Oh, come off it, neighbour, surely youre not fussing over a few cucumbers, are you? Theyll only go over and turn yellow, and Ive my grandchildren visiting. They need their vitamins. Dont be a miser, were old friends living just over the fence!
Margaret leaned over the low wire mesh dividing our gardens, her round face creased in a sickly sweet grin. One hand clutched an enamel bowl, already half-full with my strawberries, while the other reached for a blackcurrant bush that grew squarely in my patch.
I was kneeling among my carrots, pulling up the tiniest weeds, when I straightened up and my back protested with a sharp click. I wiped the soil from my brow with the back of my hand and looked up at Margaret with a firm stare. Id heard this were like family, you and I nonsense for the last three years, ever since Helen and I had bought the cottage and transformed what was once a wild, bramble-choked plot into a model garden.
Margaret, I said steadily. Youve got strawberries tooIve seen them. Why not pick your own?
Oh, dont be daft! Margaret waved me off. Theyre all tiny and sour, and the birds get half before I do. Im hopeless with all this feeding businessbit of water, bit of sun, thatll do for me. Yours are the size of plums! Its a crying shame for them to go to waste. And its just the two of youyoull never eat them all. Youll burst!
I sighed. There was absolutely no reasoning with Margaret. Her logic was bulletproof: if someone had plenty, it was their duty to share it with those who couldnt be bothered. The fact that the reason was apathy was beside the point for her.
Margarets plot was a sorry sight: old, misshapen apple trees covered in moss, flower beds that only saw a trowel on rare occasions, and an army of dandelions breezing seeds onto everyone elses soil. She came down for a bit of peacelounging in a hammock, frying cheap sausages over bricks, and blasting Radio 2 from a rusty portable.
Not me. I take pride in my patch. I know every plant by heart, order rare tomato seeds online, up at dawn to open the greenhouse, dead-heading before dusk, every tomato or cucumber a product of nightly backaches and frantic dashes out when the late frost threatened.
Margaret, I said, leave the bowl. Im collecting the strawberries for jamevery berry counts this year.
She rolled her eyes theatrically. Oh, come on, Ian, dont be so tight. Ive only picked a few for the grandchildren. Surely youre not going to snatch food from a childs mouth?
She stuffed a huge berry into her mouth, chomping for effect, and sauntered off to her cottage, prize in tow, before I could reach the fence.
I remained in my carrot bed, quietly seething. My wife, Helen, emerged from the shed with a screwdriver in hand. She had seen it all, but never liked getting involved in womens squabbles.
Margs at it again, is she? Helen asked, coming over.
Worse than ever, I said. She took the courgettes last week while we were shoppingclaimed they were overgrown and she was saving them. Now shes bold as brass with the strawberries.
You could put up a proper fence, wooden panelssix feet high, she suggested.
Were not allowed, I said, defeated. Its all supposed to be openmesh or picket only, no shadow-casting privacy fences. Besides, after the new greenhouse, weve got no budget left for it.
Each week it got worse. July was hot, everything growing madly, and Margarets visits to my side of the fence multiplied as the tomatoes ripened and cucumbers fattened.
One Saturday, Margarets family showed upten strong, with music and a crate of lager. That night as I watered the petunias, Margaret appeared at the fence, already tipsy.
Ian! she called. Be a mate. Weve run out of nibbles. Lend us a few of your Beefsteak tomatoes and a bit of your parsley? Corner shops shut, and the guests are hungry.
I straightened, hose in hand, as water soaked the roses roots.
Margaret, my tomatoes arent all ripe yet, and the ripe ones Im taking to my daughters.
She leaned over, breath heavy with alcohol, Oh, dont be so dramatic! Theyre as red as London buses. You can spare a few for friends. Ill buy you a chocolate bar next time Im in town.
No, I said, steely. Absolutely not.
Her face clouded. Fine, keep your tomatoes! I hope they split on the vine! Some neighbour you are would sooner freeze than share! And she stomped off, her friends making loud, smart remarks and feigning gagging at chemical veg.
