Neighbours.
Mrs. Mitford placed the bucket on the ground, wiping her hands against her long, flowery skirt. Her nerves were on edge.
Now where is that wretched Sally? Shameless, good-for-nothing, and bone idlethats what she is, my neighbour. Only yesterday I told her the dandelions are creeping into my garden, and does she care? Not a jotstill coming over like a tide!
Mrs. Mitford waited, pacing up and down her yard and constantly peering through the fence, keeping watch for her neighbour. It made her furious! There was a pig squealing in the shed, the house was in chaos, her arguments were already boiling and ready to spill out, and all because of that lazy cowstill hasnt shown up! Probably snoozing till midday as usual.
Finally, she spotted Sally on the porch. Tall as a lamppost and forever in her grimy old housecoat. Oh, Mrs. Mitford had built up quite a temper while waiting for her nemesis to appear.
Without hesitation, she launched into her prepared tiradeloud and sharp, so that everyone could hear.
If youre so hopelessly lazy, Sally, why dont you hire someone to do your weeding for you? I told you just yesterday those blasted dandelions are coming into my garden!
Sally replied without thinking, breezily, never even looking in her direction, but plenty loud.
If it bothers you, you sort it. Or come do it yourselfyoure welcomegates open, she nodded toward it with her chin, as she disappeared from view and could be heard dumping a bucketful of kitchen scraps out back.
Mrs. Mitfords jaw dropped at such cheek. She actually shook from the audacity. But she knew better than to confront her until Sally returned to the yard. She peered through the fence from the other side. No one there, but imagined Mrs. Baker must be listening inshed be off gossiping around the village later:
Sally really put Mrs. Mitford in her place today, she did!
The situation needed saving, and that Sally was taking her sweet time.
Squabbles and rows were something the women of Cloverfield did well. In fact, perhaps thats why the village was called thatalways bristling, full of life! Sure, there were modest and quiet souls, like Janet Davidson, whod never fought with anyone in her lifebut no one talked about her. Boring, nothing to say there. Is that even a woman if she cant defend her position? You could walk all over her and shed just look at her shoes. Neither a candle to God, nor a poker for the fire!
But women like Mrs. Mitford? The village spoke of her with grudging respecta firebrand! No one picked on her, no one went unchallenged. Not a day went by without some sharp exchange with someone.
Arguments flared up instantlyat the shop, on the lane, during field work, at the village hall, and especially by the mobile grocer’s van.
Come rain or busy work, nothing would pull her away from a good argument. She could go at it for an hour and always walked away victorious. Around Cloverfields kitchens, recounting the days falling-out and sparring dialogues was standard entertainment: So she said, and then the other goes
Once, Mrs. Mitford nearly came to blows at the market with a woman from Bentley Lane. Now that was a row to remember! The market buzzed like a bees nest whacked with a stick. The women sparred and the crowd gathered as if it were a play. Both wanted the starring role. Curses grew into threats; family connections, husbands and their exes were dragged in. Even sly innuendo made an appearance.
The whole thing would begin with a wild energy, but by the end it would mellow into almost a performance. That kind of arguing took skill and a sharp tonguenot to mention a nimble mind. Honestly, it was a talent.
Eventually, the storm would pass, fading away like distant thunder after a summer shower.
“Youre a right cow and always will be. No one will shed a tear when you peg it.”
“Ill spit on your grave before I go, you snake in the grass. Ill make sure of it…” And by then it was almost routine, not half as monstrous as it sounded. Folks had heard worse.
And so it had gone on for years between Mrs. Mitford and her neighbour Sally Barton. Mrs. Mitford had told the whole village every story she could about that womanand Sally just snapped back, spinning tales about Mrs. Mitford in return.
Shes a fool and thats that. Yeah, go aheadkeep listening to her.
Finally, Sally reappeared from behind the sheds, while Mrs. Mitford waited for her with arms folded.
