The neighbour knew too much
“Margaret! Margaret, wait!” called Peter Thompson from across the pavement, hurrying to catch up with her before she reached the apartment block entrance. His arms waved frantically. “Where are you rushing off to? We need to talk!”
“I haven’t got time, Peter. I have to pick my granddaughter up from nursery,” Margaret tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her path.
“The girl can wait. This is serious—it’s about your husband, James.” Peter’s eyes gleamed with unsettling excitement. “Do you know where he was yesterday?”
Margaret froze. Her chest tightened, but she refused to show any distress.
“Of course I know. At the allotment. He was weeding the potatoes.”
“At the allotment?” Peter smirked. “Interesting. Because I saw him at three in the afternoon on High Street. Outside Boots. With a woman. Very… close.”
The words struck Margaret like a hammer blow. James had left early that morning, saying he’d be back by supper. When he returned, he’d been exhausted, dirt-streaked, complaining of back pain from bending over the vegetable patch.
“You’re mistaken,” she said quietly. “My husband spent the whole day at the allotment.”
“Mistaken?” Peter pulled out his phone. “I’ve got a photo. Bit blurry—taken from a distance—but that’s definitely James.”
Margaret didn’t want to look, yet her eyes betrayed her, drawn to the pixelated image. The silhouette matched her husband—the same stoop, the same way he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Who is she?” she whispered.
“Ah, now that I don’t know. But I’ll find out. I’ve got connections, Margaret. People talk.” Peter pocketed his phone, feigning sympathy. “Don’t take it to heart. Men are weak creatures. Might be nothing serious.”
Margaret turned towards the building, legs trembling. Behind her, Peter’s voice dripped with satisfaction:
“If I learn more, I’ll let you know! We neighbours ought to look out for one another!”
At home, she sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window. Forty-three years of marriage. Forty-three years. Two children raised, two grandchildren doted on. And now, at their age—this nonsense?
James returned from work as usual, kissed her cheek, washed his hands, and sat down to eat.
“How was the allotment?” Margaret asked casually, watching him.
“Fine. Weeded the potatoes, thinned the onions. Knackered—my back’s killing me.” James stretched, his spine cracking. “I’ll go back tomorrow. The carrots need attention.”
“You didn’t pop into town? To the chemist, maybe? For ointment?”
James frowned. “Why would I? I took everything I needed. Did you want me to get something?”
Margaret turned to the stove. Either he was a superb liar, or Peter had it wrong. But the photo…
“James, did you see Peter this morning?”
“Our neighbour? Yeah, in the lift. Odd bloke. Kept asking where I was going, why. Like I was under investigation.” James’s brow furrowed. “Why? What’s he said to you?”
“Nothing important. Just small talk.”
That night, Margaret lay awake, listening to her husband’s steady breathing. Forty-three years sharing a bed, and now—this doubt. Another woman? At their age?
In the morning, James prepared for the allotment as usual. Kissed her, took his flask and packed lunch.
“Back by supper,” he said. “Might pick up some fish if the catch looks good.”
Margaret watched him leave. Within half an hour, the doorbell rang. Peter stood on the threshold, triumphant.
“Margaret, may I come in? I’ve news.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
He settled at the kitchen table, clearing his throat importantly.
“Right. About that woman. Her name’s Lydia Wilkins. Works at St. Mary’s surgery—nurse. Widowed three years ago. Lives alone; kids are up north.” He paused, relishing the drama. “She and your James have been acquainted six months. Met in the GP’s waiting room.”
“How do you know this?” Margaret whispered.
“My wife’s cousin works reception there. Knows everyone’s business. Says she often sees them together—in the canteen, chatting on benches.” He leaned closer. “And she mentioned James has weekly appointments. Cardiology. Did you know?”
Margaret paled. James never complained about his heart. Always insisted he was “fit as a fiddle.”
“I didn’t,” she admitted.
“See! Hiding it from you. Why hide it unless he’s got something to hide?” 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. “Anyway, I’ve done my neighbourly duty.”
After he left, Margaret slumped at the table and wept. Forty-three years of blind trust. Never once suspecting infidelity. And now…
That evening, James returned with fresh mackerel. As he cleaned them, he chatted about the weather, the bite. Same as ever. Could this man really deceive her?
“James,” she ventured. “Have you seen any doctors lately? Anything bothering you?”
He stilled, knife in hand. “Why d’you ask?”
“Just… we’re not young. Ought to mind our health.”
“I’m fine. Why would I see doctors?” He resumed cleaning, but his shoulders tensed.
“If something were wrong, you’d tell me?”
“Course. Why? Has someone said something?” His eyes flickered with unease.
“No. Just worrying.”
The next day, James left for the allotment. Margaret waited half an hour, then followed. She needed the truth.
St. Mary’s was a short bus ride away. She sat on a bench opposite, hiding behind a newspaper. Felt ridiculous, like some cheap detective.
James appeared just before eleven. He ducked into the pharmacy, then headed for the surgery. Margaret watched as a woman—short, plump, in a nurse’s uniform—greeted him. They spoke briefly before disappearing inside.
Her heart raced. Peter wasn’t lying. There *was* another woman.
An hour later, James emerged with the nurse. She jotted notes, handed him a slip of paper. They shook hands, parted ways.
Margaret approached the security guard. “Excuse me—that nurse who just left. Would that be Lydia Wilkins?”
“Aye, that’s her. Fancy an appointment? She’s not a GP, mind—assists Dr. Carter in cardiology.”
Margaret walked home in a daze. So James *was* getting treatment. Hiding it. But why?
She paced the flat, thoughts whirling. At six, James returned—exhausted, as usual.
“How was it?” she asked, kissing him.
“Fine. Cleared the carrots. Knackered.” He headed for the shower.
At dinner, Margaret steeled herself. “James… Peter told me something today.”
“Oh?” James stiffened.
“He saw you in town. Near the surgery.”
James set down his fork. Silence stretched. Finally, he exhaled. “So he did.”
“James, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
“My heart,” he muttered. “Three months back—pain, at the allotment. Thought I was done for. Saw the doctor, and…” He swallowed. “It’s bad. Needs monitoring. Might need surgery.”
“Good God, James! Why didn’t you *tell* me?”
“Didn’t want to worry you. Thought I’d sort it first.”
Margaret hugged him. “You old fool. We’re family. We face things *together*.”
“I know. But Lydia—the nurse—she’s been helping. Explains the meds, the diet…”
“Peter implied you were having an affair.”
James snorted. “With *Lydia*? She’s near sixty! She’s just kind. Good at her job.”
Margaret flushed. “I believed him. Even followed you today.”
“Did you now?” He chuckled, pulling out the slip. “Diet plan. Less salt, more greens.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve trusted you.”
“S’alright. Looked dodgy, I suppose.” He squeezed her hand. “But we ought to deal with Peter. Man’s a menace.”
A week later, Peter returned, brimming with triumph. “Well? Sorted things with James?”
“We have. Thanks for your… concern.”
“And? What’d you find?” His eyes glittered.
“That you’re very observant. James *has* been seeing that woman.”
“Ha! Knew it!” Peter rubbed his hands. “And you doubted me!”
“Turns out she’s a cardiac nurse. He’s been having treatment. Heart trouble.”
Peter’s face fell.
“Wait—*treatment*?”
“Yes. Medication, check-ups. Nurse Wilkins helps manage it.” Margaret eyedPeter never pried into their lives again, and Margaret and James lived out their days in quiet contentment, knowing the only secrets between them were the ones they chose to share.
