Weve decided your fence is standing on our land, announced the neighbour, flanked by two burly workmen, as he stepped through the gate.
Your chickens are on my flower beds again! Third time this week! Have you lost your mind?
Grace Parker stood at the gate, clutching a crumpled bunch of carrots. Her neighbour, Maggie Whitmore, a roundbodied woman in a bright floral dressing gown, waved a hand dismissively.
Just chickens, dear. They wander everywhere; you cant keep them in check!
Then lock them up in a coop! Ive been planting the garden all May!
Fix your fence and theyll stay put, Maggie turned, heading back to her house. All this fuss, all this fuss. Live with it and be happy.
Grace wanted to shout back but swallowed the words. Arguing with Maggie was pointless; she could argue for hours, proving that night was day and white was black.
Returning to the garden, Grace surveyed the damage. The carrots were trampled, the cabbage crushed, the onions ripped out. Tears welled in her eyes. She had tended each sprout, and now those damned chickens had ruined everything in half an hour.
Willowbrook was a tiny hamlet of about thirty cottages, everyone knowing everyone. Grace had spent her whole life thereborn in the same thatched roof, married young, raised a daughter, Ethel. Her husband, Michael, had died five years earlier of a heart attack. Ethel had long moved to the city, started a family, and visited only on rare weekends.
Grace was left with the house, the garden, a few chickens and a goat. She lived on her modest pension and the income from the garden. Ethel sent money now and then, but Grace tried not to ask. Ethel had her own family and a grandchild to look after.
Maggie had moved into Willowbrook three years earlier, buying the cottage from old Agnes, who had gone to live with her son in town. At first the neighbours exchanged pleasantries and even swapped pies. Then the chickens started appearing on Graces plot, rubbish was tossed over the fence, and music blared at all hours.
But that was nothing compared with what came next.
Across the lane from Graces cottage stood a derelict, sagging house that had been empty for a decade. Its owner had died without heirs, and the building was slowly collapsing. In spring a consortium bought the plot, tore down the ruin and began a new build.
Grace watched the construction with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. The new house rose not by days but by hoursbrick after brick, two storeys, large sash windows. The concrete mixer droned, trucks rumbled back and forth.
By late summer the building was almost finished. Its owners appeared: a tall man of about fortyfive in an expensive coat, a younger, slim woman impeccably dressed, and a boy of ten.
Grace, feeling the need to be neighbourly, baked an apple pie and crossed the lane. No gate yet existed, only posts, but she stepped into the forecourt where the man was rummaging through a van, pulling out boxes.
Good afternoon, she called, drawing nearer. Im your neighbour from the house over thereGrace Parker.
The man straightened, his gaze lingering on her plain dress and worn slippers.
Good afternoon. Im Andrew Whitlock. He did not extend a hand, perhaps embarrassed by her modest appearance.
Grace offered the pie. Ive baked an apple pie. Please, have some.
Andrew took the parcel with a faint, almost disdainful grip. Thank you. Ill put it away.
A woman emerged, eyes narrowing at Grace.
Whos that? she asked.
Neighbour, Andrew replied. Shes brought a pie.
The womans stare was laden with superiority, making Grace feel like a beggar.
Fine, thank you, dear. Off you go.
Grace turned, cheeks flaming, and hurried back, bewildered by the tone she had never heard before.
From that day on the Whitlocks kept to themselves, visiting only on occasional weekends. They erected a high fence around their plot, installed cameras and an alarm, as if building a little fortress.
Grace tried to ignore it. Rich folk, she thought, what can you expect? As long as they didnt intrude, she could live with it.
One crisp morning a sharp knock sounded at the gate. She threw on her robe and opened it to find Andrew and two workmen in overalls.
Good morning, Grace Parker, Andrew said, his voice flat as a stone. Weve decided your fence is standing on our land. He spread out a set of papers. Our survey shows youre encroaching by a metre and a half.
Grace stared, stunned.
What fence? A metre and a half?
Andrew pointed to the old wooden fence that divided their gardens. According to these plans the boundary runs right here, he indicated, his finger sliding toward Graces house.
But that fence has been here for thirty years! My husband built it!
It doesnt matter how long its stood. Its on our land now.
He produced a boundary plan, thick with numbers and lines. Grace took it, but the figures meant nothing to her.
We want you to move the fence, he continued. You have two days. Either you do it or well take it down ourselves.
The ground seemed to slip from under her. You have no right! she exclaimed.
We do, Andrew replied, turning and walking away, the workmen following.
Grace stood in the yard, paper in hand, head spinning. What could she do? Who could she call?
She reached for the phone and dialed her daughter.
Ethel, Im in trouble. The neighbours say my fence is on their land.
What neighbours? What fence? Ethel asked, puzzled.
Grace rattled off the story of Andrew, the papers, the threats.
It cant be. That fence has stood for decades. My husband put it up, remember? Ethel said. Theyre just being bold.
What should I do?
Do you have the title deeds? Ethel asked.
Yes, of course.
Get them out. The boundaries should be on there.
Grace dug through an old folder, found the title deed, but the cramped numbers and lines still looked like a foreign script.
You need a land surveyor, Ethel advised. Call one, have them remeasure. Dont move anything until then. And if they try to pull anything, call the police straight away.
Grace hung up, feeling the weight of the task. She called her neighbour Lydia, who lived next door.
Lydia, know any good surveyors?
Lydia gasped. Oh Grace, those Whitlocks are cheeky! A metre and a half? That fence has always been there!
Should I go to the parish council? Grace asked.
The council chair is Victor Miller. Hell point you to a cadastral engineer. Itll cost about five thousand pounds.
Five thousand poundsnearly half her yearly pension. Still, she swallowed the fear and called the engineer. He promised to come the day after tomorrow.