Whats it take for you to pull a weed, eh, neighbour? What are you so busy withwhitewashing the shed? Or are your grandchildren keeping you flat out?
My daughter brought hers up rightshe doesnt leave them all with their grandmother.
Oof! That was a barb aimed straight at Mrs. Mitford, who often had her daughters children whirling about her ankles.
“Thats because Sarah knows full well youd barely feed them or keep them clean. You shouldnt be trusted with a dog, let alone kids…”
“Well, I dont spoil them, Im not bending over backwards, tying laces for them…”
And true enough, only the other day Mrs. Mitford had dropped to her knees to tie her nine-year-old grandsons shoes.
“I can do it myself, Nan,” he mumbled, but propped his foot up for her, apple in hand.
Sally duly noted it and tucked it away.
And my home is like a little haven for themnot like a workhouse. Thats why they visit, unlike some
They only visit because theres nowhere else Sally set her bucket down, turned to face her, Maybe if you kept a better eye on your chickens instead of gossiping at dawn, they wouldnt wander here. Next time, Ill do for one of them, I swear.
Go on then. Make a stew. You might manage a proper hot meal for once, put some flesh on your bones. Might even feed your husband decently for a change. Make the most of that chicken.
If I catch one of them on the veg patch, Ill wring its neck.
What are they going to find there, anyway? If my chicken nibbles a bit of grass, lays me another eggmaybe Ill gift one to you.
Id be sick over those eggs, I wouldcouldnt swallow them if I tried!
Soon, Mrs. Mitfords husband Peter and Sallys husband Michael wandered out, each ambling to the old bench between their houses.
Theyre at it again, the pair of them! Michael muttered, listening in.
God made three menaces: a woman, the devil, and a goat, Peter quipped, lighting Michaels cigarette.
They smoked together, quietly listening to their wives quarrel. Then they discussed work at the timber mill, and the new manager, before drifting back to the familiar sounds of shouting.
Cant ride a womans tales even on a pig, Michael grumbled, Its all these days off weve got, gets them worked up.
Should we try drag them home? Peter suggested, without hope.
Are you mad? Youre braver to rile a dog than a woman.
Too right. Theyve got quicker tongues than any of us.
So, they each lit another and waited it outknowing exactly when it was safe to reappear, sensing when their wives fury had run out of steam.
All righta row meant the day had begun. The women had had their fun, now it was time for dignity. Afterwards, Mrs. Mitford would keep up her running commentary in the house, complaining about her neighbour while bustling through chores, acting as if to prove her household was better managed than anyones.
Sally silently sulked, her jaw clenched, trying to show her own husband that the slander from next door was undeserved.
Pay her no mind, love.
Honestly. As if I have time for idiots. She should mind her own business.
But Michael could tellhis wife felt deeply wounded. Why couldnt they just get along?
Truth be told, Sally was a relative newcomer to Cloverfield. Michael had brought her from the neighbouring village, Harrowfield. The old gossips claimed hed brought home a bumblerby the time she managed to start the fire and lug the water, the flames had gone out.
And Mrs. Mitford, back in the day, had had her sights on Michael herself. She was a beautythick braid like a rope. But hed chosen Sallyskinny as a beanpole, no beauty, no special skills.
A few years later, Mrs. Mitford married Peter. At first the families got along, visited each other, celebrated birthdays and Christmas, and let the kids play together. Sally only had one daughter, then lost several babies prematurelyso she was left with her one girl. Mrs. Mitford had two: a daughter and a son.
Mrs. Mitford was always the industrious sortup sewing or mending late into the night, washing and ironing. Sally lived more quietly. Her daughter was never a scruff, but Sally didn’t fuss with fancy bows or expensive blouses, nor did she traipse round town hunting for the best bargains like Mrs. Mitford. Evenings, Sally read stories to her girl instead of bending over tubs.
