We decided that your fence lay on our land, announced the neighbour as he came with two labourers.
Your chickens are once again trampling my vegetable beds! Thats the third time this week! Have you lost all sense of decency?
Agnes Whitaker stood at the gate, clutching a wilted bunch of carrots. Her neighbour Martha, a stout woman in a bright house dress, merely waved her hand away.
Chickens, what can you do? They wander everywhere, you cant keep them in check.
Then lock them in the coop! Ive been planting my garden all May!
Fix your own fence and theyll stay put, Martha turned and stalked back to her house. All this fuss, all this fuss. Live with it and be content.
Agnes wanted to retort, but she held her tongue. Quarreling with Martha was useless; the woman could argue for hours, proving that black was white.
Returning to her beds, Agnes surveyed the damage. The carrots were bruised, the cabbage crushed, the onions ripped up. Tears welled in her eyes. She had tended every shoot with care, yet those damned chickens ruined everything in half an hour.
Littlebrook was a tiny hamlet of about thirty cottages, everyone knowing everyone else. Agnes had lived there all her life: born in that very house, married young, and raised a daughter, Emily. Her husband, Michael, had died of a heart attack five years earlier. Emily had long since moved to the city, built a family, and visited only on rare weekends.
Agnes was left with her home, garden, chickens and a goat. She survived on her modest pension and the produce from her plot. Emily sent a little money now and then, but Agnes tried not to ask; Emily had her own family and a growing grandson to look after.
Martha had moved into the village three years earlier, buying the cottage from old Ann, who had left for her son in town. At first they exchanged greetings and even swapped pies, but soon the irritation began. First the chickens strayed onto Agness plot, then rubbish was flung over the fence, then music blared at all hours.
Yet those were merely petty nuisances compared with what followed.
Across the road from Agness cottage stood an abandoned, crumbling house that had been empty for a decade. Its owner had died childless, and the building fell slowly into ruin. In spring a pair of developers bought the land, tore down the derelict structure and began a new project.
Agnes watched the construction with a mixture of curiosity and dread. Brick after brick rose, a twostorey house with large windows, the work crew toiling from dawn till dusk, the roar of the cement mixer and the constant flow of lorries.
By late summer the house was nearly finished. The owners arrived. Agnes saw them through her kitchen window: a man about fortyfive, tall and dressed sharply; a younger, slender woman in a fashionable coat; and a tenyearold boy.
Wanting to be neighbourly, Agnes baked an apple pie and crossed the road.
There was no gate yet, only the posts. She stepped into the yard where the man was fiddling with a box in his car.
Good day, Agnes said, drawing nearer. Im your neighbour, from the cottage over there. Agnes Whitaker.
The man straightened, glanced at her.
Good day. Arthur Whitmore. He offered no handshake, perhaps noting her plain dress and wellworn slippers.
Ive brought a pie, Agnes extended the battered tin. Apple, if you like.
Arthur took the pie with a slight grimace, his hands outstretched.
Thank you. Ill put it away.
The woman emerged, her eyes narrowing at Agnes.
Whos that?
The neighbour, Arthur replied. Shes brought a pie.
She surveyed Agnes with such haughty superiority that Agnes felt like a beggar.
Very well. Thank you, dear. You may go now.
Agnes, flushed with embarrassment, turned and hurried back, cheeks burning.
From that moment the Whitmores kept to themselves, visiting only on occasional weekends. They erected a tall fence around their plot, installed cameras and an alarm system, as if fortifying a tiny castle.
Agnes tried to ignore it. Rich folk, what can you expect? she thought. At least they did not disturb her garden.
One crisp morning a knock sounded at her gate. She threw on her housecoat and opened it to find Arthur and two workers in overalls.
Good morning, Mrs Whitaker, Arthur said, his tone devoid of any friendliness.
Good morning, Agnes replied cautiously. Is something amiss?
We have decided that your fence stands on our land, he announced. Weve measured it. You encroach on our plot by a metre and a half.
Agnes stared in disbelief.
Which fence? A metre and a half?
This one, Arthur pointed to the weathered wooden fence dividing their properties. Its misplaced. According to the plan, the boundary runs here, he jabbed his finger toward Agness house.
But that fence has stood for thirty years! My husband put it up!
The age doesnt matter. What matters is that its on our land.
How did you come by that?
Arthur produced a sheet of paper.
Heres the boundary plan. See? The line runs like this, and your fence is off by a metre and a half.
Agnes took the document, but the cramped sketches and numbers meant nothing to her.
I dont understand. My plot has always been as it is.
Whether it was or not, youre now occupying our ground. We want you to move the fence.
Move it? Are you mad? That would mean rebuilding the whole fence!
Thats your problem. You have two days. Either move it yourself, or well take it down.
The words struck Agnes like a blow. She felt the ground slip beneath her.
You have no right!
