I recall it clearly that night, the relentless bass thumping through the ceiling becoming unbearable. “That’s enough of that racket!” I yelled, pounding my fist on the radiator. “One o’clock in the morning and they’re hosting a rock concert!”
“Mother, calm yourself,” sighed Eleanor, my daughter, not looking up from her phone. “Discuss it with them tomorrow.”
“How many times must we discuss it? I’ve endured these… these…” I threw my hands up, searching for words. “…absolute layabouts for a month!”
“Mother, don’t shout so. You’ll wake Amelia.”
“And let her wake! Let her know what sort of house she lives in!” I marched to the window and threw it open. “You there! Up above! Enough of the noise!”
A tousled head of a young lad popped out a third-floor window.
“Doddering old fool, stop shouting yourself! People are trying to sleep!”
“Doddering old fool? You imbecile!” I spluttered. “I’ll ring up the neighbourhood patrol!”
“Go ahead, ring them!” he bellowed, slamming his window shut.
The music only amplified.
I sank onto the sofa, clutching my chest. My hands shook; my breath caught. Eleanor finally glanced up at me.
“Mother, are you alright? Need your tablets?”
“Pass me my calming drops,” I whispered.
Eleanor fetched the medicine and water. I took them and leaned back against the cushions. “I can’t bear it, Eleanor. Truly, I cannot. Such decent folk lived here before. Peace and quiet, proper order. And now…” I gestured angrily towards the ceiling, where drumming rattled the plaster. “When did they move in?” asked Eleanor.
“A month back. A young couple. Seemed normal enough, polite. Said hello in the hall, smiled. Turned out…” I trailed off as something crashed thunderously above, followed by shouts and laughter.
“Layabouts, without a doubt,” I muttered. “Decent people are asleep by one.”
Eleanor stretched and yawned. “Mother, I should head home. It’s late.”
“Don’t leave me alone with these… lunatics!”
“Mother, what can I possibly do? I’ve work tomorrow, Amelia has school. You sort the neighbours yourself.”
Eleanor gathered her things and left. Alone in the flat, every sound from above echoed like a physical ache in my chest. I fetched my notebook from the bedside table, found the patrol number. No answer. Tried the council hotline.
“Yes?” came a weary voice.
“Hello, this is Margaret Davies from Elm Street. Our neighbours have loud music playing, preventing sleep.”
“The time?”
“After one in the morning!”
“Understood. Logging your complaint. Patrol will attend when officers free up.”
“When might that be?”
“Couldn’t say. Many calls tonight.”
I hung up, fists clenched. ‘When officers free up’. When? Morning? Tomorrow? Next week?
I went to the window. Quiet street, deserted, just streetlamps glowing. While inside my home, chaos reigned. Music boomed, feet stomped, voices yelled. And no one cared.
I thought back. Thirty years in this flat. Saw neighbours change, children born and grown. Everyone knew each other, respected each other. Perfect quiet after ten at night.
And now this. Youth moving in from who knows where, thinking anything goes. Parents probably wealthy, buying flats, but raised them with no manners.
A new song started above. Something modern, with wailing guitars and thunderous drums. The walls vibrated with the bass.
I couldn’t stand it. Back to the window.
“Turn that music off!” I screamed with all my might. “People are sleeping!”
No response. The racket continued. I pulled on my dressing gown and stepped onto the landing. Up one flight, pressed their doorbell. Waited. Eventually, footsteps.
“Who is it?” A male voice.
“Your downstairs neighbour. Please open.”
The door opened on the chain. A young man’s eye peered through the gap.
“What d’you want?”
“Excuse me, young man, might you lower the volume? It’s one in the morning.”
The lad snorted, started to shut the door. I jammed my foot in the gap.
“Hold on! I’m speaking to you!”
“Granny, don’t start. We’re bothering no one.”
“Bothering no one? The entire terrace hears your music!”
“Not our problem. We’ll do as we like in our own flat.” The door slammed shut. I stood on the landing a moment, then slowly returned downstairs. It felt worse inside now. The music blared, joined by more voices – likely guests arrived.
I lay in bed, pillow over my head. Futile. The noise seeped through, echoed in my bones, my heart.
Giving up, I went to the kitchen. Made tea, sat by the window. The street was calm; the house, a madhouse. How weary I was of it all. The rudeness, the indifference, having to plead for basic respect. I used to be different. Active, resolute. Managed the public library, raised my daughter, helped with my granddaughter. Respected.
Now? Now I am nobody. A pensioner they can ignore. Expected to endure any insolence from young upstarts.
Finishing my tea, I stood decisively. Enough. Tolerate it no more. I opened the cupboard, pulled out the hammer. The one Edward used to hang pictures. Heavy. Substantial.
I walked to the radiator and struck the pipe with all my strength. An earsplumpering clang, like a bell. Struck again. And again.
The music above stopped. Voices, running feet.
“What was that?” Someone asked.
“Just that batty biddy below,” replied the familiar voice.
I struck the pipe once more. The sound reverberated through the house.
“I’ll show you batty!” I screamed. “I’ll wake the whole terrace!”
I kept hammering. Rhythmic. Methodical. Thump after thump.
Pandemonium erupted above. Running, scraping furniture, shouting.
“Turn it off!” I yelled between strikes. “Turn it off or I’ll keep this up all night!”
Silence fell. I lowered the hammer, listened. Quiet. Blessed quiet at last. I sat on the sofa, felt my heart steady, though adrenaline still made my hands tremble. Relief washed over me.
A knock at the door. Peering through the eyehole: the neighbours – the lad and his girlfriend.
“Open up,” he said. “We need to talk.”
“Now you want to talk?” I asked, not opening.
“Please,” the girl said. “We want to apologize.”
I loosened the chain, opened the door. Ordinary young people stood there. Lad about twenty-five, girl slightly younger. Looked nothing like troublemakers.
“We’re so sorry,” the girl said. “We didn’t realise how loud it was.”
“A month you didn’t realise?” I grumbled. “Suddenly you do?”
“We just…” the lad started, but the girl nudged him.
“It’s all new to us,” she explained. “We’re used to newer builds. Thicker walls. At our old place on the outskirts, no one ever complained.”
“Where were you before?”
“Greater London estate. New build. Bigger flats, better soundproofing.”
I softened slightly. She spoke politely, genuinely.
“You see,” I said, “thirty years I’ve lived here. Accustomed to quiet. Then suddenly this din…”
“We won’t do it again,” she promised. “Honestly. No loud music after ten.”
“And what was that music? Such a crash, with the drums.”
“Daniel’s a musician,” she explained. “Plays in a band.
The hammer now rests at the back of the cupboard, a quiet reminder that sometimes peace only arrives after you’ve made a little noise of your own.
