Signatures on the Landing
Graham paused by the postboxes, because on the noticeboardusually home to lost cat flyers and reminders about reading the gas metera new page had appeared. It had been pinned askew, as if in a hurry. Across the top, the words in bold marker: Petition. Immediate Action Needed. Below that, a surname from the fifth floor, with a short list of complaints: loud noise at night, banging, shouting, disturbing the peace, safety concern. Already, the bottom of the page was lined with signaturessome neat, some sprawling.
Graham read it twice, even though the meaning was simple enough. His fingers almost found the pen in his coat pocket, but he drew back. Not because he disagreedhe just hated being nudged. He’d lived here twelve years, and knew how to stay out of these hallway skirmishes, the communal arguments that came and went like drafts in the corridor. He had his own worries: the car repair shop, the shifting work hours, his mum in another part of town since her stroke, his teenage son who now either went weeks without a word, or flew off the handle about nothing at all.
It was quiet on the landing, just the vaguest thud as the lift clanged shut somewhere above. Graham climbed to the fourth floor, fished out his keys, but before unlocking, glanced up the stairs to the fifth. Up there lived Mrs Edith Harperover fifty, wiry, always a stern glare and cropped hair. She never greeted first, only acknowledged you if it couldnt be helped. More than once Graham had seen her coming in from the shops or scrubbing the hallway with a pail and mop. Sometimes at night, strange noises drifted downthe odd crash, a barked shout, something being dragged across the floor.
He checked the buildings WhatsApp group only when necessary. Normally, people squabbled over bins or car parking. Yet this past fortnight, the group had obsessed over one subject.
Woken up at 2am again! My kids in bits, crying!
My shift starts at six, cant be dealing with this much longer.
Its not just banging, shes moving furniture about, Ive heard it.
Time for the police. There are laws, you know.
Graham scrolled on in silence. He wasnt sanctimonious about it. When a loud crash jolted him awake at three, irritation frothed inside his chest. He, too, wished somebody else would sort it, so he could read in the group chat: All sorted now.
Eventually, though, he posted: Whos collecting signatures? Wheres the sheet?
Mrs Nora Brown, from number threethe head of the tenants’ committeereplied: Noticeboard, ground floor. Theres a meeting at mine tomorrow at seven. We must all do our bit.
Graham set his phone down, feeling that familiar embarrassment, like parents evenings at schoolwhen the plans were made before you even walked in, and youre just there to tick a box.
Next day, he bumped into Mrs Harper on the stairs. She struggled upwards, gasping with two weighty shopping bags, refusing any offer of help. Still, he took one without asking.
You dont need to, she said sharply.
Im just helping, Graham replied, matching her step.
Once at her door, she yanked her bag away.
Thank you, she saidless gratitude, more bureaucratic formality.
He turned to leave, before a sound through her door made him pauseheavy breathing, a muffled moan. Mrs Harper went still, the key trembling in her lock.
You alright in there? Graham blurted, not sure why.
Fine, she answered, then vanished behind the door.
Graham headed downstairs, but the sound echoed in his mindnot a slam or a TV, but something achingly human.
A couple days later, a new message stuck to Mrs Harpers door, taped roughly:
STOP THE NIGHT NOISES. WE DONT HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS.
The marker pen as thick as a wound, the Sellotape shining. In a flash, Graham remembered his childhoodangry words scribbled on their own door, back when his father drank and raged. Hed loathed the neighbours, not his father, for pretending nothing was wrong until the whispering began.
Upstairs, all was silent. Graham didnt ring the bell. Carefully, he peeled off the message, folded it, and tucked it away. He threw it into the dustbin outside, not the one in the hallway, so no one would notice.
Meanwhile, the group chat boiled over.
She does it on purpose. No respect for anyone.
Should be evicted, sent to live in a cottage somewhere!
Police said its got to be a joint statement.
Graham watched as disturbing the peace became shes one of those types. No longer just noise in the night, but a person turned into a problem.
On Saturday he came home late. The lift smelled strongly of air freshenersomeone had sneaked a smoke. Reaching the fourth, he heard a thud upstairs, then againnot construction, but heavy, like someone falling. Then a strained womans voice:
Hold on just hold
Graham climbed to the fifth. Through the spyholea strip of light. He knocked.
