My Neighbour Thought My Garden Harvest Was Up for Grabs, But I Quickly Taught Her a Lesson About Fre…

Oh, come on now, neighbour! Dont be so stingy why begrudge a couple of cucumbers? Yours are going to go overripe and turn yellow anyway, and my grandkids are here and need their vitamins. Dont be a miser; were good neighbours, after all just a fence between us!

Linda stretched herself over the low wire mesh fence separating our plots, her round face beaming with a syrupy sweet smile. In one hand, she clutched an enamel bowl already half-filled with my strawberries; with the other, she reached for the thick currant bush that was clearly on my side.

I Olivia was down on my knees in the carrot patch, picking out tiny weeds. My back gave a protesting crack as I slowly straightened, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of a grubby hand. I gave Linda a heavy look. That phrase were good neighbours was something Id heard every summer since my husband and I bought our little place in the countryside and transformed it from weedy wasteland to a model vegetable garden.

Linda, I said, calm but firm. You have strawberries yourself. Ive seen them. Why dont you pick your own?

Oh, mine? Its just tiny hard things, all sour! And the birds got the rest. Im not as handy as you are with all that fancy feed and fertiliser. I just let nature be. But yours! The berries are massive, big as a fist! Would be a sin if they went to waste. Besides, its just you and George; what will you do with it all? Youll never eat it all.

I took a deep breath. There was no winning with Lindas logic. She truly felt that anyone who had plenty was duty-bound to share overlooking, of course, that the other persons lack was down to their own laziness.

Lindas plot was a sorry sight: crooked apple trees shaggy with moss, beds that only saw a spade on high days and holidays, dandelions running riot and seeding my lawn gleefully. She came down on weekends, only to rest her soul: lounged in a hammock, barbecued cheap sausages, cranked up her radio.

As for me, I am passionate about my veg. I could name every tomato variety. Id wake at five to air out the greenhouse, often going to bed late after watering. Every tomato, every cucumber was carved from my sore back and sleepless nights when spring frosts hit.

Linda, put the bowl down, I said. Im saving the strawberries for jam. Every berry counts.

Oh, dont start now! Linda theatrically rolled her eyes. Such a Scrooge. Ive only nabbed a few, just to treat the kids. Surely youre not going to take food from a childs mouth?

She quickly popped a huge berry in her mouth before I could reach the fence, chewed with relish and floated back to her cottage, carrying off her spoils.

I just stood there, fuming silently. George, my husband, came out of the shed with a plane in hand. Hed seen the whole thing but avoided interferingloathed womens arguments.

Linda on the forage again? he asked.

She is, I nodded. Like a goat in someone elses field. This is just brazen now, George. Last weekend, she took the courgettes while we were out shopping. Told me she thought wed forgotten and they were about to go over. Now shes openly nicking strawberries.

Put up a solid fence then, George suggested. Six-foot timber, keep her out.

Not allowed, I sighed. Our allotment rules say only wire or picket fences between gardens, so as not to block the sun. And after buying that new greenhouse, we cant really afford a new fence now.

Every week, the situation got worse. July was blazing hot, and the harvest was insane clusters of tomatoes blushing red, the cucumbers almost crunching with juiciness, peppers swelling. The more veg I had, the more Linda would linger by the fence.

One Saturday, a noisy crowd of Lindas guests arrived. Ten people, music, crates of beer. By evening, as I watered my flowers, Linda stumbled over, already merry from drinks.

Oi, Liv! Be a sport, she shouted. Weve run out of salad fixings for the party. Lend us a few tomatoes those big ones, Beefheart, and a handful of herbs will you? Shops are miles away, and my guests are getting rowdy.

I straightened up, hose in hand. Linda, not all the tomatoes are ripe yet. The ones that are, Im bringing to the city tomorrow for our daughter.

Give over! Look, theyre red as lanterns. Dont be stingy, its for good people! Ill get you a chocolate bar, how about that?

No, I said and this time, I meant it.

Lindas face changed. The smile vanished, her eyes narrowed.

Well, fine. Sit there with your precious tomatoes! Might they burst, for all I care! Some neighbour you are you wouldnt give me snow in winter. Honestly!

