The Difficult Neighbour
Dont touch my crystal glasses! shrieked the former friend, Margaret. Mind your own business! You think I cant see who you keep gawping at?
Are you jealous or something? Rosemary blurted, eyes wide. So thats who youve set your sights on! Ive figured out what Im getting you for Christmas: a rolling pin for your lipsso you can flatten them for once!
Why not keep it yourself? Margaret retorted with a sniff. Or perhaps even your lips cant be flattened anymore? You think I dont notice?
Rosemary, not one to be outdone by a rival, swung her thin legs off her old bed and shuffled over to her little collection of Royal Doulton figurines, muttering her usual morning prayer.
It would be generous to call Rosemary truly religious. She believed, more or less, that something must be out theresomeone in charge of the whole mess! As for who exactly, that was still up for debate.
Whatever this all-mighty force was calledfate, the universe, or, of course, good old Godyes, that kindly gent with a glowing halo, floating on a cloud, keeping tabs on all the mortals.
Rosemary was pushing seventy, well past the age for carelessness, and figured it couldnt hurt to stay, if not in Gods good books, then at least on His acquaintance list. After all, if He didnt exist, no problem. But if He did, best not to risk it.
At the end of her daily routine, Rosemary always added something personal. It was good for the souland her cup of tea tasted all the better afterwards.
In the grand scheme of Rosemarys life, two things stood out as proper tragedies. And no, not rain and potholesthats just England! The real sorrows were her neighbour, Margaret, and Rosemarys own grandchildren.
Now, her grandchildren were typicalfor this generation, doing nothing is practically a sport. Thankfully, they still had parents, so they were someone elses problem most of the time.
But Margaretah, she was something else. She had begun to grate on Rosemarys nerves in textbook fashion.
In films, a spat between two screen legends is always charming and endearing. In real life, its just exhausting and terribly unflattering. Especially when youre being blamed for things entirely beyond your control.
Rosemary did at least have one friendhe was known locally as Mick the Moped. Officially, that was Michael Albertson. The nickname stuck from his youth, when hed zip about on his battered moped without a care in the world.
Oh, it was all quite logical. By now, poor Michaels moped was gathering dust in a shed, but the name had stuck for eternity. Thats English villages for younicknames are forever.
Back when everyones spouses were still alive, Rosemary and her husband would socialise with Mick and his wife, Janet. But as time had moved on, both women had become widows, and the blokes had been given matching plots at St. Marys churchyard.
Now, Rosemary and Mick just carried on their friendship. After all, shed known him since primary school, and what was life without a mate for a laugh?
Back at school, theyd all been thick as thievesRosemary, Mick and Margaret. Pure, innocent friendshipno hint of romantic nonsense from young Micks direction.
They went everywhere togetherMick looking dapper between them, each lady on his arm, forming an efficient tea cup with two handles. The sort you could never possibly drop!
But as the decades trundled on, friendships change. Or, in this case, collapsed entirely. Margaret, for reasons known only to her, went from irritated to downright intolerable. Thats life for you.
Margaret was unrecognisable since her husband died. Shed always been a bit tight-fisted, but age had only sharpened her frugal tendencies. Chatty became gossipy, and envy had ravaged her like an unchecked garden weed.
Rosemary had plenty Margaret could envy. For one thing, Rosemary had stayed trim, unlike Margaret, who now resembled a festive Christmas puddingWheres your waist gone, darling?
On top of that, their mutual friend Mick had started giving lively Rosemary more attention. You could hear them giggling over their shared jokes, heads together, while Margaret made do with curt exchanges.
Mick dropped in on Rosemary far more often than he did Margaret. The latter often had to practically bribe him over with promises of Victoria sponge.
Maybe Margaret wasnt as quick-witted as that insufferable Rosemary. And as for sense of humourwell, there was none. But Mick was always one for a proper belly laugh.
Margaret had taken to constant nitpicking, or, as the poet John Betjeman might have called it, wittering onsometimes about the smallest things.
One day, she declared war on Rosemarys outside loo.
That blessed privy of yours stinks to high heaven! she thundered.
Oh, really? Its been there since the Blitz! Only just noticed? Rosemary laughed in response, firing back, I seem to recall you getting those NHS cataract lenses for freewhat do you expect?
Dont you dare comment on my eyes! Margaret bellowed. Watch where youre looking, you sly fox! Think I dont notice?
So youre jealous then, eh? Rosemary quipped back. Seems a bit much, honestly! Ill get you a rolling pin for those lips of yours, just like I said!
Maybe keep it for yourself! Or would even a steamroller be wasted on that mouth? Margaret sniffed haughtily.
And so on it went. Mick, ever the problem solver, suggested getting rid of the outside toilet and putting a new one in the house. Rosemarys children rallied round, chipped in some pounds, and arranged for a new, blessedly indoor, loo. Mick himself filled in the old pitright on, Mick!
But of course, peace is short-lived. Margaret soon accused Rosemarys grandkids of nicking her pearsthe branches did dangle over the fence, after all.
