The New Fence

The New Fence

By eight o'clock, orange string stretched along the low wall between our garden and the house next door. Mum watched from the kitchen window while the new neighbour checked the position of the wooden posts. I asked what they were building.

'A fence,' Mum said. 'We agreed to share the cost.'

For as long as I could remember, Mr Reed had lived next door. He passed strawberries over the wall and once helped me build a crooked bird table. When he moved, I had expected the new neighbour to inherit our conversations along with his shed.

Outside, Priya introduced herself and showed us the panels. They would block the view across the wall, even when we were standing.

'It's lovely here,' she said. 'At work I'm behind a reception desk all day. Sometimes I want to sit outside without being available for a conversation.'

I nodded, although the phrase sounded unfriendly to me. After she went inside, I asked Mum whether she would miss talking over the wall.

'Sometimes.' She lifted an empty flowerpot off the grass. 'I used to wait until Mr Reed went in before bringing my lunch out. He always wanted a chat, and I didn't always have the energy.'

I had never noticed her waiting. In my memories, she was usually indoors, somewhere behind me and Mr Reed.

By late afternoon, the fence had divided the view into two neat rectangles. Our garden looked smaller. I carried the bird table away from the workers' tools and set it beside the apple tree.

Mum brought out a cup of tea. Instead of settling on the step beside the kitchen, she moved her chair into the sunshine and opened a book. I stayed by the apple tree, one hand resting on the roof of the bird table.

Behind the new fence, Priya laughed at something I couldn't hear.