Your fence sits on my land, the neighbour announces, arriving with two labourers.
Your hens are once again digging up my vegetable beds! Thats the third time this week. Have you lost your mind?
Margaret Turner stands at the gate, clutching a crumpled bunch of carrots. Her neighbour Dorothy, a plump woman in a floral housecoat, simply waves it off.
Just hens, Dorothy says. They wander everywhere, you cant keep them in check.
Then put them in a henhouse! Ive been planting my garden all May!
Fix your fence and they wont wander, Dorothy snaps, turning back toward her house. All complaints, all complaints. Live with it and be happy.
Margaret wants to shout back, but she holds her tongue. Arguing with Dorothy would be pointless; Dorothy can argue for hours, proving that black is white whenever she feels like it.
Returning to her beds, Margaret surveys the damage. The carrots are trampled, the cabbage crushed, the onions ripped out. Tears swell in her throat. She has tended each sprout with care, and now those blasted hens have ruined everything in half an hour.
Harrowfield is a tiny village of about thirty houses, where everyone knows each other. Margaret has lived here all her life. She was born in this cottage, married James, and they had a daughter, Emily. James died of a heart attack five years ago. Emily moved to the city long ago, started a family, and visits only on weekends, roughly once every two months.
Now Margaret is alone with her house, garden, hens and a goat. She survives on her state pension and the modest income from her garden. Emily sends a little money now and then, but Margaret tries not to ask for more. Emily has her own family and a growing grandson to look after.
Dorothy moved into the village three years ago, buying the house from old Ann, who had left for her son in the city. At first they exchanged greetings and even swapped pies, but then the troubles began. First the hens from Margarets garden, then rubbish tossed over the fence, then loud music blasting down the lane.
Those were mere annoyances compared with what follows.
Across the road from Margarets cottage stands a derelict, leaning house that has been empty for about ten years. The owner died without heirs, and the building has been falling apart. In the spring a developer buys the plot, tears down the old house and begins a new build.
Margaret watches the construction with fascination. The twostorey brick house rises quickly, the concrete mixer roars, trucks shuttle back and forth, and by late summer the structure is almost finished.
The new owners arrive: a tall man in his midforties, welldressed, a younger, slim woman, and a tenyearold boy. Margaret decides to introduce herself, now that they are neighbours. She bakes an apple pie and walks across the road.
There is no gate yet, only posts, but she steps into the yard where the man is unpacking boxes from his car.
Good morning, she says, moving a little closer. Im Margaret Turner, the lady from the cottage opposite.
The man straightens, looks at her.
Good morning. Im Anton Whitaker, he replies, not extending a hand, perhaps noting her simple clothes and wellworn slippers.
She offers the pie.
Heres an apple pie, Margaret says, handing over the wrapped pastry.
Anton takes it with a faint smile.
Thanks. Ill put it away.
A woman emerges, eyes narrowing at Margaret.
Whos that? she asks.
Your neighbour, Anton answers. She brought a pie.
The woman scans Margaret with an air of superiority that makes her feel like a beggar.
Fine, thank you, neighbour. You may go.
Margaret stands, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. No one has ever spoken to her like that. She turns and walks back, feeling her face burn.
After that, the new family keeps to themselves, visiting only occasionally. They erect a high fence around their plot, install cameras and an alarm system, as if building a small fortress.
Margaret tries to ignore it. Rich people, what can you expect? she thinks. At least they dont bother her garden.
One crisp morning, a knock sounds at her gate. She pulls on her dressing gown and steps outside. Anton Whitaker stands there with two workmen in highvisibility jackets.
Good morning, Margaret, he says, his tone flat.
Good morning, she replies cautiously. Whats happening?
Weve decided your fence lies on our land, Anton declares. Weve measured it. Your fence encroaches by a metre and a half.
Margarets mouth goes dry.
What fence? A metre and a half?
Anton points to the old wooden fence separating their plots. According to the paperwork, the boundary runs right here. He gestures toward Margarets house.
But this fence has been here for thirty years! My husband put it up!
