“He’s at it again!” Russ slammed the front door, trailing dirt through the hallway.
Barb sighed. She held a protective hand over the mirror on the wall until it stopped vibrating, and reminded Russ for the millionth time to remove his gardening boots in the porch.
But he was already stomping towards the kitchen. Barb followed and put the kettle on, waiting for both it and Russ to boil over. Meanwhile, she listened to the usual rant about how Ian at the allotment was jealous of Russ’s prize vegetable patch, and was obviously tampering with it, because his tools kept moving and his marrows weren’t growing at the expected rate. Yet Ian’s patch was thriving.
Finally, Russ stopped pacing and Barb handed him a steaming mug. Leaning against the work surface, he paused to take a sip. As he set the mug down, Barb watched the tea sway against the edges like dirty waves.
“I miss dinner parties with Jane and Ian,” she said. “I do wish you’d make friends.”
Russ scoffed and clomped off upstairs, tea in hand and boots still on. Cringing, Barb pictured the dirt settling into the shag-pile.
*
“Oh, Ian’s the same,” said Jane later. “He thinks Russ is meddling with his patch. It’s unbearable!”
Barb’s eyes sparkled. “I have an idea…”
*
The next evening, a cooler box full of beers in the space between them, Russ and Ian reclined on deckchairs, watching the sun sink into the sea. A stakeout at the allotments wasn’t a bad idea, they had both agreed, especially when beer was mentioned. Each still suspected the other, but as darkness fell and the pile of empty bottles grew larger, their deckchairs shifted closer together, and monosyllabic grunts became sentences, eventually melting into laughter.
In the small hours, something stirred behind the shed. They both jumped.
“Did you hear that?”
The rustling grew louder. A figure edged towards Russ’s vegetable patch, glowing softly in the moonlight. Russ and Ian stared at one another, then down at their beer bottles, and back at the figure. Were they imagining things?
Russ’s voice squeaked mouse-like in the darkness. “Who are you?”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” sang the fairy. “I’m the allotment fairy.”
The men were stunned into silence, mouths agape.
“I must confess to messing with your vegetables,” she continued in a melodic lilt. “I only come when the atmosphere is strained. However, things seem most amicable now. If the peace continues, I shall never return. I bid you goodnight, gentlemen!”
And with that, she disappeared.
“Best not mention this to the wives,” Ian whispered, still shaking.
“Our secret,” croaked Russ. They chinked bottles.
*
Barb filled everyone’s glasses. “Great to have you over again! I’m so glad you two resolved your differences. Whatever happened that night?”
“Just a bit of bonding over some beers,” Russ winked at Ian.
The women smiled.
Upstairs in Barb’s wardrobe, peeking out from beneath a coat, the sequined edge of a fairy outfit twinkled in the evening light.
