We decided that your fence sits on our land, announced the neighbour as he arrived with two labourers. Your chickens are trampling my vegetable beds again! Third time this week! Have you any sense of decency?
Eleanor Whitfield stood at the gate, a bruised bundle of carrots in her hands. Her neighbour Mabel, a stout woman in a floral nightdress, merely waved her off.
Just chickens, Mabel said. They wander everywhere; you cant keep them in check.
Then put them in a henhouse! Ive been planting this garden all through May!
Fix your own fence and theyll stay away, Mabel snapped, turning back toward her house. All complaints, all complaints. Live with it and be happy.
Eleanor wanted to retort, but held her tongue. Arguing with Mabel was pointless; Mabel could spend hours debating, insisting that the black was white.
Returning to her beds, Eleanor surveyed the damage. The carrots were smashed, the cabbage leafed, the onions pulled up. Tears welled in her eyes. She had tended every sprout, yet those damned chickens ruined everything in half an hour.
The hamlet of Littleford was tinyabout thirty cottages, everyone knowing each other. Eleanor had spent her whole life there. She was born in the cottage, married young, and raised a daughter, Emily. Her husband, Thomas, had died five years earlier of a heart attack. Emily had long since moved to the city, married, and started a family. She visited rarely, a weekend every two months.
Eleanor was left alone with her house, garden, chickens and a goat. She lived on her modest pension and the income from the garden. Emily sent a little money now and then, but Eleanor tried not to ask. Emilys own family needed everything they could get.
Mabel had moved into the village three years earlier, buying the house from old Agnes, who had gone to live with her son in the town. At first they exchanged greetings and even swapped cakes, but then things soured. First the chickens, then rubbish tossed over the fence, then music blaring at all hours.
Those were still roses compared with what happened later.
Across the road from Eleanors cottage stood a derelict, roofless house that had been empty for about ten years. Its owner had died without heirs, and the building was slowly crumbling. In spring a group bought the plot, knocked the old walls down and began a new build.
Eleanor watched the construction with curiosity. The new house rose not by days but by hoursbrick, two storeys, large windows. Workers laboured from dawn till dusk, the concrete mixer humming, trucks shuttling back and forth.
By late summer the shell was nearly finished. The owners arrived. From her window Eleanor saw a man in his midforties, tall, dressed sharply, a woman younger and slender, and a boy of about ten.
She decided to introduce herself, since they were now neighbours. She baked an apple tart and crossed the road.
There was no gate yet, only posts. She stepped into the yard as the man rummaged through his car, pulling out boxes.
Good afternoon, she said, moving a little closer. Im Eleanor Whitfield, your neighbour from the cottage there.
The man straightened, glanced at her.
Good afternoon. Im George Whitaker, he replied, not extending a hand, perhaps noting her plain dress and worn slippers.
Ive brought a tartapple, Eleanor offered, holding out the tin. Please have some.
George took the tart with a brief, almost disdainful smile.
A woman emerged, eyes narrowing as she saw Eleanor.
Whos that?
Just the neighbour, George said. Shes brought a tart.
The woman swept her gaze over Eleanor, a look of superiority that made Eleanor feel like a beggar.
Fine, thank you, dear. You may go now.
Eleanor, flushed, turned and walked back, cheeks burning from the sharp tonesomething she had never heard before.
After that they spoke hardly at all. The new neighbours kept to themselves, visiting only on weekends. They erected a high fence around the plot, installed cameras and an alarm system, as if building a small fortress.
Eleanor tried to ignore it. Rich folk were hard to please, but at least they did not disturb her garden.
One morning a knock sounded at her gate. She slipped on a robe and went out. Standing there were George and two workmen in overalls.
Good morning, Mrs Whitfield, George said, his voice bereft of any friendliness.
Morning, Eleanor replied cautiously. Whats the matter?
Weve decided your fence sits on our land, he announced. Weve measured. Youre encroaching on our plot by a metre and a half.
Eleanors eyes widened.
What fence? A metre and a half?
This one, George pointed to the old wooden fence dividing their gardens. According to the paperwork the boundary runs here. He jabbed a finger toward Eleanors house.
But that fence has stood for thirty years! My husband erected it!
It doesnt matter how long. Its on our land now.
What proof do you have? he asked, pulling out some papers.
Its a plan of the boundaries. See? The line shows our land extending here, yours there. So youre on our ground.
Eleanor took the documents, but the numbers and lines meant nothing to her.
My plot has always been as it is, she said.
Whether it was or not, youre now on our property. Move the fence or well remove it ourselves.
You cant do that!
We can. You have two days to move it, or well take action.
Eleanor felt the earth crumble beneath her feet.
Who can I turn to? she thought, clutching the incomprehensible papers.
She first called her daughter.
Emily, Ive got a problem. The neighbours say my fence is on their land.
Mother, what neighbours? Which fence? Emily asked, surprised.
Eleanor explained hurriedly about George, the papers, the threats.
