The Neighbour Knew Too Much
“Eleanor! Eleanor Whitmore, wait!” shouted their neighbour, Peter Wilson, waving his arms as he hurried after the woman near their building’s entrance. “Where are you rushing off to? I need a word!”
“I haven’t got time, Peter. I’m picking up my granddaughter from nursery,” Eleanor said, trying to step around him, but he blocked her path.
“The little one can wait. This is important—it’s about your husband, George.” Peter’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity. “Do you know where he was yesterday?”
Eleanor stiffened. A cold knot tightened in her chest, but she kept her voice steady.
“Of course I do. At the allotment. Weeding the potatoes.”
“The allotment?” Peter smirked. “Funny that. Because I saw him on High Street at three in the afternoon. Outside Boots. With a woman. Deep in conversation.”
The words hit Eleanor like a hammer. George had left early that morning, saying he’d be back by dinner. He’d returned tired and muddy, complaining his back ached from bending over the vegetable beds.
“You’re mistaken,” she murmured. “He was at the allotment all day.”
“Mistaken?” Peter pulled out his phone. “I’ve got a photo. Bit blurry—took it from across the street—but that’s definitely George.”
She didn’t want to look, but her eyes flicked to the screen. The silhouette did resemble George—the same stoop, the same way he tucked his hands in his pockets.
“Who is she?” Eleanor whispered.
“No idea. But I’ll find out. I’ve got connections, Eleanor. People talk.” Peter pocketed his phone, giving her a pitying look. “Don’t take it too hard. Men get weak sometimes. Might be nothing serious.”
Eleanor turned toward the building, legs wobbling. Behind her, Peter called cheerfully, “I’ll keep you posted! Neighbours should look out for each other!”
At home, she sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window. Forty-three years married. Two children raised, two grandchildren they adored. Could he really be so foolish, at their age?
George returned from work as usual, kissed her cheek, washed his hands, and settled at the table.
“How was the allotment?” Eleanor asked, watching him closely.
“Fine. Weeded the potatoes, thinned the onions. My back’s killing me.” George stretched, his shoulders cracking. “Got to go back tomorrow—the carrots need sorting.”
“You didn’t stop by town? Maybe for some ointment?”
He frowned. “Why would I? Took everything I needed. Did you want something from the shops?”
Eleanor turned toward the stove. Either he was a better liar than she thought, or Peter had it wrong. But the photo…
“Did you see Peter today?”
“Our neighbour? Yes, bumped into him in the lift this morning. Acting odd—asking where I was going, why. Like some detective.” George scowled. “What’s he been saying to you?”
“Nothing important. Just being nosy.”
That night, Eleanor lay awake, listening to George’s steady breathing. Forty-three years sharing a bed, and now doubt gnawed at her. Could there really be another woman? At their age?
In the morning, George left for the allotment as usual, kissing her goodbye, taking his flask and packed lunch.
“Back by tea,” he said. “Might stop for fish if the catch looks good.”
Eleanor saw him to the lift. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Peter stood there, triumphant.
“Eleanor, got a moment? Big news.”
She sighed. “Come in.”
He settled at the table, clearing his throat importantly.
“Right, about that woman. Her name’s Lydia Harper. Works at St. Mary’s surgery—a nurse. Widowed three years ago. Lives alone, kids up north.” He paused, savouring the moment. “She and George have been meeting for six months. Met in the GP’s waiting room.”
“How do you know this?” Eleanor whispered.
“My wife’s cousin works reception there. Says she sees them together often—in the café, chatting outside. And,” he leaned in, “your husband’s been seeing a cardiologist every week. Did you know?”
Eleanor paled. George never complained about his heart. Always said he was fit as a fiddle.
“I didn’t,” she admitted.
“There you go! Hiding things. Why hide if it’s innocent?” Peter nodded smugly. “Follow him tomorrow. See if he really goes to the allotment.”
