In a quiet English town, there lived a woman named Margaret Whitaker. To her mind, she led a perfectly respectable life. True, she’d never married or had children, but she had a tidy little flat where everything was always in its place. Her job as an accountant at a furniture factory was decent enough, and that suited her just fine.
Margaret had reached fifty without much fuss, quite content with how things had turned out—especially compared to her neighbours. It pleased her to think she’d done rather well for herself. After all, she was a good person who never wished anyone harm.
Her neighbours, however, were another matter. On the same landing lived a woman in her sixties, well past retirement age, who’d dyed her hair a garish shade of purple! The very idea! And she pranced about in tight-fitting dresses and jeans, of all things. The whole town seemed to laugh at her. The local eccentric, no doubt.
“Disgraceful!” Margaret would mutter, watching the odd pensioner shuffle past. She took pride in her own sensible appearance, dressing as a woman of her age ought to.
The third neighbour was hardly worth mentioning—a girl of barely twenty-one with a child who looked about five. Probably got herself into trouble while still at school. And where were her parents, one might ask? As it happened, the girl had none. She lived alone with her little sister, of all things, and—wouldn’t you know it—had struck up a friendship with the purple-haired old woman. While the girl was out working, the pensioner would mind the child.
None of this surprised Margaret. “Birds of a feather,” she’d think. “They avoid me, of course. One look at a proper person, and they can hardly meet my eye. A nod in the lift, and that’s the extent of it.”
The last neighbour was a man in his thirties, and the first time Margaret saw him, she nearly fainted. His arms, his neck—every inch of skin was covered in tattoos! What sort of decent person went about like that? None, of course! Even in her youth, Margaret had scorned such types. Clearly, if one couldn’t stand out by intelligence alone, they resorted to defacing themselves.
Such were her thoughts each time she crossed paths with any of them in the lift. Returning home, she’d quietly bask in the knowledge that she, at least, lived as one should. Sometimes, she’d even discuss the neighbours with her only friend over the phone. They had little else to talk about, so “the tattooed chap,” “the young mother,” and “the batty old crone” became regular topics of conversation.
One evening, Margaret trudged home from work, her mood foul. A discrepancy in the accounts—the first in all her years. Who would take the blame? Who else but the accountant? Her head had throbbed all day, and now, suddenly, her ears were ringing, her legs like lead.
She barely made it to the building before sinking onto the bench outside. Then, a light touch on her hand. Blinking, she looked up to see the purple-haired pensioner peering at her with concern.
“Are you all right? You’re white as a sheet,” the woman asked.
“My head…” Margaret managed.
“Come on, let’s get you to Joe—he’s home today. You don’t look well at all.”
“Joe?”
“Your neighbour? On your floor? He’s a cardiologist. You didn’t know?”
Upstairs, the woman rang Joe’s bell, and Margaret found herself staring at the very tattooed man she’d dismissed as anything but respectable.
He checked her blood pressure, settled her on the sofa, and handed her a pill. Soon, the pounding in her skull eased.
“You must see a doctor properly,” he said warmly once she’d recovered. “Blood pressure’s no joke, even for someone as young as you.”
“Thank you,” Margaret mumbled, struck with shame. She remembered scoffing about his ink, calling him dim. And here he was, a doctor, saving lives every day.
“Don’t mention it. Take care, alright?”
Back in her flat, Margaret lay on the sofa, stunned. She’d been so wrong about him. And the purple-haired woman—she’d been kind, too.
A knock at the door. There stood the pensioner, holding hands with the young girl—the one Margaret had judged so harshly.
“I just wanted to check on you. Hope you don’t mind I’ve brought Lily—Emily’s at work. I’ve been meaning to get to know you for ages but never dared. And here we are! You always keep to yourself, you see.”
“Come in,” Margaret found herself saying. “I’ll put the kettle on. Thank you… for earlier.”
“Oh, don’t. I’ve an eye for when folks aren’t right. Spent my youth caring for my mum—she took ill when I was fourteen, didn’t pass till I was thirty. No school, no sweethearts, just bedside vigils. Barely had time for a child of my own. Ah, but no matter. Now I’m making up for lost time,” she laughed, tugging at her purple locks. “My girl helped me dye it. Buys me these silly band tees, too. Feels nice, playing young for a bit. Though Emily’s had it harder.”
“Emily?” Margaret asked.
“The girl next door. Lily’s her little sister. Their parents died in a car crash—she took the child in. Dropped out of uni, works all hours. Joe helps when he can—your doctor neighbour.”
After they left, Margaret sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly. She ought to offer Emily help with Lily now and then. And she’d been thinking of dyeing her own hair ginger—only, she’d worried it wasn’t proper at her age. Tomorrow, she’d ask the neighbour for advice. And she mustn’t forget to invite Joe round for tea, to thank him. Pies, perhaps. Yes, that would do nicely.
