“Zoe, your grandkids have stripped every last berry off my blueberry bushes!” The neighbour didnt even blink. “So what? Theyre just kids.” “So what? Theyve ruined my entire harvest!” “Oh, come off it, Ann. Dont make a fuss.”
Annabelle Wilkins made her morning rounds of the cottage garden with a steaming mug of tea in hand, inspecting the vegetable beds and admiring the fruit trees.
Their plot with her husband, Peter Whitmore, was sizablefifteen acres. Half was dedicated to potatoes, carrots, and cabbages, while the other half boasted an orchard of apple and pear trees, along with berry bushes.
She took particular pride in her blueberry bushes. Planted five years ago, this was the year shed been waiting forthe first proper harvest.
Nearby grew blackberry bushes, which rewarded them yearly with plump, sweet berries. Along the fence, a grapevine stretched heavy with clusters.
“Peter, look how the blueberries are coming along!” shed call to her husband.
“Lovely,” hed agree.
In summer, their grandchildrentwelve-year-old Alfie and ten-year-old Emilywould visit. The children helped in the garden, picked fruit, and splashed in the nearby brook. Annabelle doted on them.
Next door lived their neighbour, Zoe Holloway. Her plot was modestjust six acres, no vegetable beds, only flowerbeds and a cosy little cottage.
Each summer, Zoes five grandchildrenranging from four to fourteendescended upon her. “A proper handful,” shed say, shrugging. Their parents worked in the city, leaving Zoe to manage the chaos alone.
The children were thick as thieves, dashing between both gardens. Annabelle never mindedin fact, she loved the sound of their laughter.
“Auntie Ann, can we play in your garden?” the neighbours brood would ask.
“Of course, dears. Just mind the vegetable patches.”
One morning, Annabelle was met with a baffling sight. Several blueberry bushes stood nearly bare. Where plump berries had hung, only unripe green ones remained.
“Peter, come here!” she called.
“Whats happened?”
“Look at the blueberries. Where are they?”
Her husband squinted at the bushes.
“Odd. They were full yesterday.”
“Could it be birds?”
“Birds take one or twonot the lot. Its as if someones picked them clean.”
Annabelle checked the blackberry bushessame story. Even the unripe ones were gone.
“Peter, the blackberries too!”
“No!”
But there was no denying it. Bushes that had been heavy with fruit the day before were now stripped.
That evening, Annabelle kept watch. She sat on the bench with a book, eyes flicking toward the garden.
An hour later, she spotted Zoes grandchildren squeezing through a gap in the fence, making a beeline for the blueberries.
“Look how blue these are!” the youngest squealed.
“Lets pick them all,” the eldest suggested.
Methodically, they stripped the remaining bushes, stuffing berries into their mouths, pockets, and a pilfered carrier bag.
Annabelle stepped out.
“And what exactly are you doing?”
The children froze. The eldest tried hiding the bag behind his back.
“We were just trying a few,” thirteen-year-old Max mumbled.
“A few? Youve taken the lot!”
“Auntie Ann, can we have some more?” four-year-old Lily asked. “Theyre so yummy!”
“No. These are our berries. We grew them.”
The children trudged back to the fence, shoulders slumped. Annabelle marched straight to Zoe, who was lounging on her porch.
“Zoe, we need to talk.”
“Go on.”
“Your grandchildren have picked every last blueberry!”
Zoe didnt even flinch.
“So? Theyre just kids.”
“So? Theyve wrecked my harvest!”
“Oh, dont be dramatic. Theyre only berries.”
Annabelle gaped.
“Only berries? Ive spent five years tending these bushes! Watering, fertilising”
“Well, grow some more. No harm done.”
“Zoe, an apology would be nice!”
“What for? Kids will be kids. What do you expect?”
The conversation went in circles. Zoe clearly saw nothing wrong with her grandchildrens antics.
The next day, Annabelle discovered the grape clustersmeant to ripen by late Augustwere gone too.
“Zoe!” she called over the fence.
“What now?”
“Your lot have taken the grapes!”
“And? Bet they were sour anyway.”
“Of course theyre sour! Theyre not ripe! Theyve taken nearly every bunch!”
“Well, they tried them and didnt like them. Kids are curious.”
