The Terrible Neighbour “Don’t touch my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Keep an eye on your own eyes! Think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” “So, you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Borisovna looked surprised. “Oh, I see who you’ve got your sights on! I know what I’ll get you for Christmas—a lip curler!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda. “Or are your lips beyond help even with that?” Old Tamara swung her legs off the ancient bed and walked over to her shelf of trinkets, ready for her morning routine. She wouldn’t call herself overly religious: surely something must be out there, someone in charge of all this, right? Just not sure who. Such a power went by many names: the universe, the great beyond, and of course, the Good Lord! Yes, that kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, nestled on a cloud and thinking of all us mortals. Besides, Tamara was well into her late sixties now. At that age, better not fall out with the Big Guy: if He isn’t there, well, no harm done for believing. But if He is—non-believers lose everything. So at the end of her morning prayers Tamara always added a little something in her own words. Why not? Ritual complete, soul lighter—time to start a new day. Tamara Borisovna had two great misfortunes. No, not fools and roads (that would be too clichéd). It was her neighbour Lynda and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were a typical modern lot—didn’t want to do anything. But hey, they had their parents to wrangle them. But what to do about Lynda? She could wind Tamara up like no-one else! On telly, sparring between famous actresses looks touching and fun. In real life, it’s anything but charming, especially when the nitpicking is for no reason. Tamara also had a friend: everyone called him Pete the Moped. His full name: Peter James Wagstaff—what a name! Guessing the origin of his nickname was easy: in his youth, Pete had loved whizzing about on his moped. Well, ‘moped’, as the cheeky lads called it. These days, the broken old bike gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck fast—a proper village tale! Back in the day, they’d been family friends: Pete the Moped and wife Nina, Tamara and her husband. Now, both their partners rested peacefully in the local cemetery. Tamara still stuck by Pete—she’d known him since school, after all, and he was a true friend. Back at school, there were three of them: Tamara, Pete and Lynda—a golden trio, nothing flirtatious about it. They’d go everywhere together, Pete in the middle, Tamara and Lynda each holding on to an arm—a perfect two-handled cup, as Tamara liked to picture it. But over the years, the friendship faded. Actually, it turned sour—first into Lynda’s coldness, then outright animosity. As in the cartoon: “More and more, I feel like someone swapped me out for a copy…” Indeed, it was as if someone swapped Lynda out! It happened after her husband died—before that, things had been reasonably all right. Of course, people change with time: a bit stingy becomes downright miserly. Chatty becomes gossipy. Envy can tear a person to bits. That’s probably what happened with Lynda—well, women are like that. So are men, to be fair. And there was reason to be jealous. First, Tamara had stayed trim over the years, whereas Lynda had gone quite round: where’s the waist meant to be, madam? She hardly looked her best compared to her neighbour. Second, their old school friend Pete paid much more attention to sprightly Tamara—lots of whispers and giggles, nearly touching grey heads. With Lynda, exchanges were curt and stiff. Pete popped by Tamara’s for tea far more often; Lynda practically had to bribe him to visit her… Sure, maybe she wasn’t as clever as annoying Tamara. Or as funny! And Pete loved a good laugh. There’s a fine English word for nattering—wittering, which Shukshin himself would approve of. And lately, that’s exactly what Lynda did, picking fights over nothing. First, she announced Tamara’s toilet was stinking up the place! “Your loo smells foul!” Lynda pronounced. “Oh, honestly! It’s been in the same place for years—you only just now noticed?” Tamara shot back, then couldn’t resist: “And you got those new glasses free on the NHS—can’t expect quality for free!” “Don’t you dare talk about my glasses!” Lynda shrieked. “Worry about your own eyes! Think I don’t see you ogling about?