The Curmudgeon
“Good evening, citizens. The downstairs neighbour complained about the noise coming from your flat,” said the local constable at the doorstep. “Mind if I come in?”
“Of course,” replied Emily in a trembling voice. “Just let me settle the baby first.”
Truthfully, Emily wasn’t shaking from the officer’s visit—but from the latest beating her husband had given her. This time, it was because she’d poured all his whisky down the sink. When Henry discovered it, he flew into a rage.
“I’m the one working all day, breaking my back on the site, while you sit here in your cushy maternity leave! Go and buy me another bottle!”
“No,” Emily stood her ground. “You’re drunk every night. Little Alfie’s only a year old, and he’s already terrified of you. Enough is enough, Henry!”
The baby wailed as his father struck his mother again. The commotion alerted old Mrs. Winthrop next door, who, as usual, did what she always did in suspicious situations—called the police.
Mrs. Winthrop was quite the piece of work. It would be an understatement to say the neighbours merely disliked her—they loathed her. Everyone on the block had, at some point, been reported by the relentless Mrs. Winthrop. Not necessarily to the police—sometimes to the council, the housing association, even social services.
“That lad from number five, his mother never feeds him, poor mite, skin and bones,” she’d say in her calls. “Someone ought to check on them. That woman’s always in high spirits—probably on something.”
Social services noted the complaint and assured the concerned citizen they’d investigate.
The poor mother of chubby Charlie was stunned when a full inspection team knocked on her door. Turned out, the boy was on a special diet—at nine, he weighed as much as a teenager. His mother was thrilled with the progress. As for his clothes, well, Charlie was an active boy—trousers and jumpers didn’t last long.
But Mrs. Winthrop didn’t know that. She avoided neighbours like the plague.
The older residents whispered that decades ago, burglars had broken into her home. Since then, she’d never trusted anyone, convinced a neighbour had tipped them off about her late husband withdrawing cash to buy an old Morris Minor. He’d fought the intruders, suffered badly, and died soon after. Mrs. Winthrop never remarried—never recovered.
The younger neighbours didn’t know that, of course.
“Clean up after your dog! Disgusting, leaving filth everywhere!” she screeched at a young man walking his dog in the evening.
“You want it done, do it yourself, you old boot,” he snorted.
The massive dog growled and strained at its lead. Mrs. Winthrop flinched, backing away—but she nursed the grudge, promising revenge.
The next morning, the young man found that very pile right outside his door, stepping in it with brand-new white trainers.
“Bloody hell!” he roared, scrubbing his dog’s handiwork off the soles.
Lucky for Mrs. Winthrop, he didn’t know which flat was hers. Cursing, he tossed the ruined shoes in the bin.
Behind her lace curtains, an old woman smiled, smug. From then on, the paths by the playground stayed spotless. Word spread quickly among the dog owners.
“So, what’s the trouble here?” The constable scanned the room where little Alfie wailed in his cot.
“Nothing,” Henry muttered. “Just watching the match, got a bit loud. Useless lot—couldn’t score if their lives depended on it.”
Emily shot him a terrified glance. She knew she had to back his lie—or pay for it later. The officer raised an eyebrow at her. He knew exactly what was going on, but without her statement, there was little he could do.
“Yes, it was just the telly,” she whispered. “Sorry.”
The constable sighed. Always the same—victims defending their tormentors until it was too late.
“Right, written warning this time. Next—it’s a fine. And apologise to your neighbour, eh? Sharp as a tack, that one. Rare to find folks so civic-minded. Knows every officer by voice now.”
“Lucky us,” Henry muttered, barely masking his irritation.
The constable shot him a warning look, then gave Emily a meaningful nod before leaving.
“Next time, I’ll shut you up for good,” Henry hissed the moment the door closed.
Emily clung to Alfie, cursing the day she’d married Henry.
“He’s not right for you, love,” her friends had warned. “You’re sunshine, and he’s got those dead eyes. Walk away.”
“But you don’t know him like I do,” she’d insisted. “He loves me. Stood up for me once—right in the street.”
So Emily married him. Soon, Henry’s true colours showed—jealous of colleagues, picking fights, humiliating her in public. She mistook his cruelty for passion, his control for devotion. Now, he resented every breath she took, relishing how she flinched at nothing.
“Did you even iron this shirt? Useless!”
“I tried—Alfie’s teething, I couldn’t leave him!”
But understanding wasn’t Henry’s strong suit. Complaints piled up—soup too hot, dinners tasteless, her a bad mother for Alfie’s crying.
“You woke him, shouting! I think I’m coming down with something—”
“Won’t kill you,” he’d scoff. “Women used to birth in fields and work right after. Stop whinging.”
At first, Emily thought he was just stressed. But as the years passed, she realised—she was just convenient. A girl with a flat and a decent job.
Then Fate intervened. Her old colleagues visited for International Women’s Day. Emily cooked what little she could in secret.
“So lovely to see you!” She beamed at these remnants of her free, happy past.
“Happy Women’s Day! Where’s the little man? Brought him a gift,” said James, her old workmate.
Alfie adored the stuffed bunny and balloons—but mostly, the strangers’ warmth. He didn’t cry once. For the first time in a year, Emily felt light.
“Don’t stay off work too long,” her boss urged. “Nursery’s an option—we’ll help. You’re not yourself. Everything alright at home?”
Emily smiled, hiding the truth.
“I miss you all. I’ll think about nursery—money’s tight.”
When Henry returned, he ignored the guests. Noticing the tension, they soon left.
“Never bring them here again,” he snarled. “Especially that ponce James.”
“He’s not a ponce! His wife just had a baby—”
“‘Just had a baby’? So Alfie’s his, is he? You lying slag! Get out—take that brat with you!”
“This is *my* flat!” Emily clutched Alfie, now screaming. “It’s the middle of the night!”
“OUT, before I lose my temper!” Henry seized a knife.
Emily fled in her nightdress, barefoot, into the freezing corridor. Alfie wailed as she hesitated outside their door.
“Henry, please! Alfie’ll catch cold!”
“Go to whichever man you whored with!” came the muffled reply, laced with curses.
Emily stood shaking. Going back meant more terror—but where else could she go? It was November.
“What’s all this?” Mrs. Winthrop’s voice cut through the dark. “Emily? What’s happened?”
Emily braced for another scolding—but none came.
“Right, come with me. Can’t have the little one freezing.”
Dazed, Emily followed. Inside, the flat gleamed—walls lined with photos of a younger Mrs. Winthrop and her late husband.
“My Reggie,” the old woman said softly. “We were happy—unlike you lot. He threw you out?”
“How’d you—?”
“Walls are thin. And that man bellows like the Last Trump. Why d’you put up with it?”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. Stay here. We’ll fetch your things later.”
“But—”
“Enough ‘buts’! Men like that need stamping out, not coddling!”
A door slammed upstairs. Henry was searching, banging on every door—except Mrs. Winthrop’s. No one would guess the neighbourhood witch would help.
Emily stayed two days. Mrs. Winthrop clothed her, even bought Alfie new things with her pension.
On the third day, the constable returned—Henry was in custody for attacking James in a jealous rage.
“Serves him right,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “Leonard, help Emily change the locks.”
The locksmith let Emily in—not just to her flat, but to a new life.
“Come on, girl,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “Do what you must. I’ll mind Alfie.”
Soon, Emily divorced HenryIn the years that followed, Emily often found herself laughing with Alfie in Mrs. Winthrop’s spotless kitchen, the old woman scowling playfully as she slid them both another slice of cake.