We do. Its our land. If you wont do it voluntarily, well go to the authorities.
Arthur turned and left, the workers following. Agnes stood in the middle of her yard, clutching the incomprehensible papers, her head spinning. What could she do? Whom could she call?
She first rang her daughter.
Emily, Im in trouble. The neighbours say my fence is on their land.
Mum, what neighbours? Which fence?
Agnes hurriedly recounted the encounter with Arthur, the documents, the threats.
It cant be. That fence has stood for decades.
Thirty years, right? Michael put it up, remember?
Yes. So it must be correct. Theyre just being cheeky.
What should I do?
Emily paused.
Do you have the title deeds?
I do.
Look at them. The boundaries should be listed there.
Agnes rummaged through an old box, found the title deed. Numbers stared back at her, but she could not decipher them.
You need a surveyor, Mum. Have one come and take proper measurements. Dont move anything until then, and certainly dont take down the fence. If they try, call the police straight away.
Agnes hung up, wondering where to find a surveyor. She called her neighbour Lydia, who lived next door.
Lydia, do you know any surveyors?
Oh, love, theyve gone mad! A metre and a half? That fence has always been there!
Im being told they have paperwork.
You should go to the parish council. Mr. William Harris, the chairman, can point you to someone.
Agnes did just that. She dressed her best and walked to the council hall. William Harris, a man in his sixties, listened attentively.
I see. Theres a county cadastral engineer I can recommend. Heres his number. Give him a ring; hell come out and measure.
How much will it cost?
About five thousand pounds, Id guess.
The sum made Agness throat tighten. Five thousand pounds was nearly half her yearly pension. Still, she had little choice.
She called the engineer, who promised to arrive in two days.
Do not let them touch anything, he instructed. And keep a record of everything.
Returning home, Agnes felt a weight settle over her. She had tended that garden all her life, never troubled anyone, and now strangers claimed a slice of her land.
That evening another knock sounded. Arthur stood at the gate.
So, have you decided?
I havent decided anything yet. Ive called a surveyor; hell come and measure properly.
Arthur smirked.
A surveyor? Hell see my paperwork, which is perfectly valid. The plot is correctly demarcated.
Then show me where my boundary lies.
Listen, dear lady, he softened his tone. Why waste money? Just move the fence a metre, not a metre and a half, and well be all right.
Move it? That would leave me with hardly any garden!
Then make it smaller. Youre alone, after all.
Agness blood boiled.
This is my plot. My house. No one can tell me what to do!
We can, if youre trespassing. Ill give you until the end of the week. After that well take other measures.
He turned and left. Agnes went back inside and wept, the bitterness of a lifetime suddenly turned sour by the arrogance of strangers.
That night she lay awake, turning the situation over and over. Could she concede? It seemed utterly unfair.
At dawn Emily called.
Mum, how are you?
Ive summoned the surveyor; hell be here tomorrow.
Good. Do you remember exactly where the fence has always stood?
Of course. Father drove the posts in, I watched him measure with a tape.
Do the neighbours on the other side remember?
Lydia does. Shes lived here forever.
Call her when the surveyor arrives; she can vouch for us.
The surveyor arrived as promised: a man in his fifties, spectacles perched on his nose, carrying a modern measuring device. Agnes welcomed him, and Lydia stood nearby.
Please show me your title documents, the surveyor asked.
Agnes handed over the old folder. He studied the papers, made notes, then walked the boundary with his instrument, Lydia watching intently.
Well? Agnes asked, nerves frayed.
He paused, then smiled.
Your fence is exactly on the line. The boundary runs right where your fence stands. No encroachment at all.
Are you certain?
Completely. Here, on the plan, you can see the line coincides with the fence. Nothing of a metre and a half.
Then how did the neighbour get his idea?
The surveyor shrugged.
Possibly a mistake in his own records, or perhaps an attempt to press for more land. It happens.
What should I do now?
Ill prepare an official report, signed and stamped. Give that to the Whitmores. If they persist, you can lodge a complaint with the council or take legal action.
Agnes paid the five thousand pounds, feeling the sting of each coin.
That evening she went to the Whitmore gate, the new metal gate still halfinstalled, and knocked.
Arthur opened, looking surprised.
Yes?
The surveyor has inspected the boundary. The fence is correctly placed, on my land. Here is the official report.
She handed him the document. He skimmed it, then produced his own sheet.
I have my own report.
Yours is wrong. Heres the councils official statement, stamped.
My report is also official.
Agnes felt bewildered.
This cant be. Someone is lying.
Arthur chuckled.
Lets compromise. Move the fence a metre, not a metre and a half, and well be on good terms.
Why should I move it? Its already correct!
Im also correct, but Ill meet you halfway. A metre instead of a metre and a half.
No compromise! This is my property!
Arthurs face hardened.
Fine. If you obstinate, well go to court. Let the judge decide.
Go ahead! Im not frightened!
