Margaret learned that her husband was seeing the woman next door at their allotment, and she only found out when she popped round to borrow some salt for pickling her cucumbers.
Jamesher Jamesanswered the door, standing there in his boxers and vest.
“Jim?” she managed, her voice barely more than a squeak.
He turned pale, then red, and then pale again.
“Maggie I can explain”
Behind him appeared the neighbourEdithwhod been widowed years ago. Shed just tossed a dressing gown on, clearly over bare skin.
“James, whos at the Oh”
They all stared at each other for a second. Then Margaret turned on her heel and hurried to the gate, moving so quickly she was nearly running.
“Maggie! Wait!” James dashed after her, not caring he was nearly in his birthday suit.
The whole lane lined with its dozen allotment plots flooded out to see the show.
James Smith, head of the allotment committee and usually the most respected chap in the area, running after his wife in nothing but his smalls.
“The circus has come to town,” commented Mike from next door.
Margaret ran into their cottage, locking the door behind her. James hammered on it from outside.
“Maggie, open up! Let me explain!”
“For how many years?” she shouted back through the wood.
“What?”
“For how long have you been seeing her?”
He went silent. Then, barely audible, he confessed, “Eighteen.”
Margaret slid down the wall, landing in a heap on the floor. Eighteen years. Her youngest, Peter, had just turned eighteen.
A moment later, the gate creaked and in walked Edith, neat and presentable now, hair brushed back.
“Margaret, come out. We need to talk.”
“Get lost, you snake!”
“Were adults, Margaret. No need for hysterics.”
Margaret steadied herself, opened the door, and sat on the steps. Edith perched beside her. James shuffled uncomfortably a few feet away.
“Eighteen years,” Margaret repeated. “How?”
“Remember when your back went and you were in hospital all those weeks?” Edith began.
Of course she remembered. Operation, months to recover. That summer James ruined all the cucumbers, let the tomatoes rot. Shed even wondered how he was coping on his own.
“I helped him out,” Edith carried on. “The garden, the cooking and, well”
“Then it all kicked off,” James mumbled.
“Eighteen years!” Margaret stood so fast she nearly toppled over. “You both thought I was a fool for eighteen years!”
“No one thought you were a fool,” Edith replied, standing too. “You lived your life, we lived ours.”
“Ours? Hes my husband! The father of my children!”
“So? He stopped being your husband? Did your kids go hungry? Did the allotment go wild?”
Margaret nearly raised her hand, but James caught her arm.
“Maggie, dont.”
“Dont touch me!”
She shook him off and stormed back inside. Outside, the neighbours had gathered, gossip spreading like wildfire.
“Move along!” James yelled. “The shows over!”
But people just muttered and lingered. Linda from Plot 3 chimed in, “I always knew it! Saw them together, you know!”
“Rubbish,” shouted her husband. “Youre as blind as a bat!”
“Blind? I see plenty!”
That evening, Margaret sat out on the veranda. James paced restlessly.
“Maggie, say something.”
“What should I say? Divorce?”
“Divorce? Were both past sixty!”
“So? No one over sixty splits up?”
“Maggie, come on, dont be daft. Weve been together forty years!”
“Eighteen of those, you were with Edith too.”
“But I lived with you! I only went round hers sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Well twice a week.”
“Twice a week for eighteen years is hardly sometimes, Jim. Thats a routine.”
He sat opposite her, head in hands.
“Maggie, you have to understand. I love you. But with Edith its different.”
“Better, is it?”
“Not better. Just different. With you Ive got home, kids, all the day-to-day stuff. With her its a break from everything.”
“A break! Id love a break. But someones got to pickle the damn cucumbers!”
“Exactly! Youre always doing something! Cucumbers, tomatoes, jam! Sometimes I just want to sit, have a drink, chat.”
“And you cant chat with me?”
“We only ever talk about the kids, grandkids, the garden. With her, we talk about life, books”
“She reads?” Margaret was genuinely astonished. Shed always thought of Edith as a no-nonsense country woman.
“She does. Knows her poetry, loves the classics.”
Margaret nearly laughed, imagining James discussing classics.
“So now what?”
“I dont know. Its up to you.”
“Me? And what about you?”
“Maggie Im sixty-two. Id like some peace, thats all.”
“Peace with who, me or her?”
The silence stretched.
“Cant I have both?”
Margaret grabbed the first thing to handa jar of picklesand lobbed it at him. It smashed against the wall.
“Get out!”
James left, presumably to Ediths, no surprises there.
Margaret couldnt sleep that night. Her thoughts circled round and round the last forty years. Children, grandchildren, the plot theyd carved out together. And eighteen years of him seeing Edith.
But was it really betrayal? He never promised hed always be faithful. Never swore undying love. He just lived. Both with her, and with Edith.
Next morning, Linda from Plot 5 turned up with a Victoria sponge.
“Margaret, chin up, love.”
“Cheers.”
“If you want, my Ian can have a word with your James. Give him a bloody nose.”
“Oh, no need for that. Were not kids.”
“Whatll you do, then?”
“Nothing. For now.”
“Id have thrown him out. Proper rotter!”
“Linda, isnt your Ian seen with Julie from Plot 3 sometimes?”
Linda went scarlet.
“Whered you get that from?”
“Ive seen them, out in the raspberries.”
“Thats thats different!”
“How?”
“They were talking veg!”
“Arms round each other, were they?”
Linda flounced off, banging the door behind her.
By lunchtime, Mike popped round.
“Margaret, um need a hand in the garden? Turn over the veg beds or something?”
“Im fine, Mike, but thanks.”
“Only James said hed be by later to pick up his things.”
“His pants, you mean?”
“Not sure. Just passing the message.”
“Well, message received.”
Mike shuffled awkwardly, then left.
