Zinnia, your grandchildren have stripped all my blueberry bushes bare! The neighbour didnt even blink. Well, what of it? Theyre only children. What do you mean, what of it? Theyve ruined my entire harvest! Oh, Antonia, dont take on so. Theyre just berries.
Antonia Whitmore used to stroll her cottage garden every morning, teacup in hand, inspecting the vegetable patches and admiring the fruit trees.
Their plot with her husband, Peter Whitmore, was generousfifteen square rods. Half was given over to potatoes, carrots, and cabbages, the other half to an orchard of apple and pear trees, with berry bushes tucked between.
She took particular pride in her blueberry bushes. Five years ago, shed planted the first saplings, and this summer, shed been waiting for their first proper yield.
Nearby grew blackberry brambles, which bore large, sweet fruit each year. Along the fence, a grapevine stretched heavy with clusters still ripening in the August sun.
Peter, look how plump the blueberries are getting! shed call to her husband.
Lovely, hed agree.
In summer, their grandchildrentwelve-year-old Oliver and ten-year-old Matildawould visit. The children helped in the garden, picked berries, and swam in the brook. Antonia doted on them.
Next door lived their neighbour, Zinnia Parker. Her plot was smalljust six square rods, with no vegetable patch, only flowerbeds and a modest cottage.
Five grandchildren, aged four to fourteen, stayed with her each summer. Their parents worked in London, leaving Granny Zinnia to mind the brood alone.
The children played together, dashing between the two gardens. Antonia never mindedin fact, she delighted in their laughter.
Auntie Antonia, may we play in your garden? the little Parkers would ask.
Of course, dears. Just mind the vegetable rows.
One morning, Antonia discovered an unsettling sight. Several blueberry bushes stood nearly bare. Where ripe berries had hung the day before, only unripe green ones remained.
Peter, come here! she called.
Whats the matter?
Look at the blueberries. Where have they gone?
Her husband stepped closer, examining the bushes.
Odd. They were full yesterday.
Could it have been birds?
Birds peck one or two, not strip them clean. This looks deliberate.
Antonia checked the other bushes. The blackberries, too, had been picked nearly clean, even the unripe ones.
Peter, the blackberries are gone as well!
Surely not!
But it was true. Bushes that had been heavy with fruit the day before now stood barren.
That evening, Antonia kept watch. She sat on the bench with a book, though her eyes strayed often to the garden.
Within the hour, she saw the Parker children slip through a gap in the fence. All five made straight for the blueberry bushes.
Look how blue these are! the youngest exclaimed.
Lets take the lot, the eldest suggested.
Methodically, they stripped the remaining bushes, eating as they went, stuffing pockets, and filling a pilfered paper bag.
Antonia stepped out from her hiding place.
What are you doing?
The children froze. The eldest tried to hide the bag behind his back.
We were just tasting a few, thirteen-year-old Michael mumbled.
A few? Youve picked the lot!
Auntie Antonia, may we have some more? four-year-old Lily asked. Theyre ever so nice!
No, you may not. These are our berries, grown for our table.
The children trudged back through the fence, heads down. Antonia watched them go, then marched next door. Zinnia sat shelling peas on her step.
Zinnia, we need to talk.
Go on, then.
Your grandchildren have stripped every last blueberry from my bushes!
Zinnia didnt so much as flinch.
Well? Theyre only children.
Only children? Theyve destroyed my entire crop!
Antonia, dont fuss. Theyre just berries.
Antonia gaped at her.
Just berries? Ive tended those bushes for five years! Watered them, fed them!
Youll grow more. No need to carry on.
Zinnia, cant you at least apologise?
Apologise? For what? Children will be children.
The conversation went nowhere. Zinnia plainly saw no wrong in her grandchildrens actions.
The next day, Antonia found the grape clusters gonethe very ones meant to ripen by summers end.
Zinnia! she called over the fence.
What now?
Your lot have taken the grapes!
So? They were likely sour anyway.
Of course they were sour! They werent ripe! Theyve stripped nearly every bunch!
Well, they tried them and left them be. Children are curious.
Antonia felt her temper rise.
