Signatures in the Stairwell
I stopped by the noticeboard on the ground floor, right beside the old row of battered postboxes. Normally, thered be the usual scribblesadverts for lost cats or plumber recommendations. But now, someone had pinned up a new sheet, crooked and hurried. In bold across the top: “Collecting Signatures. Action Needed”. Beneath it, the surname of someone from the fifth floor, along with a short list of complaints: late-night noise, banging, shouting, “breaking noise ordinances”, “safety threat”. A smattering of names already trailed along the bottom, some neat, others sprawling.
I read it twice, though the message was clear straight away. My hand instinctively dipped into my coat for a pen, then I stopped. Not because I disagreedmore because I hate being herded. Ive lived in this building for twelve years and learned to dodge the stairwell dramas like one dodges a cold draft. I have enough on my own platemy job at the garage, all-day shifts, Mum struggling after her stroke all the way in Battersea, my son George in his teens, now silent for weeks, now snapping over nothing.
The stairwell was quiet, just the far-off clang of the lift doors as it landed upstairs. I climbed to my own floorthe fourthfished out my keys, but before turning the lock, glanced up to the fifth. That’s where Mrs. Angela Rowe lives. Just past fifty, sturdy, always in trousers, cropped hair, and a no-nonsense stare that could cut glass. She rarely greets anyone first, and when she does, its with the air of someone terribly put-upon. Most days, Id see her lugging bags from Tesco or mopping the landing outside her door. Now and then, though, noises did echo from her flat at nightcrashes, muffled shouting, something heavy dragged over floorboards.
I only dipped into our buildings WhatsApp group when absolutely necessarymostly endless debates about bins and parking spots. But for weeks now, thered been one topic repeated on loop:
“At it againcrashing about at 2 a.m.! My kid’s scared witless!”
“My shift starts at 6. Im walking dead, I swear. Whens it end?”
“Its not just bangingshes moving furniture, I caught the noise.”
“Time for the police. Theres a lawno noise after 11.”
I scrolled through it all in silence. Im no saintwhen a banging woke me after three in the morning, Id lie there simmering with annoyance, wishing someone else would deal with it, and I could read “problem solved” the next day.
That evening, I finally messaged, short and to the point, “Whos collecting signatures? Wheres the sheet?”
Reply from Mrs. Nora Curtis, flat three, our ever-vigilant stairwell rep: “Noticeboard by the door. Discussion tomorrow at seven, mine. Need to sort it before it all goes too far.”
I put the phone down, feeling the same itch I remembered from school meetingswhen decisions are made long before they ask you in, just to tick the box.
The next day, I bumped into Angela Rowe on the stairs as she puffed upwards, shoulders refusing to sag, bags nearly splitting. I took one bag without a word.
“Dont,” she snapped.
“Ill help,” I said, stepping alongside.
She was silent until her door. She yanked away her bag with a brusque, “Thanks,” as if it cost her physical pain to say it.
Just as I turned to leave, I caught a sound behind her doorragged breathing, a low moan. Angela Rowe froze, her key paused in the lock.
“You is everything all right?” I asked, not even sure why.
“Fine,” she shot back, locking herself in.
I returned to my own flat, but the sound stayed with me. Not banging or musicjust that heavy, deeply human wheeze.
Two mornings later, a note appeared taped across Angelas door. I saw it while dumping the rubbish: “ENOUGH WITH THE NOISE AT NIGHT. WE DONT HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS.” Thick black marker, pressed hard.
I stared at it. Tape gleaming like a fresh cut. A childhood memory surfacednotes on our door when Dad drank and yelled. Back then, what I hated most were neighbours who acted like nothing was wrong, until the gossip started behind our backs.
I walked up to the fifth and listenedsilence beyond the door. I didnt buzz. I peeled down the note, folded it away, and chucked it in the outside bin.
Meanwhile, the group chat simmered hotter.
“She does it on purpose. Doesnt care about anyone.”
“People like that need rehousing. Let her make noise in a house of her own.”
“Police said we need a group complaint.”
I noticed how quickly “noise” became “people like that”as if it wasnt about the odd rough night, but a person as a problem.