Annabelle felt her temper rising.
“Zoe, your grandchildren are ransacking my garden!”
“Dont exaggerate! Youve got acres of the stuff.”
“Whats that got to do with it? Ive spent years growing these plants!”
“Then keep growing them.”
Zoe slammed her door.
That evening, Annabelle recounted the exchange to Peter.
“She wouldnt even apologise! Just kids will be kids!”
“Well, what did you expect?” Peter sighed. “Easier for her to shrug it off than actually parent them.”
“Its theft!”
“Ann, dont get worked up. Theyre just kidsthey dont understand.”
“The eldest is thirteen! He should know better!”
Peter exhaled. He had no desire to feud with neighbours over fruit.
Days later, even the gooseberries vanished.
“Thats it. Ive had enough,” Annabelle declared.
She stormed next door. Zoe was watering her flowers.
“Now theyve taken the gooseberries!”
“What gooseberries?”
“Mine! Your grandchildren were over the fence again!”
“Honestly, Ann, youre like a broken record. They nibbled a few berriesbig deal.”
“Nibbled? Theyve cleared me out!”
“Oh, stop blaming the kids. Its your own fault.”
Annabelle blinked.
“My fault?”
“Who let them trample all over your garden? Theyve got used to helping themselves!”
“I was being kind! I thought theyd play nicely!”
“Well, look how that turned out!”
Zoe set down her watering can and flounced inside.
That evening, Annabelle sat on the bench and cried. Years of work, waiting for this harvestgone.
“Ann, love, dont take on so,” Peter soothed. “Therell be more berries next year.”
“Its not the berries! Its that Zoe wont even acknowledge it! Shes impossible!”
“What can you do? You know what shes like.”
True, Zoe had a reputation in the village for being difficult. But until now, theyd got on well enough.
“Peter, lets raise the fence.”
“We could. Itll cost a fair bit.”
“Whats the alternative? Let them strip the place bare?”
The next day, Peter set to worknew posts, panels, wire mesh. Zoe watched from her garden, smirking.
“Bit greedy, arent you? Fencing off kids!”
Annabelle ignored her, lips pressed tight.
Zoes grandchildren circled like ants, hunting for new gaps. Peter sealed every one.
“Auntie Ann, whyd you build the fence?” little Lily asked.
“To keep the fruit safe.”
“Can we still come play?”
“No. Not anymore.”
The fence workedbut neighbourly relations were ruined. Zoe turned her back when they passed; the children stayed away.
“Mean old miser!” theyd chant through the fence.
Annabelle tried to shrug it off, but the silence in the garden weighed on her. Once full of laughter, now it felt hollow.
Meanwhile, Zoe spun her version to the other villagers:
“Can you believe it? Wont even let the kids have a berry! Built a blooming fortress!”
“Did they take much?” someone asked.
“A handful! But youd think theyd nicked the Crown Jewels!”
Zoes tale spread. Whod believe children could strip bushes bare? Slowly, the village took sidesAnnabelle, the stingy witch; Zoe, the long-suffering gran.
By summers end, things worsened. Barred from the garden, Zoes brood found other ways to misbehavekicking balls over the fence, lobbing litter. One morning, Annabelle found sweet wrappers and cigarette butts in her vegetable patch.
“Zoe, control your grandchildren!”
“Whatve they done now?”
“Thrown rubbish everywhere!”
“How dyou know its mine? Mightve been the wind.”
The mischief continuedsquirting hose water over the fence, chucking pebbles at windows. Annabelle realised Zoe wasnt just turning a blind eyeshe was egging them on.
“Peter, should we call the police?”
“Ann, dont be daft. Over a bit of mischief?”
“But its vandalism!”
“Just hang on. Theyll be gone soon.”
And they were. By late August, the little terrors returned to the city.
That evening, Annabelle sat in the quiet garden, dreading next summer. Zoe would bring the five hellions back. Then what? More fences, more name-calling, more pebbles? The children already saw her as the wicked old miserand Zoe wouldnt correct them.
The garden no longer felt like a havenjust a battleground. Not just for fruit, but for peace of mind.
What would you do in her shoes? Any advice for Annabelle? Share your thoughts below.