Whos there? her voice tense, strained.
Graham, from downstairs. Are you?
She cracked the door on the chain. Mrs Harper wore a dressing gown, a red mark across her cheek.
Its nothing. Go home, she said curtly.
A harsh, rattling groan echoed from inside.
Do you need any help? Graham blurted.
Her look told him hed offered her charity.
No. I can handle it.
Theres someone?
My brother. Bedridden. She said it flatly, cutting off more questions. Now please leave.
She closed up. Graham stood in the corridor, tornpart of him wanting to obey, the other unable to pretend he hadnt heard.
Downstairs, he couldn’t sleep. The word bedridden revolved in his mind. He imagined someone collapsing, being lifted, ambulances in the small hours, the water for washing, the bed dragged just soand all the neighbours, downstairs, seething at the noise.
He went to Mrs Browns meeting with no curiosity, but out of a gnawing sense of duty. At seven, people were already theresome in slippers, others in coats as if ready to bolt. Voices low, tension brewing.
Nora Brown filled up her cramped kitchen. On the table was the petition, copies of bylaws about quiet hours, and the neighbourhood bobbys number.
Here it is, she began. This cant go on. Weve children, jobs, my blood pressureevery morning Im checking it from lack of sleep. This isnt personal, its about the rules.
Graham noted how deftly she phrased not personalthe relief rippling round the room.
I was up at two, said a harried young mum from the sixth. My babyd just dropped off, then crash! Like a wardrobe falling. He screamed until sunrise.
My pas just had heart surgery, said a man in a tracksuit. Any jarring, he thinks the flats on fire.
We should ring the police every time. Get the incidents recorded.
Graham listened, understandingthey werent malicious; they were just exhausted. That was the heart of it.
Has anyone actually spoken to her? he asked.
I did, said Mrs Brown. Shes rude. Said, Dont like it? Move out! and slammed the door.
Shes always like that, the mum chipped in. Acts like we owe her something.
Graham thought of the brother, but held back. Did he have a right to share that? Silence, too, was a decision.
Maybe shes you know Graham started.
Everyones got something going on, Mrs Brown snapped. We dont bang about all night.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Nora opened up, and Mrs Harper entered, hair slicked back, a folder and phone clutched to her chest. Her expression was grim, but far from frightened.
I take it youre talking about me, Mrs Harper said.
The room shrank, suddenly as cramped as the lift.
Were discussing the situation, Mrs Brown corrected. Youre disturbing people.
I disturb you, Mrs Harper repeated, nodding as if agreeing with some private thought. Fine. Listen, then.
She placed the folder down, displayed sheets and papersmedical forms, discharge notes. She showed her phone.
My brother. First-degree disabled. Severe stroke. He cant walk, cant sit. At night, he has fits. He chokes, he falls from bed unless Im fast enough. I have to turn him every couple of hours, or hell get sores. This isnt moving furniture. Its me lifting someone heavier than me.
Her voice was calm, but steely with fatigue. Graham saw blue bruises on her forearmsshe truly did bear the weight.
Ive called ambulances thrice this monthsee? She held up the call log. Here are the notes, prescriptions. I dont owe you this, but youve gathered signatures as if Im hosting raves.
There was a cough; the young woman looked down at her hands.
We didn’t know, the young mum whispered.
You didnt ask, Mrs Harper shot back. You left notes. You tried me in your group chat. You asked for measures. What did you want, me to leave him in the stairwell?
No one said that! Mrs Brown burst out. But the law says quiet hours start at eleven.
The law Mrs Harper smirked. Alright. Lets do it by the book. Ill call the ambulance and the police, and you can sign they witnessed me lifting him. Every time. Youll be witnesses?
So we just have to bear it? the tracksuit man spluttered, voice crackinghe was frayed too. My pas sick, I said. I cant keep on every night hearing someone crash upstairs.
And I can? Mrs Harper locked eyes with him. Think I want this? Think I sleep?
A hush. Graham wanted to say something kind, but realised there was nothing simple to offer.
Mrs Brown spoke, lower now, Mrs Harper, people are struggling too. If youd warned us
Warn you he might die? Is that a memo? She closed up her folder. I wasnt raised to ask. And anywaywho would I ask?
