“We’ve decided your fence sits on our land,” announced the man from the next plot, flanked by two labourers.
“Your chickens are in my vegetable beds again! That’s the third time this week. Have you lost your mind?”
Margaret Whitby stood in the gate, a bruised bunch of carrots clutched in her hands. Her neighbour Dorothy, a stout woman in a colourful house dress, waved it off.
“Just chickens, love. They wander everywhere; you can’t keep them in check.”
“Then lock them in the coop! I’ve been planting this garden all May!”
“Fix your fence and they’ll stay put,” Dorothy snapped, turning back towards her own cottage. “All these complaints, complaints. Live with it and be happy.”
I saw Margaret bite back a retort, but she swallowed it. Arguing with Dorothy was pointless; she could spend hours debating, insisting the sky was green.
Back at her garden Margaret surveyed the damage: carrots torn from the soil, cabbages crumpled, onions ripped out. Tears welled in her eyes. She’d tended each seedling with care, and those blasted chickens had ruined everything in half an hour.
Littleford was a tiny hamlet of about thirty cottages, everyone knowing everyone else. Margaret had spent her whole life there born in the cottage, married young, bore a daughter called Emily. Her husband, Michael, died five years ago of a heart attack. Emily had moved to Leeds years ago, set up a family, and visited only every two months for a weekend.
Now Margaret lived alone with her garden, a few chickens and a goat. Her pension and the garden’s produce kept her afloat. Emily sent money now and then, but Margaret tried not to ask; Emily had her own family and a growing grandson.
Dorothy had moved in three years earlier, buying the house from old Annabelle, who had relocated to Manchester to be with her son. At first they exchanged pleasantries and even swapped pies, but soon the peace shattered. First, Margarets chickens strayed onto Dorothys plot; then rubbish was tossed over the fence; then music blared late into the night. Those were nothing compared with what came next.
Across the lane from Margarets cottage stood a derelict thatched house, vacant for a decade after its owner died childless. In the spring a group of developers bought the plot, tore down the ruin and began a new build.
I watched the construction with curiosity. The new twostorey brick house rose slowly, brick by brick, under the constant whirr of cement mixers and the bustle of lorries. By late summer the structure was almost finished.
The owners emerged: a tall man in his midforties, impeccably dressed, a younger, slender woman beside him, and a tenyearold boy. Margaret thought it polite to introduce herself, so she baked an apple pie and crossed the road.
There was no gate yet, only posts. She stepped into the yard where the man was rummaging through his car, pulling out boxes.
“Good morning,” she said, moving a little closer. “I’m Margaret Whitby, your neighbour from the cottage over there.”
He straightened, eyeing her.
“Good morning. Andrew Thompson,” he replied, not extending his hand, perhaps noting her simple shirt and worn slippers.
“Here’s a pie,” Margaret offered, extending the tin. “Made with apples. Please have some.”
Andrew took the pie with a slight grimace, his hands outstretched.
“Thanks. I’ll put it away.”
The woman stepped out, frowned at Margaret.
“Who are you?”
“Your neighbour,” Andrew said. “She brought a pie.”
The woman’s glance held a thinly veiled superiority, making Margaret feel like a beggar.
“Right, thanks, dear. You can go now.”
Stunned by the tone, Margaret turned and fled back to her garden, cheeks burning.
After that, the Thompsons kept to themselves, visiting only on occasional weekends. They erected a high fence, installed cameras and an alarm system, as if fortifying a castle.
Margaret tried to ignore it. Rich folk are hard to please, but at least they werent disturbing her.
One crisp morning a knock sounded at her gate. She slipped on her robe and opened it to find Andrew with two workmen in overalls.
“Good morning, Margaret,” he said, his voice devoid of friendliness.
“Good morning,” she replied warily. “Is something the matter?”
“We’ve concluded your fence sits on our land,” he announced. “We’ve measured. Your boundary encroaches on ours by about a metre and a half.”
Margaret’s mouth went dry.
“What fence? A metre and a half?”
“This one,” Andrew pointed to the old wooden fence separating their plots. “According to the plan, the boundary runs right here,” he said, stabbing a finger toward Margaret’s cottage.
“But this fence has stood for thirty years! My husband put it up!”
“Age doesn’t matter. It’s on our property.”
“And how did you work that out?”
Andrew produced a thin sheet of paper.