She turned and walked away, hands trembling. The thought of a courtroom was foreign to her; she had never been involved in legal battles.
Back home she phoned Emily again.
Mother, this is absurd! Hell try to take the land!
Perhaps you need a solicitor?
A solicitor? Where do I find one? I cant afford one.
She called William Harris at the parish council.
There is a solicitor, Peter Spencer, in town. Hes a bit pricey but competent.
Agnes noted his number and arranged a meeting for the next day.
She travelled by bus to the towns legal office. Peter Spencer, a man in his early forties, wore a crisp suit and listened to her story, perusing the documents.
Your title is sound. The boundary is as the surveyor confirmed. The Whitmores plan looks dubious, possibly forged or missurveyed.
What should I do?
If they sue, well defend you. Your paperwork is solid, and you have witnesses wholl testify the fence has stood for thirty years.
How much will a court case cost?
He named a sum that made Agness heart sink; it was more than she could ever save.
I cant pay that.
Then you may have to represent yourself, which is difficult, but you have a strong case.
She left, burdened but not defeated.
The next morning two workers arrived with stakes, hammering them into the ground near the fence.
What are you doing? Agnes shouted, rushing out.
The owner ordered us to mark the new boundary, one replied. Therell be a new fence here.
Get away from my land!
Well wait for the police if you wish.
She ran inside, dialed the police, and explained. The local constable arrived within the hour, a young lad who seemed more curious than authoritative.
Whats the problem? he asked.
She showed him the title deeds and the surveyors report.
The neighbour says he has his own plan, but Ive not seen it. Im just marking a line that isnt mine.
The constable went over to Arthurs house, returned after a short talk.
He says he also has paperwork. Hell have to settle it through the council or the courts. You cant stop them from staking, but you can object formally.
He left, and Agnes felt helpless. The workers finished setting the stakes and left.
The following day Emily arrived, taking the day off, and brought her grandson, Tom, along. They sat at the kitchen table, spreading the papers.
Youve got everything right, Mum, Emily said. Maybe hes just trying to scare you into giving up.
Those stakes are still there, though.
We can remove them. And if he brings a lawsuit, well have the councils report and the witnesses.
I dont have the money for a solicitor.
Ill help however I can, Mum. Well raise what we need.
Agnes wept, grateful for her daughters support.
Emily then knocked on the Whitmore gate. The woman who answered was a tall, slender blonde, Arthurs wife.
Who are you?
Im Emily Whitaker, Agness daughter. Id like to speak to your husband.
Hes at work. Weve decided everything.
Our mother has an official council report confirming the fence is correctly placed.
We have our own report.
Show it to us.
Were not obliged to show anything.
Emily kept her composure.
Why do you need that extra metre of land? You plan a garage there?
Yes, on our own plot.
Its not on our plot.
The Whitmore wife slammed the gate shut. Emily returned to her mother, sighing.
They wont budge.
Well wait for the court date then.
Weeks later a summons arrived. Arthur had filed a claim demanding the fence be moved. Agnes and Emily went back to Peter Spencer. He examined the summons.
The case will go ahead. Gather all documents: title, the surveyors report, any deeds. Also get statements from neighbours like Lydia who can attest the fences age.
Lydia can help, Agnes agreed.
She knocked on Lydias cottage and asked for written testimonies. Lydia, along with three other longtime villagers, penned notes recalling how Michael Whitaker had driven the posts decades ago and how the line had never changed.
The month leading up to the hearing was the hardest of Agness life. She lost sleep, grew thin, and leaned on Emilys steady presence. Emily visited each weekend, comforting her, assuring her that justice was on their side.
Finally the day arrived. Agnes dressed in her cleanest dress, and Emily drove her to the county court. Inside, Arthur sat with a polished solicitor, his expensive suit glinting. Agnes felt like a frail rabbit beside a snarling wolf.
The judge, a woman in her fifties with an authoritative air, called the case.
The plaintiff, Mr Whitmore, may present his case.
His solicitor spoke of the boundary plan, the alleged encroachment of a metre and a half, and demanded the fences relocation.
The defendant, Mrs Whitaker, your response?
Peter Spencer rose.
My client possesses a title deed that clearly delineates the boundary, and an independent cadastral engineers report confirming the fence aligns with that line. Moreover, we have several eyewitnesses who attest that the fence has stood in its current position for thirty years, erected by the late Michael Whitaker.
He handed the judge the documents. The court clerk filed them, and the judge called the witnesses: Lydia and three others, each describing the same memory of the fences placement.
Arthurs solicitor attempted to discredit them, but their recollections were consistent and heartfelt.
After a brief recess, the judge returned.
Having examined the title deeds, the engineers report, and the testimonies, the court finds in favour ofThe judge declared that the fence was legally on MrsWhitakers property, ordering the Whitmores to stop any further encroachment and to respect the boundary as confirmed.
