Our block recently got a new caretaker. He sweeps the hallway spotless, gives the entrance a regular wash, and sticks to the timetable like a clockwork soldier. In short, theres nothing to complain about except for one little quirk.
Before him, the job was done by MrsEleanor Harcourt, a woman who turned our little ninestorey walkup into something that resembled the lobby of a grand hotel. At the wornout entrance she always laid out a rug that looked more like a joke than a sensible floor covering. Yet someone was constantly tearing it up, so she kept finding a fresh one, draping it over the cracked concrete and jutting rebar, thereby saving the residents from stubbed toes and broken shoes.
Every set of windows on each of the nine wings was festooned with flower pots, quirky ceramic figurines and odd little turtles. Dust never dared to settle on those sills.
One evening a group of lads from the sixth floor moved in they seemed to celebrate existence with cigarettes, cheap lager and, probably, something a touch stronger. Their flower pots became ash trays, the pile of bottles looked like a bargainbin treasure hunt, and the shelladorned figurines were ground to dust by their boots. We all steered clear of the raucous crew, fearing an erratic reaction. Somehow, though, Eleanor managed to befriend them, not only saving her precious pots but also persuading the lads to relocate their noisy gatherings elsewhere. The boisterous parties in the hallway ceased, and in place of the pots now sat a charming ashtray that Eleanor cleaned and polished daily.
What truly impressed us wasnt just her rare, todaystyle industriousness. She arrived at dawn, humming to herself, scrubbing the lift and handrails with an alcoholic spirit cleaner long before surface sanitising became a pandemicera requirement. And she did it all with a smile, even when the neighbours antics kept piling on. When she swept the grass and hedges behind the building a task Im not sure even belongs to a caretakers duties she chatted pleasantly with the smokers on their balconies, never scolding them for lighting up right under their noses. She merely remarked on the hustle and bustle while quietly erasing the evidence of their mischief. After a while, the endless trail of cigarette butts stopped turning the back garden into a makeshift carpet. Then our caretaker (or caretakeress, as the locals now like to say) broke up a flowerbed, and tulips, blackeyed susans and flamboyant chrysanthemums sprouted beneath the windows.
The most striking sight was Eleanor when she wasnt in her bright orange work jumpsuit. She wore flawless makeup, a tidy coiffure, sensible heels no matter the weather, and outfits strictly in pastel tones. It was as if, after polishing our stairwell, she were heading straight to the Queens garden only the hat was missing.
Her husband always collected her from work. Hed step out of the car, hand her a tiny flower, and plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. Every single time.
At the end of August, the veteran ladies on the communal bench whispered, Our dear Eleanor retires tomorrow. What will become of the hallway? The next day I bought her a bouquet, hoping to give her a tiny slice of appreciation. To my surprise, a small crowd had gathered by her little storeroom the one packed with brooms, dusters and mops, where her appearance changed as dramatically as the tools did. Some, like me, brought flowers; others arrived with champagne and brandy, while the grandmothers shouted over one another, presenting pies and jars of pickles to a bewildered Eleanor.
Then the sixthfloor lads, the same ones who once turned our flower pots into ash trays, swooped in. They taught 65yearold Eleanor how to take stylish selfies and showed her something on their phones presumably signing her up to Instagram and TikTok.
Eleanors husband, the unwitting organiser of this impromptu retirement soirée, looked a tad flustered as he stuffed flowers, brandy and the grandmothers snacks into the boot of his car.
Eleanor herself, dressed in a classic almondcoloured dress threaded with pearls and a slightly brighter makeup than usual, listened halfheartedly to the chatter, fighting back tears. Perhaps she realised that no other colleague of hers had ever been given such a sendoff. Never before, never since.
Or maybe, deep down, she understood that, without aiming for any grand result, her modest, unglamorous work had, in its own quiet way, made us ordinary residents of an ordinary ninestorey block a little better and a little kinder.
