patch, fuming. Jim, my husband, wandered out of the shed with a plane in hand, having witnessed the scene but, as usual, reluctant to get involved in womens skirmishes.
Maureen grazing again? he asked.
Like a goat in someone elses garden, I huffed. Last weekend she nicked the courgettes while we were shopping. Said she thought wed forgotten themdidnt want them getting too big. And now the strawberries.
Put up a proper fence then, Jim suggested. One of those tall steel jobbies.
Cant, Jimthe allotment rules say you can only put up fences you can see through. Too much shade otherwise. And after the new greenhouse, were skint.
With Julys heat, harvest was wild. My tomatoes showed off in clusters, cucumbers looked crisp just sitting there, and peppers puffed up with juice. The more veg I had, the more neighbourly visits Maureen paid through the fence.
Then, one Saturday, Maureen had half of Essex over for a rave: a dozen raucous relatives with beer crates and blaring music. By evening, I was watering the roses when Maureen, fairly merry, tottered up to the fence.
Helen! Be a pal, she yelled. Were out of snacks. Could you give us some of those lovely tomatoesthose big Beef Heartsand a bunch of salad? Shops miles off and the gangs hungry.
I straightened, hose in hand. Water flowed over rose roots.
Maureen, the tomatoes arent all ripe. The ones that are, Im taking to my daughter in town tomorrow.
Oh, dont be a martyr! she slurred, leaning over the fence and nearly breathing open an IPA. I see them hanging up, all red and proud. What, you wont spare some for your own neighbours? Ill buy you a chocolate bar later.
No, Maureen. My voice was steel.
Maureens smile hardened and dropped. Her eyes narrowed.
Fine! Sit with your tomatoes then. May they all split! Some neighbour you are I swear, you lot wouldn’t lend a cup of sugar in a blizzard. Bah!
She stormed off, and all evening I heard snide remarks and raucous laughter drifting over from her garden. tightfisted Londoners, …would strangle a flea for a quid…, …who wants her chemical veg anyway stung my ears. I retreated inside, turned on BBC iPlayer at full blast.
The next morning, stepping out in my slippers, I froze. The greenhouse door was ajar. My heart fell south. I dashed to the beds.
Just as I feared: the biggest, ripest tomatoes brutally picked. Some branches snapped, underripe fruit scattered and discarded. The cucumber tally mysteriously lowered. Even the herb patch was pillagedparsley and dill yanked out, roots and all.
I stared at the devastation. This wasnt just theft. This was a slap to my effort, my time, to me.
Jim! I called, trembling.
He came, surveyed the disaster, and frowned. This is criminal, Helen. Theft.
What am I supposed to do, Jim? Weve no cameras. Shed deny it, or say were framing her. You know Maureen; shed out-argue a barrister.
Glancing at Maureens garden, I spotted the forensic evidence: our salad bowl, leftovers glinting with bright red Beef Heart tomato and our signature curled parsley.
“Right,” I said, my voice ringing with a resolve Id forgotten. Enough nice. Now for clever.
What are you plotting? Jim asked warily. No crimes, Helen, pleaseIm not squabbling with police over tomatoes.
No crime, just garden psychology. With a bit of scientific flair.
The plan formed instantly. I nipped into town, came back with: a bright yellow hazmat suit, a respirator, a garden sprayer, a few packets of blue food dye, and the cheapest, pongiest anti-mould cleaner I could find.
That evening, as Maureens hungover lot lurked on their porch, Jim and I put on our performance. I donned the yellow suit and respirator, enormous gloves, and dragged Jim along in his old waterproofs and a surgical mask. We put on an unmissable show outside the greenhouse.
I mixed water, blue dye, and half a bottle of smelly soap into a pail. The liquid was an alarming shade of inky blue, and the stench could have woken the dead.
Jim, stand well back! I bellowed, loudly enough for Maureens lot to hearmy voice box muffled dramatically by my respirator. This is industrial strength stuff! Instructions say never approach without full protective kit!
I began spraying the tomatoes, peppers, and cabbages. Alien blue spots splattered everything, like a Smurf pandemic had swept my veg patch.
Maureen, eyeing us up from her side, called out. Helenwhat on earth are you doing? A fire? An insect invasion? It stinks!
I stopped spraying and turned, facemask still on. Worse, Maureen, I boomed. I found a new virus onlinefungal, goes right through the soil. You can lose your entire crop in a day unless you treat straight away. This is an experimental compound, AgroChem Fury. Apparently, nothing survives itexcept the veg. Twenty-one day quarantine on eating anything. Eat any earlier, youll wish you hadnt. Serious hospital stuffliver packs it in straight away. But after three weeks, youre golden. Im risking it for the vegetables!
Three weeks, you say? Maureen looked legitimately pale. What about if you just…touch it?
Touch? Maybe just wash your hands in acid or vodka after. If the juice gets in your eyes…well, best not think about it. Ill be burning this suit when Im done, just in case.
I went back to spraying, making sure to slosh extra blue over the cabbages. Maureen loitered at the fence, digested the information, then sidled backwards towards her house.
Oi, team! her voice rang with sudden urgency. Dont eat the rest of the salad! Chuck it away! Had a funny taste anyway, didnt it? All bitter. Could be dangerous.
I smiled under the mask. Stage One of Operation Cheapskate was a roaring success.
For a week Maureen avoided my side of the fence like it was Mordor. She glared at the blue tomatoes as if they might leap up and bite. When her grandkids scampered near the boundary, she shrieked, Dont go near! Its poison! Dont even breathe over there!