“Here’s the boundary plan. See? The line is here, your fence is here, so you’re on our ground.”
Margaret took the paper, but the cramped lines and numbers meant nothing to her.
“I’ve always had my plot the way it is.”
“Whether it was or not, you’re now on our land. Move the fence,” he said. “You have two days, either do it yourself or we’ll take it down.”
Her world tipped.
“You have no right!”
“We do. It’s our land. If you refuse, we’ll go to the authorities.”
Andrew turned and walked away, the men following. Margaret stood in the middle of her yard, clutching the incomprehensible documents, her head spinning. What could she do? Who could she turn to?
First she called Emily.
“Emily, love, the neighbours say my fence is on their land.”
” Mum, what? Which neighbours?”
Margaret rattled off the story.
“That can’t be. The fence has stood for ages.”
“Your husband built it, remember?”
“Yes. So it must be right. They’re just being aggressive.”
“What should I do?”
Emily paused.
“Do you have the title deeds?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Look at the boundaries listed there.”
Margaret dug out an old folder, found the title deeds. Numbers were printed, but she still couldn’t interpret them.
“Sweetheart, you need a land surveyor. Have him come, take proper measurements. Don’t move anything until then, and certainly dont pull the fence down.”
“And if they tear it down themselves?”
“Call the police straight away.”
She hung up, pondering where to find a surveyor. She rang her neighbour Lidia, who lived next door.
“Lidia, any idea how to get a surveyor?”
“Oh dear, those blasted men! A metre and a half? Our fence has always been there!”
“Exactly. They came with papers, saying they’re right.”
“Go to the parish council. The chairman, Victor Hughes, can point you in the right direction.”
Margaret did just that. She dressed a little nicer and walked to the council hall. Victor, a man in his sixties, listened patiently.
“We have a cadastral engineer in the district. Ill give you his number. Give him a ring, explain everything, and he’ll come out to measure.”
“How much will that cost?”
“Not cheap, but reasonable. About five hundred pounds, I reckon.”
Five hundred pounds was nearly half her pension, but she had no choice. She called the engineer, who promised to be there the day after tomorrow.
“Dont do anything until Ive been here,” he advised. “And keep them away from the fence.”
Margaret returned home, heavy with worry. She’d lived in that cottage all her life, never caused a stir, and now strangers were threatening to take a slice of her land.
That evening the knock came again. Andrew stood at the gate.
“So, whats your decision?”
“Ive called a surveyor. Hell check everything.”
Andrew smirked.
“A surveyor? Hell see my paperwork is correct. The parcel is mapped, all lawful.”
“Then show me where my boundary is.”
He took on a patronising tone.
“Why spend money? Just shift the fence a metre, not a full metre and a half, and well be done.”
“Shift it? That would eat up most of my garden!”
“Do you need that much space? Youre alone, after all.”
Margaret felt a surge of anger.
“This is my plot, my home. No one can tell me what to do!”
“You can if you’re trespassing,” he replied. “Ill give you until the end of the week. After that well take action.”
She watched him go, cheeks flushing with tears.
The next day she called Emily again.
“Emily, Ive booked the surveyor.”
“Good. Do you remember exactly where the fence has always been?”
“Of course. Father drove the stakes in, I watched him with a tape measure.”
“Any neighbours on the other side?”
“Lidia. She knows the history.”
“Ask her to be a witness when the engineer arrives.”
When the engineer finally arrived, he was a man in his fifties, glasses perched on his nose, a toolbox of measuring equipment at his side. Margaret welcomed him, and Lidia stood by.
“Show me the title documents,” he requested.
She handed over the folder. He examined the papers, scribbled notes, and then set off around the garden with his laser rangefinder. After a while he called them over.
“Your fence sits exactly on the boundary line,” he declared. “The plan shows the line right here, and your fence aligns perfectly.”
“Is that certain?” Margaret asked, heart pounding.
“Absolutely. Ill produce a formal report with my signature and the councils seal.”
She exhaled, relief washing over her.
“Then why does Andrew think otherwise?” she wondered.
He shrugged.
“People sometimes have incorrect plans or they try to push their advantage.”
The engineer handed over the sealed report. Margaret paid the £500, feeling the sting in her wallet.
That evening she walked to the Thompsons gate and knocked. Andrew opened the new metal gate himself.
