In a quiet English town, there lived a woman named Margaret Whitmore. To her mind, she led a perfectly respectable life. True, she had no family or children of her own, but she had a tidy flat where order and cleanliness reigned. Her job as an accountant at a furniture factory was steady and decent.
Margaret lived softly and calmly until her fifties, content with her existence—especially when comparing herself to her neighbours. It pleased her to think how well her life had turned out, unlike those around her. After all, she was a good woman who wished no one harm.
Her neighbours, however, were another matter entirely. On the same floor lived a woman in her sixties—pension age, for heaven’s sake—who had dyed her hair bright pink! And she wore skin-tight dresses and ripped jeans! The whole town whispered about her. The local eccentric, no doubt.
*”Disgraceful,”* Margaret thought, watching the peculiar pensioner shuffle past. She took great comfort in knowing she dressed appropriately, as a woman of her age should.
The third neighbour was even worse. A girl barely twenty-one, already with a child—a little boy who looked about five. Pregnant while still in school, no doubt. Where were her parents? Oh, that’s right—she had none. She lived alone, raising the boy while that pink-haired old bat babysat when she was out working.
Margaret wasn’t surprised. *”Birds of a feather,”* she mused. *”They stick together. People like that avoid me—too ashamed to look a proper woman in the eye. A nod in the lift, if I’m lucky.”*
And then there was the tattooed man in his thirties. The first time she saw him, she nearly fainted—ink covering his arms, neck, even creeping up behind his ears! Decent folk didn’t parade themselves like that! Back in her day, men like him were nothing but trouble. *”Clearly got nothing else going for him,”* she’d mutter. *”Too dim to stand out any other way. Should’ve picked up a book instead.”*
Every day, returning home, she’d quietly revel in her own correctness—her orderly, judgment-free existence. And when she rang her only friend, Joan, the neighbours were the only topic worth discussing.
Then, one evening, Margaret came home from work in a foul mood. A discrepancy in the books—first time in all her years. Who’d take the blame? The accountant, naturally. Her head throbbed, her legs turned to lead. She barely made it to the bench outside her building before collapsing.
A soft touch on her wrist startled her. Through blurred vision, she saw the pink-haired woman peering down.
*”You all right, love? You look peaky.”*
*”Head… hurts…”* Margaret managed.
*”Right, let’s get you to James—he’s home. You’ve gone white as a sheet.”*
*”Who’s James?”*
*”Your neighbour? Lives on your floor? He’s a cardiologist. Honest, never knew?”*
Upstairs, the woman knocked. When the door opened, Margaret’s stomach dropped—there stood the tattooed man, the one she’d dismissed as some layabout.
He took her blood pressure, laid her on the sofa, and handed her a pill. The pain faded.
*”Best see your GP soon,”* he said with a grin. *”Even a young thing like you needs to mind her heart.”*
*”Thank you,”* she stammered, shame creeping up her neck. All those times she’d called him dim, a failure—and here he was, saving lives.
*”Don’t mention it. Take care.”*
Back home, she lay on the sofa, mind racing. She’d been so wrong. And the pink-haired woman—kind, actually. Hadn’t hesitated to help.
A knock at the door. The pink-haired neighbour stood there, holding the hand of the young mother’s boy.
*”Just checking in. Jess is at work, so I’ve got little Tommy. Thought I’d finally say hello—you keep to yourself, don’t you?”*
*”Come in,”* Margaret surprised herself by saying. *”I’ll put the kettle on. And… thank you. For earlier.”*
*”Oh, hush. I know poorly when I see it. Spent my youth caring for my mum. She took ill when I was fourteen, passed when I was thirty. Never got to study, never married… barely had my girl in time.”* Her smile wavered. *”Now I’m making up for lost time.”* She touched her pink hair. *”Jess helps—buys me these daft tops, dyes my hair. Silly, isn’t it?”*
*”Who’s Jess?”*
*”Your other neighbour! Tommy’s her brother. Their parents died in a car crash—she gave up uni to raise him. Works all hours, poor love. James helps when he can—you know, the doctor?”*
After they left, Margaret sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly. She ought to offer to babysit sometimes. And she’d always wanted to dye her hair auburn—too afraid it’d be improper. Tomorrow, she’d ask her neighbour for advice. And she’d bake a cake for James. A proper thank-you.
