James, are you absolutely sure we havent left the charcoal behind? Last time I had to trudge up to the village shop and all they sold was sopping wet logs, Emily turned to her husband, who was expertly steering the car around familiar potholes along the winding Sussex lane.
Ive packed the charcoal, Em, and firelighters, and the steaks you marinated last night are chilling in the cool bag, James grinned, glancing at her before turning back to the road. Just relax. Its the start of our holiday, isnt it? Two weeks of peace, birdsong, and your beloved lawn. Youve been dreaming of it all winter.
Emily sank blissfully into her seat, eyes half-closed. The word lawn sounded as lovely as a hymn. Three years ago, when they first bought the old, ramshackle country cottage, all that stood here was shoulder-high nettles and heaps of crumbling bricks. She had painstakingly hauled out broken tiles and stones, peeled back the weeds, and thentogether with Jameshired a crew that levelled the ground and rolled out the finest, most expensive turf money could buy.
It was her own sanctuary. A flawless emerald carpet, soft and dense, perfect for lazing on with a book or sipping morning tea while doing yoga. She didnt even allow anyone to play badminton on it in boots, for fear the roots would be damaged. For Emily, that lawn was a symbol: the country house wasnt supposed to mean back-breaking drudgery like it had for her parents, but rest and rejuvenation.
Lets just hope your mum remembered to give it a water while we were away, Emily muttered aloud. We had scorchers all week, nearly thirty degrees.
Dont fret, James waved it off. Mums reliable. We left her the keys, she swore shed check in every other day. And she knows how much you dote on that patch of grass.
Margaret Turner, Emilys mother-in-law, was a robust, old-school sort of woman. Always bustling, always with an opinion, and of the mind that any stretch of English soil ought to produce vegetables, not just sit idle. During their first two years here, Emily waged a quiet war to defend her oasis; Margaret would grumble and call the lawn nonsense for the lazy, but, outwardly at least, had seemed to accept it. She kept to her little greenhouse tucked away in the corner and left Emilys lawn alone.
The car crunched onto gravel, coming to a halt in front of the gate. Emily jumped out to unlock it, savouring the fragrant airsun-warmed pine and blooming wild rose. She couldnt wait to kick off her city shoes and walk barefoot across her cool expanse of grass.
The gate swung open and Emily stepped inand stopped dead. Her laptop bag slid from her shoulder and landed with a muffled thud in the dust.
Em, whats holding you up? called James from the car, but when she didnt answer, he cut the engine and came over. Emily?
He followed her gaze and also froze.
The emerald lawn was gone.
Where a flawless green had been, black furrows spread, rough and jagged, running from the doorstep to the summerhouse. Churned clods of earth stuck up between mangled hunks of costly turf. And amidst the mess, tufts of feeble, struggling greenrows of something, already planted.
Standing at the heart of this chaos, in an ancient housecoat and sunhat, stood Margaret. She leaned on her spade, wiping sweat from her reddened face with unbridled satisfaction, like an Olympic champion at the podium.
Oh, youre here! she announced cheerfully the moment she spotted them. Just in time! Ive a surprise for you. Barely managed to finish before you got back!
Emily felt the blood drain from her face, a faint buzzing in her ears. She walked forward as if in a daze, up to the edge of what had once been her prized lawn. The ground beneath her feet was littered with fragments of turf cruelly hacked up with a spade.
Whats all this? Emilys voice was cold and hushed; James involuntarily shivered.
Whats it look like? Vegetable plots! Margaret announced, brandishing her spade. This space was all going to waste. Only makes sensebest bit for sun all day long. You had all this useless grass and nothing grown. So Ive got onions over here, first carrots there, and by the summerhouse, some lovely courgettes. Imagineyour very own courgettes, home-grown, fresh as you like!
Mum… James groaned as he stepped closer. What have you done? This was our lawn. Rolled turf, remember? We spent three thousand pounds on it three years ago. Not including the maintenance and trimming…
Oh, dont be silly! Margaret flicked her hand. Three thousand pounds for grass? Honestly, city folk are so easily parted from their cash. Grass grows anywhere for free! The land must feed you, thats whats important. Have you seen the price of carrots in the shops these days? Here youll have your own, no chemicals. I’ve worn myself out three days straight over this while you two were off on holiday!
Emily stood silent, staring at the ruin of her hard work. Churned earth, torn roots, her haven destroyedanger rising within, steady and deliberate. This wasnt just interference; this was an outright trespass, a dismissal of her efforts and desires.
Mrs Turner, Emily lifted her eyes to meet Margarets. We only asked you to water the flowers. Nothing more. We didnt ask you to dig. We didnt ask you to plant onions. This is our house. Our garden.