Zinnia, your grandchildren are ruining my garden!
Dont exaggerate! Youve a big garden, plenty to spare.
Plenty to spare? These plants take years of care!
Then keep caring for them.
Zinnia went inside, slamming the door.
That evening, Antonia told Peter about the exchange.
Would you believe it? Not so much as an apology! Just children will be children.
What did you expect? Peter sighed. Easier for her to shrug it off than teach them manners.
But its theft!
Theyre just youngsters. They dont understand.
The oldest is thirteen! He ought to know better!
Peter sighed again. Hed no wish to feud with neighbours over fruit.
Days later, even the gooseberries vanished.
Thats it. I wont stand for it! Antonia declared.
She marched next door. Zinnia was watering her flowers.
Now theyve taken the gooseberries!
What gooseberries?
Mine! Your grandchildren were over the fence again!
Antonia, must you carry on so? They only picked a few.
Not a fewevery last one! My whole harvest, gone!
Must you blame the children? Its your own fault!
Antonia stared.
My fault?
Who let them run wild in your garden? Theyve grown used to taking what they like.
Out of kindness! I thought it neighbourly!
Well, theres your answer. Kindness repaid with trouble.
Zinnia set down her watering can and turned toward the house.
Besides, if you didnt want them in, you shouldve built a proper fence.
Zinnia, children must be taught not to take what isnt theirs!
Taught? What good would that do?
Antonia returned home heavy-hearted. She sat on the bench and wept. Years of work, her harvest gone in days.
Antonia, dont take on so, Peter soothed. Therell be more berries next year.
Its not the berries! Its that she wont even acknowledge its wrong!
What did you expect? You know her ways.
True enough. Zinnia was known in the village as a difficult sort, though theyd got on well enough till now.
Peter, lets raise the fence.
Itll cost a pretty penny.
What choice have we? Or theyll strip the garden bare.
The next day, Peter set to work. He brought in planks, wire, and posts, labouring from dawn till dusk.
Zinnia watched from her gate, lips pursed.
How greedy! Fencing off your garden from children!
Antonia held her tongue, though her jaw tightened.
The Parker children hovered, testing for new gaps, but Peter sealed every one.
Auntie Antonia, why have you built this fence? little Lily asked.
To keep the fruit safe.
May we still come and play?
No. Not anymore.
The fence helped, but the rift with the neighbours grew. Zinnia turned her back when they met; the children stayed away.
Mean old thing! theyd shout through the fence. Stingy old hag!
Antonia tried to ignore them, but her heart ached. The garden, once alive with laughter, now stood silent.
Meanwhile, Zinnia spread her version of events:
Would you credit it? So tight-fisted, they wont spare a berry for children! Built a fence tall as a prison wall!
Did the children take much? neighbours asked.
A handful, no more! She carries on as if theyd robbed the Crown Jewels!
Zinnias tale won sympathy. Whod believe children could strip a garden bare?
Gradually, opinion turned. Antonia was cast as the miserly villain; Zinnia, the long-suffering granny raising five grandchildren alone.
By summers end, matters worsened. Barred from the garden, the Parker children found other ways to mischief. A ball lobbed over the fence, litter tossed into the vegetable patch. One morning, Antonia found sweet wrappers and cigarette ends scattered among her carrots.
Zinnia, speak to your grandchildren!
What have they done now?
Theyve thrown rubbish in my garden!
How dyou know its mine? Mightve been the wind.
The mischief continuedwater sprayed through the fence, pebbles pitched at windows.
Antonia realised Zinnia not only allowed it but encouraged it.
Peter, should we speak to the constable?
Antonia, dont be daft. Over childrens pranks?
But its vandalism!
Bear it. Summers nearly done. Theyll be gone soon.
True enough, come late August, the noisy brood returned to London.
That evening, Antonia sat in the quiet garden, dreading next summer. No doubt Zinnia would bring the five terrors back. Then what? More fence-top shouting, more pebbles, more names? The children now thought her a wicked old miser, and their grandmother would never set them straight.
The garden no longer felt a place of peaceit had become a fortress, where she must guard not just fruit, but her own peace of mind.
