You wont believe the saga I had to deal with just outside my flat last week. So, theres this woman downstairsmy neighbour Jeanand her twenty-year-old daughter, Annabelle, who fancies herself the queen of the corridor. Out of nowhere, theyve basically set up a smoking den right by my front door. And Annabelle has the nerve to say, And where exactly does it say this is your air? The landing is for all of us. If I want to smoke, or spit, I will. Learn your rights, woman!
She puffed a huge sugary-sweet cloud from her e-cig straight in my face. Flanked by two loud lads sprawled all over the windowsill between our floors, laughing their heads off. The floor beneath them scattered with cigarette butts, empty Red Bull cans, sunflower seed husksthe works.
Now, Jeans always gone on thinking she runs the building, but they didnt get the rise they wanted from me. I didnt cough or wave my arms about, like they expected. I just fixed my glasses and gave Annabelle that headteacher glare I save for the end-of-year audits at workyou know, the look that makes grown men squirm.
This is a shared space, Annabelle, I said, ice cold. So theres no smoking, no spitting, and no turning the landing into a dump. Youve got five minutes to clean up your mess, or were having a very different conversation.
Annabelle rolled her eyes and flicked ash right onto the floor, which the cleaner had literally just finished mopping. Go take your tablets, love, she sneered, and maybe tell Mum on meshes the one who said I could hang out here instead of stinking up the flat.
The boys howled with laughter. I just quietly closed my door and shut them out, but my whole hallway now smelled like a greasy fry-up mixed with the stench of cheap tobacco. Proper homely, except it was just ruined.
My nephew, Paul, was hunched at the kitchen table when I came in. Hes thirty-two, but he looks more like fortywhat with his early bald patch and the way he sort of folds in on himself. Hes the late husbands nephew, been living with me a decade, shy as a field mouse, always stammering, works at a little clock repair shop. Neighbours call him simple behind our backsan easy target, to be honest.
Elaine, are they out there again? Paul asked, shrinking even more when some loud crash echoed from the landing.
Eat, Paul. Its not your battle. I tried to sound calm as I put potatoes on his plate, but inside, I was boiling.
That evening, I stomped round to Jeans flat. She opened up in a dressing gown, phone glued to her ear, face slathered in a green beauty mask.
Jean, your daughters turned the landing into a hangout, I said. Stinks out my flat, keeps us up half the night. I want you to do something about it.
Jean didnt even pause her phone call. Oh, Elaine, dont start. Theyre young, where else will they go? Its cold outside. Theyre just kids chatting, not doing anything dodgy. Show some understanding, youd get it if you had children. Besides, Pauls a bit… you know, he wont mind, will he?
That was a real low blowright at the heart. I counted to three. Fine, Jean. Thats how it is, I said, then I left.
Back home, I got out my paperwork and sat at my little desk. Some people use their temper to fight. I use the law thank heavens for The Housing Act and council by-laws.
For the next week, I barely made a peep. Annabelle mustve thought Id given in because she got bolder. Suddenly theres a filthy old armchair on the landing, music blasting till one in the morning, more rubbish collecting by my door.
Then came Friday, and it all blew up.
Paul returned from work, gingerly carrying shopping and a little parcelcustomer job, no doubt. As he tried to get by, one of Annabelles matesBen, goes by Brickstuck his foot out and tripped him. Groceries went flying, apples rolling through cigarette ends, the parcel with a clock part bounced off the skirting board.
Look out, its Big Bird on the move! shouted Brick.
Annabelle, bored, blew smoke rings at Paul. Watch yourself, div. Youre clogging up the air in here. Pick it up, while Im still feeling generous.
Red as a tomato, Paul scrambled about picking up apples, his hands shaking. Hes so bloody used to this, can you believe it? Just accepted itlike hes invisible.
Thats when I had enough. I opened my door, phone in hand, camera blinking right at Bricks smarmy face.
Public disorder, verbal abuse, and criminal damage, I said, clear as day. All recorded. Ill be calling the council and local police, and tomorrow, this footage is going to the management company.
Brick shifted but didnt come any nearer. My stare is apparently scarier than any coppers.
Paul, come inside, I said, not even sparing him a glance. Drop it. Leave the apples.
But the apples he mumbled, voice wobbling.
Doesnt matter. All rubbish, just like everything out here.
When the door shut behind Paul, I turned to Annabelle.
Now listen carefully, sweetheart. You think Ive been letting this go? Wrong. Ive been keeping records.
Annabelle tried to roll her eyes but I caught the flicker of panic. What records?
I got in touch with your landlord. Your mums not the flat owner, is she? Its your dad, and if Im not mistaken, he thinks his darling girl is a proper university student in London, not causing chaos on our landing.
You shouldve seen Annabelles face. Her dads strict, pays for everything provided she behaves.
You wouldnt she whispered.
I already have. Hes got photos and footage of your little gatherings. The council and police have it too, along with a full accountdates, times, noise complaints, the lot. Our community officer is dropping by in half an hour. And your dad said hell be here first thing tomorrow.
Saturday morning, you could hear this booming voice echoing round the building. Im sat having tea when theres a knock at the door. Theres Annabelles fatherPhilip Turner, enormous, expensive coat on; Jean stood beside him, sobbing, and Annabelle nowhere in sight.
Mrs. Clark? he sayspolite, but you can tell he means business. I want to sincerely apologise for my daughter and ex-wifes behaviour. The cleaner is sorting the landing now. Ill pay for the repainting myself. Annabelles being moved to halls, and Ive cut their funding.
I nodded. Thats right and proper. But theres something else.
I called Paul. Poor lad almost ducked back in, expecting trouble.
Your guest hurt my nephew yesterday. Damaged his work. Pauls a rare talentfixes timepieces even the Swiss wont touch.
Philip Turner looked at him, properly looked, for the first time. Watchmaker?
R-Restorer, Paul said softly, stammering only a bit.
Turner stepped over, held out his hand. Ive a collection of antique pocket watchesones been stuck a year, everyone else failed to fix it. Fancy having a look?
Paul looked up, andbless himfor the first time, someone saw Paul for his skill, not as a joke.
I can try. If the mainsprings fine, it should be doable.
Deal, Turner said, giving Pauls thin hand a firm shake. Im sorry about my girl. Lost track somewhere, I suppose. Dont hold a grudge. Ill pay for the damage and leave you a commission as well.
When the door closed, Paul stared at his hand for a long while, shoulders straightening a little.
Aunt Elaine, he said, voice steady, I think Ill clear up those apples myself. No sense wasting good food.
Thank heavens he couldnt see I was wiping my eyes at the window.
You do that, Paul, I told him. And put the kettle on too. Were celebrating.
Out on the landing, all was finally quiet and spotless. You could smell bleach and fresh paint, rather than stale fags. And from my flat came the sweet scent of baking, and Pauls bright voice, telling me all about the workings of a tourbillon.
No more smoking den. Not ever again.