“I can’t spy on my husband!”
“Why not? You’re his wife—you’ve a right to know.” He stood. “Fine, your choice. I’ve done my neighbourly duty.”
After he left, Eleanor cried. Forty-three years of trust, shattered in a day.
That evening, George brought home fresh trout, chatting about the perfect weather as he cleaned them. Her steady, familiar husband. Could he lie so easily?
“George,” she ventured, “have you seen a doctor recently? Are you unwell?”
He stilled. “Why ask?”
“Just… we’re not young. Should check these things.”
“I’m fine. Why?” He resumed cleaning, shoulders tense.
“If something’s wrong, you’d tell me?”
“Of course.” He turned, frowning. “Has someone said otherwise?”
“No one. Just worried.”
The next day, she trailed him to St. Mary’s. Felt foolish, like some TV detective.
George arrived at eleven, popped into the pharmacy, then met a plump woman in a nurse’s uniform. They spoke briefly before disappearing inside.
Her heart pounded. Peter had been right.
An hour later, they reappeared. The nurse jotted something down, handed it to George. He pocketed it, shook her hand, and left.
Eleanor approached the security guard. “That nurse—is it Lydia Harper?”
“Aye, works with Dr. Carter. Fancy an appointment? She’s not a GP, mind.”
“Which doctor does she assist?”
“Cardiology. Dr. Carter’s top-notch.”
At home, she paced. Why keep this secret?
George returned at six, weary.
“How was the allotment?” she asked.
“Hard work. Weeding’s done.” He kissed her cheek.
At dinner, she steeled herself. “Peter said he saw you at the surgery.”
George set down his fork. “Did he?”
“George, are you ill?”
“My heart,” he said quietly. “Three months ago—sharp pain at the allotment. Thought it was the end. Saw the GP—Dr. Carter said it’s serious. Needs treatment, maybe surgery.”
“Good Lord! Why not tell me?”
“Didn’t want to scare you. Planned to explain once things were clearer.” He squeezed her hand. “What else did Peter say?”
“That you were having an affair with the nurse.”
George snorted. “Lydia? She’s old enough to be my mother! Just thorough—explains the meds, the diet.”
“I believed him. Even followed you today.”
“Did you?” He smiled wryly. “Learn anything?”
“That you were discussing diets.”
“Aye. Dr. Carter says I’ve got to cut the salt.” He handed her the note—dietary advice, nothing more.
“Forgive me. I should’ve trusted you.”
“It’s alright. Looked suspicious, I suppose.” He hugged her. “But we need to deal with Peter. Man’s got too much time on his hands.”
A week later, Peter returned, smug.
“Well? Sorted things with George?”
“We have. Thanks for your concern.”
“And?” His eyes gleamed.
“Turns out you were right—he was seeing that woman.”
“Ha! Knew it!”
“She’s his cardiac nurse. He’s been ill.”
Peter’s face fell. “Ill?”
“Heart trouble. Seeing a specialist. The nurse helps with his treatment.” She fixed him with a look. “Next time, get the full story before stirring trouble.”
“I only meant to help—”
“Gossiping isn’t helping.” She opened the door. “Goodbye, Peter.”
That evening, she told George.
“Good,” he said. “Maybe he’ll back off now.”
“Should we move? Away from busybodies?”
“Why? We’ve a good home here. Let him stew.”
She smiled. “Just promise no more secrets.”
“And you promise no more spying. Bit daft at our age.”
They laughed, the weight lifting. Trust mattered—and they’d defend theirs.
Peter quietened after that, his nosiness curbed.
Six months later, Dr. Carter said George’s heart had improved—no surgery needed. Nurse Lydia became a family friend, always checking in.
Eleanor learned a lesson: some people know too much but understand too little. AndYears later, whenever she caught Peter peering from his window, Eleanor would simply smile, knowing some things—like trust and love—were mysteries her gossipy neighbour would never truly understand.