But at school, Mrs. Mitfords children didnt do too well. The girl just scraped from a C to a B, and the boywell, he was always getting into trouble, nearly expelled. Lucky he finished his O-levels at all.
Thats when the neighbourly squabbles truly began. The children were friends, the men got on fine, but the womencats and dogs. What was there to fight about? They had much the same means, lived right beside each other, shared the same problems and little joys.
The children grew up. Sallys daughter finished university, married, and moved to the city. She visited the village with her own family, but not oftenalways some holiday, or camp, or studies.
Mrs. Mitfords kids stayed nearby. Her daughter and husband lived in the next village with his mothera big house, steady husband, nothing to complain about. The grandkids were always popping round to see Mrs. Mitford. Her son was yet unmarried, working in the market town.
They ought to have been able to get along. But the more spare time they had, the more often they clashed.
Now everyone in Cloverfield knew there were no greater enemies than Mrs. Mitford and Sally Barton. One day it was the garden fence; the next, overhanging trees; then the livestock. The bench, set almost exactly halfway between their homes, very nearly came to blowsonly their husbands stopped them smashing it.
Even old Rex, the dog who used to belong to both houses when there were children, eventually couldnt stand the tensionhe moved in with old George up the lane.
***
***
Then trouble came to Sallys house. In spring, she stopped coming into the yard. Mrs. Mitford watched and waited, but Sally was never about. Even looking after the hens had fallen to poor Michael. Mrs. Mitford grumbled to anyone whod listen that Sally had grown completely shamelessdumped everything on her husband!
It was the season for planting, but Sally was nowhere to be found. Shell let the garden go wild, and those dandelions will swarm over again, Mrs. Mitford fumed preemptively, glaring at the unkempt weeds.
Suddenly, news spread: Sally had been taken into hospital. She was very ill. Her daughter came from the city, looking distraught, shrugging off questions.
Mrs. Mitford didnt need to ask for detailsword travelled fast enough in Cloverfield.
They say Sallys home nowshes not well at all. Had an operation. Not much said, but sounds like cancer.
Indeed, Sally soon returned. Her daughter, after a few days, had to leave againlittle ones and a job back home in Manchester. Before leaving, she arranged to pay Dorothy Mertonan unfortunate, needy woman with not much senseto look after her mother while Michael was at work.
Michael grew withdrawn, barely speaking, shoulders slumped. Hed never been chatty, but now he barely spoke a word. Occasionally hed still join Peter on the old bench outside.
Hows she doing? Peter would ask.
Oh well Michael would shrug and draw on his cigarette.
Keep going, mate. If you need anything, you know where I am.
Theres not much to be done, really. Just so you knowyour wife should help herself to our strawberries. If she wants them, tell her to take them.
She wont. You know how things are between them.
I do. Maybe tell Dorothy. At least she could pick a few or theyll go to rot.
That evening, Peter remembered to mention the neighbours strawberries while Mrs. Mitford was making jam in the kitchen.
Strawberries need picking next door, he said, hunching, bracing for a tongue-lashing about not needing anything from those so-and-sos.
But Mrs. Mitford said nothing, standing with her back to him, stirring jam in the old aluminium pan. Peter switched the subject, forgetting it.
A couple of days later, she told him to take a large carrier over to Sallys.
Whats in it?
In the bag were two big jars of homemade jam, and a smaller jar, all swaddled in newspaper.
You picked their strawberries?
I did. And I weeded the patch too. Grass was up to my waisttook me ages. My hands look a right state, and she showed him her scratched palms.
But, Peter began, then fell silent, hoisted the heavy bag and headed off to the neighbours.
Michael was out. Dorothy opened the door, launching into a stream about Sallys health, complaining about the doctors, the medicine, everything.
Peter peered into the living room, saw Sally lying on the sofapropped up on high pillows, her hair loose over the pillow, face pale, but her eyes said, Come in.
Hello, Sal. How are you? he lingered in the doorway. Olgas sent you some jam, picked the strawberries and weeded the lot.
