It had been two weeks since Id last visited my garden plot, and to my utter disbelief, the neighbours had erected a greenhouse on my land and filled it with cucumber and tomato plants.
My little patch of land sits just outside the bustle of the city. I never bothered with growing anything there; I only went to unwind and escape the constant rush. Gardening was never my fancyI’d rather keep my energy for the grill and the shelter I’d set up, and for lazy afternoons under the pergola, with a hot cup of tea while the rain tapped gently overhead. Id even been planning to put up a fence soon to clearly mark my boundaries.
That Saturday I drove out, sausages and charcoal in tow, looking forward to peace and quiet. My neighbours were generally easy to live withnever nosy, never chattysave for one neighbour, Mrs Eleanor Harper. She always seemed irritated by my empty, unkept patch, forever wondering aloud how I managed without even a single sweet pea in sight. Her own garden, directly across the lane, was a riot of flowers and seedlings; she seemed to spend entire days lost among their leaves.
With no fence between us, Eleanor often wandered onto my property, never seeming the least bit embarrassed, peering around as if the place were her own. I couldn’t stand it. More than once, Id found her poking about, studying the ground as if planning something.
One afternoon, I finally asked, trying to keep my tone steady, “Is everything alright, Mrs Harper?”
Oh, yes, she chirped, I was just thinkingtheres so much unused earth here. I wondered whether I might put in a bit of onion, perhaps, seeing as its going spare. You dont mind, do you?
I was caught off guard, quite lost for a response. Not wanting to offend her, I hesitated, then said, Well, I suppose you can use a small bed if you like.
Later, I regretted having said anything. Eleanor spent the better part of that day bustling around my plot, and her energy was exhausting to be aroundI couldnt relax at all.
Soon enough, it was time for a break, and I escaped to the seaside for a week. When I got back, at the next opportunity, I went straight to the garden, expecting the usual serenity. What greeted me instead was a newly built greenhouse, with additional beds now teeming with cucumbers and tomatoes.
I didnt need to ask who was responsible; it could only have been Eleanor. Furious, I rang a mate for help and we popped down to the DIY store that very day, buying posts and netting to quickly fence off my land. Now, at last, Eleanor couldnt come and go as she pleased.
That very next weekend, she appeared at my gate, bristling with indignation. Whats the point of this fence? she demanded. Now I cant get to my plants! Are you planning to look after them yourself?
Her cheek was astonishing. That evening, my patience ran out completelyI dismantled the greenhouse and tipped its pieces back over the fence onto her side. Since that day, Eleanor hasnt so much as looked my way, let alone offered another good afternoon.Yet somehow, with Eleanor gone, an odd quiet took roota silence I hadnt realized Id missed. At first, it was bliss. My weekends reclaimed their familiar hush, the only interruptions being robins hopping along the fencepost or the wind flickering through the leaves. For a while, I relished the solitude, the kind of empty peace Id craved.
But as spring rolled into summer, I sometimes caught myself glancing toward Eleanors riotous flowerbeds, now oddly subdued, sullen as she herself had become. Her colors seemed dimmer, her impish presence missing from the footpath, her laughter no longer pricking the air.
One sunny afternoon, hands wrapped around my mug of tea, I stared at the patch where the greenhouse had once stood. A few stubborn tomato plants had seeded themselves along the fenceline. Their bright green vines crept up and over, defiant of boundaries, yielding small, cheerful fruit that glowed like lanterns in the dusk. Without really thinking, I picked a few and set them on the top rail of the fence. Just a gesturenothing more.
The next morning, the tomatoes were gone, replaced by a perfect bouquet of Eleanors sweet peas, their scent wafting on the breeze.
We never really discussed boundaries again, Eleanor and I. But every so often, the fence was adorned with a new giftfresh beans, fat cucumbers, fragrant flowers. It became a silent language, a fence reshaped not as a barrier, but as a meeting place, an offering in lieu of apologies, a shared celebration of growing thingswhether for peace, or for a riotous bloom. And in that quietly blooming space, I discovered a surprising new fondness for gardens after all.
