Neighbours Next Door.
Mrs Davenport set the bucket down onto the damp, dreamlike grass, wiping her work-worn hands upon her sweeping skirta cascade of bluebells and pink foxglove petals melting into its hem. Nerves flittered beneath her skin like a tangle of birds.
Now where has that Margaret got to? Mrs Davenport grumbled, peering through the rippling mist that seemed to rise between the hedgerows like the breath of some old, sleepwalking giant. Lazy, shameless thing. Only yesterday I told her that dandelions were crawling over from her patch, and not a flicker of carestill invading, as though summoned by her idleness!
She wandered the absurdly elongated garden, feet crunching in sopping daffodils, glancing sidelong over the hedgeever watchful, as if the fence itself might twist and wag a finger. Her blood simmered. From the rickety, vine-entangled shed came the howls and squeals of a pigthough shed never owned onewhile inside, teacups stacked themselves and chores multiplied with every tick of the unseen grandfather clock. Arguments clawed and burst forth, thrumming into the air, all stirredand why? Because Margaret would not appear! Shed sooner sleep till noon in her saggy tartan dressing gown!
Then: a ghostly shape emerged atop Margarets mossy stepslong as a railway sleeper, swaddled in her eternal, stained housecoat. Mrs Davenports resentment had brewed to a storm waiting for a strike.
She unleashed her speech like thunderunrestrained and meant for all the village to hear. Margaret, if youre too bone idle yourself, pay someone to weed your blasted garden! I told youthe dandelions are invading!
Margaret answered without looking up, voice laced with a stale sort of defiance and aimed into the haze. You worry about it, you do it, or trot on in and pull them yourself. The gates open. She vanished, only the slap of slop hitting the vegetable beds echoing in her wake.
The insolence stunned Mrs Davenport into a silent tremble, her tongue flickering like the fin of an eel. She waited, ever so watchful for that old witch to trip back into view. Peering through the wonky fence, she imagined Mrs Harriss ears twitching behind her own coiling hedge. Shed scurry off to gossip: Oh, did you hear how Margaret gave Mrs Davenport a right ticking off! Quite the set-to!
Something must be done, and fast, but Margaret remained rootedher own patch swallowed her.
The women of Elmwick had perfected the art of quarrelinga village named Elmwick was bound to hold its share of tempestuous spirits alongside the meek sorts. Take Amy Little for examplenever raised her voice her whole life, so the village rarely spoke of her at all. Whats to say? Hardly a proper woman if she cant stand her ground, or so theyd sniff. Shed keep her gaze on her shoes, neither a light for God nor a poker for the devil.
But about women like Mrs Davenport, they spoke with a kind of jagged respecta firecracker, that one! she would not let her own be trampled upon. Rarely went a day without a row.
In Elmwick, tempers sparked in the bakery, on the high street, under the clock tower, even by the duck pond where the mobile green grocer parked upanywhere was fair game. Neither weighty burdens nor time kept her from a scuffle. An hours standing her ground was not uncommon, and she always departed a conqueror. Later, over shared marmalade or gin, women relived the days drama in lively, exaggerated scenes, every jab and retort retold with relish. And then she said, and then the other one…
Mrs Davenport had once nearly come to blows in the Thursday market with a woman from Willowbrook. A quarrel for the ages, the square humming like a beehive upended. Barbs flew, lineages were invoked, threats and rumours swirled, and the villagers watched as if ticketed to the theatre. The angry play crescendoed and softenedsoon enough, such curses wound down like distant thunder.
Youre a viper, Mollyyoull die and no one will shed a tear.
And before that, Ill spit on your grave, witch. Thats a promise, mind. The lines delivered almost serenely, the violence spent, the strangeness of the curse rolling off like mistbolder words had been heard.
Thus it was between Mrs Davenport and Margaret Wicksa war old as the rowan trees, full of wild stories that wouldnt fit in the boot of a Morris Minor. Margaret, for her part, never seemed to care, returning fire or gossiping about Mrs Davenport in turn.
Daft woman, thats all she is. Dont listen to her blather.
At last, Margaret lumbered from behind the shed. Mrs Davenport was set to pounce.
How lazy must a soul become before even uprooting a weed is too much? What occupies you so, neighbour? Got your shed as white as the Queens knickers, or are the grandchildren overrunning you?
My daughters got sensedoesnt foist her children on their gran.
Oh, that was a swing right for Mrs Davenports pride: her own grandchildren, Sarahs lot, always underfoot.
