“I don’t care anymore!” Emily stormed across the living room, her arms flailing. “Mum, how much longer do we have to put up with this? My friends are already laughing at me—”
“Mum, it’s leaking again! Again!” Emily shrieked, bolting from the bathroom, her hair dripping, a towel clutched in her hands. “I told you there was something wrong with this flat!”
“Keep your voice down! The neighbours will hear!” hissed Margaret, dropping the mop and rushing to her daughter. “Where’s it leaking?”
“Everywhere! The tap, the shower, even under the sink—there’s a puddle!” Emily gestured wildly, splashing water down the hallway. “I told you! I told you we shouldn’t have taken this dump!”
Margaret wordlessly stepped into the bathroom, took one look at the water creeping across the tiles, and sank onto the stool. A month ago, they’d moved into this two-bedroom flat in central London, selling their cottage in Kent. It had seemed perfect—close to work, shops, the clinic. And now…
“Mum, why are you just sitting there? We have to do something!” Emily hovered in the doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown.
“What can we do?” Margaret sighed. “Call a plumber? Out of our own pocket again? Third time this month.”
“Then talk to the landlady! Make her pay—it’s her flat!”
“I’ve tried. She says we’re using the plumbing wrong. How do you use a tap wrong?” Margaret stood, grabbing the mop. “Go eat something. You’ll be late for work.”
“What breakfast? The cooker’s broken again!” Emily snapped. “Yesterday it took me forever to make porridge. Today it won’t even turn on.”
Margaret exhaled heavily. The cooker had been dodgy from day one, but the landlady, Mrs. Whitmore, insisted it was fine—they just needed to “get used to it.” Get used to burners that only worked half the time and an oven with a mind of its own.
“Fine, I’ll run over to Sarah’s and borrow her kettle,” Emily muttered, yanking on her jeans.
“No, don’t bother the neighbours!” Margaret cut in. “It’s embarrassing. Yesterday we borrowed butter, the day before, salt. They’ll think we’re beggars.”
“Then what? Go to work starving?”
Margaret looked at her daughter and felt the familiar lump rise in her throat. Why had they ever agreed to this move? Their cottage had been peaceful. Here, every day brought a new disaster.
Emily left for work hungry and furious. Margaret stayed behind, battling the flood. She mopped, tightened the taps—useless. A thin stream still trickled from the valve.
The phone rang just as she was about to call a plumber.
“Margaret? It’s Mrs. Whitmore. Everything alright? No complaints, I hope?”
“Well—” Margaret hesitated. “The plumbing’s acting up again…”
“Again?” The landlady’s voice sharpened. “What are you doing to my flat? I told you to be careful!”
“We are! We’re just using the taps normally.”
“And yet you’re calling plumbers every week! Have you dropped something heavy? Broken something?”
Margaret pressed her lips together. They hadn’t broken a thing. The flat just wasn’t in the state Mrs. Whitmore had promised. During the viewing, everything had worked—taps, cooker, sockets. Now, every day brought a new surprise.
“Mrs. Whitmore, could you send someone to look at it? It’s getting ridiculous…”
“Send someone? You’re the ones at fault! I warned you the fixtures were old—you must handle them gently!”
“But the lease says everything’s in working order—”
“It is! You’re just hopeless!” Mrs. Whitmore barked, slamming the phone down.
Margaret set the receiver down slowly, scanning the flat. It was bright, central, with high ceilings. But each day revealed the truth—the wiring was ancient, the pipes rusted, the windows drafty, and the landlady refused to hear about repairs.
By lunchtime, Emily returned, her face stormy.
“Any progress?” she asked, dropping her bag.
“None. The landlady says it’s our fault.”
“Our fault? How?” Emily’s voice rose. “Because her flat’s falling apart?”
“Keep your voice down. The walls are paper-thin.”