It doesnt matter how long its stood, Anton says. Its on our land, and thats that.
Where did you get that?
He pulls out a set of documents. Heres the boundary plan. See? The line is here, your fence is here, so were a metre and a half into our plot.
Margaret takes the papers, but the numbers and diagrams mean nothing to her.
Ive always had my plot this way, she says.
Whether you did or not, youre now on our land. Move the fence, or well take it down.
Two days, you say? she whispers, feeling the ground slip from under her.
Well give you two days. Either you move it yourself, or well do it.
She feels a surge of anger. You have no right!
We do. If you dont cooperate, well go to the authorities. Anton turns and walks away with his men.
Margaret stands in the yard, clutching the incomprehensible paperwork, her head spinning. What should she do? Who can she call?
She reaches for the phone and dials her daughter.
Emily, Im in trouble. The neighbours say my fence is on their land.
Mum, what neighbours? Which fence?
Margaret rattles off the story of Anton, the documents, the threats.
Impossible. That fence has been there for decades, Emily says. Your husband erected it, remember?
So it must be right. Theyre just being cheeky.
What should I do?
Emily pauses. Do you have the title deeds for the house?
Yes, I have them.
Look at them. The boundary should be recorded.
Margaret digs out an old folder, finds the title deed. Numbers are printed, but she cant interpret them.
Emily, I think I need a land surveyor.
Good idea. Get a professional to remeasure. Dont move anything until youve got an official report. And if they try to tear it down, call the police straight away.
Margaret hangs up, wondering where to find a surveyor. She calls her neighbour Lidia, who lives next door.
Lidia, do you know any surveyors?
Whats happened?
Margaret explains.
Lidia gasps. Theyve gone too far! A metre and a half? That fence has always been there!
Tell them to go to the parish council. The chairman, Victor Harris, might help.
Margaret does exactly that. She dresses a little nicer and walks to the parish hall. Victor Harris, a man in his sixties, listens patiently.
Theres a countywide cadastral engineer I can recommend. Ill give you his number. Give him a call.
How much will it cost? Victor asks.
Probably around five thousand pounds.
Margaret swallows. Thats nearly half her pension. Still, she has no choice. She phones the engineer, who promises to come the day after tomorrow.
Dont do anything until Ive been here, he advises. And dont let them touch the fence.
She returns home, feeling the weight of the situation. She has spent her whole life in this cottage, never causing trouble, and now strangers are demanding a strip of her garden.
That evening, another knock sounds. Anton Whitaker stands at the gate.
Whats the verdict? she asks.
Ive called an engineer, she replies. Hell measure everything properly.
Anton chuckles. An engineer? I have all the paperwork. The plot is clearly yours.
Then let the engineer decide where the boundary lies.
He sighs. Fine, move the fence a metre, not a metre and a half, and well be done.
Why should I move it? My fence is correct!
Its a compromise. If you stubbornly refuse, well go to court.
I wont be scared, Margaret says, her voice shaking.
Anton turns and leaves. The next day, Emily drives up from the city, bringing a weekend off work.
Mum, hows it going?
Ive called the engineer. Hell be here tomorrow.
Good. Do you remember exactly where the fence was placed?
I do. My husband drove stakes into the ground, measured with a tape.
Do any neighbours on the other side remember?
Lidia does.
Emily nods. Well get her to testify.
The engineer arrives: a fiftyyearold man in glasses, carrying a handheld GPS. Margaret greets him, calls Lidia over. He asks for the title documents. Margaret hands over the folder; he studies it, makes notes.
Your plot is twentyfour acres, he says. Lets verify the boundaries.
He wanders the perimeter with his device, recording data while Lidia watches.
Okay, he finally says. Your fence sits exactly on the boundary line.
Margaret exhales. Are you sure?
Absolutely. Heres the report. He hands her a printed statement, stamped and signed.
Why would our neighbour claim otherwise? she asks.
He shrugs. Sometimes people have outdated or inaccurate plans. They might even be trying to encroach deliberately.
What now?
Ill give you this official report. Give it to Anton. If he continues to press, you can take it to the magistrates.
