Oh, come now, neighbour! Surely you wouldnt begrudge me a few cucumbers, would you? Theyll only get overripe and spoil. My grandchildren have come to visit they need their vitamins! Dont be so stingy, were friends after all we just have a fence between us!
Margaret leaned over the low chain-link fence dividing our plots, her round, beaming face stretching into an unctuous smile. She was holding an enamel bowl already half-filled with my strawberries, and her other hand was sneaking for the blackcurrant bush growing firmly on my side.
Kneeling in the carrot bed, I, Alice, was pulling the tiniest of weeds. I straightened up slowly, feeling my back creak in protest. Wiping soil and sweat from my brow with the back of my dirty hand, I fixed Margaret with a heavy stare. Friends Id heard this before, ever since my husband, Jack, and I bought our little place on the Kentish allotments, transforming what was once a wild, nettle-ridden patch into a model English garden.
Margaret, I said evenly, but firmly, youve got strawberries, too. Ive seen them. Why not pick your own?
Oh, those little things? she waved dismissively, utterly unfazed. Sour as anything, and the birds always get there first. I havent got green fingers like you, cant be faffing about with feed and sprays. I just let nature take her course. But yours, my word, are beauties like something from Marks & Sparks! Its a crime to let all that go to waste when theres just you and Jack! What will you do with it all?
I let out a deep sigh. Margarets logic was impenetrable. She honestly believed that if someone has plenty, they should simply give some to those who cant be bothered hard graft clearly didnt count in her eyes.
Her plot was a sorry state: lopsided old apple trees covered in moss, the only evidence of a spade to be found at Christmas, and buttercups and dandelions happily invading everyone elses borders. Margaret came down to the allotment just to soothe her soul: lazing about in a deckchair, grilling discount sausages, and blasting Radio 2 from a battered speaker.
Gardening, though, was my passion. I knew each plant by name, ordered rare varieties of tomatoes online, rose at five to open the greenhouse, and watered long after dusk had fallen. Every tomato, every cucumber, was the fruit (quite literally) of sore backs and sleepless nights spent worrying over sudden late frosts.
Margaret, put the bowl down, I said, Im saving the strawberries for jam. Every berrys spoken for.
Oh, dont start that again! she huffed, rolling her eyes melodramatically. So mean! I only took a few, just for the kids, you wouldnt snatch food from a childs mouth, would you?
She popped a fat berry into her mouth before I could reach the fence, and swept off, loaded with stolen goods.
I stood fuming amidst the carrots, feeling irritation bubbling up. Jack, my husband, came out from the shed, plane in hand. Hed witnessed the scene but stayed out he loathed getting tangled in womens squabbles.
At it again, is she? he asked, meandering over.
Like a pesky goat in my patch, I replied darkly. She took my courgettes last week as well, while we were at the shops. Said she thought wed forgotten about them. Now shes helping herself to the strawberries, right in front of me.
Just put up a proper fence, Jack suggested. Solid, tall. Out of sight, out of mind.
Cant, I sighed. Allotment rules only allow mesh or picket, so you dont block the light. And weve just spent the last of our savings on the new greenhouse.
Each week, things got worse. July turned sweltering, and I was buried with produce: tomatoes ripening in bunches, crisp cucumbers, peppers swelling like jewels. Margarets visits to the fence became a daily nuisance.
One Saturday, Margaret had a whole crowd in at least ten noisy friends, music blaring, crates of lager. That evening, as I watered the roses, a tipsy Margaret staggered to the fence.
Alice! she yelled, Do us a favour, love were out of nibbles. Let us have a few of those lovely tomatoes of yours, the big ones, and a bunch of greens? Ill get you a bar of Dairy Milk later. Shops miles away and the partys not stopping yet!
I straightened, hose in hand, water pooling at the roots.
My tomatoes arent all ripe, I said, holding my ground. The best ones are for my daughter Im off into town tomorrow.
Oh, dont be such a miser! Margaret huffed, slurring, Look at them all red and shining! Youd turn a friend down over a few tomatoes?
No, Margaret. I kept my tone ice-cold. No.
Her face twisted, smile slipping away.
Fine you sit there with your tomatoes! May they all rot! Some neighbour you are Miserly as anything! Cant get a crumb out of you! She stomped off. That evening, snide remarks and raucous laughter drifted over the fence: Stuck-up Londoners… would sell their own grannies… who wants her chemical veg anyway… The words stung, but I just turned the TV up and closed the windows.
