My Neighbour Was Stealing My Manure in Sacks Every Night—Yesterday, I Generously Added Some Yeast to the Mix

My neighbour was nicking my compost by the sackful at night. Last night, I very generously sprinkled some yeast in there.

Youve been to my heap again, havent you, buckets in tow? I wasnt asking; it was a statement of cold fact.

Linda, the neighbour just over the fence, didnt so much as bat an eyelid. She stood in the middle of her vegetable patch, leaning on her hoe, staring at me like Id just cast the gravest accusation of the decade.

Oh, Claire, do calm down! Youve got a mountain of the stuff out there! Surely you dont begrudge your childhood friend a bit for her garden?

Its not stuff, Linda. Thats five hundred quid a truckloadnot to mention the delivery, I said, nodding towards my noticeably dwindling heap at the bottom of the garden. And it happens to be mine.

Cor, dont get so wound up! she huffed, rolling her eyes for effect. Its only a couple of buckets, to perk up my cucumbers. Im a pensioner, I cant afford to buy in by the lorry load, not like some people.

She knew precisely where to prod. Linda could turn herself into the victim in a flashblaming anything from the council to the rain, the price of petrol or, of course, me, because my tomatoes always blushed before hers.

I trudged back inside, fury burning in my chest. It wasnt the buckets, nor even the money that stungit was her nerve, that galling certainty that she could treat me like a mug.

Every night, around two, Id hear the telltale rustle and scrape at the compost. Linda wasnt just popping by for a pail; shed be filling big black sacks, nicking strategic reserves as if she was heading for siege.

Tony was in the kitchen, munching toast and muttering at his crossword.

Pinched it again? he asked, eyes glued to the clues.

Again. And had the cheek to call me stingy.

Set a trap, then.

Oh sure, and then what? Try explaining to everyone how the neighbour lost a leg to the garden gnome. Nothis needs cunning.

I glanced out the window at her greenhousethe very object of the neighbourhoods envy. Linda loved to bang on about her special variety and her green thumb. I thought, yes, green fingeredespecially when it came to lifting my compost.

That night I lay sleepless, listening: the distant bark of a dog, the faint hum of crickets, and thena soft shuffle. Not the usual bucket-and-spade; Linda was at it in earnest, stabbing a spade into my well-tended compost, carting it off as though it were her own.

Morning came, and she was already pottering about among the runner beans.

Morning, Claire! she trilled, as if wed traded nothing nastier than jam recipes. Your courgettes are going a bit yellow, arent they?

She was practically glowingtracks across the lawn showed shed dragged off a good few sacks in the night.

Mornin, Linda. Dream on.

I headed for the shed, and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the shelf with my gardening suppliespackets of seed, miracle feed, and a big yellow tub of dried yeast for the strawberries. Almost instantly, a devious plan formed.

Linda would stash her loot in heavy-duty builders sacks, tie them up tight, and let them ripen in her sweltering, humid greenhouseperfect for fermentation.

I filled a bucket with warm water, tipped in the last of the sugar from the cupboard, then dumped the whole tub of yeast in too. The stuff fizzed up at once, bubbling away and releasing the sweet, tangy whiff of success.

Once it was dark and my neighbour hadnt yet crept over, I slunk round through the side gate. I knew exactly where she squeezed under the battered wire fence. I tipped my frothy mixture right there, mixing it deep into the top layer. If she liked taking what wasnt hers, wellshed get a little homebrew, on the house.

Back inside, I scrubbed my hands and settled down to sleep, a sense of justice finally restored.

What are you grinning at? Tony mumbled, half-asleep.

Just expecting nice dreams, I replied, snuggling in.

The night passed without the usual midnight rustlingsLinda mustve been extra cautious. But the next morning, we were blasted awakenot by birds, not by the kettle, but by the most earsplitting shriek from beyond the fence.

Tony shot up, half-dressed, eyes wide.

What on earths happened? he yelled, rubbing his face.

I threw on my dressing gown and stepped into the crisp morning air. A strange sour tang lingered. There was Linda, gaping at her brand-new polytunnel, doors flung open.

She looked well, lets just say worse for wear. Splattered with great blobs of brownlike someone had used her as target practice at a paintball range. I strode up to the fence, raising my eyebrows.

Everything alright, Linda? Has your pipes burst?

She swivelled round. Her face bore both horror and sticky residue.

ItIt just went off! Claire! Its alive! she croaked.

Peering over, I barely suppressed a whistle. Inside, her greenhouse was a war zonea proper local disaster. Where her precious stash of my compost had sat the night before was now a scene of total carnage.

The yeast, put into those hot, sweaty sacks and left to stew, had gotten right to workfermenting, swelling up like balloons, and thenkaboom!bursting forth, splattering every surface with my enchanced compost mixture.

Plastic everywhere was shredded, a rich, sticky mess coated the walls and ceiling, and perfectly neat rows of peppers had been battered with a fusillade of goo. There she was, centre stage, star of the morning pantomime.

What exactly blew up? I asked, as coolly as I could manage.

The sacks! she squealed. Went in to check on them, and one blew! The next went straight after! Claire, what did you put in my compost?!

Me? I looked wounded. Linda, that was my compost, on my patch. Only thing in there was what the cow left behind.

As for how it wound up in your greenhouse, all carefully parcelled upnow, that is a question.

Linda froze, her mind racing. Admit it was mine? Shed admit the theft. Call it hers? Then why on earth had it gone up like a science experiment gone wrong? She stood there, literally and figuratively stewing.

Its sabotage! she gasped at last. You tried to poison me!

With organic fertiliser? I shrugged. Maybe its just the curse of your greenhouse. Or maybe your famous green thumb is finally too much for even nature.

Tony came out, surveyed the mayhem, spluttered into his fist, and hurried back inside before he burst into laughter. Linda grabbed the hose, frantically trying to wash herself clean, but the smell was unbeatablethe reek of not just compost, but utter defeat.

Rumours whirled around the estate all day about what happened: some reckoned it was a dodgy moonshine still, others a meteorite strike. Linda said nothing, scrubbing her polytunnel til sundown. She had to clear out every seedling and replace the soil. Even her prize-winning beans couldnt cope with that much help.

That evening, she didnt come out for the usual cuppathe first time in years.

A week later, I ordered another load of compost for the garden. The new heap went on the same spot. That night, I woke up to an unfamiliar soundsilence. No crawling along the fence, no sound of shifting sacks.

I checked the garden: the heap glowed eerily under the full moon, untouched. In the morning, Linda marched past my fence, nose in the air. Now she bought shop-feed in bright bags, forking over her own money.

Morning, neighbour! I called. Hows those peppers coming along?

She paused, looked at me. Her face showed not a speck of remorse, but plenty of anxiety about unpredictable chemical reactions.

Growing, she muttered. Dont need anything from you.

Splendid, I smiled back. And if you ever need the recipe for special feed, just ask.

She scowled, spat on the path, and hurried home. I went inside, brewed up a strong cuppa.

No gloating. No crowing. Just a proper sense of rightness. Mine stayed mine, nobody touched what wasnt theirs.

Borders arent about the height of your fence, but the lessons you teach. If youre not ready for consequences, best not go pilfering from someone elses pile.

And since then, theres always a pot of yeast kept on my top shelf. Just in case another little pest fancies testing my generositysometimes, you have to speak peoples language.