There once lived a woman in a quiet town in England. Her name was Margaret Wilmington. By her own measure, she led a respectable life. Though she had never married nor had children, she took pride in her tidy flat and her steady work as an accountant at a furniture factory.
For fifty years, she carried on quietly, content with her orderly existence—especially when she compared herself to her neighbors. It pleased her to think she had turned out far better than they had. After all, she was a decent woman who meant no harm to anyone.
Her neighbors, however, were another matter entirely. One woman, well past sixty, had dyed her hair a garish shade of blue! The very idea—a woman of her age dressing in fitted dresses and jeans! Everyone laughed at her behind her back. The town’s local eccentric, no doubt.
“Disgraceful,” Margaret would mutter, watching the peculiar pensioner shuffle past. She took comfort in knowing she, at least, dressed respectably for her age.
And then there was the third neighbor—a girl no older than twenty-one, already with a child in tow. The little one looked about five, which meant the girl must have been barely out of school when she fell pregnant. Where were her parents, one might ask? But of course, the girl had none—just that blue-haired old woman for company, who often minded the child while the young mother was away.
Margaret wasn’t surprised by their friendship. “Birds of a feather,” she’d think. “They keep their distance from me, too. One glance at a proper woman, and they can’t even meet my eyes. A nod in the lift is all the conversation we ever have.”
And then there was the last neighbor—a man in his thirties, his arms and neck covered in tattoos. The first time Margaret saw him, she nearly gasped. What sort of respectable person walked about like that? Clearly, he had nothing else to recommend him if he had to deface himself for attention. If only he’d pick up a book instead!
These were the thoughts she carried with her every day, exchanging stiff greetings in the lift before retreating to her flat. Over the phone, she dissected her neighbors’ failings with her only friend—there wasn’t much else to discuss, so “the tattooed bloke,” “the young mother,” and “that mad old woman” became regular topics.
One evening, Margaret trudged home from work in a foul mood. There had been a discrepancy at the factory—missing funds. For the first time in years, her accounts didn’t balance. Who would be blamed? Naturally, the accountant. Her head had ached all day, but now her ears buzzed strangely, and her legs grew heavy as lead.
She barely made it to the bench by the building’s entrance before sinking onto it, breath shallow. Then she felt a gentle touch on her wrist. Blinking, she looked up into the face of the very woman she had so often scorned—the one with the blue hair.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked, her voice kind.
“My head…” Margaret barely managed the words.
“Come along. Eric’s home today—you look peaky, love.”
“Eric?” Margaret frowned.
“Your neighbor, just down the hall. He’s a cardiologist. Surely you knew?”
Moments later, they stood at Eric’s door, which swung open to reveal the tattooed man Margaret had dismissed as nothing but a nuisance. Without a word, he checked her pulse, guided her to his sofa, and handed her a tablet. Soon, the throbbing in her skull eased.
“You ought to see a doctor regularly,” he said with an easy smile once color returned to her cheeks. “Even young ladies like you need to mind their health.”
“Thank you,” Margaret murmured, shame creeping in as she remembered her cruel jabs about him. *Obsessed with appearances, no brains to speak of*—yet here he was, saving lives every day.
“Any time. Take care now.”
Once home, she sank onto her own sofa, thoughts whirling. How wrong she’d been about him—and the blue-haired woman, too. She had been kind when Margaret needed help most.
Then came a knock at the door. There stood the old woman, holding the hand of the little girl—the one belonging to the young mother Margaret had so harshly judged.
“Just wanted to check on you. Sorry about bringing Lily—Emma’s at work. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself properly, but you always keep to yourself. Seemed a good time now!”
“Come in,” Margaret found herself saying. “I’ll put the kettle on. And… thank you, for earlier.”
“Think nothing of it. I’ve a knack for spotting when someone’s poorly. Spent most of my youth caring for my mum. She took ill when I was fourteen and didn’t pass till I was past thirty. Never had much schooling, no sweethearts—just her sickbed. Barely had time for a child of my own. But no matter.” She gave a sheepish grin, touching her bright hair. “My daughter’s doing—helps me feel young. Though poor Emma’s had it worse.”
“Emma?”
“The girl next door. Lily’s her sister, not her daughter. Their parents died in a car crash. Emma took her in—dropped out of university, works all hours. Eric helps when he can. You met him earlier.”
Long after her guests left, Margaret sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall. She ought to offer to mind Lily sometimes. And perhaps it wasn’t too late to dye her hair that copper shade she’d always fancied—who cared about propriety? Tomorrow, she’d ask her neighbor’s advice. And she mustn’t forget to invite Eric round for tea. A proper thank-you was in order.
