Weve decided your fence sits on our land, the neighbour announced, flanked by two labourers.
Youve let your chickens trample my vegetable beds again! Thats the third time this week. Have you gone completely off the rails?
Grace Harper stood by the gate, clutching a wilted bunch of carrots. Her neighbour, Martha Bell, a plump woman in a bright housecoat, simply waved a hand.
Just chickens, dear. They wander everywhere; you cant keep them in check.
Then lock them in a coop! Ive been planting this garden all May!
Fix your own fence and theyll stop wandering, Martha snapped, turning toward her house. All that fussjust live with it and be happy.
I wanted to shout back, but I held my tongue. Arguing with Martha was pointless; she could argue for hours, proving that black is white if she set her mind to it.
Back at the garden, Grace surveyed the damage: carrots ripped from the soil, cabbage crushed, onions yanked out. Tears rose to her eyes. Shed tended each plant with care, and those damned chickens had ruined everything in half an hour.
The hamlet of Ashford was tinyabout thirty cottages, everybody knowing everybody else. Grace had lived there all her life: born in the cottage, married young, had a daughter named Emma. Her husband, Michael, had died five years earlier of a heart attack. Emma had moved to Manchester years ago, built a family, and visited only on occasional weekend trips.
Now Grace lived alone with her garden, a few chickens and a goat. She survived on her pension and the modest income from the allotment. Emma sent a little money now and then, but Grace tried not to ask for more. Emma had her own family and a growing grandson.
Martha had moved into Ashford three years prior, buying the house from old Mrs. Annis, who had gone to live with her son in the city. At first the neighbours were cordial, exchanging greetings and the occasional cake. Then the trouble began: chickens straying onto Graces plot, rubbish tossed over the fence, music blaring at all hours.
Those were still small annoyances compared to what came later.
Across the lane from Graces cottage stood a derelict, roofless house that had been empty for a decade. Its owner had died with no heirs, and the building was slowly crumbling. In spring a development company bought the plot, knocked down the ruins and began a new build.
Grace watched the construction with curiosity. A brick twostorey house with large windows rose faster than any of us could follow. Workers were on site from dawn till dusk; the concrete mixer hummed, lorries came and went.
By late summer the new house was almost finished. Its owners arrived: a tall, welldressed man in his midforties, a younger, slim woman in fashionable attire, and a boy of about ten.
Grace thought it polite to introduce herself, so she baked an apple pie and crossed the lane.
There was no gate yet, only two posts. She stepped into the front garden where the man was rummaging through his car, pulling out boxes.
Good afternoon, she said, moving a few paces closer. Im Grace Harper, your new neighbour from the cottage over there.
He straightened, glanced at her, and replied, Good afternoon. Andrew Clarke.
He offered no handshake, perhaps noticing her plain dress and wornout slippers.
I brought a pie, she said, extending the parcel. Apple, please have some.
Andrew took the pie with a thin smile, holding it out on his long arms.
Thank you. Ill put it away for now, he said.
His wife emerged, saw Grace, and frowned.
Who is she?
Neighbour, Andrew answered. She brought a pie.
The womans eyes swept over Grace with such superiority that Grace felt like a beggar.
Fine. Thank you, dear. You may go.
Grace, cheeks burning, turned and walked back, never having been spoken to in such a tone before. She felt foolish and retreated home.
The Clarks kept to themselves, rarely visiting. They erected a high fence around their plot, installed cameras and an alarm system, as if building a small fortress.
Grace tried to ignore it. Rich folkwhat can you expect? she thought. At least they didnt disturb her.
One morning, however, a sharp knock sounded at her gate. She slipped on a dressing gown and went out. Standing there were Andrew and two workmen in overalls.
Good morning, Grace, Andrew said, his voice flat, devoid of any friendliness.
Morning, she replied warily. Whats the matter?
Weve decided your fence is on our land, he announced. Weve measured it. Your fence encroaches about a metre and a half onto our plot.
Graces mouth fell open.