It stung. Helen and I closed the windows and turned up the telly to drown out the laughter from next door.
In the morning, I found the greenhouse door swinging open. I dashed to my precious vinessure enough, the biggest trusses had been ripped from the bottom. Torn branches, green fruit dumped like cast-offs. The cucumber plants had gaps, and a strip of parsley was missing, roots and all.
This was theftbut more than that, it was utter disrespect. For my sweat, my time, my pride.
Helen! I called, voice shaking.
She came running, took in the damage with a grim frown. This is criminal, Ian. We could call the police. Its outright robbery.
Whod believe us? Theres no cameras; shell deny it. And if you know Margaret, shell argue black is white till shes hoarse. The committee wont do a thing.
I peered over at a silent Margaretsher party was sleeping off their hangovers. In plain sight on their table was a littered bowl of salad featuring beefy slices of my finest tomatoes and unmistakable curly parsley leaf.
Thats it, I said, my tone cold. Ive tried being nice. Now its time to be clever.
Helen looked worried. Dont break the law, love. Im not having a row with the committee over a pile of veg.
No laws broken, I grinned. Only a bit of psychology. And a dash of science.
A plan was born. I went into town and returned a few hours later with a suspicious haul: a bright yellow protective suit with hood, respirator, garden sprayer, some sachets of blue food dye, and a bottle of the foulest-smelling soap I could find.
That evening, as Margaret and her hungover brood emerged onto their decking for tea, Helen and I put on our performance.
I squeezed into the plastic suit and mask, Helen donning my old waterproof and a dust mask. Then I mixed the blue dye and soap in a bucket, the smell sharp and medicinal. The mix turned a menacing deep blue.
Helen, stand right back! I shouted through the mask, voice muffled and ominous. This stuffs potent! The instructions say full protective gear at all times!
We made a grand show spraying the tomatoes, peppers, cabbagesleaving bright blue blotches on everything. It looked as if some mutant plague, all industrial run-off and chemical warfare, had swept the plot.
Margaret edged up to the fence, wary. What on earths going on, Ian? Is there a fire? Or a bug infestation? Smells dreadful!
I faced her, mask on. Worse, I bellowed. New blight I found on the internetfungal mosaic virus. Kills the crop in 24 hours. Had to order an experimental spray. AgroTox Ultra. Kills everything but the plant.
Her face paled. Everything?
Insects, birds, mice Welland if people eat them before 21 days quarantine? Horrible poisoning, organ failure, mad rush to hospital. After three weeks, fine. But not before.
What if you just touch them? she half-whispered.
Scrub with acid and hope for the bestotherwise, better not think about it. Ill be burning this suit after.
Margaret stood rooted, then scurried back inside. A moment later Helen and I heard her shout to the family, Stop eating that salad, for heavens sake! Something tasted foul. Bin it all!
I tucked a smile behind the respirator. Round one to me.
For the next week, Margaret wouldnt go near the fence. Shed shriek at her grandkids if they came near: Dont go near! Its poison! Dont even breathe that way!
Helen and I spent our evenings rinsing the cucumbers clean with the hose, eating them at dinner. But the tomatoes stayed blue, repelling neighbour and birds alike.
Still, Margarets suspicion never stayed buried for long. Next Saturday morning, she caught me eating a cucumber on the terrace.
Oi, Ian! Whyre you eating those cucumbers? Didnt you say three weeks?
I shrugged, Bought these at the supermarket, Margaret. Ours are all blue still, see? No way Ill risk it. Got to save the crop.
She narrowed her eyes. Why havent the tomatoes washed clean? We had rain.
The stuff bonds to the skin. State-of-the-art. Nanotech.
She grumbled about nutters and their chemicals and shambled away. But she kept off my veg.
When Augusts harvest time arrived, the dye had washed away, leaving a faint blue haze around the stems. Margaret must have decided it was safe at last or maybe greed outpaced worry.
