Oh, come on, love, whats a few cucumbers between neighbours? You dont mean to say youre begrudging me two little cucumbers, do you? Barbara leaned so far over the low chain-link fence that separated our allotments I thought she might topple into my gooseberries. Her round face split into an overly sweet smile. In one hand was an enamel bowl, already half-filled with my strawberries; with the other, she reached towards the currant bush that sat firmly on my side.
As I knelt in the carrot patch, meticulously pulling up minute weeds, my back twinged painfully. Sweat smeared my brow, and with a grimy hand, I wiped it away, staring at Barbara with a look as heavy as a storm cloud. Id heard this were all friends here, arent we? routine every year since Mike and I bought this plot back when it was nothing but brambles and beer cans, before I turned it into a showpiece with aching muscles and endless dawns.
Barbara, I managed, calm but resolved, youve got your own strawberries. Ive seen them.
She waved it aside, not the slightest bit fussed. Mine? Nothing but puny, sour little things covered in some bug or other. Never had the knack like you. I leave things as nature intended your strawberries are the size of plums! A sin to see them go to waste, and its just the two of you, youll never get through them all, will you?
I drew in a steadying breath. Barbaras logic was bulletproof. If you had more than you needed, you were obliged to hand it out and the reason she had so little was, quite simply, her own laziness.
Her plot was a mess: gnarled apple trees streaked with moss, vegetable beds run riot with dandelions, and a few forlorn rows of onions. She came here only to rest her soul dozing in a hammock, grilling cheap sausages on bricks, the radio blaring for England. I, meanwhile, knew every plant by name, ordered rare tomato seeds off the internet and nursed everything from dawn until the last hint of light.
Put the bowl down, Barbara. The strawberries are for jam. Every berry counts.
Oh, there she goes! she huffed theatrically. You old scrooge. I only took a bit for the grandkids. Surely, youre not going to take food from a childs mouth? Before I could get up, she quickly shoved one of the biggest berries into her mouth, chewed, and drifted away in victory, harvest in hand.
Left alone in the veg patch, annoyance simmered. Mike, my husband, strolled out of the shed with a plane in his hand, catching the tail end of the exchange. He never got involved in womens rows, as he called them.
Babs on the scrounge again? He leaned on the spade, eyebrow raised.
Like a billy goat in someone elses patch, I muttered. Its too much. Last weekend, she nicked the marrows while we were out shopping said she thought wed forgotten them or that they were getting old. Now shes got her claws in the strawberries too.
Put up a proper fence then, suggested Mike. Two metres of solid panel, job done.
Not allowed, I sighed. The Allotment Society wont let you. Only low fences mustnt block the light. And we havent the money, what with the new greenhouse.
Each week the air grew thicker. July came in roasting, the beds groaned with tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers, and the riper everything grew, the more Barbara materialised at the fence, bowl in hand.
Then, one Saturday, a crowd descended on Barbaras plot ten of them at least, rolling in with music and crates of beer. By evening I was watering the roses when Barbara stumbled to the fence, red-faced and jovial.
Sarah! she called, voice slurred, do us a neighbourly favour. Weve run out of nibbles and the shops are miles away. Lend us a handful of those Beefsteak tomatoes of yours, and a bunch of herbs. Guests are baying for more.
I straightened, hose in hand, water trickling at my feet. Sorry, Barbara the tomatoes arent all ripe, and the good ones are for Emma in town tomorrow.
Oh, dont be stingy! she leant further, breath sharp with cider. Were not strangers, love. Promise Ill get you a bar of Dairy Milk next time.
No. I didnt raise my voice, but I didnt blink either.
The mask dropped. Her brow tightened. Sit there with your precious tomatoes then! May they all burst on the vine. Some neighbour, you are tight as two coats of paint. Dont think I cant do without your chemical-riddled veggies!
She stormed away, slamming the gate. Laughter and bitter remarks drifted on the night breeze from her plot city folk this, greedy so-and-sos that, vegetables full of nasties anyway. I went inside, shut the windows, and turned the telly up loud to block it out.
The next morning, a chill ran down my spine as I unlocked the back door. The new greenhouse stood with its door ajar. My heart leapt. Rushing over, I found the lower trusses of the biggest tomatoes stripped. Broken branches, trampled leaves, a few green fruit discarded as not worth bothering. The herbs had been yanked by the roots, with a bald patch left in the coriander. The cucumbers noticeably fewer.
It wasnt just theft; it was disrespect.
I called out, voice trembling: Mike!
He was there quick enough, face set hard. This is no joke, love. This is theft. Its a straight-up crime.
And wholl prove it, Mike? No camera, no witnesses, and you know shell stand there and argue blacks white. Barbaras like that.
On her verandah, among the empty bottles, sat the evidence a bowl of salad, my tomatoes and herbs bright in the mix.
Thats it, I muttered, my voice as sharp as glass. Ive had enough. Time for some tough love with brains, not fists.
Just dont do anything mad, Mike pleaded, eyeing me warily. Not worth a run-in with the law over a bucket of tomatoes.
I grinned, a plan snapping into place. No crime. Just careful psychology. And a bit of chemistry.
I drove into town, returning later with an odd assortment: a blinding yellow protective suit and respirator, a gardening sprayer, several packets of blue food dye, and the foulest liquid soap imaginable.
That evening, as Barbara and her hungover family flopped on the verandah, Mike and I put on our show. I suited up in yellow, pulled on the respirator and goggles, and set about mixing buckets of water dyed the deepest, most unnatural blue, laced with half a bottle of pungent soap.