Thats cause your Sarah knows theyd come back filthy and famished. You cant trust you with a mongrel, let alone a child!
I dont coddle themI dont bow and scrape, I dont tie their laces
Truth be told, Mrs Davenport had nearly grovelled at her nine-year-old grandsons feet the other day, making a fuss over a lace.
I can do it myself, Gran, the boy had muttered, offering his shoe while chewing an apple.
Margaret, with that evil glimmer, remembered well.
My house is a haven, not some workhouse. Thats why my grandkids visit, unlike yours.
Theyve nowhere else to go, thats why, Margaret retorted, plopping her bucket down with a thud. Mind your chickens, instead of yapping at sunrisetheyre pecking about here again. Next time, Ill wring their necks.
Go on then! Make a stewyou could use some meat on those bones. Try feeding your husband for once, might do him good.
Ill wring their necks if I find em in my patch.
They only peck grasslet em! My hens, my eggs. Ill even give you a few.
Id sooner choke than eat your eggs.
As the barbs wilted into exhaustion, their husbands emerged from the fog at either end of the laneMr Wicks and old Tom Davenport. They meandered to the weathered bench between the gardens.
Listen to em go at itcurse the day! murmured Mr Wicks.
God made three miseries: woman, the devil, and a goat, Tom Davenport replied, lighting one for his neighbour.
They smoked, listening to the wrathful chorus of their wives, before letting conversation slip to the new forestry boss in Ashfordshire.
Womens liesyou couldnt ride em all on a pig, Tom mused. Too many idle hours is the rot of it.
Think we ought to drag em inside? asked Tom, less than eager.
Youre barmy! Rouse a dog before a woman.
Youre quite right. Words come so easy to em.
They smoked another, and waited. They both recognised when the storm would break and when it was safest to return. The quarrel had become ritual; with the row behind them, their wives would be energised, scrubbing and clattering through the house, outshining all the neighbours.
Mrs Davenport rattled on, berating Margaret even in her own home, but handled household tasks with manic pride, showing the world her domain was best-kept. Margaret, sour and silent, red-cheeked with anger, pressed on tooif only to prove Mrs Davenports slander wrong.
Dont fret, Margaret, said her husband.
I wont waste thought on a giddy fool. Let her mind herself.
But he could sense her wounded pride simmering. Why couldnt peace ever settle between them?
Margaret was a transplant to Elmwick. Mr Wicks had brought her over from Silverfield, and everyone declared she was a nincompoop, useless with fires and water buckets. Mrs Davenport, once, had fancied Mr Wicks herselfshe, with her thick plait and apple-round cheeks. But hed married Margaret, all bony elbows and brisk defiance.
Years passed, and Mrs Davenport took Tom instead. For a while, both families were friendlyfeasts, birthdays, their children romping together. Margaret bore only one daughter, then lost the rest. Mrs Davenport had twoSarah and John.
She was endlessly industrious: sewing, darning, boiling laundry by moonlight, starching collars smooth as glass. Margaret, more placid, read stories to her daughter and didnt fuss over ribbons or shiny boots, nor scurry about the city searching for the best. At school, Mrs Davenports children fumbled academics; Sarah scraped by, John nearly expelled, but just managed his eight years.
It was after that the quarrels hardened. The children were friends, husbands content, but their wives bickered like cats and foxes. As children grew, with Margarets daughter off to university and then to the city, only visiting with her family at holidays, and Mrs Davenports children and grandchildren stayed nearby, it seemed they had more timeand even more causeto argue.
Villagers swore the fiercest foes in Elmwick were Mrs Davenport and Margaret. Boundaries, trees, chickens, even the old bench almost splintered in their feuding; only the menfolk stopped that folly.
Even old Shep, the dog who split his loyalties between gardens, departed for Uncle Georgesan old bachelor with the quietest house in the street.
***
But one spring, trouble came to Margarets home. She stopped walking her dream-garden, and Mrs Davenport peered and waitedno Margaret. Even Mr Wicks was tending the chickens; Mrs Davenport scoffed, telling everyone Margarets shifted all her chores onto her husband nowa disgrace.
It was weeding time, but Margaret did not appear. Shell let the garden go, youll seemore dandelions for us. The grass hadnt yet grown, but already Mrs Davenport was angry in anticipation.
Then came the newsMargaret was taken to hospital. Her daughter arrived, distressed and monosyllabic, refusing details.
No need to ask in Elmwickgossip drifted like evening fog.
Theyll bring Margaret homethey found something bad. Her daughter wont say, but it’s cancer.
