You know, youre not going to believe this, but my neighbour was actually nicking my compost by the bagful, every night. Im not exaggerating! So last night, I decided to be extra generous and sprinkled in a lovely helping of yeast for her.
Been sneaking over to my pile with your buckets again, have you? I didnt even bother phrasing it as a questionit was as plain as day.
Lindamy neighbour from over the fencebarely batted an eyelid. She just stood there in her vegetable patch, leaning on her spade, staring right back at me as if she were the innocent party being accused of something dreadful.
Oh, come on, Emma. Why are you making such a fuss? Youve got a mountain of the stuff! Surely you dont mind sharing with an old childhood friend?
Its not just stuff, Linda. That there is two hundred quids worth, delivery included, I said, nodding toward my once-impressive heap now looking rather depleted. And actually, its mine.
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought theyd get stuck. Oh, dont be so stingy! So I took a couple of buckets for my courgettesits hardly robbing Fort Knox, is it? My pension wouldnt stretch to bulk buying like some people.
She knew just how to wind me up, did Linda. Shes got a real knack for playing the victimalways someone elses fault, the government, the weather, sunspots and of course, me, because my tomatoes ripen before hers do.
I stomped back into the house, absolutely fuming. It wasnt about the compost, or the cash, really. It was the sheer cheek and the fact she treated me like a mug.
And anyway, every night, right about two, Id hear that telltale rustling. Not just the odd bucketLindas not one for half measures. Shed fill up big black garden sacks and haul them off like she was prepping for the apocalypse.
Tom was in the kitchen, munching toast and doing the crossword.
She been pinching again? he asked, barely looking up.
Yep. And called me tight-fisted for my trouble.
Set a trap for her.
Oh brilliant, then try explaining to everyone why next-doors hobbling around one-legged. No, I need something a tad cleverer.
I glanced out the window at her precious greenhousethe envy of the street. Linda loved to brag about her special varieties and her supposed magic touch. Magic, all right, especially when it comes to taking whats not hers.
Couldnt sleep at all that night. Listened to the dogs barking, crickets going mad, and sure enoughscrape, shuffle. That spade crunching through my carefully tended heap. My compost, kept warm and covered, and there she was, helping herself like she owned the place.
The next morning, I stepped outside and there she was, busy with her borders.
Morning, Emma! she trilled. Looks like your squashes are turning yellowhope theyre not sick?
You could practically see the glow on her faceit was obvious shed dragged off at least three bags last night.
Hello, Linda. Wishful thinking, I said, not missing a beat.
As I headed to the shed, I spotted the shelf with all my gardening odds and endsthe seeds, plant feeds, and a big yellow tub of dried yeast for the strawberries. Suddenly, an idea popped into my head.
Linda always stashed her loot in tough building bags, tied up tight and shoved into the greenhouse so the good stuff could do its thing in the heat. And that greenhousestifling hot and humidjust right for a little home-baked fermentation, if you catch my drift.
I grabbed a bucket, poured in some warm water, emptied out the last of the sugar from the cupboard, and tipped in the whole tub of yeast. It fizzed, bubbled, smelled a bit like dodgy brew, and, lets be honest, felt like the perfect taste of justice waiting to happen.
Once it got dark and before she could skulk over, I quietly circled round the back. I knew the precise spot in the fence where she always squeezed through. Thats just where I poured that bucket of starter, carefully mixing it into the top layer. Like taking a souvenir? Heres a special blend, with love.
Back home, I gave my hands a good scrub and snuggled under the duvet, feeling like the universe was back in balance.
What are you grinning about? Tom mumbled sleepily.
Just looking forward to some sweet dreams, I said, tucking myself in.
The night was quiet for a changeno rustling, no spade, nothing. Guess Linda was playing it safe.
Morning didnt start with a cuppa or birdsong, though. Instead, we were jolted awake by the sort of bloodcurdling bellow that makes you think someones wrestling a wild boar in their veg bed.
Tom leapt up, half-dressed, peering out the window.
What the hells going on out there?!
I threw my dressing gown on and stepped outside. The air was crisp, but there was this unmistakable sour tang drifting over. Linda was standing by her shiny new polycarbonate greenhouse, doors flung wide open.
Honestly, she looked a picturebrown splodges all over, like someone had flicked mud at her with a paintbrush. I wandered over to the fence, putting on my very best look of surprise.
What happened, Linda? Did your water main burst?
She turned painfully slowly. Her face? A mix of horror andwell, more of that lovely brown stuff.
It it exploded! she croaked. Emma! It was alive!
I peered through the mesh, fighting the urge to whistle. Insideit looked like a scene from a bad sitcom. Where last night thered been bags neatly lined up, now thered clearly been some sort of disaster.
Turns out, yeast in a hot, moist environmenttrapped in airtight sacksreally gets things going. The bags mustve puffed up like party balloons, until, finally, pop! Everything burst its sides.
Plastic everywhere, compost splattered up the glass, over the ceiling, plants flattened like the victim of a food fight. And in the middle: Linda, star of the mornings entertainment.
So, what went bang then? I asked, trying to sound as deadpan as possible.
The bags! she screeched. I popped in to check and one just went off! Another followed! Emma, what on earth did you add?
Me? I blinked innocently. Linda, that compost was on my patch. The only thing in it is what Bessie the cow left behind.
How it hopped over into your greenhouse, lovingly packed into sacks, now that is a curious mystery, isnt it?
Linda froze. You could see the cogs in her mind turning. If she admitted it was my compostshed be admitting the theft. If she claimed it was hers, well, whod she blame for the indoor fireworks? She just stood there, both literally and figuratively, marinating.
This is sabotage! she eventually blurted. You tried to poison me!
With natural fertiliser? I shrugged. Maybe its just bad luck in your greenhouse. Bit of bad karma? Funny, you always did say you had the magic touch.
Tom came out to take a look, covered his mouth to stifle a laugh, then ran back inside before he lost it completely. Linda, meanwhile, was furiously hosing herself down, but nothing was shifting that pong. It wasnt just fertiliser, it was a smell that screamed defeat.
That day, gossip flew round the village about all the strange bangs at Lindas. Theories ranged from moonshine to meteorites. As for the culprit? Not a peepshe was out there scrubbing her greenhouse till dusk.
She had to haul out all her seedlings and replace the top layer of soilit was far too potent for even her hardiest plants. That evening, she skipped our usual neighbourly tea on the porcha real first.
A week later and another lorryload of compost arrived for me. Same spot as ever. That night, I woke up in eerie silenceno sneaking, no scraping, no tell-tale rustling.
I crept out to the gardenmy heap, bathed in moonlight, untouched.
Morning came, and Linda strutted past my gatedeliberately looking the other way. Shed taken to buying shop-bought fertiliser nowflashy packaging, and, more importantly, paid for out of her own purse.
Morning, Linda! I called. How are your peppers coming along?
She stopped, glanced at me. No apology, just a flicker of fear about what other odd ingredients I might throw in.
Theyre fine, she muttered. Dont need any of your charity.
Good to hear. If you ever do need that special mix, you know who to ask.
She made a face, practically spat at the ground, and stomped home. I went inside and made myself a nice builders brew.
I felt calm, contentnot gleeful, just pleased everything was finally as it should be. Whats yours stays yours, and some boundaries dont need fencesthey just need a bit of creative thinking.
And a bag of dried yeast now has pride of place on my top shelf, just in case another cheeky neighbour fancies testing my generosity. You never know. Everyones got their own language, after all.