Sure enough, James came round in the evening, head bowed.
“Just getting my things.”
“Help yourself.”
She followed him inside.
“Jim, why Edith? Whats so special?”
He stopped in his tracks.
“I dont know. Its just easy with her.”
“And Im difficult?”
“Not difficult, love. But you You always know how things are meant to be done. The right way to pickle cucumbers, when to plant potatoes, how much to give the grandkids for their birthdays. Edith doesnt know anything. She asks me.”
“Makes you feel clever?”
“More like needed.”
Margaret sat on the edge of the bed.
“I dont know everything, Jim. For instance, Ive no idea how to carry on when your blokes had another woman for eighteen years.”
He sat down beside her.
“Maggie…”
“I dont know how to look Peter in the eye, or tell Maisie why grandads living next door now.”
“You dont have to tell them anything.”
“I do, Jim. Alecs coming tomorrow, with his wife and little one. What should I say?”
“Just say we had a row.”
James looked at her hopefully.
“Maggie, could we just pretend nothing happened? Put it all behind us?”
“How exactly?”
“You know carry on as before.”
“Oh right, with Edith over the fence, you crossing paths daily, and pretending everythings tickety-boo?”
“So what do you want?”
She stood, stared out the window. Edith was out there watering her cucumbers. Same old dressing gown.
“Live wherever you please, Jim. But you explain things to the grandkids.”
“Maggie!”
“And you can pickle your own cucumbers this year.”
“I cant!”
“Ediths so clever, shell manage. Shes read the classics, so she can read a recipe.”
James took his bundle of things and left. Once again, every curtain on the lane was twitching.
That night Margaret woke to noises in the garden. She found James skulking by the greenhouse.
“What are you playing at?”
“Checking the tomatoes. Weathers meant to be scorching tomorrow, need to open the vents.”
“But youve left, Jim.”
“I have. But those tomatoes are still mine! I grew them!”
“So?”
“So I wont let them die!”
He opened the greenhouse then vanished over the neighbour’s fence.
Alec and family came the next morning.
“Mum, wheres Dad?”
“Next door.”
“Visiting?”
“Living there.”
Alecs jaw dropped.
“Seriously?”
Margaret told him, as blunt and brief as possible.
“Eighteen years? Mum, that means when Pete was born?”
“Looks like it.”
Alec stormed round to Ediths, voices were raised, a gate slammed. He returned, shaking his head.
“Dad says he loves you both.”
“Well, arent we the lucky ones.”
“Mum, dont be like that. Maybe he really does.”
“Alec, could you do itlove two women at once?”
“Me? God no. But Dad… Dads different.”
“Thats the truth.”
Her grandson ran in from the garden.
“Gran, why does Grandpa live at Aunty Edie’s now?”
“Grandpas helping her with the veg, love,” Margaret replied.
Alec burst out laughing.
“Mum, youre priceless!”
Another sleepless night. More noises in the vegetable patch. James this time watering the courgettes.
“Are you off your rocker, Jim?”
“Theres a drought, Maggie! Everything will die!”
“Your new familys waiting. Go water their plot.”
“Ediths got her own garden!”
“Go and see to it then!”
“This one’s still mine!”
Margaret picked up the hose.
“Here. Ill helpotherwise youll be here all morning.”
They watered in silence. Shared a bench afterwards.
“Jim, honestly, who do you love more?”
“Maggie, dont start.”
“No, really. Which of us?”
James pondered.
“You both. But in different ways.”
“How?”
“Youre like my right hand. Familiar, dependable. I couldnt manage without you. Shes more like a holidayrare, but nice when it happens.”
“What if I wasnt around anymore, Jim?”
“Dont say that!”
“But if I werentwould you marry Edith?”
“Probably not. Shed become the right hand, and the holidays would vanish.”
“So you want both of us.”
“Seems so.”
They sat staring at the stars.
“Maybe I should go on holiday myself,” Margaret murmured.
James leapt up.
“What? With who?”
“Maybe Mike. He offered to help today.”
“Mike?! I swear Ill”
“Do what? You live with Edith now.”
“Thats different!”
“How?”
“Maggie, youre not like that.”
“How would you know? Maybe Im big on the classics too, you know.”
“Youre not.”
“I could be.”
James stopped.
“Seriously, Maggie. What do you want?”
And what did she want? Everything to go back to how it was? But things would never be the same again. Not ever.
“I want my quiet life. To pickle cucumbers. Mind the grandkids.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Live wherever you like.”
“You mean”
“If you want Edith, go. If you want home, come home. Just no more lies.”
“And if Mike comes calling?”
“He wont. Hes got Ann from Plot 9.”
“How do you know?”
“Jim, Im not blind. I just kept quiet. Like everyone else.”
Next morning, James returned with his bag.
“Maggie, are you sure I can come back?”
“Beds in the shed. Blow up the airbed, make yourself comfy.”
He dumped his bundle and went off to find the pump.
Neighbours watched and muttered. Edith watered her cucumbers, eyes locked on her book, pretending it was all perfectly ordinary.
Alec stepped out onto the porch.
“Mum, Dad back?”
“Blowing up an airbed in the shed.”
“Youre a saint. Forgiven him, eh?”
“Im neither saint nor fool, love. Just too old for change now.”
A week later, James moved in from the shed. Another month, and Margaret didnt even notice when he slipped off twice a week next door. By the next summer, no one on the lane even gossiped about it.
New scandals sprang up. Julie from Plot 3 ran off with Pete from Plot 5, while Linda swapped houses with her husbands new flame.
Margaret pickled cucumbers. James built a new greenhouse. Edith read her book on the other side of the fence.
In the end, what is love? Living forty years together, raising children, building a life, planting a garden.
And realising nothing is ever perfect. Not even love.
Especially not love.