Soon enough, Margaret returned. Her daughter, burdened, prepared to leavesmall children, a husband, work in the city. Before going, she arranged (for a fee) with Miss Daisy Millerhapless and needy, but eager for penniesto care for Margaret when Mr Wicks was away.
Mr Wicks became closed, speaking little, gaunt and stooped. His talk with Tom Davenport faded; still, in the evenings, they sat on the old bench, a puff or two.
Hows she doing? Tom would ask.
Oh, said Mr Wicks, dragging on his pipe.
Chin up, mate. Anything you needask.
Nothing to be done. Tell your wifethe strawberries are overtaking the weeds. If shed like some, let her take them before they rot.
She wont. You know how it is between them.
I know. Maybe Daisy can manage a basket of themno sense in the fruit rotting.
That evening Tom, midway through supper, mentioned the strawberries to Mrs Davenport, expecting a flare of wrath. But she only paused in stirring the jam, face away, and said nothing. Tom, relieved, let the matter drop.
A few days later, she asked him to carry a large bag. Whats in there? he inquired.
Two hefty jars of strawberry jam and a bundle wrapped in newspaper.
So you picked their strawberries, then?
Yes, and weeded too. Dandelions up to my kneestwo days work. My hands, look! Scratched to ribbons.
Well, you… Tom trailed off, but hoisted the parcel next door himself.
Margaret was inside, Daisy chattering about doctors, medicines, and lifes unfairness. Tom slipped into the still, pale-bedroomMargaret upon high pillows, hair like a dark river, cheeks wan but bright-eyed.
Tom stumbled over a greeting. Brought you some jam from Olga. She said she picked and weeded the whole patch.
Thank her for me. She makes excellent jam, Margaret murmured. Come in, sit a minute.
Can we get you anything?
Oh, we have what we need. Michael fetches things. If Olgas picked the strawberries, have her take the chicken wire down and let your hens roamit doesnt matter now the gardens wild.
Doesnt matterwhen you get better, youll manage…
Margaret only turned away, sighing. Dont be cross with me, Tom. Please?
Never! Tom nearly wheezed. Its you twoalways at each other, we men…
I know… Margaret smiled faintly. Daisy interrupted, bearing greasy potatoes, bemoaning tablets and the fates. Margaret rolled her eyes.
Tom left, heart heavy, the sight of illness sitting under his ribs. Better if the sickness had chosen him instead.
That evening, shaken, he relayed everything to Mrs Davenport, unloading as she huffed and frowned. He couldnt get her to show pitynot for Margaret, not for Daisys helpless care, not for Michaels haplessness.
She said your jam is always the best, Tom eventually offered.
Mrs Davenports shoulders twitched, but she turned to her tasks in silence. Heartless woman, Tom thought.
Next morning, once Tom was out the door, Mrs Davenport filled a little cauldron with yesterdays stew, bundled pies, and a jug of elderberry cordial. She packed it all up and sat upon her porch, her breath steamy in the waking air.
After a moment, she set off next door. Doors rarely locked in Elmwick.
Daisy! Daisy! she called.
Whos there? Margarets soft voice drifted out.
Its mebrought stew and drinks. Wheres Daisy?
Shes gone to fetch milk from the Thompsons. Be back soon. Every word cost her effort.
Mrs Davenport left the bag on the shivery kitchen table and, noticing the jam jars untouched, offered, Why not move these to the cellar, Margaret?
No answerof course Margaret could hardly stand. Mrs Davenport stowed the jam beneath the floorboards, already grumbling about Daisys cleaning.
Olga, Margaret whispered.
What?
Some cordialcould I have some? Thirsty as the desert.
Of course, and Mrs Davenport brought her a mug before bustling about, recognising Daisys inadequacy, Margarets exhaustion, and the dusty, sour air. She flung wide the sash window.
Throw on your shawlneed fresh air. Do you get out of bed?
Only to the privy. After that, I hardly rise at all. Trouble with my legs.
And the doctors, what do they say?
Margaret flapped a handwords were spent. She sipped the cordial and tumbled back among pillows.
Mrs Davenport sat firm, voice bristling with challenge. Right! Call me what you like, Margaret, banish me if you will, but Im not leaving. If Daisys not up to scratch, Ill do it.
Margaret, defeated or relieved, simply flicked her fingers.
Two days later, Daisy, with a shower of scoldings, was gone, and Mrs Davenport set the house in ordersharp words for stubborn refusals, gentle for tears. She cleaned, aired, cooked for alleven for Mr Wicks, who liked a hot supper after work.
