Over the Fence

For nine years Petronella and the man next door had talked over the fence at seven every evening. She grew tomatoes in such quantity that half of them went to his side. He fed the birds on his side; she fed them on hers. Neither of them had been inside the other’s house.

On his last evening the moon was already up. Petronella brushed the soil off her hands and went out at seven for the chat, the way she always did. Behind her the kettle boiled, and she let it.

“What shall I do with the ladder?” he said.

“Leave it,” Petronella said. “You’ll want it.”

“There’s no garden. A view of the water and no garden.” He was going to run a shop near his daughter.

They talked for a bit about the new people, coming on Thursday.

“I suppose they’ll paint the fence,” she said.

“They can do what they like,” he said. “It’s a good fence.”

In the morning the van came at eight. She wished him luck with the shop, and they waved. She hadn’t asked him in, not even on the last evening, and he hadn’t asked her. Nine years of it, all over that fence.