And what of it? Margaret bristled, dropping the sweetness. Im your mother! I know what you need better than you do. If the winters a hard one, youll be grateful for these preserves. Your precious lawn… its an embarrassment. Every neighbour has a proper veg patch, yet we looked like a golf course, for goodness sake. Linda from next door laughed, said you were completely uselesscant even grow your own herbs!
I couldnt care less what Linda says, Emily pronounced, voice icy. And I do not want your courgettes. James, unload the car, please.
Emily, just wait he tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off. Mum, you really have gone too far. We agreedthe greenhouse is yours, the rest, our relaxation zone. Why wreck everything?
Wrecked it, have I? Margarets voice was shrill, her face blazing. Ive ruined my health for you! My blood pressures sky high, and here I am, digging so you get your vitamins! Youwell, youre just selfish!
She clutched at her chest and flumped onto the bench by the porch, theatrically gasping.
Emily stepped around her into the house without a word. Inside it was cool and smelled of old timber. She poured herself a large glass of water in the kitchen. Her hands shook. She wanted to scream, to smash somethingbut she knew that a meltdown now would be a gift to Margaret, who loved to cast herself as the wronged party.
Five minutes later, James crept in, shamefaced and at a loss.
She meant well, Em. Shes from another time. To her, bare earth is a sin.
James, Emily turned, this is not about upbringing. Its about respect. She treats us, and everything we have, as if it belongs to her. She didnt care what we want; she only wanted things her way. Its about control.
Ill talk to her, explain again…
Enough talk, Emily cut him off. Weve tried for three years. All smiles, promises to respect our wishes, but the moment we leave, look what happens. You know restoring the lawn means more than scattering seed, right? The soils ruined, the levels uneven, the turf wrecked. Well need landscapers againtake up the muck, add new soil, roll out fresh turf. Another fortune and a month of chaos.
James sighed heavily, slumping into a chair.
So what do we do? Kick her out?
No. She must put this right herself.
Emily, good grief, shes sixty-five! She cant relay turf.
Not the turf. But she can clear up the mess. All the vegetablesdug up and gone. The ground, levelled properly. And she pays for the new turf.
She hasnt that kind of moneyonly her pension…
Shes savings, Jamesshes said as much, always boasting about keeping something back for her grandchildren. Well, were her children. And we need helphelp clearing up after her care.
It feels a bit harsh.
Harsh is coming home to a ploughed-up garden you loved. Harsh is when what you want means nothing. Im going out there now. If she refuses, she doesnt come back. Ill change the locks today.
Emily stepped out onto the porch. Margaret was now in animated, hushed discussion with Linda over the fence, gesticulating at the house. Spotting Emily, she adopted a pained look.
Mrs Turner, Emily called. We need to talk.
What now? Margaret muttered. My throats dry from all this upsetget me some water, will you?
That can wait. Listen carefully. You have until Sunday evening.
For what?
To clear out every single vegetable youve planted. Every bulb, every carrot. Pile up the earth, level it flat.
Margaret gaped at her as if an alien had started speaking.
Are you quite mad, girl? I slaved over these beds and now you want me to rip them up? Thats just cruel. Theyre alive! I shant do it! Dont delude yourselfyou cant order me about! Im at my sons, not yours!
The propertys registered to both James and me, Emily replied evenly. I never approved your farming. If the ground isnt levelled by Sunday, Ill have landscapers come in with a diggerand the bill comes to you. And after that, youre no longer welcome. Hand your keys to James today.
James! Margaret screeched, searching the doorway for her son. Are you hearing this? Shes trying to drive me away! Say something.
James stepped out, pale but resolved. Meeting Emilys eyes, he realised he couldnt retreat. To side against her now would end their marriage.
Mum, shes right, he said heavily. Its our house. Our rules. The lawn was important to us. Youve ruined it.
You too?! Margaret flared up. Under the thumb! I thought youd be happy with her, but she controls you!
Enough, Mum, James interrupted, firm now. Stop pretending this was for us. You did it because you wanted to. So put it right or youre not coming back.
Margaret gulped, stunned by his defiance. James, always her soft boy, was siding with his uptown princess.
Fine! Keep your fancy grass! I shant set foot here again! Sort the mess yourselves! Im leaving this instant!
She snatched up her bag and marched to the gate.
Keys, Mrs Turner, Emily reminded her.
With a glare, Margaret fished them from her coat and flung them into the dust.
Take them! May your precious grass turn to thistles!
She slammed the gate behind her and soon the whine of a taxi engine drifted backshed clearly arranged it in advance, or maybe meant to catch the village bus, which stopped just up the lane.
Emily collected the keys, dusted them off and looked at James.