Saturday evening I got home latesmell of stale air freshener mixed with tobacco in the lift. On my floor, I heard thuds overhead, not like DIY, but like someone falling. Then a strained womans voice: Hold on almost
I climbed to the fifth. The peephole on Angelas door glowed. Light underneath too. I knocked.
“Whos there?” her voice like a tightened spring.
“Simon, from fourth. Everything”
She cracked the door, chain still on. Angeladressing gown, red mark on her cheek like shed just wiped her face hastily.
“Nothings wrong. Go,” she said.
A rasping moan drifted from inside.
I couldnt help myself. “Do you need help?”
She looked at me as if Id offered charity.
“No. Its all under control.”
“Thats is that someone?”
“My brother. Bedbound.” The words raced out like she was slicing away the last question. “Now go.”
The door slammed.
I stood there, two conflicting urges battling inside: to leave, since Id been told to, and to stay, since what Id heard couldnt be unheard.
Back home, I lay awake, turning over the word “bedbound”. I pictured someone falling, being hefted up, night-time ambulance runs, basins and water hauled, heavy beds nudged about as those below stewed in resentment.
I went to Mrs. Curtiss at seven not out of curiosity, but out of an uneasy sense of obligation. Inside, people crammed her little kitchen: slippers, coatssome must have meant to just stop by. Tension was thick.
Mrs. Curtis laid out the signature sheet, leaflets on “quiet hours”, a list of police numbers.
“Heres the situation,” she began. “We cant keep living like this. Weve got kids, jobsmy blood pressures sky-high from sleepless nights. Its not about the person, it’s the rules.”
She stressed “not the person”, and I saw relief flash in a few faces.
“Last night at two I was woken,” offered a young mum from sixth, looking spent. “My baby had just settled. Then banginglike a wardrobe going down. I was walking him ’til dawn.”
“My dads just out of surgery,” said one of the blokes. “He jumps at every soundhe thought the flat was on fire.”
“Call the police every time,” another piped up. “Log it all.”
They werent exaggeratingtheir exhaustion was genuine.
“Has anyone even spoken to her?” I asked.
“I did,” said Mrs. Curtis. “She was rude. Said, ‘If you dont like it, move.’ Slammed the door.”
“Always been like that,” added the woman from six. “As if we owe her.”
I nearly spoke about her brother, then held back. What right had I to reveal her business? Yet silence was a kind of choice too.
“Maybe somethings going on,” I ventured.
“Weve all got problems,” Nora snipped. “But we dont wake the street.”
Just then, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Curtis disappeared. In came Angela Rowedark coat, neat hair, folder and phone gripped tight, not fearfuljust braced.
“I gather youre discussing me,” she said, voice chilly.
“Were discussing the situation,” Mrs. Curtis corrected. “Youre disturbing people.”
“Im disturbing people?” Angela echoed quietly. “Fine. Listen then.”
She laid down her folder, opening it to show documents, medic letters, her phone.
“My brotherfirst degree disabled. Post-stroke. Cant walk, cant sit. At night he has attacks. He cant breathe, he falls if Im not fast. I turn him every two hours to stop sores. Thats not ‘moving furniture’thats me lifting a grown man heavier than I am.”
Her voice was measured but trembling with fatigue. I saw the bruises on her forearmstestament to her truth.
“Ive called ambulances three times this month,” she said, showing the list on her mobile. “Doctors report here. I dont owe anyone this explanation, but here it is, since youre acting like Im throwing a rave.”
Someone cleared their throat. The young mother glanced down.
“We didnt know,” she whispered.
“You never asked,” Angela snapped. “You stuck notes on my door. You slagged me off in the chat. Wanted me goneso you could sleep?”
“No one said you should carry him onto the street,” Mrs. Curtis bristled. “But theres a law. No loud noise after eleven.”
“Law, is it?” Angela almost laughed. “Fine, Ill ring the ambulance and the police every time theres noiseto prove Im lifting him. Will you sign off? Bear witness?”
“Were meant to just put up with it, then?” snapped the man with a sick dad.
