“I Tried to Be Nice!”
“Margaret, I’m telling you for the last time! Either move your clutter from the stairwell, or I’ll toss it all in the rubbish myself!” bellowed Beatrice, waving her hands in front of her neighbour’s door. “Honestly, what’s next? A rusty pram, old crates, and now a bicycle? This isn’t a storage unit!”
“Oh, calm down, Bea!” Margaret retorted, peering around her door. “The pram’s for my granddaughter—she’s off to the cottage soon. And the bike belongs to Daniel! He’s into fitness!”
“Daniel? Your grandson’s nearly thirty! When was the last time he even touched that thing?”
“What’s it to you? We’re not bothering anyone!”
“Oh really? I tripped over that bike yesterday—nearly broke my ankle! My foot’s still throbbing!”
Margaret sighed and shut the door. Beatrice wasn’t the type to let things go. She was one of those neighbours who considered it her civic duty to police the entire building, dictate how others should live, and generally stick her nose where it didn’t belong.
It had all started six months ago, when Margaret moved in with her daughter to a small but cosy flat in Manchester—left to her after her mother-in-law passed. Her daughter, Emily, had insisted.
“Mum, why stay alone in that big house in Yorkshire?” Emily had pleaded. “Here, you’re near shops, hospitals, and I can visit more often!”
Margaret had resisted at first. The Yorkshire house was her nest, filled with decades of memories. But her health wasn’t what it used to be, so she’d relented.
The move had been chaos. So much stuff accumulated over the years! She couldn’t bring herself to throw away anything that might still be useful—Daniel’s old toys, bookshelves her late husband had built, photo albums in dusty frames.
“Mum, where do you even plan to put all this?” Emily had groaned. “The flat’s tiny!”
“I’ll manage,” Margaret had insisted. “It’s not just clutter—it’s memories!”
Naturally, some items had ended up in the stairwell. Temporarily, of course. She’d meant to sort through it all, donate what she could, bin the rest—but time slipped away.
Beatrice had been displeased from day one. First with hints, then outright demands.
“Margaret, how long is this museum exhibit staying?” she’d snipped, eyeing the pram.
“I’ll sort it soon,” Margaret had promised. “Just haven’t had the time.”
“We all have the same 24 hours,” Beatrice had sniffed.
Margaret hated confrontation. Back in Yorkshire, neighbours were friends—helping, visiting, sharing scones. Here, it was all stiff “good mornings” and closed doors.
“Look, Bea,” Margaret tried one evening, “let’s not argue. I’ll clear it by the weekend. Emily promised to help, but work’s mad right now.”
“How much longer must we wait? It’s been six months!”
“Four, actually,” Margaret corrected.
“Semantics! I tried to be nice, but you’re impossible!”
Just then, the door across the hall creaked open, revealing silver-haired Dorothy.
“Ladies, what’s all this?” she asked gently.
“Dorothy, Margaret’s turned the stairwell into a junkyard!” Beatrice huffed.
“I never said I wouldn’t clear it!” Margaret protested.
“When?” Beatrice pressed.
“For heaven’s sake, you’re like a dog with a bone!” Margaret snapped. “No one else minds!”
“I mind!” Beatrice shot back. “Dorothy, don’t you think this is ridiculous?”
Dorothy shifted uncomfortably. “Well… it doesn’t bother me much.”
“See?” Margaret brightened. “Dorothy understands!”
“Dorothy’s just too polite to say it!” Beatrice retorted.
“Please,” Dorothy interjected, “let’s not quarrel. We’re neighbours!”
“Fine,” Margaret relented. “Bea, I promise it’ll be gone by Sunday.”
“Today’s Tuesday. That’s four days. If a single thing remains, I’m tossing it myself.”
“You can’t! Those are my things!”
“And this is a shared space!” Beatrice slammed her door.
Dorothy gave Margaret a sympathetic look. “Don’t take it to heart. Beatrice has always been… direct. Even in her youth, she rowed with everyone.”
“I know,” Margaret sighed. “But must she shout? I’m not hoarding for fun! Daniel swore he’d fix that bike…”
“Does he visit often?”
“Once a month, if that. Work keeps him busy.”