What fence? A metre and a half?
This one, Andrew pointed to the old wooden fence that divided the two gardens. According to the paperwork, the boundary runs here. He jabbed his finger toward Graces cottage.
But that fence has been here for thirty years! My husband put it up!
It doesnt matter how long, Andrew snapped. Its on our land now.
You cant just?
He pulled out a sheet of paper.
Heres the boundary plan. See? The line runs like this, and your fence is over it by a metre and a half.
Grace took the paper, but the numbers and lines meant nothing to her.
My plot has always been exactly as it is now, she protested.
Whether it was or not, youre now occupying our ground. We want you to move the fence.
Move it? Thats absurd! That would mean rebuilding the whole thing.
Its your problem. You have two days. Either you move it yourself or well pull it down.
A cold dread settled in Graces stomach.
You have no right to do this!
We do. Its our land. If you dont cooperate, well go to the authorities.
Andrew turned and walked away, the workers following.
Grace stood in the middle of her yard, the incomprehensible documents clutched in her hands, head spinning. What could she do? Who could she call?
Her first call was to Emma.
Mum, whats happened? Emma asked, surprised.
My neighbours claim my fence is on their land, Grace explained, breathless.
Impossible. That fence has been there for ages, Emma replied. Do you have the title deeds?
Yes, I have them.
Look at them. The boundaries should be shown.
Grace dug out an old folder and found the title deed. It listed numbers and measurements, but she couldnt interpret them.
Sounds like you need a land surveyor, Emma suggested. Get one to come out, have him measure properly. And dont touch the fence until then. If they try to pull it down, call the police straight away.
Will they? Grace asked.
Ill call the councils clerk, Walter Brown. Hell point me to a surveyor.
Grace phoned the parish office. Walter, a kindly man in his sixties, listened and said, We have a county surveyor, Tom Whitaker. Hell cost about seventy pounds. Hell come and give you an official report.
Seventy pounds was nearly half Graces monthly pension, but she agreed. Tom promised to be there the day after the next.
Dont do anything until hes arrived, he instructed. And keep the Clarks away from your fence.
Grace returned home, heavy with worry. She had tended this garden all her life, never caused trouble, and now strangers were telling her her fence was misplaced.
That evening, another knock sounded at the gate. Andrew stood there, a smug grin on his face.
Whats the decision? Grace asked.
I havent decided anything, he said. Youve called a surveyor, huh? Hell write you a report, but my paperwork is solid.
Your paperwork is wrong. Heres the official report, Grace said, handing him Toms document.
Andrew glanced at it, then at his own papers.
My report says otherwise, he said.
Its official. With the councils seal, Grace replied.
Andrews smile faded.
Fine. Lets compromise. Move the fence a metre, not a metre and a half, and well call it even.
No compromise. The fence is where it belongs, Grace shot back.
Then well go to court, Andrew replied, his tone hardening.
Im not scared, Grace said, turning away.
The next day, Grace called Emma again. Theyre threatening legal action. What should I do?
The solicitor, Peter Spencer, is good but pricey, Emma said. Hell cost a few hundred pounds.
Grace swallowed. She could barely afford the surveyors fee, let alone a solicitor.
She called the parish clerk again. Walter put her in touch with Peter, who agreed to meet her at the district office the following day.
Peter, a man in his early forties with a crisp suit, listened to Graces story, examined the title deed and Toms report.
It looks straightforward, he said. Your documents are in order. If they take this to court, well defend you, but legal costs will be around three hundred pounds.
Graces heart sank. She told Peter she couldnt afford that.
So youll represent me pro bono? she asked, hopeful.
Peter shook his head. I can give you advice, but if they press charges youll need to cover fees.
Defeated, Grace left the office, fearing she was out of options.
The following morning, two workers arrived with stakes and ropes, beginning to mark a line on Graces garden.
What are you doing? Grace shouted.
The owners asked us to mark the new boundary, one said.
This is my property! Grace yelled, calling the police.