“Good evening.”
“The surveyor was here. He confirmed the fence is correctly placed, on my land. Heres the report.”
She handed him the document. He skimmed it, then produced his own sheet.
“My report says otherwise.”
“Your report is inaccurate. This is the official one, stamped.”
“And I have my own.”
“The two cant both be right.”
“We could meet halfway. Move the fence a metre, not a metre and a half.”
“No compromise! The fence is where it belongs.”
Andrews face hardened.
“Fine. If you wont move, well go to court.”
“Come on!” Margaret snapped. “Im not scared.”
She turned and walked back, hands trembling.
The court summons arrived a week later. Andrew had filed a claim to shift the boundary. Margaret called Emily, who suggested seeking a solicitor. Victor at the council mentioned a local solicitor, Peter Sinclair, who was competent but pricey.
Peter met her at the district office. He was a man in his early forties, crisp suit, sharp eyes.
“Your documents are solid. Title deed, surveyors report they place the fence on your side. Well need witnesses, but I think you have them.”
“The neighbours plan looks dodgy. Might be fabricated.”
“The case will go to trial, and youll need to cover legal costs, which could run into a few thousand pounds.”
Margaret winced.
“I cant afford that.”
“You could represent yourself, but its risky.”
She left, feeling the weight of the looming battle.
A few days later, two workmen appeared at her gate, hammering stakes into the ground.
“What are you doing?” she shouted.
“The owner asked us to mark the new line,” one said.
“Leave! Im calling the police!”
The men exchanged glances and shrugged.
“Do what you like,” the other replied.
She sprinted to the cottage, dialled the nonemergency number, and explained. A police constable arrived within the hour a young bloke who seemed barely out of school.
“Whats the problem?” he asked.
She showed him the reports and the title deed.
“The neighbour claims he has paperwork too,” she said.
“Hell have to sort it out with you. If it escalates, it goes to court.”
He left, telling her to keep calm.
The next morning Emily arrived on a halfday off, determined to help.
“Show me the papers,” she said, spreading them on the kitchen table.
“Theyre all in order. I think this is just intimidation.”
“The workmens stakes can be removed.”
“Lets get Lidia to write a statement, too.”
Lidia, a lifelong resident, confirmed the fence had stood since the 1970s when her own husband helped Margarets father set the posts.
The court date finally came. Margaret dressed in her best dress, and Emily rode with her in a minibus to the county court.
Inside, Andrew sat with a polished solicitor, looking every inch the affluent countryside landlord. Margaret felt small in the wooden bench opposite him.
The judge, a woman in her fifties with a nononsense demeanor, called the case.
“The claimant, Mr. Thompson, alleges the defendants fence encroaches on his land by a metre and a half,” the solicitor began, brandishing a plan.
Margarets solicitor, Peter, rose.
“The title deed clearly delineates the boundary. The independent surveyors report, signed and sealed, confirms the fence is on the defendants property. We also have three local witnesses who attest to the fences thirtyyear history.”
One by one, Lidia and two other neighbours gave statements, recalling how Margarets father driven the stakes in the early seventies. The solicitor for Thompson tried to poke holes, but the witnesses held firm.
After a short recess, the judge returned.
“The court finds in favour of the defendant. The boundary is as recorded in the title deed, and the fence is correctly placed. No order for relocation is issued.”
Relief washed over Margaret. Emily squeezed her hand.
Peter shook her hand.
“Justice has been served.”
They left the courtroom together, the summer sun warm on their backs.
That evening, Margaret found the wooden stakes the workers had driven earlier had been pulled out, and a crude note nailed to the fence:
“You may have won the case, but were not finished. Well see how you handle a real dispute.”
She crumpled the paper, heart hammering.
Emily called later that night.
“Its just a threat. Dont worry. The laws on your side.”
“Will they do something?”
“Probably not. Youre protected now.”
Weeks passed. The Thompsons stopped appearing. Rumour in the village was they were planning to sell the plot and move to the city.
Margaret returned to her garden, tended her carrots, chickens and the goat. Emily visited on weekends, bringing her grandson, who ran about the yard laughing.
“Is that your fence, granddad?” the boy asked.
“Yes, my dear. Its my fence, my land.”
Margaret smiled, proud that she had defended what was rightfully hers. Shed stood up to a welloff bully and, in the end, kept her piece of England.