“And Emily?”
“Swamped. Keeps postponing helping me.”
Dorothy hesitated. “What if I lend a hand? I’ve time to spare—retired, grandchildren grown.”
“Oh, Dorothy, I couldn’t!”
“Nonsense! We’ll manage faster together. Tomorrow morning?”
Margaret nearly teared up. Kindness at last—unlike Beatrice’s lectures!
The next day, Dorothy arrived early. They sorted the pram (donated to Emily’s friend’s new grandbaby), the books (off to the charity shop), but stalled at the bike.
“Daniel begged me not to scrap it,” Margaret fretted.
“Let’s stash it in the basement,” Dorothy suggested. “I’ve space near my boxes.”
“But it’s filthy!”
“A tarp will do. Better than riling Beatrice further.”
By evening, the stairwell was nearly clear—just two crates of winter coats remained for tomorrow.
“What a difference!” Dorothy wiped her brow.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Margaret said. “I’d never have managed alone.”
“Happy to help! We’ll finish tomorrow.”
When Emily popped by that night, she gaped at the tidy stairs. “Mum, did you do this yourself?”
“Dorothy helped. She’s lovely—unlike Beatrice.”
“Has Beatrice cooled off?”
“Doubt it. But once these last crates go, maybe…”
Yet at dawn, Beatrice stormed out, spotted the remaining boxes, and erupted.
“Margaret! You promised it’d all be gone by Sunday!”
“Bea, it’s Thursday! Two days left!”
“You’re cutting it fine! I expected better!”
“Look how much we’ve cleared! Just these two—”
“Two too many!” Beatrice mimicked.
A sudden THUD echoed from Dorothy’s flat, followed by a groan.
“Dorothy?!” Margaret rushed over, Beatrice on her heels.
Dorothy lay in the hallway, clutching her ankle. “Took a tumble…”
Her foot was swollen, purpling.
“Ambulance, now,” Beatrice ordered, already dialling, her earlier fury forgotten.
While they waited, Margaret brewed tea and fetched ice. “This is my fault—you overexerted yourself helping me…”
“Rubbish,” Dorothy winced. “Just clumsy.”
Beatrice stayed quiet, thoughtful. When paramedics arrived, she helped pack Dorothy’s hospital bag.
“Call if you need anything,” she muttered.
Dorothy smiled. “Never knew you were so sweet.”
“Neither did I,” Beatrice admitted.
With Dorothy gone, the crates suddenly seemed trivial.
“Margaret,” Beatrice said abruptly, “let’s move those boxes to my balcony. Plenty of space.”
“But—”
“I insisted they go, so I’ll help. If you’re going to do something, do it properly.”
They shifted the crates, then Margaret put the kettle on. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Over biscuits, Beatrice confessed: widowed five years, children seldom visiting. “Ivan always tempered my sharp tongue. Now, no one does.”
“I miss Yorkshire’s camaraderie,” Margaret admitted. “Cities can be so lonely.”
“Maybe loneliness makes us prickly,” Beatrice mused. “Easier than admitting we need help.”
The next day, they visited Dorothy (ankle sprained, no break).
“Who’ll feed my cat?” Dorothy fretted.
“I will,” said Beatrice. “Keys?”
“And I’ll water your plants,” Margaret added.
“You angels!” Dorothy sniffled. “I thought you’d feud forever over those boxes!”
“Hardly worth it,” Beatrice shrugged. “People matter more.”
Margaret smiled. Beatrice wasn’t cruel—just lonely. Loneliness bred spines, like hedges against neglect.
Once Dorothy was home, their tea gatherings became routine. Beatrice was a riotous storyteller; Dorothy baked sublime scones.
One afternoon, Beatrice declared, “Let’s plant flowers by the entrance! It’s spring, and that patch is all cigarette butts.”
“Splendid!” Margaret cheered. “I’ve gardened for years.”
“I’ve spare seeds,” Dorothy offered. “Marigolds, asters…”
The tiny bloom they nurtured drew compliments from passersby.
“How’d you manage it?” a fourth-floor neighbour marvelled.
“We”And just like that, three women who’d once quarreled over clutter found joy in planting something new—together.”