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara raised an eyebrow. “I know what I’ll get you for Christmas: a lip curler!” “Keep it for yourself!” Lynda snapped. “Or is there no machine that can cope with your pout? Think I don’t see?” Oh, Lynda saw all right, time and again. Pete, when told about it, suggested they brick up the outdoor loo and put one indoors. Tamara’s son and daughter chipped in, and before long she had a smart indoor toilet. Pete, ever the handyman, buried the old waste pit himself. Take that, Lynda! Time to find a new complaint! No chance. Lynda promptly accused Tamara’s grandchildren of stripping pears from her tree—the branches stretched over Tamara’s fence. “They just thought it was ours!” Tamara tried, even though, as she saw it, nobody touched the pears! “Anyway, your chickens scratch up my veggie patch, you know!” “Chickens are stupid—it’s in their nature!” Lynda snapped, voice rising. “But grandkids need raising, Nana—not giggling all day with your scandals!” So, back to square one: it all turned into a tiff about Pete again… The kids got a firm word, and pears were soon out of season: rest easy, Lynda! No luck: now, according to Lynda, the branches were damaged! “Show me!” Tamara protested—nothing was broken! “Here and here!” Lynda stabbed the air with a gnarled finger. Even Tamara’s hands were prettier: slender, elegant. Hands say a lot about a woman! Even in the countryside, style’s important. Pete suggested cutting the offending branches. “They’re on your property? You can do as you like!” “She’ll shout the roof down!” Tamara worried. “I bet she won’t,” Pete assured her. “I’ll have your back!” And indeed, even though Lynda saw Pete pruning, she stayed totally silent. So, the tree problem solved. But now it was Tamara’s turn—Lynda’s hens truly did invade her garden beds. This year Lynda had a new breed—last year wasn’t so bad. But a chicken is a chicken: dumb as a post, forever scratching. Tamara’s seedlings ended up raked out. Tamara asked nicely, but Lynda only smirked: what are you going to do about it? One option: catch a chicken or two, and make a point of roasting them for Sunday lunch! But gentle Tamara wasn’t up for such drastic measures. Instead, her clever friend suggested something from the internet—scatter eggs around the beds at night, and collect them in the morning as if the hens had laid them. It worked! Thanks, world wide web! Lynda, stunned, watched Tamara collecting eggs from the veg patch and said not a word. The hens never set foot there again. Surely now, they’d make peace? Lynda, how about it? No more reason to squabble! Not so fast! Lynda now complained about kitchen smoke and smells from Tamara’s summer house, where she cooked until late autumn. Yesterday it was fine, today it’s a problem! Maybe I’m bothered by the smell of frying meat—maybe I’m vegetarian! And Parliament even passed rules about backyard barbecues! “Where’ve you seen a barbecue?” Tamara asked, exasperated. “You need to clean your glasses, darling!” She remained patient and polite, but this was too much. The neighbour had become downright impossible—no peace from Lynda… “Maybe I should donate her for research,” Tamara joked wearily to Pete over tea. “She’s going to eat me alive!” She’d dropped weight with all this stress. “She’d choke!” Pete grinned, “And I’d never let it happen! I’ve got a better idea!” A few days later, on a bright morning, Tamara heard a song: “Tammy, Tammy—come out and see me!” There was Pete, standing by the door, beaming—he’d fixed up his old moped. “You know why I used to be sad?” he announced. “Because my moped was broken! Ready for a ride, gorgeous? Let’s remember the good old days!” Tamara hopped on gleefully! After all, Parliament says 65+ makes you an active retiree these days—old age is officially cancelled! Off she went, into a new life in every sense. Before long, she’d become Mrs Wagstaff: Pete proposed and she moved in with her new husband. And Lynda? Alone, plump and peevish as ever. Tell me, what better reason to be jealous? And with no one left to quarrel with, she had only herself to stew with her gripes. But negativity needs somewhere to go… So, chin up, Tamara, and don’t leave your new home! Who knows what’s next? Life in the English countryside is a real soap opera! All that trouble over the loo really was for nothing…

