Weve decided your fence is on our land, announced the neighbour as he walked over with two laborers.
Your chickens are again in my vegetable beds! Thats the third time this week. Have you lost your mind?
Ethel Whitaker stood in the garden gate, clutching a crumpled bunch of carrots. Her neighbour Martha, a plump woman in a floral dressing gown, waved dismissively.
Ah, chickens, what can you do? Theyre everywhere.
Then lock them in a coop! Ive spent the whole of May planting this garden!
Mend your fence, and theyll stay put, Martha snapped, turning back toward her house. All this fuss just live with it and be happy.
Ethel wanted to fire back, but she held her tongue. Arguing with Martha was useless; Martha could argue for hours that black was white.
Back at the beds, Ethel surveyed the damage. The carrots were trampled, the cabbage crushed, the onions ripped out. Tears welled in her eyes. She had tended each sprout with care, and those blasted chickens had ruined everything in half an hour.
Littleford was a tiny hamlet of about thirty cottages, where everyone knew everyone else. Ethel had lived there all her life, born in the same cottage, married George, and later had a daughter, Agnes. George died five years ago of a heart attack. Agnes moved to the city, started a family and visited only on weekends, roughly every two months.
Now Ethel was on her own: the house, the garden, a few chickens and a goat. She survived on her modest pension and the vegetables she grew. Agnes sent a little money now and then, but Ethel tried not to ask for more. Agnes had her own grandchildren to look after.
Martha had moved into the village three years earlier, buying the house from the previous owner, Mrs. Anabelle, who had relocated to be nearer her son. At first they exchanged pleasantries and even swapped pies. Then the chickens started wandering into Ethels plot, rubbish was tossed over the fence, and music blared at all hours. Those were nothing compared with what came next.
Across the road from Ethels cottage stood a derelict, halfcollapsed house that had been empty for about ten years. Its owner had died without heirs, and the building was slowly falling apart. In spring a group of investors bought the plot, demolished the old structure and began construction.
Ethel watched the new building rise like a brickclad twostorey affair with large windows. Workers toiled from dawn till dusk; the cement mixer droned, trucks came and went. By late summer the house was almost finished.
A man of about fortyfive, tall and welldressed, emerged with a younger, slim woman and a tenyearold boy. Ethel thought it polite to introduce herself, so she baked an apple pie and crossed the road. There was no gate yet, just two posts.
Good day, she said, stepping into the front yard. Im Ethel Whitaker, from the cottage over there.
The man straightened, glanced at her.
Good day. Im Anthony Vickers. He didnt extend his hand, perhaps noting her simple dress and wornout slippers.
Here, Ive brought a pieapple, fresh.
Anthony took the parcel with a thin smile.
Thanks. Ill put it away.
His wife appeared, eyes narrowed at Ethel.
Whos this?
A neighbour, Anthony replied. Shes brought a pie.
The wife gave Ethel a look of such superiority that she felt like a beggar.
Right, thanks dear. You may go now.
Ethel turned away, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. That was the first time anyone had spoken to her like that.
The new neighbours kept to themselves, only visiting on weekends. They erected a tall fence around their plot, installed cameras and an alarm system, as if building a small fortress. Ethel tried to ignore it. Rich folk, what can you expect? she muttered. As long as they didnt bother her, she was fine.
One crisp morning, a knock at the gate woke her. She slipped on a robe and stepped outside. Standing there were Anthony and two workmen in overalls.
Good morning, Ethel Whitaker, Anthony said, his tone as cold as a January fog.
Good morning, she replied warily. Whats the matter?
Weve decided your fence sits on our land, he announced. Weve measured it. Youre encroaching by about a metre and a half.
Ethels mouth went dry.
What fence? What metre and a half?
This here fence, Anthony pointed to the old wooden barrier between their gardens. According to the plans, the boundary runs right here. He jabbed a finger toward Ethels house.
But this fence has been here for thirty years! My husband put it up!
It doesnt matter how long; its on our land.
Where did you get that?
Anthony produced a sheet of paper.
See? The boundary line is drawn like this. Your fence is here, so youre on our side by a metre and a half.
Ethel stared at the confusing diagrams, making no sense of the numbers.
My plot has always been as it is now.
Hes either lying or the documents are wrong. Either way, move the fence within two days, or well take matters into our own hands.
She felt the ground slip from under her.
You have no right!
We do. If you dont cooperate, well go to the authorities.
Anthony turned and left with his men. Ethel stood in the yard, clutching the useless papers, her head spinning. What could she do? Who could help?
First she called Agnes.
Mum, whats happening? Agnes asked.
Ethel explained the whole affair, the measurements and the threats.
This cant be. The fence has been there for decades.
It was George who built it, remember?
Yes, so it must be correct. Theyre just being cheeky.
What should I do?
Do you have the title deeds?
Yes, I do.
Look at them; the boundaries should be printed there.
Ethel dug out the old folder and found the title deed. Numbers were there, but she could not interpret them.
You need a land surveyor, Agnes advised. Get one to come and remeasure. Dont move anything until then, and dont let them touch the fence. If they try, call the police.
Ethel hung up, wondering where to find a surveyor. She phoned her neighbour Lidia, who lived next door.
Lidia, do you know any surveyors?
Oh, Ethel, theyre being ridiculous! A metre and a half? This fence has always been there!
Just get the council involved. The chairman, Mr. Harold, might be able to help.
Ethel went to the village hall and spoke to Harold, a sixtyyearold gentleman.
We have a cadastral engineer in the district. Ill give you his number. Hell come, take measurements, and tell you whats what.