Suddenly Graham understood: for all their proximity, none of them were close. Only doors between them.
Lets not shout, he croaked. Either we all break, or we try and make it bearable for everyone.
The faces in the room turned to him. Graham hated being centre stage, but it was too late to hide.
I didnt sign the petition, he continued. I wont. That solves nothingjust creates enemies. But pretending theres no problem isnt right eitherpeople are genuinely struggling.
Mrs Brown pursed her lips. What do you suggest, then?
Graham pictured himself on the landing, listening to the groans.
Well, firstlets agree on contact. Mrs Harper, if somethings happening at night and itll be noisy, just type on the WhatsApp: Ambulance or Attack. No need to explain, just so people know its not a drill.
Im not obliged, she shot back, but then met his gaze. Alright. If I can.
Next, if anyone hears a crash, instead of shouting call police online, maybe knock first or phone and check if she needs help. Only call police if theres no answer.
What if she snaps again? asked the young mum.
Then youll know you tried to be decent, Graham said. That matters. Not for herfor you.
Mrs Brown snorted, but didnt object.
And, Graham turned to Mrs Harper, maybe consider rubber mats, pads for the legs of chairs, shift the bed from the wall? I can help move things.
The bed can’t move. Theres a homemade hoist screwed in. But matsI can try. If anyone can pop round for an hour daytime so I can fetch medicine, that would be
She faltered. Someone shuffled a foot.
I can come Wednesday, the young mum said, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. My mum can mind the baby. Ill sit for an hour.
Me too, the tracksuit man muttered. Not at nightdaytime lifting, if you need.
A tiny pressure eased, but didnt vanish, in Grahams chest. Just changed shape.
Mrs Brown picked up the petition.
What about this? she asked.
Graham eyed the signatureshis own neighbour, always smiling in the lift, was there.
I thinkit comes down, Graham said. If someone truly wants to complain, let them write their own, with dates, not just stick a call for action up.
So you dont want order? Mrs Brown said pointedly.
I want order, replied Graham. But not as a bludgeon.
Mrs Harper looked up.
Take it down, she said. I dont want to see people tallied against me each day.
Mrs Brown folded it. Graham couldnt tell if it was respect or just sensing shed now lost the majority.
Everyone left quiet. Someone tried to make a joke on the stairs, but it fizzled out. Graham crossed the hallway, and Mrs Harper appeared beside him. They descended together.
You shouldnt have got involved, she said.
Maybe not, Graham replied. But I didnt want this ending in police and shouting.
Itll end there anyway, she replied, wearied. The next time hes worse.
Graham nearly asked her brothers name, but held back.
If its bad at night and you need a handjust knock. Im about.
She nodded, gaze averted.
Next day, the petition had gone from the board. Instead, a new thread buzzed in the WhatsApp: Mrs Brown posted, Agreed: Mrs Harper will alert for emergencies. Please avoid complaints at night. Daytime help by rotacontact me if available.
Graham smiled wryly at the idea of a rota on their estate. But by lunchtime, people actually repliedsome could help Monday, others Friday. A few kept quiet.
That very night, the banging returned. Graham woke, heart thumping. 02:17. Soon after, a terse message from Mrs Harper: Attack. Ambulance on way. No smileys, no pleas.
Lying in bed, Graham heard stomps and doors, footsteps in the stairwell. He imagined Mrs Harper lifting her brother, fighting to keep him breathing. His irritation had changeda heavy, muffled ache.
Later, in the lift, Mrs Brown looked worn.
Well, she began, it happened again.
The ambulance came, Graham replied.
I saw. I didnt realise how bad it was but stillGraham, it wrecks my sleep. I get palpitations.
He nodded. He couldnt cancel her heart trouble.
Earplugs, maybe? he offered, knowing it sounded pathetic.
Earplugs! Mrs Brown half-laughed, no malice left. What have we come to?
That week, Graham went up to Mrs Harpers in the daytime, holding a bag of rubber pads and a big mat hed picked up from the hardware shop. She opened the door instantly, as if waiting.
Inside smelt of ointments and something sour, hospital-like. The bedroom housed a single bed jammed against the wall. Her brother, paper-thin, face slack, eyes open but distant, lay there. A homemade hoist of pipe and belts screwed to the frame. The bed truly wasnt moveable.
