There once lived a woman in a small English town. Her name was Margaret Wilkins. She thought she led a respectable life—no husband or children, perhaps, but she had her own flat, always neat and tidy, and a decent job as an accountant at a furniture factory in Manchester.
Margaret lived quietly and peacefully until she turned fifty. She rather fancied her life, especially when she compared it to those of her neighbours. It pleased her to think she had things sorted, being a good person who never wished anyone harm.
Her neighbours, though, were a different story. On the same floor lived a woman in her sixties—hardly the age for such nonsense—yet she’d gone and dyed her hair bright pink! The very idea! She wore fitting dresses and tight jeans, too, making herself the laughingstock of the town. “Completely daft,” Margaret would mutter under her breath, glad she dressed her age.
Then there was the young girl next door, barely twenty-one, already with a child—a little girl about five. “No doubt she got herself in trouble while still in school,” Margaret would think, tutting. And where were the parents? The girl had none, as it turned out, living alone with her daughter—and, worse still, befriending that pink-haired old woman, who watched the child while the girl was out working.
Margaret wasn’t surprised. “Trash sticks together,” she’d say. “They steer clear of me. They know a proper woman when they see one—too ashamed to even look me in the eye. A quick hello in the lift is all the conversation I get.”
The last tenant was a man in his thirties covered head to toe in tattoos. The first time Margaret saw him, she nearly fainted. What sort of decent person walks around like that? No one respectable, that’s for certain. She’d always disapproved of such types—people who ruined their skin for attention. If they had any brains, they’d read a book instead.
These were the thoughts she carried with her daily, quietly smug about her own sensible life. Sometimes, she’d ring up her only friend to gossip about “the tattooed bloke,” “the young mother,” and “that mad old bat,” since there was little else to discuss.
One evening, Margaret returned from work in a foul mood. There’d been a discrepancy in the accounts—her first in years. Who’d get blamed? Naturally, the accountant. A headache had plagued her all day, and now her ears rang, her legs oddly heavy.
She barely made it to the building before sinking onto the bench outside. Then—a gentle touch on her arm. She looked up, startled, into the face of the pink-haired pensioner.
“Are you all right? You look poorly,” the woman asked kindly.
“My head… it hurts,” Margaret managed.
“Come on, let’s get you to James. He’s home today—you’re as white as a sheet.”
“James?”
“Your neighbour! The one on your floor! He’s a cardiologist, didn’t you know?”
Upstairs, the woman knocked on James’s door. Margaret stared in shock as the tattooed man—the one she’d dismissed as anything but decent—opened it. He checked her blood pressure, gave her a pill, and soon the throbbing faded.
“Make sure you book a check-up,” he said with a smile as she recovered. “Even young ladies like you ought to mind their pressure.”
“Thank you,” Margaret mumbled, guilt pricking her. All those times she’d called him dim-witted—yet here he was, saving lives every day.
At home, she lay on the sofa, realising how wrong she’d been—not just about James, but the pink-haired woman too, who’d actually stopped to help.
A knock came at the door. There stood the older woman, holding the young mother’s daughter by the hand.
“I just wanted to see if you were alright. Sorry about bringing Sophie—Emma’s at work. I’ve been meaning to meet you properly, but you keep to yourself! We all chat, you know, except you!”
“Come in,” Margaret heard herself say. “I’ll put the kettle on. And… thank you, for earlier.”
“Don’t mention it. I know when someone’s unwell. Spent my youth caring for my sick mum—from fourteen till past thirty. Never married, no proper schooling, just at her bedside. Barely had time for my own bairn before she passed. But no matter.” She touched her pink hair sheepishly. “Emma helps me have a bit of fun now. Poor lass has it worse, though.”
“Emma?”
“Your other neighbour! Sophie’s her sister. Their parents died in a crash. Emma gave up uni to raise her, works all hours. James helps her sometimes—the doctor who saw you today.”
After they left, Margaret sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly. Perhaps she could offer to watch Sophie now and then. And that cherry-red dye she’d fancied—why not try it? Tomorrow, she’d ask her neighbour for advice. And she must invite James round for a proper thank-you dinner. Pies, perhaps. He’d like that.