They just thought the tree was ours! Rosemary replied, though honestly, she didnt think a single pear was missing. Your chickens are forever rooting in my veg beds and I dont say a word!
Chickens are thick! huffed Margaret. And as a grandmother, you ought to discipline those kids, not giggle all day with your gentleman caller!
It always, somehow, trailed back to Mick.
The grandkids got a mild rebuke, pear season passed, and youd think Margaret would move on. Not a chance! Now she claimed someone had snapped a branch.
Where? Show me! Rosemary pleaded, but there was nothing to see.
There, there! Margaret prodded with her gnarled finger. And, irritatingly, Rosemarys hands were still slim and elegant. It matteredhands, after all, are the calling card of a real English lady, even out in the sticks.
Mick suggested, Why dont you just saw the branches off? Theyre on your side.
Shell scream the place down!
Bet she wont! Ill be there for backup! assured Mick.
Sure enough, Margaret saw Mick out with the saw but stayed silent for once. One nil to team Rosemary.
With the pear tree sorted, Rosemary decided to address the naughty chickens. This year, Margaret had upgraded to some monstrous breed, and the feathered mob was destroying her garden.
Whenever Rosemary politely requested that Margaret corral her poultry, Margaret just gave a sly grin.
Rosemary did briefly consider roasting one in plain sight, but she was kindly by nature, so that plan was abandoned.
Mick, ever enterprising, nicked a solution off the internet: Scatter some eggs on the veg patch under cover of night. Next morning, collect them in full viewLook what your chickens left behind! It worked like a charm. Margaret was so flummoxed by Rosemarys egg harvest that her chickens didnt dare set foot where they didnt belong ever again.
Maybe now we can be friends? Margaret? Eh? Rosemary tried.
Not a chance! Now Margaret objected to the faint whiff of woodsmoke from Rosemarys summer kitchen, where she cooked on an old range until late autumn.
Honestly, the smoke and the smell! I might be a vegetarian, you know! Parliament might have passed a law on barbecues!
Oh, come off itwheres the barbecue? sighed Rosemary. You ought to clean your glasses once in a while.
Normally patient, Rosemary was pushed to her limit. Margaret had simply become impossible.
Maybe we should donate her for scientific experiments? Rosemary mused to Mick over tea. Shell be the death of me yet!
Rosemary was looking noticeably thinnerconstant bickering can wear a person down.
Shed choke! And I wont let her, anyway. Ive got a better idea! Mick grinned.
A few days later, an unfamiliar sound interrupted Rosemarys toast and marmalade: Ro, Rocome out, you beauty!
Mick was outside on his newly refurbished moped, beaming from ear to ear.
Ive been uncomfortable without my moped, he confessed. But now its roadworthy!
Well, what are we waiting for? cried Rosemary. Lets hit the open roadrelive old times!
And off they went. With the government now officially declaring all over-sixties active pensioners, Rosemary wasnt about to miss out. She leapt on, feeling twenty years younger.
And before longwell, lets just say, Mick proposed and Rosemary became Mrs. Albertson. A perfect ending, really.
She moved in with her new husband, while Margaret was left alone, cross, and thoroughly unimpressed. Which, as anyone will tell you, is the perfect recipe for a fresh round of jealousy.
Now, with nobody left to bicker with, Margarets grumblings echoed around her own kitchen, with only the cat for company. But its no fun arguing with a tabby.
So chin up, Rosemaryand maybe dont go out too soon. You never know what trouble has yet to brew! Thats English village life for you: drama over toilets, chickens, and the ever-present, slightly ridiculous rivalry.
Honestly, why bother with the outside loo in the first placeBut as the seasons changed, something curious happened. Margaret found her days growing emptier than shed bargained forthe thrill of trading barbs suddenly didnt taste so sweet when there was no one to spar with, no neighbours voice through the hedge, no daily dose of harmless mischief. Even the chickens grew quieter, as if mourning the loss of a proper audience.
One morning, Margaret trudged to the fence, basket in handthis time, not to complain but to pluck a single windfallen pear from the grass. Across the lane, the Albertsons house rang with laughter: Rosemary and Mick, sharing toast and listening to the moped engine cough proudly back to life.
Margaret hesitated, then straightened her cardigan, cleared her throat, andjust as the village clock struck the hourshe called out, Oi! Mick! You still keep the best jam for your wife, or is there a bit for an old friend?
Rosemary heard, glanced at her husband, and grinned. Go on, you great silly puddingbring the good jar. Weve got more to share than grumbles, havent we?
For the first time in ages, Margaret smiled, a real one that softened her cheeks and made her eyes narrow just like they used to when the three of them rode double on Micks old moped. Over the fence, she tossed the pearfat, golden, and perfectly ripe.
It turned out, sometimes all you needed was a change of scene, a hearty laugh, and, of course, a neighbour who wouldnt give up on youhowever difficult you might be. After all, in the end, every village needs a bit of drama to keep the tea hot, the stories lively, and the friendships stubborn enough to weather every season.
And that was that. In their little corner of England, peace finally grewif not quite as neatly trimmed as a formal garden, then wild, enduring, and remarkably sweet.