How much will that cost?
About five thousand pounds.
Ethels heart sank: £5,000 was nearly half her yearly pension. Still, she called the engineer, who promised to visit in two days.
Dont do anything until hes been here, he warned. And keep them away from the fence.
The evening after the call, a knock sounded again. Anthony was at the gate.
Have you decided? he asked.
No, Ethel replied. Ive called an engineer.
Anthony smiled smugly.
An engineer? Hell just confirm what we already know. The boundary is ours. Move the fence a metre, and well be happy.
Move it a metre? Then Ill have almost no garden left!
How much do you need? Youre alone, after all.
Ethel felt a boil of anger.
This is my land, my house. No one can tell me what to do!
Tell you what, if you dont move, well take legal action next week.
He turned and left. Ethel sobbed, the weight of the whole ordeal crushing her.
The next morning she called Agnes again.
Hows the engineer?
Due tomorrow.
Do you remember exactly where the fence has always stood?
George hammered the posts, I remember the tape measure.
Any neighbours who can back you up?
Lidia does.
Good. Call her when the engineer arrives; she can be a witness.
The engineer arrived on the appointed day: a fiftyyearold man in glasses, carrying a rangefinder. Ethel welcomed him, and Lidia stood nearby. He examined the paperwork, then paced the plot, tapping his device.
Your plot is 24perches, he said. The boundary line matches the fence exactly. No encroachment.
Ethel exhaled, halfrelieved.
Are you sure?
Absolutely. Heres the official report. He handed her a stamped document.
What does the neighbour say?
Probably that his paperwork is wrong.
What now?
Give this to him. If he persists, you can take it to court.
Ethel paid the £5,000 and took the report home. That evening she knocked on Anthonys new metal gate.
Good evening, she said, holding out the report.
Our engineer says otherwise, Anthony replied, taking the paper and scanning it quickly.
I have my own report.
Whats the point of arguing? Move it a metre, not a metre and a half, and well be done.
No, I wont move it. The fence is correctly placed.
But well take it to court if you wont cooperate.
She left, cheeks flushed, feeling the weight of an impending legal battle.
She called Agnes, who suggested hiring a solicitor. They rang the councils legal advisor, who recommended Peter Clarke, a competent solicitor who charged a steep fee.
Peter met Ethel at the district office. He was a fortyyearold man in a crisp suit. After reviewing the title deed, the engineers report and the neighbours claims, he said, Your documents are solid. If he sues, well defend you. The cost will be significant, though.
Ethels stomach dropped when Peter mentioned a figure close to £10,000. She could not afford that.
I cant pay that, she whispered.
Youll have to represent yourself or find a cheaper option.
She left, discouraged.
The next day two workers arrived with stakes and began marking the line where they wanted a new fence.
What are you doing? Ethel shouted.
The owner instructed us to mark the boundary, one replied.
Leave my garden!
Im calling the police.
She raced inside, dialed 999, and explained the situation. The officer on duty said a community officer would be sent.
A young constable arrived an hour later, looking more like a schoolboy than a policeman.
Whats the problem?
Ethel showed him the paperwork.
The neighbour says he has his own plan, the constable said. Both parties need to sort it out, perhaps in court. I cant force them to stop marking the ground, unless theres a breach of peace.
He left, shaking his head.
The following weeks were a blur of nervous phone calls, visits from Lidia who signed statements, and Agnes driving up on weekends to keep her mothers spirits up.
Finally, a court date was set. The courtroom was a modest room in the district building. Anthony, flanked by his solicitor in an expensive suit, sat looking smug. Ethel, clutching her dress, sat beside Agnes, who held her hand tightly.
The judge, a middleaged woman with a nononsense stare, called the case.
Mr. Vickers, you may present your claim.
His solicitor produced a plan showing a onemetreandahalf intrusion and asked the court to order the fence be moved.
Ethels solicitor, Peter, rose.
Your Honour, my client has a title deed and an independent engineers report, both confirming the fence sits precisely on the legal boundary. We also have witnessesLidia and several longterm residentswho will attest that this fence has stood for thirty years.
The judge examined the documents, then called the witnesses one by one. Lidia, a sprightly eightyyearold, recalled helping George set the posts. Two other neighbours echoed her testimony.
The opposing solicitor tried to trip them up, but the witnesses were steady.
After a short recess, the judge returned.
The evidence shows the fence is correctly placed. The claim is dismissed. No relocation is required.
Ethel let out a breath she didnt realise shed been holding. Agnes squeezed her hand.
Exactly what I said, Peter whispered, shaking Ethels hand.
Outside, Anthony stared down the hallway, his face tight.
In the days that followed, the workers removed the stakes, and the new gate stayed closed. A scribbled note was left on the fence:
You may have won in court, but were not finished.
Ethel crumpled the paper, her hands trembling.
That evening she called Agnes, who reassured her, Its just a threat. The law is on your side.
The next week, the Vickers family never returned. Rumour in the village was that they were selling the plot and moving to the city.
Life settled back into its gentle rhythm. Ethel tended her carrots, her chickens clucked, her goat bleated. Agnes visited regularly, bringing her grandson, who loved to chase the chickens.
One afternoon the boy asked, Grandma, is that your fence?
Yes, lad. Thats my fence, my land.
Ethel smiled, proud that she had defended her little piece of England. The village gossip faded, the Vickers house eventually went up for sale, but no one bought it at the asking price.
She continued gardening, laughing with Agnes over tea, and occasionally glancing at the fence, now a quiet reminder that even a modest pensioner can stand up to a pompous neighbour and win.