It cant be, Emily said. That fence has stood a hundred years.
No, thirty. My husband built it, remember?
Right. So it must be correct. Theyre just being bold.
What should I do?
Do you have the title deed for the house? Emily asked.
Yes, I have it.
Look at it. The boundaries should be shown.
Eleanor dug out an old folder and found the title deed. It contained figures she could not interpret.
You need a land surveyor, Emily advised. Have one come and take proper measurements. Until then, dont move anything, and certainly dont let them dismantle the fence. Call the police if they try.
What if they go ahead anyway?
Then call the police straight away.
Eleanor hung up, wondering where to find a surveyor. She phoned her neighbour Lydia, who lived in the house next door.
Lydia, any idea how I could get a land surveyor?
Good grief, theyre being utterly cheeky! A metre and a half? That fence has always been there!
Exactly. They just showed up with papers.
You should go to the parish council. Mr. Thomas Baker, the chairman, can point you in the right direction.
Eleanor did just that. She dressed more neatly and walked to the council office. Thomas, a man in his sixties, listened patiently.
Right, we have a cadastral engineer in the district. Ill give you his number. Give him a call; hell come out, measure, and tell you the truth.
How much will that cost?
Probably around five thousand pounds.
Five thousand poundsa sum that would eat half her pension. Still, she had no choice.
She called the engineer, who promised to arrive in two days.
Dont do anything until Ive measured, he instructed. And keep the neighbours from touching anything.
Eleanor returned home, a weight pressing on her chest. She had spent her whole life in that cottage, never causing trouble, tending the garden, raising her daughter. Now strangers claimed a strip of her land.
That evening another knock sounded. George stood at the gate.
What now? Eleanor asked, wary.
I hear youve called a surveyor, he said, a faint grin on his lips. That wont help. My papers are correct. The plot is delineated, and Ill have the fence moved.
Its already measured, Eleanor replied, voice trembling. The engineer will confirm the fence is where it should be.
Georges eyes narrowed.
Fine, move it a metre, not a metre and a half, and well be done.
No, Eleanor snapped. My fence is correct. I wont move it.
He turned away, muttering about going to court. Eleanor felt the anger rise; she had never faced a courtroom before.
She called Emily again.
Mother, you can see a solicitor, Emily suggested. Peter Clarke is a good solicitor in town, though hes pricey.
Eleanor noted the name and arranged a meeting. The solicitor, a fortyyearold man in a dark suit, examined the documents.
Its clear, he said. Your title deed and the engineers report both show the boundary runs along your fence. Unless your neighbour can produce a legitimate, correctly surveyed plan, his claim will not stand.
He warned of the cost of a legal battleseveral thousand pounds morebut assured Eleanor that the odds were in her favour.
The next morning two workers appeared with stakes, digging holes at the fence line.
What are you doing? Eleanor shouted.
The owner instructed us to mark the new boundary, one replied. A new fence will be built here.
Leave my garden! Eleanor screamed, her heart pounding. Ill call the police!
She ran inside, dialled the local constable. The officer arrived an hour later, a young man who seemed more a boy than a policeman.
Whats the problem? he asked.
Eleanor showed him the title deed, the engineers report, and explained the workers actions.
The constable shrugged. Both parties have paperwork. If you cant agree, it goes to court. I cant stop the stakes; thats not illegal unless they start building.
Defeated, Eleanor watched the stakes being driven into the soil.
Emily arrived later that day, taking a halfday off work. She helped her mother sort through the papers again.
The engineers report is solid, Emily said. Maybe theyre just trying to intimidate you.
Intimidation, Eleanor whispered, and threats.
That night a note was slipped under the gate after the workers had left.
You won the case, but were not finished. See what happens if you keep fighting, it read, scrawled in a shaky hand.
Eleanor crumpled the paper, her hands shaking. Was this really over?
She called Emily, who tried to reassure her. Its just a threat. The court ruled for you, and the law is on your side.
Days passed. George and his family stopped appearing. Rumour in the village suggested they were looking to sell the plot and move to the city.
Lydia mentioned hearing that theyd been trying to find a buyer but nothing materialised; the price was too high.
Eleanor returned to her garden, planting cabbage and watering the rows. Emily visited on weekends, bringing her grandson, a lively boy who loved to scamper about.
Grandma, is this your fence? the boy asked, pointing.
Its mine, Eleanor replied proudly. My fence, my land.
She smiled, feeling a surge of pride. She had defended her home against a richer, more aggressive neighbour and, in the end, justice had been served.
Now the disputed house stood empty, its For Sale sign gathering dust. Eleanor kept tending her garden, her chickens, and her goat, her life simple but secure. She knew the battle had cost her sleep and nerves, but she had held fast.
And so, looking back from the porch of that old cottage, she could still hear the distant hum of the concrete mixer, the clatter of stakes, the occasional gossip in the village pub, and, most of all, the quiet satisfaction that a modest English pensioner could stand her ground and keep what was rightfully hers.