Next morning, I opened the back door and froze. The new greenhouses door swung ajar. My heart dropped. Sure enough, the largest trusses of tomatoes had been torn off, branches broken, even some green tomatoes lying discarded on the earth. The cucumber count was down, and a bald gap in the herb bed marked where dill and parsley had been yanked, roots and all.
It wasnt just theft it was a slap in the face to all my work.
Jack! I called, shaking.
He assessed the devastation, face darkening. No joke, Alice. Thats theft, serious stuff.
Oh, Jack. Wholl prove it? No cameras. Shell deny everything, or say I picked them myself and just want to cause trouble. You know what Margarets like.
I peered over the fence. The neighbours plot lay quiet; her crowd was still sleeping it off. Among the bottles on her veranda sat a bowl of leftover salad my tomatoes, my parsley, unmistakable even at a distance.
Thats it, I said, vengeance burning in my voice. Enoughs enough. Ive tried being nice. Now its time for a different tack. Clever and a little bit sneaky.
Jack raised an eyebrow. Nothing illegal, I hope. Im not arguing with the police over a bucket of tomatoes.
Nothing illegal, I smirked. Just a dash of mind games… and a splash of chemistry.
Off to the garden centre in town I went and returned with a strange collection: a luminous yellow rain suit with a hood, a respirator, safety goggles, a garden sprayer, several packs of ordinary blue food dye, and the stinkiest liquid soap I could find.
That evening, when Margaret and friends stumbled onto the veranda for tea, the performance began. I donned my yellow suit, mask, and thick gloves; Jack sported an old fishermans coat and a dust mask. Together, we marched out to the greenhouse.
I made a huge show of mixing water in a bucket, pouring in a pottle of blue dye, and half a bottle of the reeking soap. The concoction looked positively radioactive, sending up sharp fumes.
Jack, stand clear! I called through the mask, loud enough for the next plot. This is serious stuff! Says here do NOT touch without protection!
I began spraying the tomatoes, peppers, and cabbages with the inky solution. Leaves and fruit quickly stained a menacing blue.
Margaret, drawn by the scent and spectacle, edged closer.
What on earth are you doing, Alice? Spraying for a fire? Or have you been invaded by bugs? she shouted.
I paused, keeping my mask on. Worse, Margaret! Found a mysterious new virus online a deadly mosaic fungus. Whole crops can rot inside a day. Had to buy this experimental treatment; proper industrial stuff, they say it kills everything but the plant itself.
What do you mean, everything? Margaret looked pale.
Insects, birds, mice and apparently its dodgy for humans too, if you eat it too soon. Youre supposed to wait a good twenty-one days before picking anything. Otherwise, awful poisoning straight to hospital, liver packs it in but after three weeks, no danger. So Im risking it, but what choice do I have?
Twenty-one days? Margaret repeated faintly, hand on her stomach. And just touching?
If you rinse your hands quickly in acid or spirits you might get away with it. But if the juice gets in your mouth… best not think about it. Ill be burning these overalls after.
I kept spraying away, not sparing the blue goo. Margaret stood frozen another moment, then shuffled quickly back to her house.
Heard that, everyone? she called loudly. Dont eat the salad! I didnt like the taste, anyway. Might get a bad tummy best chuck it.
Smiling behind the mask, I knew part one of Operation No Freebies was a roaring success.
For a week, Margaret gave my patch a wide berth, glaring wary suspicion at my blue tomatoes and whispering warnings to her grandchildren if they so much as neared the fence.
Meanwhile, Jack and I quietly rinsed the blue off the cucumbers with the garden hose each evening and munched them happily. The tomatoes stayed blue, frightening off birds and nosy humans alike.
Margaret, however, was wily. By the next Saturday, suspicion edged out her fear.
Alice! she cried across the fence, Why are you eating cucumbers, if your greenhouse is poisoned? Or is it that this so-called poison doesnt work on mutants like you?
I looked up from my coffee and cucumber, not missing a beat.
These are shop-bought, Margaret. I wouldnt dare eat my own at the moment see, theyre blue as anything. I wouldnt risk it for the world. Have to eat these bland ones from the supermarket.
Margaret narrowed her eyes.
And how come your tomatoes are still blue after all that rain?
