“No more of this,” Winifred Lawrence hissed, knuckles rapping sharply against the cold radiator pipe. “That blasted racket again! It’s one in the morning, and they’ve turned upstairs into a ruddy rock festival!”
“Mother, settle down,” sighed her daughter Eleanor, eyes glued to her phone screen. “Speak with them tomorrow.”
“Speak with them! How many more times? I’ve endured this racket for a month from those… those…” Winifred flapped her hands, searching for the word. “…Hooligans! Layabouts!”
“Don’t shout so, Mum. You’ll wake Maisie.”
“Good! Let her wake! Let her see what sort of house we live in!” Winifred marched to the window and yanked it open. “You! Up there! Stop that infernal noise!”
A messy-haired young man leaned out of the third-floor window. “Pipe down, Granny! People are trying to sleep!”
“Granny? You cheeky little sod!” Winifred spluttered, her voice tight with fury. “I’ll ring the police! Right now!”
“Ring them!” the lad hollered, slamming his window shut. The music only swelled, pounding against the thin walls of the terraced house.
Winifred collapsed onto the sofa, a hand pressed to her chest. Her fingers trembled; her breath came in uneven gasps. Finally, Eleanor looked up.
“Mum? Are you alright? Need your drops?”
“The valerian,” Winifred whispered.
Eleanor fetched the bottle and a glass of water. Winifred swallowed the bitter drops and sank back against the cushions.
“I can’t bear it, Eleanor. Simply can’t. This street used to be respectable. Quiet. Orderly. And now…” She waved a dismissive hand towards the ceiling as a drum solo erupted overhead.
“When did they move in?” Eleanor asked.
“A month ago. A young couple. Seemed pleasant enough at first. Said hello in the hallway, smiled. Turned out…” Winifred broke off as a heavy thud shook the ceiling, followed by raucous shouting and laughter.
“Out of their minds, I tell you,” Winifred muttered. “Decent folk are asleep by one.”
Eleanor stretched and yawned. “Mum, I need to get going. It’s late.”
“Don’t leave me alone with these… lunatics!”
“What can I possibly do? I have work tomorrow. Maisie has school. Handle the neighbours yourself.”
Eleanor gathered her things and left. Winifred sat alone in the flat, every thump from above resonating like a physical blow. She retrieved a small address book from the bedside drawer, found the local constable’s number. No answer. Tried the station desk.
“Police. How can I help?” A weary voice crackled.
“Good evening. Winifred Lawrence here, Orchard Street. My neighbours upstairs have music blaring. Impossible to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Past one in the morning!”
“Understood. We’ll log your complaint. A patrol car will attend when available.”
“When might that be?”
“Hard to say, Mrs Lawrence. We’re stretched thin tonight.”
Winifred slammed the phone down, fists clenched. ‘When available’. Morning? Tomorrow? Next week?
She went to the window. Orchard Street lay still and quiet beneath the streetlamps. While inside her house, chaos reigned. Music thundered; feet stomped; voices yelled. Nobody cared. She remembered the past. Thirty years in this flat. Watching neighbours come and go, children born and grown. Everyone knew one another, respected the quiet. Perfect silence after ten.
Now, this. Young people, moneyed parents buying flats, no manners, no consideration. A new, raucous song started upstairs, the bass making the floorboards vibrate.
Enraged, Winifred flung open her window again. “Turn that noise off!” she screamed into the night. “People are sleeping!”
Silence answered but the din continued. Winifred pulled on her dressing gown and stepped onto the landing. She climbed the stairs and pressed the bell. Footsteps shuffled after a long pause. “Who is it?” A male voice.
“Your downstairs neighbour. Please open.” The door opened a crack, secured by a chain. A young man peered through. “What d’you want?”
“Could you kindly lower the volume? It’s one in the morning.”
“Why? Are we disturbing you?” “Absolutely! How can anyone sleep through that?”
The lad snorted and moved to shut the door. Winifred jammed her foot in the gap. “Listen to me! I’m speaking to you!”
“Don’t start, Granny. We’re just in our flat.”
“Not disturbing? The whole street can hear it!”
“Not our problem,” he retorted. “We pay the rent.” The door slammed. Winifred stood motionless on the landing before slowly descending.
Inside her flat, the noise felt worse. Music on full blast, louder voices; guests had arrived. Winifred lay on her bed, pulling a pillow over her head. Useless. The vibrations seeped into her bones. She rose, made tea in the dim kitchen, sat at the window. The calm street outside mocked the madness within. Exhaustion washed over her. From the rudeness, the indifference, having to plead for basic courtesy.
She used to be different. Active, decisive. Managed the library, raised Eleanor, helped with Maisie. People respected her. Now? Just an old pensioner they could ignore. Forced to endure torment from arrogant youngsters. Finishing her tea, Winifred pushed herself up. Enough. No more enduring. From the hall cupboard, she pulled out a hammer—the solid one her husband used for picture hooks. It felt heavy, reassuring in her hand.
She marched to the radiator and swung. An ear-splitting, bell-like clang erupted. She struck again. And again.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
The music upstairs cut out. Muffled voices, running feet. “What the hell was that?” “That daft old bat downstairs!”
Winifred swung the hammer with all her might. *CLANG!* The sound echoed through the pipes. “Feeling safe, are you?” she yelled. “I’ll wake the whole neighbourhood!” *BANG!* She beat a relentless, furious rhythm against the cast iron.
Pandemonium broke out above. Furniture scraped; panicked shouts.
“Turn it off!” Winifred screamed between blows. “Turn it off or I bang all night!”
Silence. Blessed, utter silence. Winifred lowered the hammer, listening. Peace. Finally. She sank onto the sofa, her frantic pulse slowing. Adrenaline still made her hands shake, but relief spread through her.
The doorbell rang. Winifred checked the peephole. Two young people stood there—the neighbours, a lad and a girl.
“Open up, please,” the lad said. “We should talk.”
“Talk *now*, is it?” Winifred asked, not moving the chain.
“Please?” the girl added softly. “We want to say sorry.”
Winifred slid the chain free and opened the door. Ordinary young people. Mid-twenties. Not hooligans, not drug addicts, just… young.
“We’re really sorry,” the girl said. “We didn’t realise how loud it was.”
“A month,
Mrs. Weatherby chose peaceful negotiation over the hammer now, finding unexpected contentment in Lillian’s afternoon visits over perfectly steeped Earl Grey, though her eyes still occasionally drifted towards the glass cabinet where the tool rested, a quiet reassurance against silence ever again being stolen.