Meanwhile, Jim and I quietly washed the dye off the courgettes (theyd keep growing, and were too precious for chemical shenanigans) at dusk, and crunched them happily at tea. The tomatoes stayed blue, scaring not just Maureen but the pigeons, too.
Maureen, however, is a survivor at heart. A week later, her suspicion trumped her terror.
Helen! she called from her patio one Saturday. Whyre you eating your own cucumbers? You told me three weeks quarantine! Or are you immune to your own chemicals?
Not missing a beat, I sipped my coffee on the veranda, munching on a cucumber. These? From the supermarket, Maureen. You cant touch the home-grown stuff, its still nuclear blue. Got to keep the family safe. These imported ones taste like plastic, but what can you do?
She snorted. And how come the tomatoes are still blue after all that rain?
I shrugged. It bonds with the plants cellslatest nanotech, Maureen.
She grumbled about ruining the planet with science and shuffled off. But she stopped trespassing.
The real punchline came in August with peak harvest looming. By then, the sun and rain had faded most of the blue, leaving just a faint tint here and there.
Maureen, possibly thinking the deadly period had passed or just that greed finally trumped caution, decided to try her luck. Before leaving for the city for a couple of days, I put a massive padlock on our gate and fixed a shiny printed sign to the fence, facing her garden, sealed tight with tape.
ATTENTION! CCTV in operation. Crops treated with experimental agrochemicalsClass 3 hazard. Consumption without correct neutralisation may cause irreversible intestinal issues. Allotment committee advised. Police will be notified of any trespassing.
The CCTV bit was nonsense, of course. But it sounded rather official.
When I came back, I was greeted by a sight for sore eyes. Maureen was at the fence, ranting at the allotment committees chairman, Mr Thompson, the local stickler.
Mr Thompson, look! See what shes doing? Experimenting on us! My grandson had a bad tummymust be her vapours! Ban her chemicals! Shes spying on mecameras and all!
Mr Thompson adjusted his glasses wearily. Spotting me, he looked relieved.
Helen, good afternoon. Theres been a complaint about chemicals and surveillance.
I climbed out of the car and greeted him. No banned chemicals here, Mr Thompson. The signs just a deterrent. Weve had problems with, er, two-legged pests. As for the stomach upsetwell, if neighbours and their guests stopped pinching my veg, it wouldnt happen.
Who pinched?! Maureen shrieked. Prove it! You havent caught me!
Oh, but I have, I fibbed. Put up dummy cameras at first, switched to real before I left. Got motion sensors. Would you like to watch the footage of you reaching over the fence last Tuesday? Or maybe your guests pulling up my herbs? I was about to give the tape to the police.
Bluff. Complete bluff. But it worked. Maureen flushed red, obviously remembering every petty theft, unsure when these mythical cameras mightve appeared. The fear of public shamingplus a fineovercame even her appetite.
As if I want your chemical veg! she yelled. Choke on your tomatoes, for all I care! Ill grow my ownwont be any worse than yours!
She whirled and stomped back home, slamming the door for effect.
Mr Thompsons eyes twinkled. Is that chemical really so fierce, Helen?
Food dye and soap, Mr Thompson. Keeps off the aphids. Works even better on greedy neighbours.
He grinned. No more questions from me. Leave the sign upits a good deterrent.
From that day, we entered a cold war: Maureen ignored me pointedly and spread tales of my supposed witchcraft to anyone whod listen. I didnt mind. The harvest was safe.
But then, next spring, the real miracle happened. When I arrived for the new season, Maureen was hard at work: actually digging a bedawkwardly, but digging nevertheless. Next to her, some rather weedy seedlings bought in haste from the sale shelfbut all hers.
I walked to the fence. Maureen saw me, stood up, and brandished her spade threateningly.
What do you want? Here to gloat?
Good luck, Maureen, I said kindly. Don’t dig too deep; there’s clay under there. You might want to add some sand.
Dont need your advice! she snapped. I can manage. Im doing it my wayno chemicals, thank you.
Thats the spirit, I smiled. Home-growns always tastier.
By midsummer, Maureen had a few wonky cucumbers and tiny tomatoes of her own. She patrolled them with the pride of a gold medal-winning gardener. And, for the first time, never once looked over my fence. Turns out, when youve worked for your things, you suddenly treasure every little bit.
Some evenings, Id spot Maureen chasing off local boys whod sent a football arching into her plot.
Get out of there! shed bellow, the former mooch now a fierce defender. This isnt a park! Theres real graft gone into this!
Jim and I would share a knowing look as he poked the barbecue, chuckling quietly.
See? Id say. Much better than a fence. Letting people learn the hard way works wonders.
That autumn, as beds lay emptying, Maureen came to the fence herself. She pressed an old jam jar towards me, inside which floated three gawky cucumbers.
Here, she grunted, shoving it through the mesh, Try these. Home-grown. Pickled em from that magazine recipe.
I accepted the jar as though it was treasure.
Thank you, Maureen, Ill enjoy them. Ive some special tomato seeds for youBeef Heart, the prize-winners. You have to start them early, in February. If youd like, I can show you how.
Well all right then, she nodded, trying to mask her pleasure. If youre sure.
Of course! For those who work at it themselvesnothings too precious.
We stood in companionable silence, watching the leaves yellow. The scary sign was long gonewashed away by rain. But an invisible fence of mutual respect had sprung up, far sturdier than anything steel.
That year, my tomatoes preserved a record yield. Not a single one lost to sticky fingers.
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