– Zoe, your grandkids have torn up all my blueberry bushes! Even the neighbour didn’t seem surprised. – So what? They’re just kids. – How can you say that? They’ve destroyed my entire harvest! – Tanya, why are you so upset? It’s only berries, after all.

Susan, your grandchildren have ripped up every single one of my gooseberry bushes! The neighbour across the lane didnt even raise an eyebrow.

So what? Theyre just children.

What do you mean? Theyve destroyed my whole crop!

Come now, love, dont get upset. Its only a few berries, after all.

That was the tone of the argument that broke out one summer evening on the modest plot we share in the village of Littlebrook, Kent.

Every morning my wife Margaret would stroll around our little garden with a steaming mug of tea, checking the vegetable beds and admiring the fruit trees that line the hedgerow.

Our allotment, which I tend together with Margaret, stretches over fifteen perches roughly a third of an acre. Half of it is devoted to a kitchen garden of potatoes, carrots and cabbages; the other half is a modest orchard of apple and pear trees with a few berry shrubs for colour.

Margaret is especially proud of the gooseberries. Five years ago she planted the first saplings, and this year she finally expected a decent harvest.

Next to them grow blackberry brambles that each year burst with sweet, juicy fruit, and along the back fence a heavyladen grapevine drapes its clusters downwards.

Peter, look at those gooseberries, theyre practically bursting! shed call out.

Lovely, Id answer, wiping my hands on my trousers.

When the summer holidays arrived, our grandchildren came to stay Sam, a lanky twelveyearold, and his sister Emily, who was ten. The kids helped in the garden, plucked berries, and swam in the river behind the cottage. Margaret adored them.

Across the lane lived our neighbour, Ethel Parker. Her plot is tiny just six perches with no vegetable beds, only a few flower borders and a cosy little cottage.

Ethels five grandchildren, ranging from four to fourteen, spend their whole summer with her while their parents work in the city. The youngsters run back and forth between our two gardens, and Margaret never minds; the sound of their laughter is a welcome backdrop.

Auntie Margaret, may we play over here? theyd ask politely.

Of course, dears. Just be careful around the beds, shed reply with a smile.

One crisp morning Margaret noticed something odd. Several gooseberry bushes were almost bare; instead of the familiar blue berries, only a few small, unripe green ones clung to the branches.

Peter, come here! she called.

Whats the matter? I asked, hurrying over.

Look at the gooseberries. Where are the berries?

I leaned in, examined the shrub, and frowned. Thats strange. Yesterday they were full.

Maybe the birds got to them? I suggested.

The birds nibble one or two, not everything. It looks as if someone deliberately stripped them clean.

Margaret checked the blackberry brambles next. They, too, were practically empty even the unripe berries had been plucked.

Peter, someones taken the blackberries as well!

It cant be! I exclaimed, but the facts spoke for themselves: vines that were heavy with fruit the day before now stood bare.

That evening Margaret decided to keep watch. She settled on the back bench with a book, eyes flicking toward the garden.

About an hour later she saw, through a hole in the fence, the neighbours grandchildren slipping through. All five of them rushed straight for the gooseberry bushes.

Look at those blue ones! squealed the youngest.

Lets gather them all, suggested the oldest.

And so they began to pull the remaining berries, stuffing them into pockets and a makeshift sack theyd found on the ground.

Margaret stepped out from her hiding place.

What are you doing here? she demanded.

The children froze, the older ones trying to hide the sack behind their backs.

We were just trying it out, stammered thirteenyearold Michael.

Trying it out? Youve stripped the whole bush!

Can we have some more, Auntie Margaret? asked fouryearold Katie, eyes wide. Theyre so tasty!

No, Margaret said firmly. These are our berries, we grew them ourselves.

The children slunk away, peering through the fences gap once more. Margaret gave them a hard look and walked over to Ethels garden, where Ethel was sitting on her front step.

Susan, we need to talk, Margaret began.

Im listening, Ethel replied.

Your grandchildren ripped up all my gooseberries!

Ethel didnt even flinch.

So what? Theyre just kids.

Just kids? Theyve destroyed my entire crop!

Dont be upset, love. Its only a few berries.

Margaret stared in disbelief.

Just a few? Ive tended those gooseberries for five years! I water every bush, feed them, prune them!

Well, youll grow more next year. No need to worry.

Susan, could you at least apologise?

Apologise for what? Theyre children. Whats there to apologise for?

The conversation hit a dead end. Ethel clearly didnt see her grandchildrens behaviour as a problem.

The next day Margaret discovered the grape clusters gone as well the same vines that were supposed to ripen by the end of August.

Ethel! she called across the fence.

What now? Ethel answered, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

Your grandchildren have stripped the grapes too!

What? Were they sour?

Very sour they were still green! Theyve ripped off almost every bunch.

