My neighbour was nicking my manure by the sackful at night. Last night, I generously topped it up with some yeast.
Back at my pile with your buckets again, are you? It wasnt so much a question as a statement of undeniable fact.
Linda, my next-door neighbour over the fence, didnt even bat an eyelid. She stood there in her wellies in her vegetable patch, leaning on a hoe, giving me a look that suggested she was the injured party in all this.
Oh, Emily, dont get so wound up! Youve got a mountain of the stuff back there. Couldnt you spare a bit for your old friend?
Its not just stuff, Lin. That was two hundred quid for a lorry load, plus delivery, I gestured at the rapidly shrinking mountain at the end of my garden, and for the record: its mine.
Alright, dont choke on it, she huffed, rolling her eyes for dramatic effect. Whats a couple buckets to feed my cucumbers? My pensions barely worth the paper its printed on. I cant go buying lorry loads of compost like some people.
Linda always knew which buttons to press. Shed perfected the art of playing martyrif it wasnt the governments fault, it was the weather, the dog next door, and ninety percent of the time, it was me, because my tomatoes went red before hers every year.
I trudged back to the house, feeling that knot of annoyance swelling in my throat. It wasnt about the money, wasnt even the manurejust the sheer audacity of being treated like an absolute idiot.
Night after night, about two in the morning, Id hear this rustling. Not a little bucketful rustling either. Linda went at it with the zeal of a Viking raider: cramming heavy-duty black sacks and making off like she was preparing for the apocalypse.
Tom was munching a crumpet and attempting the Times crossword in the kitchen.
Pinched it again? he said, barely looking up.
Again. Then called me stingy.
Set a trap then.
Oh sure. Nothing says neighbourly relations like explaining why Lindas lost a foot in my garden. No, this calls for cunning, not brute force.
From the window I could see her greenhousesource of all local envy. Linda loved claiming she grew some special variety with magic fingers. Ill give her magic fingersthe ones in my seedlings, anyway.
That night, I lay awake. Outside, a dog barked and the cricket choir had hit its stride. Suddenlyrustle, rustle. Shovel broke the compacted heap with a crunch. I had nurtured that manure pile: covered it in tarpaulin, sheltered it from the elements. She just breezed in and treated it like her own.
The next morning, Linda was bustling through her runner beans as if nothing had happened.
Morning, Em darling! she sang. Noticed your marrows are looking a bit yellow. Hope they’re not poorly?
She was beamingthe muddy trails on my lawn told me at least three fresh sacks had done a midnight flit.
Morning Linda. Dont hold your breath, I replied sweetly.
As I headed towards the shed, my gaze caught the gardening shelf: seeds, fertiliser, and a great big yellow bag of dried yeast for strawberries. The plan wrote itself in my head.
Linda stockpiled her loot in tough builders sacks, knotting them tight before stashing them in her steamy greenhouseideal conditions for brewing up trouble.
I filled a bucket with warm water and tipped in whatever sugar I could find, followed by the entire bag of yeast. The mix fizzed, bubbled, and gave off the sort of smell that could power a thousand British village fêtesand, for the first time all week, I felt hopeful.
I waited until dusk, then slunk round the long way to her side. I knew exactly where she shimmied under the fence. I poured my witchy brew right onto the top layer, mixing it in. If you like helping yourself to other peoples things, you can have a little extra for your troubles.
Back inside, I scrubbed my hands ferociously and went to bed feeling like the scales of justice were, at last, evenly balanced.
Why are you grinning? Tom mumbled sleepily.
Think Ill have sweet dreams tonight, I replied, pulling the duvet over my nose.
The night was so peaceful I nearly missed my old friends 2am rustlepresumably Linda was refining her ninja skills.
But the morning. Oh, the morning didnt begin with birdsong or even a cup of tea. It started with a screech that wouldve terrified a fox. Tom and I leapt up at the same moment. He, in his pants, made it to the window first.
What on earth? he yelled, rubbing his eyes.
I flung on my dressing gown and stepped out into the lovely British morning air, now tinged with a sharp, tangy scent that didnt exactly scream roses. There was Linda, in front of her brand new polycarbonate greenhouse, which looked like it had hosted Glastonburys muddy cousin.
Linda was lets say, dotted artistically with brown splodges. I strolled to the fence and put on my most innocent face.
Linda, love, what happened? Central heating gone haywire?
She turned aroundhalf horror, half compost. It it exploded! she croaked. Emily! Its alive!
I peered through the netting and stopped myself from giving an impressed whistle. The inside of the greenhouse looked like an avant-garde installation gone wrong. The sacks shed so painstakingly thieved had gone off like fireworks.
That warm, humid greenhouse, full of well-tied plastic bags and turbocharged with yeast, had quite literally blown its top. The pressure built, the plastic surrendered, and Lindas booty had redecorated every corner and crop, including her precious peppers.
And what exactly blew up? I asked, putting on my best poker face.
The sacks! she wailed. I popped in to check, and one just went BANG! Then another! Emily, what did you put in there?
Me? I batted my eyes. Thats my manure, on my property. Nothing goes in it I havent seen come out of a cow, I assure you. Quite how it ended up in your greenhousebagged up and aging nicelywell, thats the real mystery, isnt it?
Linda froze, calculations flying around behind those manure-splattered brows. Admit its mine and she admits stealing it; claim it as hers and shes explaining the Great Manure Riot of Surrey. She stood there, both literally and figuratively, stewing.
Its sabotage! she blurted at last. You tried to poison me!
With premium, grass-fed, organic fertiliser? I shrugged. Maybe theres bad vibes in your greenhouse. Or maybe someone gave it the evil eye. Youve always claimed you had magic fingers.
Tom came out, took one look, let out a strangled chuckle and hurried back inside to howl with laughter. Linda grabbed the hose and started power-washing herself with near-military urgency. The eau de manure, however, was not giving up without a fight.
By lunchtime, everyone in the close was chatting about funny noises from Lindas place. Theories ranged from moonshine still explosions to, possibly, the eruption of a long-lost Roman bathhouse. Linda herself said nothingand scrubbed her greenhouse all evening.
She had to remove every last seedling and replace half the soilher special nutrients having become a little too special, even for British vegetables. She didnt show up for our usual evening cuppa on the porch. A rare thing, indeed.
A week later, I had another lorry-load of manure delivered, right to its usual spot. That night, the silence was unnerving. Not a sniff of shifty footsteps, no rustle of sacks, just peace.
At dawn, I wandered outsidethe moonlit manure mound still untouched.
Linda strolled past, not meeting my gaze, and even bought some high-end fertiliser from the garden centre. In proper, shiny packaging. With her own money.
Mornin, neighbour! I called. How are the peppers growing?
She stopped, glared at me. No apology in her eyesjust that haunted look of someone whos seen the dark side of fermentation.
Theyre growing, she replied. Managing just fine. Dont need your charity.
Brilliant. If you ever want my special recipe, you know where I am.
She spat on the grass and shot off home. I put the kettle on and made myself a strong cup of tea.
No gloating, no triumphjust a calm sense that things were as they should be. Whats mine stayed mine. No one dared touch the goods.
Turns out, boundaries arent set by the height of the fence, but by lessons well learned. If you cant take the chemical reaction, stay out of the muck.
And I always keep a spare pack of yeast on my top shelf. Just in case another little pest fancies testing my generosity. Theres more than one way to have a neighbourly chat, after all.