Thank you. Her jam is always lovely, Sally said quietly. Come in, sit for a bit.
Peter hesitated, pulled up a chair.
Need anything?
Im all right, really. Michael gets whatever we need. If your Olga picked those berries, can she see to that bit of old tin as well? Your hens can have the run of the patchI wont be needing it now.
Theres no need. Youll be back on your feet soon as
Sally turned away, sighing heavily.
Dont be cross with me, Pete, will you?
What? Never. Thats you and Olga fightin Michael and I
I know
Dorothy bustled in with a plate of burnt potatoes, muttering about pills and Sallys fussiness. Sally rolled her eyesweary of her noisy nurse. She wasnt hungry anyway.
Peter left with a heavy heart, quietly closing the door. Poor thing, it was awful when your wife fell illhed sooner take the hit himself.
At home, he shared all hed seen with his wife, who scowled and shook her head, firing questions. Peters patience ran shortshe was never satisfied, never showed an ounce of sympathy for the neighbours.
Who could expect that muddle-head Dorothy to care for a home properly? And Michaela man was only a man, after all. Thats why everything in Sallys house was so rundown, and her food poorly made.
She said your jams always delicious, he said, half accusingly.
His wife froze for a moment, then got back to work.
Cold woman, Peter thought.
The next day, when the chores were done and her husband gone, Mrs. Mitford filled a small iron pot with borscht left from the day before, wrapped up some pasties, took a bottle of summer fruit cordial and packed it all into a cloth bag. She sat for a moment on her doorstep, breathing out.
After a pause, she clapped her knees, got up, and marched to Sallys back door without looking aroundpeople hardly locked up in the village anyway.
No one met her.
Dorothy? Dorothy? she called.
Whos there? Sally’s faint voice from indoors.
Its me. Mrs. Mitford peered into the sitting room, eyes on the gaudy curtain, not on Sally. Wheres Dorothy? Ive brought you some soup and some juice, her tone flat, as if just passing by.
Sally sat upright in bed, thin bare feet awkward on the floor, her blouse askew, collarbones jutting, long dark hair down. She looked practically bluea worrying sight. The air hung stale.
Shes gone to get milk from the Browns. Wont be long, Sally managed, even that sentence requiring effort.
Right, Mrs. Mitford faltered. Well, Ill just leave it here. Eat what you canand do try to perk up.
She turned for the door and saw the jars of jam still sitting near the shoes.
Sally, why didnt you put the jam in the cellar? she asked, then wincedwhat business was jam to a woman who cant even get up? Let me do it, eh?
Without waiting for a reply, she gathered the jars, headed to the kitchen, pulled up the rug, lifted the cellar flap. Sand everywhereDorothy never did clean. Money for nothing, she thought crossly.
Oy, Olga
What is it?
Could I have some juice? Thirsty like you wouldnt believe.
Of course, of course, Mrs. Mitford fetched a cup.
The more she poked into Sallys business, the clearer it wasDorothy wasnt coping. Sally looked exhausted. Fairshe was illbut the place needed airing, cleaning
Here, wrap that shawl around you while I open the window. You getting up at all these days?
Only to the loo. Thats about it. My legs dont want to know.
What do the doctors say then?
Sally just waved a hand helplessly, slumping back after sipping the juice. Mrs. Mitford propped her feet up, perched on the edge of the bed.
Well now! she declared, fists balled. You can curse me, throw me out if you like, but Im staying put. Ill keep an eye on Dorothy. If shes not up to it, Ill step in.
Sally made the barest gesture as if to say, suit yourself.
A couple of days later, Dorothy departed in a huff, trailing grumbles as Mrs. Mitford gave her a piece of her mind.
Well, she nearly buried you! What a nosey disaster! Mrs. Mitford bustled into the room, hands on hips. No, youre not done for yet. Youll be dancing at the grandkids wedding, you will. Just thinking about your dancing makes me laugh.
