started to ask her in.
“That English ivy you’ve got growing all across my yard.” Mrs Perth turned and led him to the offending vine.
Where their lot lines converged, Grover’s side garden was at a higher level by a few feet, owing to excavation at the time their houses were constructed. A lush cover of English ivy grew over the bank and extended into his neighbor’s yard. Grover had planted it on his bank years ago to stop erosion. Little else would grow in the poor soil and dense shade. He was quite pleased with its success.
“What’s the problem with my ivy?”
“It’s full of snakes, and I won’t have it growing in my yard.”
“All right, then. Have your workmen clear it away.”
“Why should I pay to clear away your ivy?”
“Because it’s your ivy in your yard.”
“I want it all cleared away.” She had that abrasive nasal accent that set his teeth on edge.
“You mean mine as well?”
“Of course! I don’t want it growing back into my yard”
“Look,” said Grover firmly, thinking of his morning coffee now growing cold. “You do what you like with whatever’s in your yard. I’ll do as I like with mine.”
They did not part wishing one another a good morning. Later workmen ran a string along the property stakes that marked their mutual boundary, and by evening there was only bare earth on Mrs Perth’s side of the string.
And so the war began.
The English ivy was not the only innocent martyr. Mrs Perth’s gardening was, in fact, a massacre—a bare-earth policy. Granted that some of the shrubbery wanted trimming, the iris and day lilies should be thinned, the roses and azaleas needed feeding... But everything went: chopped down, uprooted, carried away by the harassed workmen—until at last there remained only barren soil and a few fatally over-pruned ornamental evergreens.
Grover watched the destruction in horror. On pleasant days he liked to sit out in his side yard listening to his stereo, and over the years he had grown fond of the haphazard gardening efforts of previous tenants, had come to rely upon the late-blooming azalea set out by a newly-wed couple (Mick and Nora, was it?) a dozen years back, had marked the advent of spring by the naturalized bed of yellow daffodils that had been there since before he had moved to Hargrove Terrace, had admired the tangle of wild rose that sprawled almost into the street. Eradicated. All.
As Grover mourned the murder of old friends, he consoled himself with the thought that his new neighbor was indeed a serious gardener. No sooner was the earth laid bare than she began to replant. Workmen under her sharp-tongued direction planted dozens of flowering trees and ornamental shrubs, bulbs and perennials were set out everywhere, flagstone walks and concrete bird baths appeared, patches of river gravel and clusters of native stone transformed the former unkempt lawn into a sprawling rock garden, tufts of periwinkle and liriope replaced grass and weeds. It was a total transformation, mounted at great expense and considerable energy.
Grover decided that he had misjudged Mrs Perth and that his behavior toward her had been churlish. Quite clearly her intentions were good, albeit she was planting too much and too closely together. Six flowering cherry trees in a ten-foot row would never do. When she began work on her rose garden, Grover felt it only neighborly to give her the advantage of his good advice.
The workmen were at lunch. Mrs Perth, in a shapeless dress and pulled-down straw hat, was regarding their work with disapproval at their progress. She was preparing a bed of tea roses along their mutual property line.
“You’ve certainly put in a lot of good work here, Mrs Perth,” Grover observed. Since the English ivy matter, they had barely spoken.
Mrs Perth favored him with her habitual lowering expression. “I’m paying enough for it.”
Undaunted, Grover persisted. “I’m sure you are. That’s why I thought I might suggest that you consider a sunnier location for your rose bed. You see, it’s dense shade along here. Shame to put all this work into—”
“I’ll plant my roses where I please, thank you.” Mrs Perth straightened her lumpy body and glared at him. “When you do something about your jungle of a yard, then perhaps I’ll ask your advice.”
Grover retreated, and the chill set in to stay.
After that, it was an unending series of skirmishes.
The roses, of course, did abysmally in the deep shade. Mrs Perth fed and sprayed and pruned them mercilessly, but by end of season the