“Zina, your grandchildren have stripped all my blackcurrant bushes!” The neighbour didnt even flinch. “Well, so what? Theyre just children.” “So what? Theyve ruined my entire harvest!” “Oh, Toni, dont get so upset. Theyre only berries.”
Antonia made her usual morning rounds of her cottage garden, cradling a mug of tea as she inspected the vegetable patches and admired the fruit trees.
The plot she shared with her husband, Peter, was spaciousfifteen allotments. Half was dedicated to potatoes, carrots, and cabbages, while the other half boasted an orchard of apple and pear trees, along with berry bushes.
She took particular pride in her blackcurrant bushes. Shed planted the first saplings five years ago and had been eagerly awaiting this years first proper harvest.
Nearby, blackberry bushes thrived, yielding large, sweet berries each summer. Along the fence, a grapevine stretched, heavy with clusters of fruit still ripening.
“Peter, look how plump the blackcurrants are getting!” she called to her husband.
“Lovely,” he agreed.
In the summer, their grandchildrentwelve-year-old Alfie and ten-year-old Emilycame to stay. The children helped in the garden, picked berries, and splashed in the nearby stream. Antonia adored them.
Next door lived Zina, their neighbour. Her plot was smalljust six allotmentswith no vegetable patch, only flowerbeds and a modest cottage.
Each summer, Zinas five grandchildren, aged four to fourteen, came to stay. Their parents worked in the city, leaving Zina to manage the lively bunch alone.
The children played together, running between both gardens. Antonia never mindedshe loved the sound of their laughter.
“Auntie Toni, can we play in your garden?” the neighbours grandchildren would ask.
“Of course, dears. Just mind the vegetable patches.”
One morning, Antonia discovered something odd. Several blackcurrant bushes stood nearly bare. Where ripe berries had hung, only unripe green ones remained.
“Peter, come here!” she called.
“Whats the matter?”
“Look at the blackcurrants. Where have they all gone?”
Her husband stepped closer, examining the bushes.
“Thats odd. They were full yesterday.”
“Could it have been birds?”
“Birds peck one at a time. This looks like someone picked them clean.”
Antonia checked the other bushes. The blackberries, too, had been strippedeven the unripe ones were gone.
“Peter, someones taken the blackberries too!”
“Impossible!”
But it was true. Bushes that had been laden with fruit the day before were now bare.
That evening, Antonia decided to keep watch. She sat on the bench with a book, glancing frequently toward the garden.
Within an hour, she spotted Zinas grandchildren squeezing through a gap in the fence. All five headed straight for the blackcurrant bushes.
“Look how dark these ones are!” the youngest exclaimed.
“Lets take them all,” the eldest suggested.
Methodically, they stripped the remaining bushes, eating as they went, stuffing their pockets and filling a plastic bag.
Antonia stepped out from her hiding place.
“What are you doing?”
The children froze. The older ones tried to hide the bag behind their backs.
“We just wanted a taste,” thirteen-year-old Mikey mumbled.
“A taste? Youve picked them all!”
“Auntie Toni, can we have some more?” four-year-old Katie asked. “Theyre so yummy!”
“No, you cant. These are our berries. We grew them ourselves.”
The children trudged back to the fence, heads down. Antonia watched them go, then marched next door. Zina sat on her porch.
“Zina, we need to talk.”
“Go on.”
“Your grandchildren have stripped every last blackcurrant bush!”
Zina didnt even blink.
“So what? Theyre only children.”
“So what? Theyve destroyed my entire harvest!”
“Oh, Toni, dont make such a fuss. Theyre just berries.”
Antonia was stunned.
“Just berries? Ive spent five years growing them! Watering, fertilisingevery single bush!”
“Well, grow some more. No need to fret.”
“Zina, the least you could do is apologise!”
“Apologise for what? Kids will be kids. What can you do?”
The conversation went nowhere. Zina clearly saw nothing wrong with her grandchildrens behaviour.
The next day, Antonia found the grape clusters missingthe ones meant to ripen by late August.
“Zina!” she called over the fence.
“What now?”
“Your grandchildren have taken the grapes too!”
“Oh, really? Sour, were they?”
“Of course theyre sour! Theyre not ripe yet! Theyve picked nearly every bunch!”
“Well, they tried them and didnt like them. Kids are curious.”
Antonia felt her temper rising.
“Zina, your children are wrecking my garden!”
“Dont exaggerate! Youve got plenty to spare.”
“What does that matter? Ive spent years growing these plants!”