I left for London for a few days on business, padlocking the front gate and, for good measure, laminate-taping a warning sign to the mesh facing Margarets plot:
**CCTV in operation. Experimental agricultural chemicals deployedlevel three hazard. Eating produce without neutralisation can cause irreversible digestive harm. Gardening committee notified. Police will be called in event of trespass.**
Of course, there were no cameras. The chemicals were Dawn dish soap and dye. But it sounded official.
Returning, I found Margaret in full voice, complaining to our allotment chairman, Mr. Peterson.
Look at this! she shrieked, jabbing the sign. Hes poisoning the air! My grandsons had a dodgy tummy, and its from his fumes. And the cameras are spying! Make him stop all this chemical business!
Mr. Peterson looked long-suffering. Seeing my car, he looked rather relieved.
Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson. Theres a complaintabout chemicals and, er, covert cameras.
I shook his hand. Theres no illegal chemicals, Mr. Petersonits just a sign, to keep off the trespassers. And if young Harrys unwell, perhaps he shouldnt be helping himself in my garden.
Whos trespassing? Me? Prove it! Margaret cried.
I have video evidence, I lied calmly, meeting her eyes. Swapped the dummy cameras for genuine ones before I left. Motion sensors, too. Would you like to watch the footage here with the chairmanperhaps see how your guests pulled up the parsley?
Her face reddened; she knew shed been caughtand had no idea if I was bluffing.
You can keep your chemical tomatoes! she shrieked. Ill grow my own, youll see! Better than yours!
She stormed off, banging her door.
Mr. Peterson eyed my blue-tinged tomatoes, a twinkle in his gaze. No harm in deterrents, is there?
Bit of dye and soap, thats all, I said quietly.
He chuckled. Did the trick. Keep the sign up, if you like.
Relations froze after that. Margaret wouldnt say hello. If we passed, shed turn her nose skyward and gossip in the village that she lived next to a wizard and a poisoner. As long as my crop was safe, I didnt mind at all.
But the oddest thing happened the following spring. When I arrived to open up for the season, Margaret was working away in her own beds, wielding her spade with determination and some choice muttered words. Nearby, pots of scrawny seedling tomatoesher own, finally.
Taking pity, I approached. She saw me and raised her shovel as a warning.
Come to gawp, have you?
Best of luck, Margaret, I said kindly. Dont dig too deepits pure clay under there. Dig in some sand if you can.
Ill manage, she snapped. Dont need advice. Ill have my own. Grown natural. No funny business.
Indeed, I smiled. Your own always tastes best.
By midsummer, Margaret proudly showed off her first home-grown cucumbers and squat tomatoes. She policed her beds fiercely, even shooing young boys with stray footballs: Get off my patch! This isnt a park, its hard work, this is!
Helen and I exchanged a knowing look as we prepared the barbecue.
See? I said. A fence can only do so much. Letting people work for what they havereal education.
Autumn came and as we packed up for the year, Margaret approached the fence. In her hands was a jar of pickled cucumbers of varying shapes and sizes.
Here, she muttered, thrusting the jar over the mesh. Try themmy own. Recipe from a magazine.
I took them as if shed handed me a trophy. Thanks, Margaret. Well enjoy them. And next spring, Ill let you have some seedsproper ones, the Beefsteak you liked. Ill show you how to start them early.
Well… all right then, she said, failing to hide a pleased little smile. If youre not fussed.
Never fussed when someones put the work in, I replied.
We shared a brief silence, watching the garden fade into autumn. The blue chemical sign was long gone, but a strange new respect lingered in its place. It did more to mark out our boundaries than any fence ever could.
That year, I bottled more tomatoes than ever. Not a single one wasted.
Looking back, the lessons simple: its the sweat and pride you put into your own garden that makes you value itand respect what others grow for themselves. After all, nothing tastes sweeter than fruit picked from your own hard work.
