Dont touch my glasses! screeched my former mate across the hedge. Mind your own eyesight! You think I dont notice who youre gawping at?
So, youre all jealous now, are you? I replied, feeling rather amused. Got your eye on someone yourself, eh? I know what Im giving you for Christmasa lip-zipping machine, to keep those lips in check!
Keep it for yourself! Brenda shot back, not to be outdone. Or maybe yours are past saving. Think Im not watching you?
There we were, at it again. I swung my legs off my ancient bed and went to the cabinet by the window, where a handful of family pictures and a dusty porcelain angel sat in a row. I said my morning prayer, as was my custom, more out of habit than faith. Something was surely up there, I was convinced; someone pulling the strings. What to call that someoneGod, the universe, Father Christmaswas anyones guess.
I was well into my sixties, nearing seventy, an age when you dont want to fall out with the heavens. If theres nothing up there, no harm done; but if there is, you dont want to be on the losing side.
After my little ritual, my heart felt lighter, and I was ready for another day.
In my life, two hardships reigned supreme, and, no, it wasn’t the age-old complaint: idiots and roads. Thats always a favourite, but my true troubles were Brenda, my neighbour, andlets be honestmy own grandchildren.
The grandchildren, well, you expect little from the young ones these days; but at least their parents could keep them in line. Brenda, however, was a proper thorn in my side, and classic in her method.
Its all well and good when rivalry is on the telly, beautifully acted and touchingbut in real life, theres nothing endearing about someone constantly picking at you.
Then there was my good mate Peteeveryone called him Petey the Scooter. Formally, he was Peter Cosgrovea proper village surname. He earned his nickname in his youth, when he loved nothing more than speeding around on his battered old scooterPeteys pride and joy. With time, the scooter was left to gather dust in his shed, but the name stuck. Thats village life for you.
Our families were closePetey and his wife Nina, me and my late husband. Now, with both our spouses gone and laid to rest in the village churchyard, I kept up the friendship with Petey out of a sense of historyand because he was a good man.
Back in school, it was me, Petey, and Brenda: inseparable, a gang of three. No romance, just pure friendship. Wed parade aboutPetey in the middle, us two lasses on his armslike a teacup with two handles, designed not to slip.
But the years changed all that. Over time, Brendas affection soured. It started with a little frostiness and grew into outright spite.
It was as if someone had swapped Brenda out for a bitter twin, especially after her own husband passed on. Since then, her envy had grown to fill any room, and what she envied was simple.
First, despite my years, Id kept my figure. Brenda, on the other hand, had rounded out considerablya right little dumpling, without a waistline to speak of.
Second, Petey, our mutual friend, had taken to giving me more attentionalways a little joke, a shared laugh, our grey heads close together. He barely spared Brenda a word, and she had to coax him to visit.
Maybe she wasnt as bright as that Tamara, as shed mutter, and her sense of humour was failing. But Petey loved a good laugh, and lately Brenda spent her days grumbling for any excuse.
She started off with complaints about my toilet. Your loos stinking up the place! she declared.
Really? I replied, feigning shock. Its been there for decades. Only just noticed, have you? Oh, right! Your new glassesyou got those for free, didnt you? Nobody gives out nice ones for nothing!
Dont touch my glasses! she bellowed again. Mind your peepers! I see who youre after.
So youre jealous, then? I teased. Got your sights set on someone? Ill get you that lip-zipping machine for Christmas, promise!
Keep it for yourself, thenunless even a machine couldnt fix your mouth!
Typical Brendaalways seeing, always judging. Petey, who I confided in, suggested I should sort the outdoor loo once and for all and just have one indoors.
My son and daughter chipped in, and before long, a proper toilet was fitted inside. Petey himself filled in the old pit for me. Problem solved, or so I thought.
No sooner was that sorted than Brenda accused my grandchildren of nicking her pearsbranches overhung my plot, apparently.
They probably thought they were ours! I said, though I knew nobody had touched the fruit. Your hens are always rummaging through my garden beds, but I dont fuss!
Hens are daft by nature, Brenda crowed, her voice rising. But grandchildren need disciplinenot giggling around with every old gent in the neighbourhood!
Round and round we wentnow back to Petey again.
The grandchildren got a ticking off, the pears hung undisturbedand still, Brenda found new grievances. Next, it was broken branchesno evidence, of course, but she poked her gnarled fingers accusingly.
Petey offered to lop off the overhanging branches on my side. Its your rightshe cant complain.
Shell kick up a fuss, I worried.
Not with me helping, he assured.
And sure enough, Brenda watched us prune the branches but kept her peacefor once.
With the tree drama done, my grumble shifted to Brendas chickens. Shed got a new breed that yearsmarter, brasher, or both. They tore up my seedlings like nobodys business.
When I asked Brenda to keep them back, she smirked and said, What can you do about it?
Petey, always with a fresh idea, suggested a trick from the internet. At night, I placed a few eggs on my seedbedsand in the morning, I gathered them up in full view. Brenda, spotting me collecting eggs supposedly laid by her wandering hens, was speechless.
From that day, her chickens kept to their own patch.
Surely, we could make peace now? Not on your life. Brenda soon complained about the smoke and smell from my summer kitchenwhere Id cook until the autumn chill set in.
Suddenly, you mind? I protested. Perhaps roasted meat bothers you now? Didnt yesterday. Maybe youre a vegetarian? Parliaments passing laws about barbecues now, is it?
I tried to stay patient and polite, as I always did, but my resolve was wearing thin. Brenda was relentless. Maybe she needs to be someones lab rat, I joked to Petey over a cup of tea. Shed gobble me up whole!
Shed choke! Petey grinned. And I wouldnt let it happen. In fact, Ive got a better idea.
A few days later, on a fine morning, I heard singing outside my door: Tammy, Tammy, come out of your house!
There was Petey, beaming, astride his newly mended old scooter. You know why I was down? My scooter was broken! Now its running again. Hop on, gorgeouslets relive our youth!
And I did. After all, Parliament had just officially abolished old age; now everyone over sixty-five was a lively pensioner. Off I went, literally and figuratively, towards a new life.
Before long, I became Mrs CosgrovePetey proposed, and I moved in with him.
Brenda remained alone, a sour, bitter woman with no one left to torment, her malice bottled up with nowhere to go. Now, isn’t that the kind of thing to spark fresh envy?
With no one left to scold, Brenda had only herself for companyand what a song her life became. Well, what do you expect, living out in the English countryside?
All that fuss over a blasted loofor nothing!