Author Wanda MirandaReading 8 minViews 1

Dont touch my spectacles! screeched the ex-friend, Edith. Keep your eyes to yourself! Do I look blind to you? I know exactly who youre ogling.

Are you jealous or something? Tamara Brown asked, eyes wide in mock surprise. I see who youre pining for! I know what to give you for Christmas: a lip-rolling machine!

May as well keep it for yourself, Edith shot back, acid in her tone. Or are your lips too stubborn for any machine now? Dyou think I dont notice?

Lady Tamara swung her legs off the ancient brass bed and hobbled over to her makeshift mantel, tiny candle flickering beside porcelain figurines, to mutter her morning prayers.

She wasnt overly religiousthere had to be something Up Above orchestrating this lopsided stage-set, right? Perhaps a cosmic caretaker, some Prime Mover, or maybe just dear old God with his snowy beard, perched on a cloud and pondering the mess below.

Tamara was edging near seventy now, a hill she was sure shed crest any moment. At that age, it was better not to fall out with the Almighty: if Hes fiction, shes lost nothing. If Hes fact, the non-believers lose it all.

After her morning liturgy, Tamara always added a few stray requestsritual complete, soul lighter. Now the day could begin.

Two perpetual plagues stalked Tamaras days, and no, not foolish folk or bumpy roadsthose were too obvious. Hers were her neighbour Edith and her own wayward grandchildren.

The grandchildren were a known quantity: a modern lot allergic to domestic work. But they had their own parents to contend with, thankfully.

Edith, thoughEdith seemed intent on dying Tamaras nerves woolly pink. She did it with the persistence of a soap opera diva.

Funny how on telly, quarrels between grand dames look lovable, almost comedic. In real life, it was raw, mundane, and unsettlingespecially when the complaints made no sense.

Tamara had an old friend, too, a chap everyone called Percy Scooter. His full name was Percival Edwin Cosgrovewhat a ring! The nickname was obvious: in his youth, Percy had loved nothing more than zipping round the village on his battered scooter. Over time, Percy Scooter just became Scootereven after the poor vehicle rusted to bits in his toolshed.

Theyd once been family friendsthe Scooters and the Browns. But both their spouses had long since decamped to the village cemetery, so Tamara kept nattering with Percy out of habit. After all, shed known him since school, and he made a good friend.

They were a trio back then: Tamara, Edith, and Percynever a whisper of romance, just the sturdy scaffolding of childhood camaraderie. They strolled the lanes arm-in-armPercy central, the girls matching, like a two-handled teacup sturdy against slips. Just in case.

But friendship, like old photos, yellows and peels. Edith, in particular, curdled into outright spite after her husbands passing. People change: a tight-fisted person grows downright stingy; the chatty, a bore; the jealous, shredded by envy.

Edith did have things to envy. Tamara, even past sixty, retained her figure while Edith had settled into a proper moundno waist in sight. The old schoolmate Percy had lately warmed more to spirited Tamara, sharing in-jokes and laughter with their heads close, while Edith got the cold nod.

He popped round to Tamaras house more often, tooEdith had to beg him for a visit. Maybe she wasnt so clever, or funny for that matter. Percy, however, had always enjoyed a joke.

In English, wed call Edith a moaning Minnieshed pick a fight over tea going tepid. First, it was the location of Tamaras outdoor loo, and how it wafted unpleasant odours her way.

Theres a pong coming from your bog! Edith shouted.

Well, really! Its been there for a hundred years! Not noticed till now? Tamara chuckled, refusing to let it go: By the way, those glasses of yoursyou got them for free on the NHS, didnt you? Nothing good comes for nothing!

Dont touch my spectacles! Edith roared. Mind your own eyes! Dont think I dont see who youre gawping at!

What, are you jealous? Tamara repeated, dry as burnt toast. I know just the gadget to give you for Christmasto roll back your pouty lips!

Keep it for yourself! Edith glared, lips pursed. Or, are your lips beyond help? Dont think I dont notice!

