— You only tell dill from parsley by the shop tags! And you’ve only ever seen berries in jam! — complained the offended neighbour.

You cant tell coriander from parsley unless you read the tag in the shop! And youve only ever tasted berries in jam! muttered Mrs. Pritchard, her voice sharp with indignation.

Eleanor Hartley and her husband George Whitaker pulled up the winding lane to their new country cottage on the edge of the Cotswolds. They had bought it in the autumn, and nowafter a harsh winter they were determined to set things right. The house itself was charming, even in the frosty months, but the grounds and outbuildings were a tangle of neglect; there was much work to be done.

The overgrown garden needed to be turned into a pictureperfect retreat. A brandnew Finnish sauna had already been ordered; it would arrive in a week and be installed, they only needed to choose the spot.
At the same time they planned a dryclothes rack beside the sauna, a woodstore, and a small gazebo. Their children had promised to drive up and lend a hand with everything.

Its quiet here, perfect for a life of retirement. George said, eyes scanning the sleepy lane.
Ive inspected the cellar; we only need new doors. Eleanor replied, wiping her hands on a flourdusted apron.
And Ive walked the back veranda. Remember our talk about the gazebo? Its no longer needed. The veranda already boasts a large round table and a set of antique chairs. she added, gesturing toward the weatherworn furniture.

Well restore those chairs; theyll serve us another hundred years. From there we can look out over the garden, sip tea and watch the world go by. The back doors also need replacing; theres a feel that someone has been in the house this winter, or perhaps just yesterday. George murmured.

Doors first, then everything else, all tucked away at the back of the property, out of sight from the road. Well plant a lawn and a border of perennials in front, a splash of colour for anyone passing by. Eleanor said, a smile tugging at her lips.

The perennials are already in the ground, a few decades old. We may have to transplant a few, but lets leave them for now and enjoy the summer. she concluded.

A week later the sauna was delivered, and the Whitakers children arrived, bursting with youthful energy. The transformation of the plot began in earnest. Mrs. Pritchard stopped by, curious, her grandchildren darting around the cottage like sparrows.

Do you have grandchildren? she asked.

Theyll be here soon. George answered.

Why the massive fence youre putting up? Weve managed without any boundaries for years. the neighbour demanded.

Without a fence? What was there before? We just tore down the old, crumbling one. It fell apart on its own. You didnt seem to mind; we do care about order. And dont worry, were not taking any of your gardens width. The fence sits exactly on our property line. Eleanor replied, her tone firm.

No gate, then? Weve always had a way through. Mrs. Pritchard pressed.

Between us? Thats not in the plan. The only entrance is from the road. George said.

What about the childrenyours and ours? I saw you cut down the apple trees; the kids loved climbing them. she continued, eyes narrowing.

We didnt fell them, we pruned and cleared them, and weve planted new saplings. Let your grandchildren play among your own trees. Eleanor shot back.

Everythings new with you, isnt it? Why line the fence with shrubs? the neighbour asked.

Just for a touch of prettiness. George answered, a faint grin breaking through.

Mrs. Pritchard left, but she kept returning with fresh questions. Her grandchildren continued to race around the Whitakers plot until the new gate was finally bolted shut.

Youve settled in well, the neighbour said again, eyes sweeping the newly trimmed hedges. Will you be staying through the winter?

Time will tell. Eleanor replied, a hint of steel in her voice.

Why close the gate? The kids used to kick a ball right in front of the house, straight down the lanesafe, even with traffic buzzing by. Pritchard protested.

My garden beds are already packed, unlike yours. You only recognise coriander from parsley by the supermarket label, and youve only ever tasted berries in jam. Were not looking for a friendship here. George snapped.

We locked the gate to keep prying eyes out and to stop your grandchildren from taking over the garden. Two days ago they let our hens out, and we havent found a single one since. Eleanor said, her eyebrows raised.

You keep chickens too? So you really plan on staying? the neighbour retorted.

We already are. George answered flatly.

At the end of August the Whitakers celebrated Georges birthday. Their children and grandchildren gathered, the whole family spilling onto the veranda. Men grilled steak over a crackling fire; women tossed salads and set the long table with polished silver.

Weve come to pay our respects, just as neighbours should, Mrs. Pritchard announced, stepping forward with a plate of cake. Were always here, no invitation needed. Were neighbours after all. The children know the whole routine by sunrise.

Youre preparing a feast, the guests have arrived, so it must be a celebration. Lets sit together; the kids will have more fun, and perhaps its time we finally become friends. Eleanor said, eyes softening.

But we never invited you. This is a family affair, a private gathering. Our relationship is that of neighbours, not kin. George replied.

Maybe one day it will change. The children will grow up, perhaps well even intermarry, the neighbour chuckled, the tension easing.

She lingered, muttering halfhearted apologies, while her grandchildren scrambled up apple trees, clambered onto the saunas roof, and nearly toppled over. Soon they were tossing stones into the inflatable pool, the splash startling the adults.

Soon autumn will be here and the pool will have to be packed away, Mrs. Pritchard called out, watching the splashcovered children. Youve had your fun.

Time to go home! Eleanor shouted, ushering the youngsters toward the kitchen.

We havent even sat down yet the kids are starving! Lets all get to the table! George barked, waving a spatula.

The celebration faltered under the rush, but another would come. A week later the children returned for the Whitakers 35th wedding anniversarya milestone of three decades and a half together.

Someone had the idea to lock the gate again; it turned out to be their youngest grandson, only seven years old, who loved the click of the latch.

A muffled knock echoed against the wood as the gate swung shut. The whole family pretended nothing was amiss, the scent of roast lamb and fresh herbs filling the air, a cool breeze drifting through the hedges.

When will you be back in town? asked a neighbour from the village.

Well see. Autumn is coming, well harvest, then well decide. The apple crop this year is spectacular. We like it here, aside from the occasional quarrel with Mrs. Pritchard, but shes not a real obstacle. Weve learned to live without her. Eleanor replied, laughter bubbling.

Everyone laughed together, the tension finally broken.

When the guests finally drifted away, Eleanor and George were left alone on the porch, the amber dusk settling over the garden, then winters chill looming on the horizon. They would try to make it work; if it failed, they could always return to their flat in London.

Mrs. Pritchard eventually drove off, her grandchildren trailing behind, school bells in the distance. Their daughter was struggling, and the grandmother would step in to help.

George and Eleanor let out a relieved sigh. Thank heavens for neighbours who keep us on our toes, George muttered.

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