She reported energetically to the other women at the pharmacy. Today, Margaret managed a bowl of pork stew with bread. The doctor says she can have it now. Shes improvingshell be dancing at her grandchildrens wedding yet!
Margaret managed to endure a days care, a little food, and sleep. She rarely spoke, agreeing with whatever Mrs Davenport prescribedthere was no standing against her in that house! If her fussing was too much, Margarets tears would bring a pause, a gentling.
Now, now, whats to cry for? Two more spoonfuls and youre done.
Strangely, Mr Wicks found the gloom retreating from their home, replaced by brisk hope and annoyance, as Mrs Davenport cajoled and harried him, too, into setting the garden and yard to rights.
How do you bear living with her? he asked Tom.
Where the devil fails, my Olga succeeds, Tom replied, waving him off.
Margarets cheeks grew rosier, her voice steadier, her legs somewhat more obedient. The doctors began to speak of improvement; Margaret was, it seemed, recovering.
Lets take a walk, Mrs Davenport commanded one dusk, brandishing a knitted cardigan.
I wont, Margaret waved her off. No sense making a spectacle of myself. Im tiredoff to bed.
But Mrs Davenport marshalled the men to bring her out to the bench at the boundary. She was proud; the whole village ought to see Margaret, thriving from her ministrations, with her new bloom and plumper cheeksa resurrection from the deathbed. Time for a little fresh air, time to show she hadn’t faded to a rumour.
They sat side by side, Mrs Davenport tucking a pillow behind Margaret, wrapping her in a shawl. A strange peace, dreaming, settled over the street.
You know, Margaret, Ive thought a lot these past days. Here we are, living parallel lives, always bickering. Our homes pressed up together for a reason. Children grew up side by side, our husbands are thick as thieves. The children have flown, with their own lives and cares. But you and I, were left for each other. Grown old together, well pass the evenings hereon this very bench.
You know, my father-in-law set this here, right between the houses, Margaret replied, hugging the shawl.
Nonsense. My father built it himself, for all to share.
Is that so? Mr Wicks swore it was our benchpaid your father for the timber. Always was ours.
Youre off your trolley! My father built itnever took a penny for his trouble!
I’m telling you, it was our bench
Go soak your head, Margaret, Mrs Davenport declared, rising, voice pitching up. Saw it with my own eyes
You go and soak yours. It was meant for our house, you knowlook by the fence, youll see
And the house? This is ours, yours is further over
Another jolly row lit up the dusk, voices bouncing into the growing twilight.
Whats an English village without a bit of a row?
Beyond the fence, Tom and Michael lounged on the other side, pipes smoking.
Tom chuckled, brushing a tear from his eye. Missed this, I have. Margarets nearly well, then?
Shes coming round, thank God. Lifes returning to normalthe women back at it as usual.
As the last embers of their row burned out, old Shep loped by, gave them a knowing look, and curled up by the familiar bench with a sigh.
The evening grew cool, the sky heavy with future rain. The sunset brushed softly the seated silhouettes on their benchthe very bench that married their fates as neighbours, quarrels and all, through every waking dream of Elmwick.
***The lamplight winked on in Margarets window, as one by one those of Elmwick withdrew. Children were called inside, the night cat yawned and padded over a wall, and a hush crept through the gardens, interrupted now and then by bursts of laughter from the boundary bench. In that spill of golden light, the two women harped and hummed, sparring over benches, troughs, and the invention of washing powdersparring, but never truly wounding.
It was as though something in Margarets illness had broken the old spell, scattering the resentments as surely as a strong wind shakes petals from a branch. Not that the gossip would vanishElmwick evenings would always stir with whispered reports of the latest she said, she saidbut something gentler ran beneath it all; a current as warm as the air that curled round the laurel hedge.
Youll never win, you know, Mrs Davenport told her, leaning in, voice coaxing out a reluctant grin.
Well see, wont we? Margaret replied, soft as the settling dusk. Someones got to keep you honest.
And so they sat, two stubborn hearts presiding over summers opening night, the tang of pipe smoke and ripening fruit wound together like the old dreams of gardens joined and divided but ultimately flourishing side by side.
By and by, Mrs Davenport fetched a shawl of her own and drew it round them both, and, rivalries melting into the hush of the hour, they watched as the first stars brightened above Elmwick, unchallenged and eternal.
For neighbours are ever the truest mirrorsreflecting faults, correcting boundaries, and, sometimes, against all odds, keeping each other alive.