“Well, carry on growing them, then.”
Zina turned and slammed her door.
That evening, Antonia told Peter about the exchange.
“Can you believe it? She wouldnt even apologise! Just said, ‘Kids will be kids.'”
“Well, what did you expect?” Peter shrugged. “Its easier for her to brush it off than teach them manners.”
“But its theft!”
“Toni, dont get worked up. Theyre just kidsthey dont understand.”
“The oldest is thirteen! He should know better!”
Peter sighed. He didnt want a feud with the neighbours over berries.
A few days later, even the gooseberries were gone.
“Thats it. Ive had enough!” Antonia declared.
She stormed next door. Zina was watering her flowers with a can.
“Now theyve taken the gooseberries too!”
“What gooseberries?”
“Mine! Your grandchildren were climbing the fence again!”
“Toni, why are you making such a scene? They only picked a few.”
“They didnt pick a fewthey stripped the bushes bare! My entire harvest is gone!”
“Stop blaming the children! Its your own fault!”
Antonia couldnt believe her ears.
“My fault?”
“Who let them run wild in your garden? They got used to taking whatever they wanted.”
“I was being kind! I thought it was nice for the children to play together!”
“Well, now you see where kindness gets you!”
Zina set down the watering can and turned toward her house.
“And if you dont want people taking your things, build a taller fence. Yours is full of gaps.”
“Zina, you should teach them not to take what isnt theirs!”
“I should. But why bother? They wouldnt listen anyway.”
Antonia returned home, heartsick. She sat on the bench and wept. Years of hard work, waiting for the harvestall gone.
“Toni, dont cry,” Peter soothed. “Therell be more berries next year.”
“Its not about the berries! Its that she wont even apologise! Shes impossible!”
“What do you expect? You know what shes like.”
It was true. Zina had a reputation in the village for being difficult. But until now, she and Antonia had gotten along.
“Peter, lets raise the fence.”
“We can. But itll cost a fair bit.”
“What else can we do? Theyll ruin the garden otherwise.”
The next day, work began on the new fence. Peter brought in planks, wire mesh, and posts, labouring from dawn till dusk.
Zina watched from her garden, sneering.
“How greedy! Fencing off the kids!”
Antonia ignored her, lips pressed tight.
Zinas grandchildren loitered near the fence, searching for new gaps. But Peter sealed every hole and crack.
“Auntie Toni, why did you build the fence?” little Katie asked.
“To keep the berries safe.”
“Can we still come and play?”
“No. Not anymore.”
The fence worked, but relations with the neighbours were ruined. Zina turned away whenever they met, and the children no longer visited.
“Stingy old cow!” they taunted from the other side. “Mean old lady!”
Antonia tried to ignore them, but it weighed on her heart. The garden, once filled with laughter, was now silent.
Meanwhile, Zina spread her version of events to the other villagers.
“Can you believe how tight-fisted they are? Wont even let the children have a few berries! Built a ruddy great fence!”
“Did they take much?” others asked.
“Just a handful! Shes acting like they robbed a bank!”
Zinas tale painted her in a better light. Whod believe children could strip an entire garden bare?
Gradually, the village took sides. Antonia was seen as miserly and bitter, while Zina was the saintly grandmother raising five grandchildren alone.
By summers end, things only worsened. Barred from the garden, Zinas grandchildren found other ways to retaliate.
A football sailed over the fence. Litter was tossed into the vegetable patch. One morning, Antonia found cigarette butts and sweet wrappers scattered among the cabbages.
“Zina, control your grandchildren!”
“What have they done now?”
“Theyve thrown rubbish everywhere!”
“How do you know it was them? Mightve been the wind.”
The mischief continuedwater sprayed over the fence, stones hurled at windows.
Antonia realised Zina wasnt just ignoring itshe was encouraging them.
“Peter, should we call the police?”
“Toni, dont be daft! Over a few childish pranks?”
“But theyre vandalising the place!”
“Well bear it. Summers nearly overtheyll be gone soon.”
True enough, by late August, the noisy troupe returned to the city.
Sitting in the quiet evening, Antonia dreaded next summer. Zina would bring the five grandchildren back. Then what?
More tension over the fence, more stones, more name-calling? The children now saw her as the wicked old miser, and their grandmother would never set them straight.
The garden no longer felt like a place of joyit was a fortress, where she had to defend not just her fruit, but her peace of mind.
What would you do in her place? What advice would you give Antonia? Share your thoughts below.