Maybe they tried a few and gave up. Kids are curious, Ethel shrugged.

Margaret felt a hot flush rise in her cheeks.

Susan, your grandchildren are ruining my garden! she snapped.

Dont exaggerate. Your garden is huge and plentiful.

What does that have to do with anything? Ive spent years nurturing those vines!

Keep on planting, then.

Ethel stormed back into her house, slamming the door.

That evening I told Margaret about the exchange.

Can you believe she didnt even apologise? She just says theyre children, I said, shaking my head.

What else could I have done? Margaret sighed. Shed rather brush it off than have a proper talk about respect.

Its theft, after all, I replied.

Dont get heated, love. Theyre small, they dont understand.

The oldest is thirteen! He should know you cant take what isnt yours!

I sighed. I didnt want a feud with the neighbours over berries.

A few days later the honeysuckle vines vanished as well.

Thats it, I cant take any more, Margaret declared, determination hardening her voice.

She marched back to Ethels garden, where Ethel was watering her roses with a pink hose.

Now youve taken the honeysuckle too! Margaret cried.

What honeysuckle? Ethel asked, bewildered.

My own! Your grandchildren have been crawling through the fence again!

Margaret, calm down. Kids nibbling a few berries isnt a disaster, Ethel said, patting the hose.

They didnt just nibble; they stripped everything! My whole summer crop is gone!

And youre blaming the children? You invited them over in the first place!

How am I to be at fault? Margaret retorted.

Who gave them permission to run around your garden? Ethel shot back. Theyve gotten used to taking whatever they like.

I only meant well! I thought it would be nice for them to make friends, Margaret replied.

Well, look what thats done, Ethel sighed, setting the hose down. If you dont want them taking anything, put up a higher fence.

Ethel, we need to explain to the kids that you cant take what isnt yours! Margaret protested.

Sure, but will they listen? They never do.

Defeated, Margaret returned home, tears spilling onto the bench in the garden. Years of care, of waiting for a harvest, lay ruined before her.

Dont cry, love, I tried to comfort her. Next year the berries will be back.

Its not about the berries! Its that she wont even say sorry! Shes become outright nasty!

What can we get from her? Shes stubborn as a mule.

Ethel had a reputation in Littlebrook as being a difficult neighbour, though until now wed gotten along well enough.

Peter, shall we raise the fence?

We can, but itll cost a bit, I replied.

What else can we do? Otherwise theyll strip the whole garden again.

The following day we began building a new fence. I fetched timber, wire mesh, and sturdy posts, working from sunrise until dusk.

Ethel watched from her garden, snorting a bit of sarcasm.

Look at you, building a wall for your own peace of mind!

I said nothing, clenching my jaw.

Ethels grandchildren hovered near the new barrier, trying to find fresh gaps. I sealed every opening, hammered each nail home.

Auntie Margaret, why did you put up a fence? asked little Katie.

To protect the berries, I answered.

Can we still come over to play? she asked hopeful.

No, thats it, I said firmly.

The fence did its job, but the relationship with Ethel was beyond repair. She turned away whenever we crossed paths, and her grandchildren stopped coming over.

Scrounger! they shouted over the fence, calling me a miser.

I tried to brush it off, but the silence in the garden was deafening compared to the earlier chorus of childrens laughter.

Meanwhile, Ethel spread her version of events to the other holidaymakers in the village.

Can you imagine? Theyre so greedy! They wont even let the children have a single berry! They built a massive fence!

Did they even eat any? a neighbour asked.

A handful, maybe. And she acts as if a thousand were stolen! Ethel replied.

Soon the whole village was convinced that I was the greedy one, while Ethel was the caring grandmother looking after five rambunctious grandchildren.

By the end of summer the tension only grew. With the garden now offlimits, the children found other ways to vent their frustration tossing balls over the fence, hurling rubbish onto our vegetable beds, even splashing water from a hose over the wall.

One morning I found cigarette butts and candy wrappers scattered across the garden path.

Susan, tell your grandchildren to stop! I called across the fence.

What now? she replied, eyes rolling.

Theyve littered my garden!

Its just the wind, love, she shrugged.

The mischief continued stonethrowing at windows, water spitting, and the occasional shouted insult.

Should we call the police? I asked Margaret.

Are you serious? Over a few misbehaving kids? she snapped. Well just have to endure it until the holidays end.

And endure we did. By the end of August the noisy troupe packed up and headed back to the city.

I sat on the garden bench that evening, the summer wind rustling the remaining leaves, and thought about the next year. Surely Susan would bring her five grandchildren again. What then? More fence repairs, more stonethrowing, more accusations of being a stingy old hag?

The garden no longer felt like a place of peace and enjoyment it had become a fortress I had to defend, not just for the berries, but for my own sanity.

If you found yourself in my shoes, what would you do? How would you advise Margaret? Feel free to share your thoughts.