The Neighbour Knew Too Much
“Margaret! Margaret, wait a moment!” called Mr. Thompson from number twelve, waving his arm as he hurried to catch up with her near the front steps. “Where are you off to in such a rush? I need a word!”
“I haven’t the time, Mr. Thompson. I must fetch my granddaughter from nursery,” Margaret replied, attempting to step around him, but he blocked her path.
“The little one can wait. This is serious—it concerns your husband, Edward.” The neighbour’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling eagerness. “Do you know where he was yesterday?”
Margaret froze. A cold weight settled in her chest, though she kept her composure.
“Of course I do. At the allotment, tending to the potatoes.”
“The allotment?” Mr. Thompson smirked. “Funny, that. I saw him at half past two on High Street. Near Boots the Chemist. With a woman. They were talking rather intimately.”
The words struck Margaret like a hammer blow. Edward had left early that morning, saying he’d be back by supper. When he returned, he was exhausted, dirt under his nails, complaining of an aching back from hours of digging.
“You must be mistaken,” she said quietly.
“Mistaken?” Mr. Thompson pulled out his mobile. “Here’s a photo. Blurry, mind—taken from a distance—but that’s Edward, no question.”
She didn’t want to look, yet her eyes betrayed her. The stoop of the man’s shoulders, the way he stood with his hands in his pockets—it was unmistakably Edward.
“Who is she?” Margaret whispered.
“Ah, that I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out. I’ve connections, Margaret. Friends in useful places.” He pocketed his phone with a sympathetic tilt of his head. “Now, don’t take it too hard. Men are weak creatures. Might be nothing serious.”
Margaret turned away, legs trembling as she climbed the steps. Behind her, Mr. Thompson called cheerfully, “If I learn more, I’ll let you know! Neighbours ought to look out for one another!”
At home, she sat at the kitchen table, staring through the window. Forty-three years married. Forty-three! Two children raised, two grandchildren doted upon. Could he really be so foolish now, at their age?
Edward returned from work as usual, kissed her cheek, washed his hands, and sat to supper.
“How was the allotment?” Margaret asked lightly, watching him.
“Fine. Got the potatoes weeded, thinned the onions. Dead tired—my back’s killing me.” He stretched, his spine cracking. “Must go back tomorrow for the carrots.”
“Did you pop into town? For liniment, perhaps?”
Her husband frowned. “Town? I had everything I needed. Why, was I meant to fetch something?”
Margaret turned to the stove. Either he was a superb liar, or Mr. Thompson had been wrong. But the photo…
“Edward, did you see Mr. Thompson today?”
“Our neighbour? Aye, in the lift this morning. Odd fellow lately—kept asking where I was off to, why. Like some nosy detective.” Edward’s brow furrowed. “What’s he said to you?”
“Nothing of consequence. Just passing remarks.”
That night, Margaret lay awake, listening to Edward’s steady breaths. Forty-three years sharing a bed, and now doubt crept in. Could there truly be another woman? At their age?
In the morning, Edward left for the allotment with his thermos and lunch pail. “Back by tea,” he said. “Might stop at the fishmonger’s if they’ve anything good.”
Margaret saw him to the lift. Within half an hour, the doorbell rang. Mr. Thompson stood there, triumphant.
“Margaret, may I come in? News for you.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
He settled at the table, clearing his throat importantly. “I’ve found out about that woman. Lydia Moore. Works at St. Thomas’s surgery, a nurse. Widowed three years back. Lives alone, children up north.” He paused for effect. “She and your Edward have been acquainted six months. Met in the doctor’s queue.”
“How do you know this?”
“My wife’s cousin works reception there. Says they’re often seen together—in the canteen, chatting on benches. And”—he leaned in—”your husband visits the cardiologist weekly. Did you know?”
Margaret paled. Edward had never mentioned heart trouble. Always boasted he was fit as a fiddle.
“I… didn’t.”
“See? Hiding things. Why, if it’s all innocent?” Mr. Thompson nodded sagely. “Follow him tomorrow. See if he really goes to the allotment.”
“Spy on my own husband? How absurd!”
“Nothing absurd about truth. You’re his wife—you’ve a right to know.” He stood. “Well, I’ve done my neighbourly duty.”
After he left, Margaret wept. Forty-three years of trust, shattered by whispers.
That evening, Edward returned with fresh mackerel. As he cleaned them, he recounted the day’s fishing, the fair weather. The same dependable man she’d known forever. Could he deceive her so easily?
“Edward,” she ventured, “have you seen a doctor lately? Are you unwell?”
He stilled, the knife in his hand. “Why d’you ask?”
“We’re neither of us young. Ought to mind our health.”
“I’m right as rain. Why would I need a doctor?” He resumed cleaning, but his shoulders tensed.
“If something were wrong, you’d tell me?”
“‘Course I would. Has someone said otherwise?”
She shook her head. But the next day, after Edward left, she followed.
St. Thomas’s surgery loomed ahead. Margaret perched on a bench, half-hidden behind a newspaper. Foolish, like some cheap spy novel.
Edward appeared near eleven. He dawdled outside Boots, then approached the surgery. A stout woman in a nurse’s uniform greeted him. They spoke briefly before disappearing inside.
Margaret’s heart pounded. Mr. Thompson hadn’t lied.
An hour later, they emerged. The nurse scribbled in a notepad, handed Edward a slip of paper. He tucked it away, shook her hand, and left.
Margaret approached the guard. “Excuse me—that nurse, was that Lydia Moore?”
“Aye, Nurse Moore. You after an appointment? She’s not a doctor, mind.”
“Which doctor does she assist?”
“Dr. Harris. Cardiologist. First-rate, he is.”
Her hands shook all the way home. So Edward *was* ill. Why keep it from her?
At supper, she gathered her courage. “Mr. Thompson mentioned seeing you in town. Near the surgery.”
Edward set down his fork. “Did he?”
“Edward, what’s wrong?”
“My heart,” he admitted softly. “Three months ago, at the allotment—thought I was done for. Saw Dr. Harris… said it’s serious. Needs treatment, maybe surgery. Didn’t want to worry you.”
“Oh, Edward!” She clutched his hand. “You foolish man! We bear things together.”
“Nurse Moore’s been kind. Explains the medications, dietary changes.” He pulled out the slip of paper—meal plans, salt restrictions.
Margaret buried her face in her hands. “I thought—Mr. Thompson implied—”
“That we were carrying on?” Edward laughed. “Lydia’s near sixty! She’s been like a mother hen with dosing schedules.”
Later, when Mr. Thompson came gloating, Margaret said coolly, “You were right. Edward *has* been meeting that woman.”
The neighbour’s grin faltered when she added, “His cardiac nurse. He’s been ill, you meddling old gossip.”
Mr. Thompson slunk away, chastened.
In time, Edward’s health improved. Nurse Moore became a family friend, always enquiring after him. Margaret learned a hard lesson: some folk know too much—yet understand too little. And a marriage’s private battles should stay private, until the couple choose otherwise.