The local constable, a young officer named Jamie, arrived after a short drive. He looked at Graces papers, the surveyors report, and the Clarks plans.
Both parties have paperwork, he said. Its a matter for the courts. I cant stop them from marking unless theres a court order.
He left, and the workers kept driving stakes into the soil.
Grace ran inside, grabbed the phone, and dialed the nonemergency line. The operator told her a police sergeant would visit later that day to take a statement.
Later, the sergeant arrived, a middleaged man with a calm demeanor. He listened to Graces account, examined the documents, and said, I see you have a valid survey. The Clarks also have a plan, but without a court injunction I cant prevent them from continuing. If they start building without your consent, you can report it as trespass.
Grace left feeling helpless, the stakes now protruding from her garden.
Emma arrived that weekend, taking a halfday off work. She spread the documents across the kitchen table.
The surveyor says the fence is on the line, Emma said. Maybe theyre just trying to scare you.
What if they actually take the land? Grace asked.
Well fight them. Ill help you find witnesses.
Grace thought of Lydia, the neighbour two houses down, who had lived in Ashford for decades and remembered the fence being built by Michael.
She knocked on Lydias door. Lydia, could you give a statement that the fence has always been where it is?
Lydia nodded. I was there when Michael hammered the posts. Its always been that way.
Grace gathered a handful of such statements from other longtime villagers. Everyone remembered the fence standing for thirty years.
The court date was set for a month later. The weeks leading up to it were a blur of anxiety, sleepless nights, and constant visits from Emma, who brought tea and encouragement.
On the day of the hearing, Grace dressed in her best coat, Emma beside her. The Clarks arrived, Andrew in a designer suit, his wife a sleek blonde, and a young solicitor at their side.
The magistrate, a stern woman in her fifties, called the case.
Mr. Clarke, you may present your claim, she said.
Andrews solicitor produced the boundary plan, showing the fence encroaching by a metre and a half.
Graces solicitor, Peter Spencer, stepped forward, laying out the title deed and Tom Whitakers report, both confirming the fence sat exactly on the legal boundary. He also presented the witness statements from Lydia and several other residents.
The magistrate examined the papers, then called the witnesses. One by one, they recounted how Michael had installed the fence three decades ago, how no boundary dispute had ever arisen until now.
After a brief recess, the magistrate returned.
The evidence shows the fence is correctly placed on the claimants land. The request to move it is unfounded. The case is dismissed, she declared.
Relief washed over Grace. Emma squeezed her hand. The Clarks left the courtroom, their faces tight with frustration.
Outside, Peter shook Graces hand. Congratulations. Justice has been served.
Grace thanked him, feeling a weight lift.
Back on the bus home, Emma and Grace chatted quietly, hands clasped.
Will they bother you again? Emma asked.
I hope not, Grace replied. At least for now.
The next morning, Grace stepped into her garden to find the stakes the workers had driven in had been removed. A note was taped to the fence, scrawled in a hurried hand: You won in court, but this isnt over. Well see how you handle a real fight.
Grace crumpled the paper, her fingers trembling. Threats lingered, but she felt steadier now.
That evening she called Emma. Its just a note, she said. The courts on our side.
Emma reassured her. They cant do anything without breaking the law.
Grace tried to believe it, doublechecking the locks on the gate, ensuring the garden gate was bolted.
Weeks passed. The Clarks never returned. Rumour in Ashford was that they were selling the property and moving to the city, unable to cope with the rural life.
Grace returned to her routine: tending carrots, feeding chickens, milking the goat. Emma visited on weekends, bringing her grandson, little Jack, who loved to run around the garden.
Is that your fence, grandma? Jack asked, pointing.
Yes, lad, thats mine, Grace answered, pride in her voice.
She smiled, realizing shed defended not just a fence but her whole way of life. The small village of Ashford, with its gossip and occasional disputes, had shown her that standing firm could triumph over a welldressed bully. And, in the end, that was worth every sleepless night.
