The Nuisance
“Good evening, folks. A downstairs neighbour complained about shouting coming from your flat.” The constable stood at the threshold, his voice steady. “Mind if I come in?”
“Of course,” Emily stammered, clutching the doorframe. “Just let me settle the baby first.”
Truth be told, she wasn’t trembling because of the officer’s visit—she was shaking from the beating her husband had given her. Again. This time, because she’d poured his whiskey down the sink. When Oliver discovered it, he’d flown into a rage:
“I’m the one working my fingers to the bone on the building site while you sit at home in your cushy maternity leave! Fetch me another bottle!”
“No,” she’d whispered. “You’re drunk every night. Little Alfie’s only a year old, and he’s already scared of you. Enough, Oliver!”
Amid the child’s terrified wails, his mother took another beating. The noise reached old Mrs. Whitmore’s ears downstairs, and true to form, she did what she always did—she rang the police.
To say Mrs. Whitmore was a piece of work would be an understatement. Her neighbours didn’t just dislike her—they couldn’t stand her. There wasn’t a single one she hadn’t reported—sometimes to the police, sometimes to the council, the housing association, even social services.
“Would you believe it? That boy from number five’s so thin, his mother must be starving him,” she’d say, dialling social services. “Something’s not right—she’s always cheerful, like she’s on something.”
The social worker noted her concerns, promising to investigate.
The poor mother—whose son, Jamie, was actually on a strict diet for being overweight—was horrified when a whole inspection team showed up. His clothes wore out fast because he was an active lad, but Mrs. Whitmore wouldn’t know that. She never spoke to her neighbours, keeping to herself like a ghost in the building.
The old-timers whispered that years ago, burglars had broken into her flat, and ever since, she’d refused to trust anyone. Her husband had fought them off, but he’d died soon after, broken from the ordeal. Mrs. Whitmore never remarried.
The younger tenants, though, didn’t know that.
“Clean up after that dog of yours! Disgusting!” she’d snarled at a young man walking his mastiff one evening.
“You do it, you old bat,” he’d shot back.
The massive hound growled, straining at its leash. Mrs. Whitmore flinched and retreated, resentment simmering inside her.
And revenge came—a neat little pile left on the young man’s doorstep the next morning. He stepped right into it in his brand-new white trainers.
“Bloody hell!” he roared, scrubbing furiously.
Lucky for Mrs. Whitmore, he didn’t know which flat was hers. Cursing, he chucked the ruined shoes in the bin.
Meanwhile, behind pristine lace curtains, an old woman smirked. The paths were spotless from then on. Word spread fast among the dog walkers.
“What’s the trouble here?” The constable’s gaze swept the room where little Alfie wailed in his cot.
“Nothing,” Oliver muttered. “Just got a bit carried away watching the match, that’s all.”
Emily’s eyes darted to her husband. She had to back his lie—or suffer for it. The officer studied her, understanding dawning. But without her word, he couldn’t do a thing.
“Yes, it was the telly,” she whispered. “Sorry.”
The constable sighed. Always the same—they protected their abusers until it was too late.
“I’ll let it go this time, but next time, it’s a fine,” he warned. “And apologise to your neighbour. She’s got an eye for trouble—rare these days.”
“Yeah, lucky us,” Oliver sneered, barely hiding his irritation.
A sharp look from the officer silenced him. Then he turned to Emily, shaking his head before leaving.
“Next time, I’ll shut you up for good,” Oliver hissed the second the door closed.
Emily cradled her son, cursing the day she’d ever said “yes” to this man.
“He’s not right for you, Em,” her friends had warned. “You’re sunshine—he’s all smiles, but his eyes? Dead. Stay clear.”
“But he loves me!” she’d insist, starry-eyed. “He stood up for me once.”
She’d married him, only to learn the hard way—his jealousy, his rages, his cruelty. And now, Oliver found fault in everything—her cooking, her housekeeping, even their child’s cries.
“These shirts are rubbish! Can’t you do anything right?”
“I tried! Alfie’s teething—I’ve barely eaten!”
Understanding wasn’t Oliver’s strong suit. Too hot, too cold, too loud, too quiet—always her fault.
“You woke him, screaming like a banshee!”
“I’m sick—probably caught something.”
“You’ll live,” he scoffed. “Women used to give birth in fields and keep working. You lot get off easy now.”
At first, Emily thought his temper came from stress. Slowly, 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, bearing gifts for Alfie. For the first time in a year, Emily felt happy.
“Don’t stay on leave too long,” her boss urged. “We’ll help with nursery. Everything alright at home?”
Emily forced a smile, not saying her life was hell.
When Oliver came home, he ignored her guests. They left quickly, sensing trouble.
“Don’t bring them here again,” he growled. “Especially that tosser Liam—flirting with you since uni!”
“That’s not true!”
“Liar! He was carrying Alfie—is he even mine?”
“Are you mad? He’s got a baby of his own!”
“‘His own’? So Alfie’s his? You slut! Get out—take your bastard with you!”
“This is my flat!”
“Out, or I won’t be responsible!” He brandished a kitchen knife.
Barefoot, in just a thin robe, Emily fled into the freezing stairwell, Alfie screaming in her arms. She knocked, begging to be let back in.
“Find your fancy man, then!” came the reply, laced with curses.
She stood there, shaking—until a voice rasped behind her.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Whitmore peered up the stairs. “Emily, what’s happened?”
To her surprise, the old woman didn’t scold her—just ordered her inside.
Her flat was immaculate, walls lined with photos of her and her late husband.
“His name was George,” she said softly, noticing Emily’s gaze. “We were happy—unlike you lot.”
Oliver’s furious footsteps pounded above. He knocked on every door—except Mrs. Whitmore’s.
For two days, Emily stayed hidden. The old woman even bought nappies and baby clothes, dipping into her pension.
Then came the news—Oliver had been arrested for attacking Liam in a jealous rage.
“Serves him right,” Mrs. Whitmore huffed to the constable. “Now help the lass change her locks.”
As the new key turned, Emily didn’t just open her door—she opened a new life.
“Come on, love. I’ll mind Alfie while you sort things out.”
Soon, Emily divorced Oliver, returned to work, and found an unlikely guardian angel—Mrs. Whitmore.
Alfie grew so fond of her, he called her “Gran.”
And the neighbours? They stopped calling her a nuisance.
Now, she was just “our Auntie Rose.”