Shell be back, Emily said with certainty. Shes left her seedlings and her coat. She likes a fight too much to just give in.
James wandered over to the ruined beds and scuffed at a lump of earth.
What do we do now? Clean it all up ourselves?
No, Emily shook her head. She wont go far. The bus isnt for another two hours. Shes probably off to Lindas to complain.
Right on cue, Margarets complaints echoed through the hedgebroadcast to the entire village, it seemed. She spun tales of her ungrateful daughter-in-law, banishing an old, frail woman and destroying her harvest.
Emily picked up her phone.
Who are you calling? James asked.
A garden designer. Ill see how much its going to cost for a complete restoration. Including clearing the mess.
That evening, a cloud hung over everything as they sat on the verandah, sipping tea that tasted like ash. The vision of that wrecked earth haunted them.
Saturday morning, the gate creaked: Margaret was back. She looked less combative, more sulky and watchful, shuffling along the path without glancing at the windows, heading to her little greenhouse.
Emily emerged onto the porch.
Good morning, Mrs Turner. Forgotten something?
Margaret stopped, then slowly turned.
Ive been thinking she began, awkwardly not meeting Emilys gaze. Thats special onion seed, cost a fortune…
Shame, Emily said. The lawn cost a fortune too. Restoring it, with labour, soil, and new turf: nearly two thousand pounds.
Margarets eyes widened.
Thats daylight robbery! How can it cost so much?
Market rates. I have the quote here. You either pay, or you clear and flatten the ground yourselfwell just use seed, which is much cheaper.
I havent that sort of money! Margaret wailed.
Then get the spade. If you had strength to dig it up, you can level it. James will help you shift rubbish, but the real work must be your own. This isnt about onionsits about learning: you cannot barge into someones home and do as you please.
At that moment, James came out with bin bags.
Mum, Emilys right. We wont pay for your little experiment. Heretake these, dig up your onions, take them home, grow them on the balconywhatever. But the ground here must be cleared.
Margaret shifted her gaze from son to daughter-in-law, searching for a hint of softnessanything to guilt-trip them, but there was nothing. Emilys resolve was steel, James clearly not prepared to defy his wife.
Margaret sniffed, and in that moment, she gave in.
Fine, she muttered. Give me the bags, you hard-hearted pair.
The next two days passed in a strange stateMargaret, sighing and clutching her back, slowly lifted out her onions, carrots, and courgettes, cursing quietly under her breath. Emily, book in hand, sat on a deckchair on the only undamaged patch of grass and kept a close eye on proceedings.
James ferried rubbish and flattened a few clumps, brought his mother water, but did not, as Emily insisted, carry out all the work for her.
If you finish the job for her, Emily told James late that night, shell never learn. She needs to feel the consequences herself.
By Sunday evening, the plot looked forlornbare, tired earth, but at least flat and ready for more work.
Margaret slumped on the porch, hands black with earth, the last of her bluster spent.
There. Satisfied?
Emily inspected the ground. It wasnt perfect, but it would do. Now they could add sand and seed it thicklyquicker and far cheaper than replacing all the turf.
Thank you, Mrs Turner, Emily said, perfectly neutral. I appreciate your effort.
Margaret looked up, exhausted.
You are a hard woman, Emily. I had hoped James would be happy, but you rule the roost.
Im not harsh, Mrs Turner. I just want my opinion to matter. If youd asked for a veg bed out the back where it wouldnt bother anyone, Id have said yes. But you destroyed what mattered to me. Thats the difference.
Margaret said nothing, dusted herself off.
Will James take my onions home?
Of course, Emily nodded.
And er what about my keys?
Emily and James exchanged a glance.
No, Mum, James said resolutely. Well keep them for now. Well pop out to water, bring you over if youd like to visit. As a guest.
Margaret pursed her lips, but argued no further. She knew shed pushed too far and lost their trust.
In a month, the new lawn began to take shape. Emily and James sowed it with sturdy British grass; fresh green shoots crept in to fill the black scars, bringing Cheery renewal to their private haven.
Margaret didnt come back until Jamess birthday in August. Quiet, subdued, she brought a pie (stuffed with her rescued onions) and even complimented the new lawn.
Well, it looks neat enough, she conceded. Maybe youre right. Certainly keeps the mud out of the house.
Emily smiled as she poured the tea.
Of course, Mrs Turner. Each thing has its place. Veg on the market or in the greenhouse, rest and laughter out here.
The war over the garden was ended. Though scars remained, boundaries had been drawn and, oddly enough, a more genuine respect grew. The lesson for me was clear respect is earned, not given, and sometimes, holding your ground is the only way for everyone to know exactly where it lies.