Oh, she noticed, all right. She had howled before. Percy, amused by the drama, suggested Tamara brick up her loo and put a new one indoors. Tamaras grown children chipped in, and Cupboard W.C. was installed, with dear Percy shovelling earth over the old pit outside. Take that, Edith! Go sniff somewhere else.

But Ediths grumbles didnt abate, just shifted. Now her complaint concerned the pear trees branchesthose reaching over into Tamaras plot. Tamaras grandkids, she claimed, were stealing her pears.

They probably thought it was ours, Tamara tried to explain. In truth, the pears hung untouched. But see, your chickens dig up my marrows too, and I dont squawk!

Chickens are witless! Edith squabbled. But children need raising, not giggling all day with gentlemen callers, Grandma!

And so it went, round and round. Now, Edith accused Tamaras lot of damaging the trees branches.

Where? Show me! Tamara demandedshe could see nothing amiss, not a split or a scratch.

There! And there! Edith jabbed at the air with knobbly fingersthough Tamaras own hands were slimmer, more elegant, which added to Ediths private tally of grievances. Hands, after all, are a womans visiting card, even in the countryside.

Percy piped upCut those branches back! Theyre on your side, you can do what you like!

Shell holler! Tamara fretted.

Bet she wont. Ill keep an eye out, Percy winked.

Sure enough, Edith witnessed the pruning and not a peep escaped her lips. That score, at least, was settled.

But soon Tamara had her own beefEdiths chickens, a newer, bolder breed this year, were now gleefully destroying her veg patches.

Keep them on your side! Tamara implored, but Edith just sneered, as though daring her: Go on, then. What are you going to do?

Tamara could have raided and roasted a couple of the hens as an act of revenge, but she wasnt vindictive.

Percy came up with a cunning ploygleaned from the webplacing supermarket eggs in Tamaras patch at night and ostentatiously gathering them in the morning, pretending the chickens had done the laying.

It worked. Edith was dumbstruck, frozen on the spot, gawping as Tamara gathered the mysterious eggs. After that dayno more chicken raids.

So, peace at last? Tamara wondered. Edith, surely we can stop this wrangling?

No chance. Now Edith resented the smoke and aroma of Tamaras kitchen in the gardencomplains it disturbed her delicate nose and probably cited some new regulation from Westminster about open-air cooking.

You see a barbecue anywhere? Tamara protested. Give those glasses a clean, my dearif you can see through the smudges!

Tamara, generally patient and polite, was running dry on forbearance. Edith had truly lost the plotas they say. She simply couldnt be appeased.

Perhaps shes ripe for medical experiments, Tamara muttered wistfully over tea with Percy. Shell chew me up, bones and all, I swear it.

The strain showed; Tamara had grown gaunt and palea parting gift from constant feuding.

Shell choke first! And I wont let her lay a finger on you, Percy vowed, brow arched. Butgot a new idea!

A few days later, Tamara woke to a strange melody: Tammy, Tammycome out and play! sung from her doorstep.

There stood Percy, grinning, clutching a battered crash helmet. Hed finally fixed up his beloved scooter.

Know why I was always glum? Scooter was broken! he announced. Well, hop on, beautylets relive our glory days!

Tamara hopped on, because Parliament had just officially declared retirement a mytheveryone over sixty-five was now an active pensioner. Off they whizzed, into the real and metaphorical sunset.

And soon enough, Tamara became Mrs. CosgrovePercy had proposed!

Puzzle pieces fell into place. Tamara packed up her things and moved in with him. And Edith?

Edith remained lonesome, cross, and plumpa fresh batch of envy ever-bubbling on her stove. Without Tamara around, she had only her own shadow to quarrel with.

So, take care, Tammy, and dont leave the house! Who knows whats next? Life in an English village is always a curious song, a bit off-tune, but as surreal as any dream. And all that fuss, just for an indoor loo…