The next evening another knock sounded. Andrew stood there again.
What now? Grace asked, wary.
Ive called the engineer. Hell come and measure properly.
Andrew smiled thinly. An engineer? Hell see my papers are correct. The plot is divided as it should be.
Then move the fence a metre and well be done, he suggested, his tone turning patronising. Youre alone, you dont need that much land.
Grace felt a hot surge of anger. This is my land. My fence is where it belongs!
Ill take you to court if you wont cooperate, he warned.
She turned and walked away, cheeks burning, the echo of his footsteps chasing her.
The following day she visited the parish hall. Victor Miller, a stout man in his sixties, listened patiently.
Theres a cadastral engineer in the district. Ill give you his number. Hell come, take measurements, and tell you the truth.
How much? Grace asked, already knowing.
About five thousand pounds, give or take.
She left the hall with the number etched in her mind, the figure looming like a dark cloud.
The engineer arrived on the appointed day: a man in his fifties, spectacles perched on his nose, a tablet in hand. Grace invited Lydia to be a witness. He spread out the title deed, the boundary plan, and began measuring with slow, deliberate steps. After a long silence, he looked up.
The fence is exactly on the boundary. Your plot is twentyfour acres, and the line runs right where your fence stands.
Grace exhaled, a shaky sigh.
Are you sure?
Absolutely. Here, see? He pointed to a sketch, the line matching the fence perfectly. No metre and a half over.
Then why does Andrew think otherwise?
Thats his problem. Some people try to steal land. He may have faulty documents.
He handed Grace an official report, stamped and signed, and she handed over the five thousand pounds, feeling the sting in her wallet.
That evening she went to the Whitlock gate, the new metal gate gleaming in the dusk. Andrew stepped out.
Andrew, the engineer confirmed the fence is correct. Heres the report. She placed the paper on the doorstep.
He took it, flipped it over. I have my own report.
Graces heart hammered. Your report is wrong. This is official.
He smirked. Lets make a compromise. Move the fence a metre, not a metre and a half, and well forget this.
No compromise. The fence belongs to me.
Andrews face hardened. Fine, well go to court.
Grace clenched her fists. Come on, Im not scared.
She called Ethel again, explaining the looming lawsuit. Ethel suggested a solicitor. Victor pointed her to a local lawyer, Peter Sinclair, who was reputable but expensive. Peters fee would be a small fortune, far beyond Graces modest savings.
She met Peter in the district office. He was a neat man in his forties, suit crisp. He examined the documents, the engineers report, the title deed.
It looks solid, he said. If they sue, well have a strong defence. The court will likely side with you.
How much will it cost?
Legal fees could run into several thousand pounds.
Graces shoulders slumped. She could not afford that.
A few days later two workmen appeared at her garden, hammering stakes into the ground.
What are you doing? Grace shouted.
The owner asked us to mark the new boundary, one replied. A new fence will go here.
Leave! Ill call the police!
The men shrugged. Do what you like.
Grace fled to the house, dialed the police, and explained. A young constable arrived after an hour, examined the situation, and said, Both parties have paperwork. If you cant resolve it, youll have to go to court. I cant stop them from marking the ground.
Deflated, Grace returned home, the sense of helplessness deepening.
Ethel came that weekend, bringing her son, Jamie, a brighteyed tenyearold. They spread the papers on the kitchen table.
The engineers report is solid, Ethel said. Theyre just trying to intimidate you.
What if they go to court?
Well get a solicitor, maybe crowdsource some money. Youre not alone.
Grace felt a flicker of hope.
The court date arrived. Grace wore her best dress, a modest navy dress with a cardigan, and rode the bus with Ethel to the magistrates court in the nearby town. The Whitlocks sat on the opposite bench, Andrew in a sharp suit, his wife a statuesque blond in designer wear, their son beside them.
The magistrate, a stern woman in her fifties, called the case. Andrews solicitor presented a plan showing the fence encroaching by a metre and a half. Graces solicitor, Peter, laid out the title deed, the engineers report, and called several neighboursincluding Lydiawho testified that the fence had stood unchanged for thirty years, that Michael Parker, Graces late husband, had built it himself.
The magistrate listened, examined the documents, and after a lengthy recess returned with a verdict.
The court finds in favour of Grace Parker. The fence is on the correct boundary. No infringement has been proven. The claim is dismissed.
Grace exhaled, tears of relief spilling down her cheeks. Ethel squeezed her hand.
Outside, Andrew stared at the paper in his hand, his face a mask of frustration. Peter shook Graces hand. Justice has been served.
They boarded the bus home, the countryside rolling past in a blur of green fields and hedgerows.
The next morning Grace stepped into her garden and found the stakes the workmen had driven were gone. A crumpled note was pinned to the fence:
You won the case, but were not finished. Youll learn how we deal with disputes.
Grace folded the note, her fingers trembling. The words felt like a lingering nightmare.
She called Ethel that evening.
Its just a threat, Ethel said calmly. The courts on your side now.
What if they do something?
They wont. Youre protected.
Grace tried to believe her, but sleep was restless. She doublechecked locks, bolted doors, and kept the curtains drawn.
Weeks passed. The Whitlocks never returned. Rumour in Willowbrook was that they were selling the plot and moving to the city. Lydia mentioned hearing them discuss a new development elsewhere.
Life settled back into its quiet rhythm. Grace tended her carrots, her chickens clucked, the goat bleated, and Jamie chased butterflies.
One afternoon Jamie asked, Grandma, is this your fence?
Yes, love. Its my fence, my land, Grace replied, a small smile playing on her lips.
She had defended her little piece of earth against a welldressed intruder, and in the end the law had stood with her. The dreamlike battle faded, leaving only the soothing hum of crickets and the scent of fresh earth in Willowbrook.