Mike, stand back! This stuff is serious! I shouted, letting my voice carry across the plots, muffled and eerie.
I sprayed the tomatoes and cabbages generously, blue liquid dripping and pooling. The plot looked as though a toxic fog had hit plants daubed with indigo, the air thick with stench.
Barbara peered over the fence, nose wrinkled. What on earth are you doing, Sarah? Has there been a plague, or what? Smells like a hospital in a rubbish tip!
I swivelled, making sure not to remove the mask. Something worse, Barbara! Read about it on the internet a new virus, hard as nails. Must spray with this experimental chemical or you lose everything instructions say you cant even go near the stuff without protective gear! And if you eat any fruit before three weeks pass, could put you straight in hospital, liver failure and all.
Her face drained of colour. What if you just touch a plant?
Best to wash your hands with acid or spirit straight away, I declared. Otherwise, it might get under your skin. My suits going in the bin when Im done.
Barbara backed away, clutching her stomach.
Across that week, she warned her grandkids to avoid the fence, shrieking, Dont even breathe near her plot, its dangerous! She circled her perimeter like a sentry, terrified.
Meanwhile, at dusk, Mike and I quietly washed the dye off the speediest cucumbers with a hose, eating them with salt at supper. The blue stuck beautifully to the tomatoes, frightening off even the birds.
Barbara, crafty as ever, soon started to doubt.
The following Saturday morning, she called out, Sarah! Thought you said it was deadly for three weeks, yet there you are scoffing cucumbers?
I didnt flinch. Bought these at the shop, Barbara cant touch my own until theyre safe. See, mine are still blue. These taste like plastic, but you do what you must!
She narrowed her eyes, retreated, and grumbled about bloody chemical obsessives and messing up the planet. But she didnt so much as glance over the fence.
The real climax came in August, as tomato season peaked. The blue had faded, leaving only a vague tinge at the stems. Barbara mustve decided her quarantine was over or greed won over fear.
Mike and I went up north for a couple of days. Before leaving, I locked the gate with a padlock and hung a sign on the fence. Laminated, big letters:
**CCTV IN OPERATION. AREA TREATED WITH EXPERIMENTAL AGRICULTURAL CHEMICALS HAZARD LEVEL 3. CONSUMPTION WITHOUT PROPER NEUTRALISATION CAUSES SERIOUS GASTRIC CONSEQUENCES. TRESPASSERS WILL BE REPORTED.**
Of course, every word about CCTV was a lie. But it sounded convincing.
Two days later we returned to quite the scene: Barbara at the fence, arguing furiously with the allotment chairman, Mr. George Wright a meticulous man with zero patience.
Look, Mr. Wright, youve got to do something shes poisoning us all! Her chemicals stink; my grandsons been sick! Cant you ban her? Or at least make her take down those cameras shes spying on us!
George spotted my car with relief. Sarah, do you use anything dangerous? Theres been a complaint… about chemicals and cameras.
No restricted chemicals at all, Mr. Wright. The signs just a deterrent for would-be thieves. If folk didnt help themselves to my veg, no one would be ill.
Barbara turned puce. Prove it! Not caught, not guilty!
I actually do have a recording, Barbara, I lied, fixing her with a level look. Switched from dummy cameras to real ones. Motion sensor, everything. Shall we watch it now see you sneaking under the fence on Tuesday, or your family on Saturday hauling out my coriander? I might just bring it to the police.
Bluff or not, it worked. Barbaras face boiled red, caught between panic and indignation.
Dont flatter yourself, she spat, I dont need your vegetables! Ill grow my own, thanks very much.
She stomped off, slamming her door.
George peered at me, a wry smile forming. That pesticide really dangerous then, Sarah?
Blue food dye and soap, George. Keeps off the hungry ones better than any pesticide.
He chuckled. Noted. Leave your sign up. Never know when someone needs reminding.
After that, Barbara and I entered a state of cold war. She blanked me in the lane, told anyone whod listen that she lived next to a witch with a chemistry set. I didnt mind my crop, for once, was undisturbed.
But the best thing happened the following spring. When I arrived for the new season, Barbara was up to her elbows in mud, actually digging her veg patch for the first time. Queer-shaped, feeble seedlings lined up beside her.
I wandered over, calling, Need a hand, Barbara? Careful the clays tough down there.
She glared, wielding her spade like a lance. No tips, thanks. Im doing it naturally. No funny business.
Fair enough, I said, smiling. Home-grown always tastes best.
That summer, her first lumpy cucumbers and tiny tomatoes appeared, and she guarded them like they were crown jewels. She even started chasing off the neighbours kids: Off you go! This is not a footpath! Thats hard graft, that is!
Mike and I exchanged a grin as we lit the barbecue. See? You said it needed a fence it didnt. Learning the value of graft, thats what does it.
At seasons end, Barbara sidled timidly up with a cloudy jar of brine three home-grown cucumbers inside.
Here, she muttered, holding the jar over the fence. Homemade. Try them. Used a recipe from Womans Weekly.
I took it as if it were crystal. Thank you, Barbara. Well try them tonight. Ill give you some seeds for next year Beefsteak tomatoes. Youll want to start them in February, Ill show you how.
Well she shrugged, trying not to smile, if you dont mind.
Not at all. For someone who works for their harvest, nothings too much trouble.
We stood for a moment, the autumn garden fading around us. The warning sign had vanished long ago, washed away by the rain, but invisible respect remained a better barrier than any fence.
And that year I put more tomatoes in jars than ever before. Not a single one was wasted.