“I don’t care!” Emily paced, arms flailing. “Mum, how much more of this? My friends laugh at me! They say I live like a squatter—no water, no power, a cooker that doesn’t work!”
“Your friends should mind their own business,” Margaret muttered. “Their parents buy flats—they don’t rent.”
“Then maybe we should buy too?” Emily blurted. “We’ve got money left from the cottage—”
“What money?” Margaret frowned. “Most of it went to your surgery.”
Emily fell silent. The operation had cost a fortune. That’s why they’d moved—to be near the hospital. They’d thought renting was temporary. Instead, they’d walked into a trap.
“Maybe we should look for another place?” Emily ventured.
“With what?” Margaret pointed to the stack of bills. “Rent, utilities, your meds—we’re barely scraping by.”
Emily flipped through them and whistled.
“Bloody hell. I had no idea…”
“You weren’t meant to. That’s my job.” Margaret gathered the papers. “Now you see why we can’t just leave?”
Emily nodded silently. Then, softly: “Mum… do you regret selling the cottage?”
Margaret didn’t answer at once. Did she? Of course. The cottage had been small but theirs. A garden, familiar neighbours. Here, they were strangers.
“Yes,” she admitted. “But it’s done. We can’t go back. We’ll manage.”
“Maybe we can reason with the landlady? Offer to fix some things ourselves if she lowers the rent?”
Margaret scoffed. “Have you seen what needs doing? We’d go broke!”
The lights flickered out.
“Oh, brilliant!” Emily groaned. “Fuse’s gone again!”
Margaret checked the fuse box—nothing. The wiring, then. She sighed, digging out a torch.
“Mum, we can’t live like this,” Emily said quietly in the dim glow. “It’s medieval.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. A lawyer? The housing authority?”
“And say what? We signed the lease willingly.”
“But she lied! She said everything worked!”
“Prove it. She’ll claim we broke it.”
Emily fell silent. They were stuck. No money, no escape.
The lights flickered back on. Margaret put the torch away and moved to the cooker. One burner grudgingly lit.
“Mum,” Emily said suddenly, “remember our first day here? You said we’d finally live properly?”
Margaret stirred the soup. “I remember.”
“I thought you were right. A nice flat, central. Felt like a dream.”
Margaret gave a bitter smile. “Just the wrong kind.”
“Maybe… we just don’t know how to live here?” Emily mused. “In the cottage, we fixed things ourselves. Here, we have to ask permission, follow rules…”
“What rules?” Margaret snapped. “We know how to use a tap! The flat’s a wreck, and the landlady’s greedy.”
“So what do we do?”
Margaret turned off the cooker and faced her daughter. “What do you think? You’re an adult—decide.”
Emily hesitated. Then, slowly: “Maybe we gave up too soon. There’s got to be another way.”
“Like what?”
“Find better jobs. Save up. Rent somewhere decent.”
“Emily, you’re still recovering—”
“I’m not an invalid! I can work part-time. And you could sew again—remember how the neighbours always asked you to hem dresses?”
Margaret considered it. Back in Kent, she’d earned a bit tailoring. Maybe here…
“Alright,” she said. “But slowly. First, we deal with this flat.”
“How?”
“I’ll document everything. Photos of the leaks, the faults. Maybe the housing authority will inspect it.”
Emily brightened. “Yes! And I’ll ask at work—someone might know what to do.”
“Just don’t tell them everything. I don’t want pity.”
“Course not. Just advice.”
Dinner was quieter. For the first time in weeks, they had a plan—not just complaints.
Days later, Emily burst in with news.
“Mum, there’s a tenant rights service!” she announced. “My coworker says they inspected her friend’s place, made the landlord fix everything!”
“Really?”
“Really! We just need to file a complaint—with proof.”
“I’ve already started,” Margaret admitted. “Took photos when the drains blocked yesterday.”
“Perfect! I’ll get the service’s address tomorrow.”
But their plans drowned in another flood. They woke to gushing water and shouts from