She stormed off, stomping loudly. For the rest of the evening, raucous laughter and snide remarks floated over from her plot: …Londoners, only care about pennies…whod want her chemical veg anyway… I was close to tears and locked myself indoors, TV blaring loud.

The next morning, stepping out onto the porch, my heart sank: the door to our new greenhouse was ajar. I rushed to the beds. Sure enough, lower trusses of my best tomatoes had been ripped off. Some branches broken, under-ripe fruit scattered below, clearly rejected. Cucumbers missing too. A bald patch where dill and parsley used to be.

This wasnt just theft. It was a slap in the face; a disregard for my hard work, my time, my self.

George! I called, trembling.

He came quickly, surveyed the mess and frowned deeply. Not on any more, Liv. Thats theft.

What good is that, George? No cameras, so shell just deny it or say were making it up. You know Linda shes got a mouth on her.

I approached the fence. Lindas plot was quiet guests sleeping off their hangovers. On her porch, among empty bottles, sat the salad bowl, scraps of my Beefheart tomatoes showing clearly.

Thats enough, I said, voice steely. Ive been patient. Tried being nice. Now its time for a change of tactic with brains.

What are you up to? George looked worried. Nothing illegal, I hope!

No laws broken, I grinned. Just a bit of psychology. And a spot of harmless chemistry.

A plan hatched, and I drove to the local garden centre. I returned hours later with a bright yellow protective suit, respirator, garden sprayer, some packets of blue food dye, and a bottle of the stinkiest soap I could find.

That evening, while Lindas crowd sulked with mugs of tea, we staged a grand performance.

I suited up in the yellow coverall, pulled on mask and goggles, donned huge rubber gloves. George wore his old oilskin and a dust mask. We headed for the greenhouse.

Clearly audible over the fence, I shouted, George, stand back! This stuffs strong! It says on the packet its dangerous even to breathe close to it!

Mixing up water, blue food dye, and half the soap, I filled the sprayer and started treating the tomatoes, peppers and cabbages. The blue stuff splattered everything, making the veg look like something from a radioactive disaster.

Linda soon hovered by the fence, alarmed by the smell and spectacle. What on earth are you doing, Liv? Youre mad! Cant half smell it from here!

Worse than bugs, I replied through the respirator. I found a new virus online takes over the whole crop in days! Had to get this experimental chemical. Lethal, they say, for humans if you eat before twenty-one days are up. Even touchings risky. Suppose to dissolve in sunlight after three weeks. Until then, its deadly.

Deadly for people? Linda paled.

Insects, birds, humans I said. Supposedly youd end up in A&E if you ate early. Best not to risk it Ill be burning the suit after.

I carried on spraying.

Linda shuffled back to her house, warning her guests: Dont eat the salad! Throw it out, tasted awful anyway. We dont want a trip to hospital.

Beneath my mask, I smiled. Operation No Free Lunch was a success.

For the next week, Linda steered well clear, shooing grandkids away if they so much as glared at my blue tomatoes. By evening, when no one was looking, we washed the dye off the cucumbers and ate them with dinner. The tomatoes, still comically blue, scared off not just Linda, but even the blackbirds.

But Lindas wariness faded slowly, and her natural suspicion crept back.

Liv! she shouted one Saturday. You said three weeks, but youre out here munching cucumbers already! Does the poison not work on you?

I, sitting on the porch with a coffee and a supermarket cucumber, barely looked up. These are shop-bought, Linda. Ours are all blue, cant eat homegrown, can I? These are Turkish, taste like rubber, but its better than being poisoned!

She squinted at me. And why are your tomatoes still blue? Weve had rain!

Unwashable stuff, I said cheerfully. Modern science.

She grumbled off about these modern chemicals and polluting the countryside, but never touched my crops again.

By August, almost all the dye had faded in the sun and rain; only a faint blue tinge remained near the stalks. Linda mustve decided the quarantine period was over, or perhaps greed started to outweigh fear.

