The Interfering Neighbour
“Good evening, citizens. The downstairs neighbour has complained about noise and shouting from your flat,” the constable said, standing at the door. “Mind if I come in?”
“Of course,” Emily stammered, forcing a smile. “Come in, just let me settle the baby.”
But Emily wasn’t trembling because of the officer. It was her husband, Oliver, who had beaten her again—this time for pouring his whisky down the sink. When he discovered what she’d done, he flew into a rage.
“I’m a man—I’ve got the right to unwind after work! You sit at home in your cushy maternity leave while I break my back on the building site! Go and buy me another bottle!”
“I won’t,” Emily whispered. “You’re drunk every night. Little Jamie’s already terrified of you. He’s only one, and he’s seen too much! Stop drinking, Oliver!”
With the infant wailing in his cot, Oliver struck her again. The racket drew the attention of Mrs. Edith Whitaker, the nosy old woman from downstairs, who, true to form, did what she always did—dialled 999.
To say Edith was unpleasant would be an understatement. Her neighbours didn’t just dislike her; they loathed her. There wasn’t a soul in the building she hadn’t reported at some point—whether to the police, the council, the housing association, or even social services.
“Social services? Yes, I’m calling about that boy in flat five—Billy, is it? His mother hardly feeds him, poor lad. Skinny as a rake, dressed in rags,” Edith had once said with false concern. “Best check on them. That mother’s far too happy for my liking. Probably on something.”
A social worker duly noted the complaint, promising action, and soon, Billy’s bewildered mother had a full inspection team at her door. Turned out, the boy was on a strict diet—he’d been overweight for his age. His clothes wore out quickly because he was an active lad. But Edith didn’t know that. She kept to herself, avoiding neighbours like the plague.
The old-timers said years ago, burglars had broken into her flat. Ever since, she’d blamed the neighbours, convinced one of them had tipped off the thieves about the cash she and her late husband had saved for a second-hand Rover. Her husband had fought back, been badly hurt, and died soon after. Edith never recovered—never remarried.
The younger residents didn’t know that, though.
“Clean up after that mutt of yours!” she’d shriek at a young man walking his dog. “Or you’ll regret it!”
“You want it gone? Do it yourself, you old battle-axe,” he sneered.
His massive dog snarled and lurched at her, straining its leash. Edith recoiled, nursing a quiet fury—one that turned to revenge when the same young man stepped barefoot into his dog’s mess the next morning, waiting right outside his door.
“Bloody hell!” he roared, scrubbing furiously.
He never figured out who’d done it, but the dog owners got the message—clean up, or else.
Meanwhile, behind pristine lace curtains, Edith smiled. For once, she’d won.
“So, what’s the problem?” The constable scanned the room, where little Jamie wailed in his cot.
“Nothing,” Oliver grunted. “Just watching the match. Got a bit loud, that’s all.”
Emily shot him a frightened glance. She knew better than to contradict him. The officer raised an eyebrow at her. He knew the score—but without her word, there was nothing he could do.
“It was the telly,” she lied. “Sorry.”
The constable sighed. Always the same—victims protecting their abusers until it was too late.
“Right, I’ll issue a warning. Next time, it’s a fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Apologise to your neighbour, not me. Vigilant woman, you’ve got. Rare these days.”
Oliver scowled, masking his irritation.
The officer gave him a hard look, then left with a warning glance at Emily.
The moment the door shut, Oliver grabbed her arm. “Next time, I’ll make sure you don’t scream,” he hissed.
Emily clutched Jamie, cursing the day she’d married him.
“He’s not right for you, love,” her friends had warned. “You’re sweet. He’s got a smile, but his eyes—dead. Stay clear.”
“But you don’t know him like I do,” she’d insisted. “He loves me. He stood up for me once.”
She married him—only to learn his “love” meant jealousy, control, and violence. Now, he seethed if she even glanced at another man, delighting in her guilt over nothing.
“Is this how you iron a shirt?” he bellowed. “Are you useless?!”
“I tried. I haven’t eaten all day—Jamie’s teething!”
Sympathy wasn’t Oliver’s strong suit. Blame was. Too-hot soup, dry chops, bad mothering—always her fault.
“You woke him with your shouting!” she protested.
“Women used to give birth in fields and keep working,” he sneered. “Grow up.”
She’d thought his anger came from stress. Now, she saw the truth—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. For the first time in a year, Emily smiled, surrounded by warmth.
“Don’t stay on leave too long,” her boss urged. “We’ll help with nursery. Everything okay at home?”
Emily lied.
When Oliver returned, he ignored her guests. They left, sensing trouble.
“Keep them away,” he growled. “Especially that prat, Daniel.”
“Daniel’s married with a baby!”
“Oh, so Jamie’s his, is he?” Oliver roared, grabbing a knife. “Get out!”
Emily fled in her nightdress, barefoot into the freezing hall.
Edith found her shaking on the stairs.
“Come on,” she snapped, pulling her inside.
Emily gaped at the immaculate flat, the portraits of Edith’s late husband.
“My William,” Edith said softly. “We were happy—unlike you. Kicked you out, did he?”
“How—?”
“Walls are thin. That temper of his—” She scoffed. “Stay here. We’ll fetch your things later.”
Footsteps pounded above. Oliver was searching—every door but Edith’s.
Two days passed. Jamie warmed to Edith, who even bought him new clothes.
Then the constable returned—Oliver was arrested for assaulting Daniel in a jealous rage.
“Serves him right,” Edith said. “Emily’s getting her flat back.”
The locksmith fitted a new bolt. A new start.
With Edith’s help, Emily divorced Oliver, returned to work. And Jamie? He called Edith “Nana.”
The neighbours stopped calling her the interfering old bat.
Now, she was just “Auntie Edie.”
