During Easter weekend my neighbour had his fence mended; three panels were out leaving my garden unsecured. Since moving to this house his fences were rotten but I never bothered to worry about them as I know the cost of putting up new panels. I always rush housework and the mission was to get the washing on the line without my neighbour seeing me and starting a chat. He is very opiniated and we have nothing in common.
He told me that whilst the two electricians from his mosque were installing the panels on Sunday he had plucked Sycamore seedlings from my overgrown lawn. He then started on again about his long argument since 1986 with the borough council about the huge Sycamore tree three doors down and how its roots will destroy our houses and about the tree next door to him which is the child of the massive tree. He then told me he’d seen a sapling in my garden. I replied to his queried face that I was growing a tree for a shady spot. He repeated the story of tree roots and I emphasised that we’d all be dead and gone before the roots meet our back doors. Rightfully he said that the houses would be spoilt. The houses were built by the Conservative Land Society in 1860 so are due for demolition to clear land for high rises. I’ll be dead and gone. New householders who can’t afford Hackney prices have moved this way and expanded the old Victorian two up two downs then painted them Gentrification Matt Black.
My neighbour looked crushed at not being able to force me to uproot my cherished baby tree. I told him his new fence was rather smart and “Job done”. I will never see his face through broken slats so that is a bonus for me.
Two events made me disrespect him; well, three if I include the saga of the Sycamore tree. One time he told me to rake up the leaves from the afore-mentioned tree from my lawn and another time he returned an Eid card I’d posted through his letter box because he, a Moslem, previously Christian, does not have any truck with Eid cards. That told me.
Yesterday morning the very first thing I did even before cleaning my teeth was to go out back and pull up my Sycamore sapling. That was not easy. Its roots were as strong as Hollyhock roots. I then plucked half a dozen dandelion blooms, put them in the brown bin and set about assembling my new non-electric lawn mower.
Years ago at another address where I grew from conkers four horse-chestnut trees and from an interesting twig, a cherry tree the miserable next door man of the house told me I should repair our adjoining fence. It was a command. I hadn’t any money for such extravagance and credit cards hadn’t been invented. He never knew that his wife used one of the gaps in the broken fence to bring me home-made Indian curries and sweets. I once sent over scones to the family and the nasty big man son sent them back because they weren’t sweet enough.
I had to do the neighbourly and honourable thing and repair the old old 1930 mildew grey fence or get a whole new one. I asked a man who was desperate for my affections. I went with him to buy the panels. I kept sweet. He built that fence on a promise.
The lady over the back pushed a bunch of chrysanthemums from her flower-packed garden over my back wall and fence. I caught her to say thank you and she then shocked me by saying that I should Creasote the fence between her and myself. Another command. The fence was wartime rotten. She said it separated our gardens and so I should keep it good. I did as I was told until she died and then noone cared about her garden or her fence. Her ancient brother who lived with her and who made model soldiers and who served at Scapa Flow went jogging over the back by the riding school and got kicked in the head by a horse. He never went into the garden again nor looked over the back fence but went for a daily pint to the local pub and swayed all the way home.
Good fences make good neighbours.
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