Were saying your fence is on our land, said the neighbour, stepping out with two labourers.
Your chickens are in my vegetable beds again! Thats the third time this week. Have you lost your mind?
Eleanor Hughes stood at the gate, a bundle of wilted carrots in her hands. Her neighbour Margaret, a stout woman in a floral housecoat, waved dismissively.
Just chickens, dear. They wander everywhere, you cant keep them in.
If you dont want them, lock them in the coop! Ive been planting this garden all May.
Then fix your fence, and theyll stop straying, Margaret snapped, turning back to her house. All that fussjust live with it and be happy.
Eleanor wanted to retort, but swallowed it. Arguing with Margaret was a losing battle; the woman could argue for hours, even prove that black was white if she set her mind to it.
She returned to her beds and surveyed the damage. The carrots were trampled, the cabbage crushed, the onions ripped out. Tears welled in her eyes. Shed tended each sprout with care, and those blasted birds had ruined everything in half an hour.
Oldbury was a tiny hamlet of about thirty cottages, everyone knowing everyone else. Eleanor had lived there all her lifeborn in the same cottage, married young, and raised her daughter Emily. Her husband Michael died five years ago of a heart attack. Emily had long ago moved to the city, started a family, and came back only on occasional weekends.
Now Eleanor lived alone with her cottage, garden, chickens and a goat. Her pension and the modest income from the garden kept her afloat. Emily sent money now and then, but Eleanor tried not to ask; Emily had her own children to look after.
Margaret had moved into the village three years earlier, buying the house from old Annie, who had relocated to her sons town. At first they exchanged pleasantries and even swapped pies, but soon the peace broke. First the chickens, then the trash thrown over the hedge, then music blaring until the whole street could hear.
Those were nothing compared with what followed.
Across the lane from Eleanors garden stood a derelict thatched cottage that had been empty for about ten years. Its owner had passed away without heirs, and the building was slowly falling apart. In spring a group of developers bought the plot, tore down the old structure and began constructing a new twostorey brick house with large windows. The work went on from dawn till dusk, concrete mixers roaring, trucks shuttling back and forth.
By late summer the house was almost finished. Its owners appeared at the gate: a tall man in his midforties, welldressed; a younger, slender woman; and a tenyearold boy. Eleanor decided to introduce herself, since she now had neighbours.
She baked an apple crumble, crossed the lane and knocked on the new gatestill just posts, no gate yet. The man was fiddling with a toolbox.
Good afternoon, she said, stepping forward. Im Eleanor Hughes, your neighbour from the old cottage.
He straightened, looked her over.
Good afternoon. Im Anton Whitaker, he replied, not extending his hand, perhaps noting her plain dress and worn slippers.
Ive brought a crumble, Eleanor offered, holding out the tin. Help yourself.
Anton took the pie with a slight grimace, his arms outstretched.
Thanks, he said.
The woman emerged, frowned at Eleanor.
Who are you?
A neighbour, Anton answered. She brought a pie.
She glanced at Eleanor with a superiority that made her feel like a beggar.
Right, thanks, dear. You can go now.
Eleanor stood bewildered; no one had ever spoken to her like that. She turned and walked back, cheeks burning.
After that they barely spoke. The new owners kept to themselves, visiting only on weekends. They erected a tall fence around their plot, installed cameras and an alarm systemlike a small fortress.
Eleanor tried to ignore it. Rich folk, she thought, what can you expect? At least they dont bother me.
One crisp morning a knock sounded at her gate. She slipped on a housecoat and opened it to find Anton and two workmen in highvisibility jackets.
Good morning, Mrs Hughes, Anton said, his tone flat.
Good morning, Eleanor replied, wary. Whats the matter?
Weve decided that your fence sits on our land, he announced. Weve done the measurements. Your fence encroaches by about a foot and a half.
Eleanors mouth went dry.
What fence? A foot and a half?
This one, Anton pointed to the weatherworn wooden fence that divided their gardens. According to the plans, the boundary should be right here. He jabbed his finger toward Eleanors cottage.