“You think I want this?” Angela bit back. “You think I sleep any more than you?”
Sullen silence fell. I pressed to say something simple to ease the room, but nothing would do.
Mrs. Curtis sighed. “People are struggling here too. If youd warned us”
“Warned what? My brother could die at night? I cant ask for help. Theres no one to ask.”
And I realized this was the sad core of it allwe lived nearby, but we werent close. We were all just doors.
“Lets all calm down,” I heard myself croak. “Well fall apart at this rate, unless we find something that worksat least a bitfor everyone.”
They looked at me. I’m not one for the spotlight, but it was too late to duck out.
“I didnt sign,” I added. “Wont. That list doesnt solve it, just makes her out the villain. But we cant ignore it eitherbroken sleeps harming people’s health.”
Mrs. Curtis pursed her lips. “What do you suggest?”
Remembering the helplessness Id felt the other night, I tried, “First: lets keep each other in the loop. Mrs. Rowe, if its a bad night and therell be noisedrop a quick message in the group: Ambulance or Attack. Just the facts.”
“I dont have to,” she answered sharply, but then met my eye and relented. “All right. When I can.”
“Second: If you hear a crash, instead of ranting online or ringing the police, try knocking first, or call up. Not to complain, just to ask if helps needed. If she doesnt answer, then escalate.”
“What if she bites my head off again?” the young mum asked.
“Then youll at least have done the right thing,” I said. “For your sake, if not hers.”
Mrs. Curtis grunted but didnt disagree.
“And could we maybe try rubber pads, carpet offcuts, move the bed a bit away from the wall?” I offered. “I can help shift furniture if thatd help.”
Angela shook her head. “The beds fixeda home-built hoist is bolted on. But matsfine. Also, if if anyone could just sit with him an hour or two daytime, so I can get to the chemist sometimes, Id”
She trailed off. Someone shuffled their feet.
“I couldWednesday afternoons,” murmured the young mum, cheeks pink. “My mums local, shell mind my Charlie for an hour.”
“Me too,” said the man. “Fine during the day, not at nightcan help lift if need be.”
The room exhaled a fraction.
Mrs. Curtis eyed the sheet. “And this?”
I scanned the signaturesmy mate from down the hall among them.
“My view,” I replied, “take it down. If an official complaints needed, let people write their own, date it, be specific. No mass action unless truly necessary.”
“So youre against order, then?” Mrs. Curtis challenged.
“Im for order,” I replied. “But real order, not the kind that becomes a club to hit your neighbour with.”
Angela met my gaze, her expression softening.
“Take it down,” she said. “I dont want to see it every time I come down.”
Mrs. Curtis slowly folded the sheet away. I couldnt tell if it was respect, or realizing the mood had shifted.
People drifted out quietly, awkward small talk dying on the stairs. As we left, Angela ended up beside me.
“You shouldnt have got involved,” she muttered.
“Maybe,” I said, “But I didn’t want this turning into a circus with the police.”
“Itll get there anyway when he gets worse,” she replied bleakly.
I wanted to ask her brothers name, but couldnt. Instead: If things get impossible at night, and you need another pair of handsknock. Im close by.
She nodded.
The sheet vanished from the board next day. In its place, a group message from Mrs. Curtis: “Agreement: for emergencies, Mrs. Rowe will inform us. Don’t bicker at night. Volunteers for daytime help, text me.”
The word “rota” surprised mefelt laughably formal for our building. But soon enough, volunteers offered a Monday here, a Friday there. Some kept silent.
That first night, noise erupted anywaya thud so sharp it jolted me upright, clock flashing 2:17. Shortly after, Mrs. Rowe posted: “Attack. Ambulance on way.” Just thatno pleading, no emoticon.
I listened to the sounds abovedoors banging, footsteps on the stairs. Imagined Angela trying to steady her brother, not let him drown. My irritation remained, but it had mingled with something steadier and heavier.
Next morning, sharing the lift with Mrs. Curtis, she looked drained.
“Well,” she sighed, “they were at it again last night.”
“The ambulance was there,” I said.
“I know,” she paused. “I had no idea it was like that. Still I can barely function, Simon. My heart, you know.”