Its a permanent treatment works right into the plant! Nanotechnology, you know. Proper science!
She grumbled her way back to her deckchair, muttering about chemicals everywhere and ruining the countryside, but never again tried for my produce.
August rolled round; most of the blue had faded in the sun and rain, leaving just a faint bluish tinge near the stems. The main harvest came due. Margaret, perhaps convinced the quarantine was up, or just overtaken by greed, seemed tempted again.
I was off to town for couple of days. On my way out, I padlocked the garden gate and hung a smart printed sign on the fence for Margarets benefit:
Warning! CCTV in use. Plot treated with experimental agrochemicals (Category 3 hazard). Eating produce without special neutralisation risks irreversible damage to digestive tract. Allotment Association notified. Trespassers will face legal action.
Of course there were no cameras, but the police bit sounded suitably official.
Two days later, I returned to an extraordinary scene. Margaret stood at the fence, berating Mr. Peter Johnson, our stickler of an Allotment Association chairman.
Peter, just look at this! Shes poisoning the air my grandson had a tummy ache, its that horrid blue stuff! Ban her! Make her take her chemicals away! Cameras everywhere, shes spying!
Peter, forever patient, saw my car pull in and looked genuinely relieved.
Good afternoon, Alice. Weve had a complaint about chemical use and surveillance.
Theres nothing dangerous, Peter, I replied brightly. The sign is just a warning. Had trouble with thieves, you see. And as for Margarets grandsons tummy, perhaps if people stopped taking things from my plot, they’d have nothing to worry about?
Margaret bristled. Who, me? Prove it! You cant!
Ive got it on video, I lied coolly. I swapped the dummy cameras for real ones before I left. With motion sensors. Lets watch the tape together, shall we? Maybe see you reaching over the fence last Tuesday, or your friends pulling up dill on Saturday? I was just about to file a report.
Margarets cheeks went crimson she knew what shed done, and the possibility of shaming in front of Peter, not to mention a fine, put her off entirely.
Keep your wretched, chemical-stuffed tomatoes! she huffed, storming off.
Peter grinned slyly at me. Was it really toxic stuff, Alice?
Just food colouring and soap, Peter brilliant against aphids, and perfect against greedy neighbours.
He chuckled. No more questions. Leave the sign up if you like a deterrent is no bad thing.
From that day, Margaret and I entered our own little cold war. She cut me dead in the lane, telling anyone whod listen that I was some sort of witch poisoning the neighbourhood. I didnt mind. The tomatoes were safe; not one went missing.
But the best part came next spring. Arriving for the new season, I saw Margaret actually digging her beds. Not well, not straight, but digging all the same. Around her, boxes of stringy plug plants stood ready.
I wandered over. She straightened defensively, wielding her spade like a pike.
What do you want? Here to gloat?
Best of luck, Margaret! I called cheerfully. Mind you dont dig too deep, theres clay underneath. Bit of sand might help.
I know! she snapped. Dont need advice. Ill grow my own no chemicals, no witchcraft.
Exactly, I smiled. Homegrowns always tastier.
By midsummer, she had her own little wonky cucumbers and tomatoes, and she eyed them with the pride of an RHS gold medallist. And, notably, she never so much as glanced at my plot again. Seems that when its your sweat and toil, you learn the true worth of every vegetable.
One evening I spotted her chasing local lads away from her patch, when their ball had bounced too close.
Off you go! This isnt a football pitch! Ive worked hard for this! bellowed my reformed neighbour.
Jack and I exchanged a quiet chuckle by the barbecue.
See? I said. You wanted a fence. Turns out a bit of hard graft is the best teacher of all.
At the end of the season, Margaret appeared at the fence holding a jar of slightly murky home-pickled cucumbers.
Here try these. My own recipe, straight from Good Housekeeping, she muttered, thrusting it over.
I accepted the gift as if it were treasure.
Thank you, Margaret. Ill return the favour with some proper tomato seeds next spring the very same variety. You sow them in February; Ill show you how.
She hesitated, trying not to smile. Alright. If youre sure you dont mind.
Not at all, I said. For those who put in the work, theres always enough to go around.
We stood for a while in comfortable silence, watching over the fading roses and the golden light over the hedgerows. My warning sign had long since peeled away in the rain, but the invisible line of respect remained sturdier than any fence.
That autumn, I preserved a record crop of tomatoes, and not a single one went to waste.