But that fence has been here for thirty years! My husband built it! she protested.
It doesnt matter how long its been. Its on our property now.
Youve got to be joking. Thats absurd.
Anton produced a thin sheet of paper.
Heres the boundary plan. See? The line runs like this, and your fence crosses it by a foot and a half.
Eleanor took the document, but the numbers and lines meant nothing to her.
My land has always been like this, she said.
Whether it was or not, youre now on our land. Move the fence or well take it down ourselves.
Two days? Thats impossible! Eleanor exclaimed.
Its our right. If you dont move it voluntarily, well involve the authorities, Anton said, turning away with the workers.
Left standing in the middle of her garden, clutching incomprehensible papers, Eleanor felt the ground shift beneath her. She didnt know who to turn to.
The first thing she did was call Emily.
Mum, whats happened? Emily asked, the worry clear in her voice.
Mum explained in a rush about Anton, the papers, the threats.
It cant be. That fence has been there for decades. My dad built it, remember?
Yes, I remember. Theyre just being cheeky.
What should I do?
You need a surveyor. Have one come, remeasure everything, and dont touch the fence until you have a professional report. If they try to pull anything, call the police straight away.
Eleanor hung up and thought about a surveyor. She phoned neighbour Lidia, who lived in the house next door.
Lidia, do you know any surveyors? she asked.
Those people are bold! A foot and a half? That fence has always been there, Lidia replied. You should go to the parish council. The chairman, Mr. Graham, can point you in the right direction.
Eleanor did just that. She dressed neatly and walked to the parish hall. Mr. Graham, a man in his sixties, listened patiently.
We have a county landengineer. Ill give you his number. Hell come, take proper measurements. Itll cost about five hundred pounds.
Five hundred pounds was nearly half her monthly pension. Still, she had no choice.
She called the engineer, who promised to arrive the following Tuesday.
Dont do anything until Ive been here, he advised over the phone. And keep them off the fence.
That evening another knock sounded. Anton stood at the gate.
Whats your decision? he asked, a thin smile on his lips.
Ive called an engineer. Hell sort this out, Eleanor replied.
The engineer will do what? My documents are correct. The plot is surveyed. Just move the fence a metre, not a foot and a half, and well be done.
You want me to move it? My garden would be ruined!
Then you move it less. Just a metre. Its a compromise.
No compromise! This is my land, Eleanor snapped.
Antons face hardened.
Fine, you can take this to court, he said.
Go ahead. Im not afraid.
Eleanor went back inside, stunned. She called Emily again and explained the threat of a court case. Emily suggested hiring a solicitor. The local solicitor, Peter Sawyer, was reputed but costly.
Eleanor called the parish chairman again for a recommendation. He gave her Peters number and warned that his fees would be steepabout two thousand pounds for the whole case.
The sum was impossible. She told Peter she couldnt afford it. He said she could represent herself, but it would be a tough battle.
The next morning two workmen arrived with stakes, beginning to mark a new line right on Eleanors garden.
What are you doing? she shouted.
The owner wants the boundary marked, one replied. Were just putting in the stakes.
Ill call the police! Eleanor screamed and rushed inside.
She dialled 101. The officer on duty promised to send a patrol. A young constable arrived after an hour, looking more like a schoolboy than a seasoned cop.
Whats the problem? he asked.
Eleanor showed him the engineers report and the parish councils papers. The constable listened, then went to speak with Anton.
When he returned, he said, Both parties have documents. Youll have to sort this out in civil court. I cant intervene.
Feeling helpless, Eleanor waited for the engineers visit. He arrived on the appointed day, a middleaged man in glasses, carrying a handheld GPS. Eleanor called Lidia over as a witness.
Show me the title deeds, the engineer requested. Eleanor handed over the old folder. He studied it, then walked the boundary with his device, noting coordinates.
After a while he said, Your fence is exactly on the legal line. No encroachment.
Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief.
Are you sure? she asked.