I noddedyou cant argue with someones heart.
“Maybe try earplugs?” I suggested, feeling lame even as I said it.
“Earplugs,” she gave a tired smile. “Shows what weve come to.”
A week on, I popped upstairs on my lunchbreak with a roll of rubber pads and a thick rug Id found discounted at B&Q. Knockedshe opened straight away.
The flat smelt of Dettol and stale linens, a faint tang of hospital. A single bed against the wall, a hollow-cheeked man staring into space, contraption bolted to his frame. I finally understood bed wont move.
“Here,” I said, holding out the mat. “Under the bedshould muffle it a bit. And pads for the stool.”
“The stool bangs with the basin sometimes,” she muttered, rubbing her palms, cracked and red.
We got the mat underneathslowly, every move calculated not to jar the hoist. She watched intently.
“Thanks,” she said softlydifferent this time.
As I left, her phone rang. She answered, face darkening.
“No, I can’t right now,” she told someone. “Yes. No.”
She lowered the mobile. “Social servicesCarer for two hours a week, if I wait. But I need help daily.”
Nothing I could say would fix it. Our rotaa patch, not a solution.
Later, someone grumbled in the group, “Why is this our responsibility? Its her family, isnt it? Get her properly registered.” Replies flew all wayssome supportive, some brittle, some just full stops.
I didnt join in. It wasnt Mrs. Rowe that wore me down so much as how every bit of compassion ignited endless debate about fairness.
A few days later, a new notice was up: a neat table. Days, hours, volunteers. Angela Rowes phone at the bottom, note: “Emergencies at nightwill post in chat. Daytime help appreciated, contact if you can.” This list was pinned straight.
It made me uneasyno better than the signature sheet. Now our building had owned up to crisis, only to file it like an appointment.
One night, heavy banging aboveI went up. Angela was cursing quietly at a body refusing to comply. She answered as soon as I knockedno chain.
“Help,” she said, just that.
We got her brother off the floor togetherno words, just gritted determination. My arms shook with the strain. Angela didnt weep or thank mejust fixed his pillow, checked his breathing.
Back on the landing, I glimpsed another door crack open, someone peering out, then pulling shut. No one called out. The building seemed to hold its breath.
Next morning, I passed Vic, my neighbour whod signed the sheethe looked away.
“Look,” he mumbled, “I signed, yeah. It justit was getting on top of me. Didnt know. Wouldnt have, if”
“I get it,” I interrupted. “Doesnt matter nownot what you knew. What counts is whats next.”
He nodded, still stubborn.
The arrangement more or less workednot perfectly, but enough. Angela messaged if things got hairy. People ranted less in the dead of night, more at breakfast, when nerves had cooled. A few actually dropped in to help; others disappeared. Mrs. Curtis kept her spreadsheetsometimes blank.
Chatter between neighbours fizzled away. The hush felt permanent now. Even about mundane things, like the hall bulb, everyone seemed guardedalways wary of new flare-ups.
One evening, coming home, I found Angela at the lift, arms loaded with pharmacy bags and a thermos, face ashen.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Still here,” she replied. “Today was quiet.”
We went up together. At my floor, I hovered at my door.
“If you need you know,” I said, “just knock.”
She nodded and, as if in apology, said, “About that meeting I didnt intend to well”
She faltered and brushed it off.
“I know,” I said.
The lift doors closed, and I stood on the landing, letting myself in. George was on his headphones, Mum ringing for when Id next visit. The flat was silent. I glanced at the battered stairwell doorbehind it, just a wall away, lives slipping by, signatures collected, erased, replaced by aids and rotas.
That evening, the group pinged: “Thanks to all who helped today. Please, lets avoid private rows in the chat. Practical offers onlymessage me direct.”
The message sank under bin complaints and power cut updates.
I switched my phone off and put the kettle on. I knew that tonight, if a crash woke me, it wouldnt just be about my lost sleep. It didnt make me a better man. Just, for once, part of what was happening. And I understood: real community isnt about everyone always getting along. Its about choosing, in the moment, not to look away.