Margaret pays the fivethousandpound fee, feeling the sting in her bank balance. That evening she walks to Antons new gate and knocks.
The metal gate swings open; Anton steps out.
Emily sent the engineer, Margaret says, handing him the report.
He scans it quickly. I have my own report.
Your report is wrong, Margaret retorts. This is the official one.
Anton narrows his eyes. Lets meet halfway. Move the fence a metre, not a metre and a half, and well leave it at that.
No compromise, Margaret insists. The fence is correct.
Antons face hardens. Then well go to court.
Margaret feels a surge of defiance. Bring it on.
She calls Emily, who suggests consulting a solicitor. The parish council points them to Peter Sutherland, a local barrister. He is in his early forties, sharply dressed.
Peter reviews the summons. Your documents are solid. The boundary is clear. Well defend you. The other sides paperwork looks suspicious, possibly forged.
How much will this cost? Margaret asks.
Peter hesitates. Legal fees can run into several thousand pounds.
Margarets heart drops. She cannot afford that.
Well try to represent you pro bono as far as possible, Peter offers. If they take it to trial, well request legal aid.
Relief washes over her. The next morning, two workmen arrive with stakes, ready to mark a new line.
What are you doing? Margaret shouts.
The owner told us to mark the new boundary, one says.
Leave! Im calling the police!
She dials the nonemergency number; a young constable arrives within the hour. He listens, looks at the engineers report and the title deed.
This looks like a private dispute, he says. If they start building without your consent, you can report a trespass. He advises her to keep records.
Later that day, Emily returns, bringing her son, little Tom, who runs around the garden.
Mom, youve done it, Emily says, hugging her. You stood up.
Margaret smiles, despite the exhaustion.
The court date arrives a month later. Margaret dresses in her best dress, and Emily rides with her to the county courthouse. Inside, Anton sits with his solicitor, a welldressed man in a charcoal suit. The judge, a stern woman in her fifties, calls the case.
The plaintiff, Antons solicitor, states that the boundary plan shows the fence encroaching by a metre and a half and asks the court to order Margaret to move it.
Peter rises. My client holds the title deed, which clearly marks the boundary. Moreover, we have an independent engineers report confirming the fence sits exactly on the line. We also have five local witnesses who recall the fence being in that position for thirty years.
One by one, Lidia and three other villagers testify, describing how James Whitakernow long gonehad installed the fence decades ago. Their accounts match the documentary evidence.
The opposing solicitor attempts to undermine them, but the judge listens attentively. After a short recess, she returns.
The evidence shows the fence is correctly placed. The plaintiffs claim lacks merit. The court dismisses the application. No order to move the fence is made.
Margaret exhales, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks. Emily clasps her hand.
Peter shakes her hand warmly. Congratulations. Justice has been served.
Outside, they board the bus back to the village. The ride is quiet, the two of them holding onto each others shoulders.
At home, Emily helps Margaret into a warm coat and puts the kettle on.
Will they leave us alone now? Margaret asks.
I hope so, Emily replies. Youve got the law on your side.
The next morning, Margaret steps into her garden to find the stakes the workmen drove have been removed. A crude note is taped to the fence:
You may have won the case, but this isnt over. Well see how you handle the next challenge.
She crumples the paper, heart pounding.
That night she phones Emily.
Its just a threat, Emily says. Dont worry. The courts decision protects you.
Margaret tries to believe it, but she doublechecks locks and shutters before sleeping.
Weeks pass. Anton and his family stop appearing. Rumour in the village says they are selling the plot and moving to the city.
Its a relief, Margaret murmurs to Lidia one afternoon.
Glad theyre gone, Lidia replies.
Emily visits on weekends, helping with the garden, planting cabbages and watering the rows. Their grandson, Tom, darts about, laughing.
Granddad, is that your fence? the boy asks.
Yes, love, Margaret replies, pride in her voice.
She realizes she has defended her home, her garden, her peace. A modest pensioner from a tiny English village has stood up to a wealthy, pushy neighbour and won. Justice, she thinks, still works for those who fight for it.