You kicked her out?
Of course I did. Useless, she was. Dont fretIm here now. No one comes to harm with me about!
So, Sally lost her peacebecause Olga Mitford rarely let up. She cleaned, changed Sally, scolded her for refusing medicinal teas, food, leg exercises. The house was soon spotless, washing on the line, everything neat. She cooked mostly at home now but fed four every night. Michael came from work, always hungry.
To the village ladies shed report,
Sally and I had pork and cabbage stew for lunch today. Doctor says she can eat pork nowshell get on her feet again with my help!
Sally herself could just about manage the treatments, eat, and sleep. She rarely spoke, mostly nodded. Arguing with Mrs. Mitford took too much effort. If emotion ever got the better of her, tears would come, and Mrs. Mitford would relent.
All right, all right! No need for tears now. Its only the last two spoonfuls
Michael, though, could sense the gloom was lifting, swept away from their home with the dust and cobwebs. Olga, rowdy as she was, brought a bit of hope, a bit of fun backshe chided him as much as she cheered him up. He found himself tidying the garden, pulling weeds. Couldnt say no to her.
Whats it like, living with her? Cant be easy, Michael moaned with Peter.
Where the devil cant manage, Olga will do just fine, Peter replied with a grin.
And Sally brightened. Her legs still creaked, but she could chat, even dress herself now. Doctors said: improvement, definitely. There was always hopethe operation had gone well.
Were going for a walk, declared Mrs. Mitford one evening, holding out a knitted cardigan.
Im not. Ill make a fool of myselfbesides, Im tired. Planning to sleep
But Mrs. Mitford frog-marched her out, the men supporting Sally to the bench between their homes. She was proud of the achievementwanted the village to see Sally alive and well, rounder in the cheeks, with colour.
It was good for her anyway. Sally beamed, happy out in the air. Sitting side by side, they stuck a cushion behind Sally, draped a shawl around her shoulders.
You know, Sally, Ive done a lot of thinking these days, started Olga. We live, we bicker… but maybe our houses are next to each other for a reason. The kids grew up together, our fellas get on. The children have their own busy lives now, off elsewhere. Really, its just us left, to see each other through, growing old together, passing the evenings on this bench.
Must be a reason Dad set this bench here, right between us, Sally ticked her shawl closer.
Your dad? Rubbishmy old man made this bench, his handiwork.
No, not at all. Michael told methis was ours to start with. Dad paid your father for the work and set it here. Our bench. Honest to God!
Dont talk daft! How could it be yours if my father made it? Fairytales! He never charged neighbours a penny in his life.
Im telling youours! Sally insisted.
Oh, go jump in the lake, Sally! Mrs. Mitford sprang to her feet. Youre making things up! I saw, plain as day, my dad building this bench!
Well, you go jump then! Sally barked, more lively each moment. Bench was always meant for our house. Look where the fence runs
And the house? This is our boundaryyours is further down!
Again, the row blazed up, voices carrying on the breeze over the village.
What good is a village without the spark of a spat?
On the other side of the fence, by the sheds, Peter and Michael sat, sharing a smoke.
Peter chuckled, dabbing his eyes after.
I missed this, you know. Shes well on the mend, your Sally. Isnt she? he asked.
Shes on the up, Michael exhaled deeply, relishing his cigarette. Thank God, everythings getting back to normal. Women, eh?
And again, the argument flared and fizzled, quick as a match. Old Rex trotted by, stopped, gave them a knowing look, and ambled to the familiar bench, laying his head at their feet.
Evening air freshened with the sunset, clouds drifting in. The dusk, as if wise, surveyed the peoples hearts, letting the hasty words pass by and marvelling at the pure thoughts beneath.
Golden sunlight, slanting across the world after rain, lit up the two women on the benchside by sidetheir fates forever tied by the bench that united their lives.