Here, said Graham, displaying the mat. If we slide this under, less echo through the floor. And these pads, for stool legs.
That stool bangs when I fetch the basin, she admitted. I try, but my hands
She trailed off, staring at her cracked, pale hands.
He installed the mat, careful of the bolts, moving slowly, feeling the tension pinching his spine. Mrs Harper hovered, solemn but attentive.
Thank you, she saidthis time, it carried something real.
Graham was about to leave when her phone rang in the hall. She listened, her face darkening.
I cant right now, no Theres no one to sit with himyes. No.
She hung up, glancing at Graham.
Social care. Maximum is two hours a week with a carer, and theres a queue. I need daily help.
Graham had no answer. Their rota was no real solutionjust a patchwork.
That evening, someone wrote in the chat: Whyre we responsible? Its her family, her problemshe should sort it through the council. The replies came fast and uneven; some explained about waiting lists, some snapped, some sent full stops.
Graham read it and left it alone. His fatigue grewnot with Mrs Harper, but how every act of humanity became a debate about fairness.
A few days on, the noticeboard displayed a new sheetnot action, but a rota: days, times, names, Mrs Harpers phone, a line about emergencies and ambulances, a call for volunteers. It was precisely aligned.
Graham felt uncomfortable seeing it, just the same as the old petition. But now the discomfort was differentthe block admitting that disaster could happen behind any door, and even disaster could be made into a timetable.
One night, Graham finally went up. The crash had been loud. He heard Mrs Harper cursing under her breathnot at the neighbours, but at a body that refused her efforts. He knocked. This time, she opened up at once.
Help me, she said.
Graham stepped in, removed his shoes, tucked them to the wall. In the bedroom, her brother lay on the rug, gasping. Together, they lifted him carefully, settling him into bed. Grahams arms trembled; Mrs Harper did not weep or thank himjust adjusted the pillow and checked his breathing.
Outside, someone peeped from a lower door, quietly, before closing it. No one called out. The whole building seemed to hold its breath.
Next morning, he ran into Victor from next door, one of the names on the original petition. Victor avoided his eyes.
Look, he muttered, I signed the thing. I was just at my wits end, didnt know Wouldnt have if
I know, Graham replied. Doesnt matter now. Its what you do next.
Victor nodded, stubborn, the look of someone who never apologises, even inwardly.
The compromise was workingnot perfectly, but working. Midnight brought the odd terse message: Ambulance or Fallen. Angry messages at 2am came less; the crabbiness had shifted to civilised hours. Folks actually sat with Mrs Harper in the daytime or sometimes just disappeared after one attempt. Occasionally, blank spaces on the rota.
Graham noticed the stairs were quieterpeople greeted each other, but tentatively, as though every word might spark another conflict. The threats had vanished, but so had much of the easy neighbourliness. Even when discussing the outside light, peoples voices held a weary undertone: Lets not start again.
One evening, Graham came home to find Mrs Harper waiting for the lift, pharmacy bag and flask in hand. Her face was pinched and grey.
Hows your brother? Graham asked.
Still here, she replied. Its a quiet day.
They rode up together. Graham paused at his landing.
If you need anythingknock.
She nodded, then, unexpected, added:
At the meeting, I never meant to Never mind.
I know, said Graham.
The lift doors shut, and Graham stood on the landing alone. He unlocked his door, hung his coat, set his shoes tidily. The flat was silent: his son in headphones in the lounge, his mother on the phone asking when hed visit.
Graham gazed at the screen, then at the door to the stairs. He thought of all those sheets of paper that could change people: one with a list against, another with a list for whod give up an hour. The gap between them, he realised, was smaller than the gap between two neighboursliving back-to-back, almost within touching distance, but always just strangers.
That evening in the WhatsApp, someone wrote: Thank you to everyone who helped today. Please, no group debates about private mattersif you have questions, message me directly. The message quickly got swept away by talk of overflowing bins and the broken lift.
Graham switched off his phone and went to put the kettle on. He knew he might wake again, startled by a thump in the night. But now, roused from sleep, it wouldnt just be his own lost rest hed be thinking about. It didnt make him a better man. It just made him part of all this.