Absolutely. Heres a written statement, stamped and signed, he replied, handing her a paper.
That evening she marched back to Antons house, rang the new metal gate, and was let in by him.
Ive got the engineers report, she said, laying the document on the table. It confirms the fence is correctly placed.
Anton glanced at it and then at his wife, who stood behind him.
My own report says otherwise, he said, sighing.
We cant both be right, Eleanor replied.
He smirked. How about a compromise? Move it a metre, not a foot and a half. Then were happy.
No, she said firmly. The fence stays where it is.
He narrowed his eyes. Fine, then well go to court.
Eleanor felt a cold knot in her stomach. She had never been in a courtroom before.
She called Emily, who suggested they find a solicitor. Peter Sawyer agreed to take the case for a reduced fee, but even his reduced charge was still more than she could scrape together. She decided to represent herself, relying on the engineers report and the many neighbours who could testify.
She went doortodoor, asking the village folk to write statements. Lidia, Tom the postman, Mrs. Clarke the baker, and several others all recalled the fence standing unchanged for thirty years, built by her late husband.
The court date was set for a month later. Eleanor slept poorly, her weight slipping, but Emily visited every weekend, bringing tea and moral support.
On the day of the hearing, Eleanor wore her best dress, and Emily rode with her in a bus to the county court. Inside, Anton sat with a sleekdressed solicitor, looking confident.
The judge, a woman in her fifties with a nononsense demeanor, called the case.
The plaintiff, Mr. Whitaker, alleges that the defendants fence encroaches on his land by a foot and a half. He seeks an order to relocate it, the plaintiffs solicitor said, handing over a plan.
The defendant stood, holding the engineers report and the title deeds.
My clients documents, backed by an independent surveyor, show the fence sits exactly on the legal boundary. We also have several eyewitnesses who can confirm the fences location for three decades, Eleanors solicitornow just herselfstated.
One by one, the neighbours gave their statements, recalling the day Michael Whitaker (Eleanors late husband) drove a posthole into the ground exactly where the fence now stands.
The plaintiffs solicitor tried to poke holes, but the testimonies held firm.
After a short recess, the judge returned. Having considered the title deeds, the independent surveyors report, and the corroborating witness statements, I find in favour of the defendant. The fence is correctly placed, and no adjustment is required.
Eleanor felt a wave of relief wash over her. Emily squeezed her hand.
See? I told you wed win, Emily whispered.
Anton rose, looking disgruntled, and left with his solicitor.
Outside, Peter Sawyer shook Eleanors hand.
Congratulations. Justice has been served, he said.
They boarded the bus home, quiet but content. At home, Emily helped Eleanor into a warm cardigan and put the kettle on.
Do you think hell bother us again? Eleanor asked.
I hope not, Emily replied. Youve got the paperwork, youve got the neighbours. Theyll think twice before any more nonsense.
The next morning Eleanor went out to the garden and found the stakes the workers had driven in had been removed. A ripped piece of paper was nailed to the fence, the handwriting crude and angry:
You may have won in court, but this isnt over. Well see how you handle a real fight.
Eleanor crumpled the note, her hands trembling. She called Emily that evening.
Its just a threat, Emily said. Youre protected by the law now.
Eleanor tried to believe her, but she doublechecked the locks and shutters before going to bed.
Weeks passed. Anton and his family never returned. The house stayed empty, windows shuttered. Lidia mentioned shed heard they were planning to sell the plot and move back to the city.
Good riddance, Eleanor muttered, a smile tugging at her lips.
Emily visited on the weekends, and together they tended the gardenplanting cabbage, turning the soil, and feeding the chickens. Her grandson, a lively eightyearold, ran around the yard, shouting, Grandma, is that your fence?
Its my fence, my land, Eleanor replied, pride swelling in her chest.
She had defended her home, stood up to a richer, more aggressive neighbour, and won. The small victory felt huge. Life in the village went onpeasants, pies, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing her garden, her fence, and her dignity were hers to keep.