I was about to head back to London for a few days, so before leaving, I locked the garden gate with a heavy padlock and clipped a notice to the fence facing Lindas plot. Bright, type-written, carefully laminated, it read:

*Attention! CCTV in operation. Plot treated with experimental agricultural chemicals, hazard class 3. Consumption of produce without authorised decontamination may cause irreversible harm to your health. The Allotment Committee has been notified. Police will be called immediately in case of trespass.*

Of course, the camera part was a fib. But mention of the police and chemicals made it sound official.

Returning two days later, I saw a sight. Linda was at the fence, haranguing Mr. Peterson, the head of the allotment association a thorough, no-nonsense chap.

Mr. Peterson, look at this! Linda shrieked, stabbing at my notice. Shes poisoning us all! Experimenting next door! My grandson had a bad tummy last night thanks to her fumes! Youve got to do something! And those cameras, shes spying!

Mr. Peterson looked up as I arrived and sighed with relief.

Good afternoon, Olivia. Theres been a complaint here… about chemicals and surveillance.

Not a thing illegal, Mr. Peterson, I replied. Just a warning for thieves. Weve had trouble, you know two-legged pests. About her grandson perhaps if visitors kept off my vegetables, no one would have bad tummies.

Who trespassed?! Linda bristled. Prove it! No evidence, no crime!

I have recordings, I said quietly, looking Linda right in the eye. Decoys came down, proper cameras went up. With motion sensors. Want to have a look, Linda? Last Tuesday, climbing the fence? Your guests helping themselves to my herbs Saturday night? I was about to fill out a police report.

Utter bluff of course, but it worked. Lindas face mottled red. She knew some transgressions had occurred, and she had no idea when I’d set up the cameras. Fear of public shame and a fine got the better of her.

Who wants your poison veg, anyway! she snapped indignantly. Keep your tomatoes! Ill grow my own, just watch!

She fled home, slamming the door behind her.

Mr. Peterson looked at me and at my blue-tinged tomatoes, a twinkle in his eye. Really strong stuff, is it, Olivia?

Only blue food dye and soap, Mr. Peterson. Might help against greenfly. But for greedy neighbours nothing works better.

He grinned. Fair dos. Keep the sign up as a deterrent.

From then on, our relations switched to cold war mode: Linda no longer greeted me, loudly turned away in the lane, and told everyone in the plot association that I was a witch trying to poison people. I let her. My crops were safe thats what mattered.

But the following spring brought a surprise. Coming down to open up for the season, I found Linda hard at work, digging over her garden. Lopsided and grumbling, she was doing it herself. Beside her, a crate of spindly seedlings bought cheap at the garden centre, but hers nonetheless.

I wandered over. Spotting me, Linda straightened, holding a spade like a weapon.

What do you want? Here to judge?

Good luck with it, Linda, I said, friendly. Dont dig too deep, theres clay. A bit of sand in with the soil would help.

I know what Im doing! No advice needed. Itll be my own, thanks very much. All natural. No weird science.

Absolutely. Homegrown always tastes best.

By mid-summer, Linda boasted a clutch of crooked cucumbers and small tomatoes. She tended them with a pride worthy of a prize-winning gardener. She never peeked over my fence again. Turns out, if you put in the effort, you value every bit you get.

One evening, I saw Linda chasing some neighbours lads away from her veg beds after their football had gone astray.

Off you go! This isnt a football pitch. Works been put in here! Dont you trample my patch!

I caught Georges eye as he set up the barbecue and we both chuckled quietly.

See, George, I said. You wanted a fence but nothing teaches manners like a bit of hard work.

Later that autumn, as we locked up for the winter, Linda ambled to the fence herself. In her hands was a jar of brine with three odd-sized cucumbers bobbing inside.

Here, she grunted, passing it through the mesh. Have a taste. My own. Used a recipe I found in a magazine.

I accepted the gift like it was fine crystal.

Thank you, Linda. Well enjoy them. I have some seeds for next year you might like proper ones, Beefheart variety. You have to sow them early; I can show you how.

Well, alright then, she nodded, trying to hide a pleased look. If thats no trouble.

No trouble at all, I smiled. Im always happy to help someone who puts the effort in.

We stood silently for a moment, looking out over the fading autumn gardens. The warning sign had long since washed away in the rain, but an invisible line of respect remained sturdier than any fence.

That year, none of my tomatoes went to waste. In fact, I put up more preserves than ever before.

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