“It Was Simply More Convenient to Walk That Way! My Neighbor Knocked Down the Fence to Use My Garden.”

For over twenty years, Ive been living in my cottage nestled on the outskirts of Canterbury, old apple trees looming in the back and roses growing wild by the front. My neighbour, Mr. Edward Finch, moved in just after I finished the last bit of wallpaper in my parlour. Were on polite terms, have exchanged cups of tea now and then and pop over for the odd Christmas card, but theres never been anything like real friendship between us.

One winter, my daughter Eloise insisted I stay with her in Bath because my joints ached something dreadful and she claimed her central heating was superior. I agreed, thinking a few months away couldnt hurt. When spring waltzed in and the daffodils began parading along the lanes, I longed to return.

At the end of April, as the last soggy patch of snow vanished from the garden, I arrived back home. All was as Id left it, though my heart shrivelled a bit with worry. I wandered outside, pulled on my blue gardening gloves, and set about the front beds and the kitchen garden. Everything needed righting and I was glad to get my hands dirty again.

Beside the greenhouse I call the Palace, I planted cucumbers and peppers; in another, tomatoes with leaves dreamy and lush. Raised beds ran along the path, heavy with strawberries, carrots, onions and dill. Against the fencewhich divided my world from Mr. Finchsblackcurrant bushes tangled together like unruly children. There was a familiar peace in that sort of work.

But then, behind me, something strange flickeredlike a memory broken into shards. Soon enough, Eloise bundled me off to London for a hospital appointment, and in the height of summer sent me to a spa in Brighton for a months rest.

When September let loose its chilly breezes, I felt myself again. At home, I strolled to the vegetable plot and discovered the wooden fence between our gardens was smashed so thoroughly it nearly formed a door. I could step through, as if I’d wandered into Finchs side quite by accident.

It was clear as a dream: Mr. Finch had been trotting in and out, making free use of my greenhouses and beds. Not a word, not a call, not even a note through the doorthough I know for certain hes got my mobile number.

I didnt care for that, not one bit. I walked up to his front steps and asked, Whys my fence been cleaved open? He admitted, calm as a cloudy Sunday, that it made walking easier and put him closer to my good beds and greenhouses. I let my disapproval drip, but he acted as if Id commented on the weather.

So I told Mr. Finch, quite firmly: Id rather no one waltzed into my garden uninvited. I asked him to restore the fence, proper and rightnone of this accidental gateways. And, since hed been harvesting, I told him it would only be fair if hed share the crops, though honestly, I didnt fancy the produce so much as the lesson. It was a small point I wished to make, something hed remember on quiet, peculiar eveningsas you do after you wake from a most peculiar dream.