“I wanted to do this the nice way!”
“Margaret Whitmore, I’m telling you for the last time!” shouted Susan Harrington, waving her hands in front of her neighbour’s door. “Either clear your rubbish from the stairwell, or I’ll toss it out myself! What is this mess? A rusted pram, old boxes, and now a bicycle?”
“Susan, calm down!” Margaret snapped, peering out from behind her door. “The pram is for my granddaughter—she’s going to the countryside! And the bicycle belongs to Christopher, he’s into fitness!”
“Christopher? Your grandson’s twenty-eight! When was the last time he even rode that thing?”
“That’s none of your business! We’re not bothering anyone!”
“Not bothering anyone? I tripped over the blasted thing yesterday—nearly broke my ankle!”
Margaret sighed and shut the door. Susan wouldn’t let this go. She was one of those people who treated the whole building as her personal responsibility—dictating how others should live and poking her nose where it didn’t belong.
It had all started six months ago when Margaret moved to the city to live closer to her daughter, Emily. The flat had been left to her by her late mother-in-law—small but cosy. Emily had insisted.
“Mum, why stay out there all alone?” she’d pleaded. “The shops are miles away, the hospital’s miles away—what if something happens? Here, everything’s close, and I can visit more often.”
Margaret had resisted for ages. The countryside cottage was her nest—forty years of marriage, every corner steeped in memories. But her health wasn’t what it used to be, so she relented.
The move had been chaotic. So much clutter over the years! She couldn’t bear to throw away things that might still be useful. The old pram she’d pushed all her grandchildren in. The bookshelves her husband had built with his own hands. Framed photos yellowing with age.
“Mum, where do you even plan to put all this?” Emily had huffed. “The flat’s tiny!”
“I’ll manage,” Margaret had insisted. “It’s my life in these things!”
Some had ended up in the stairwell. Just temporarily, of course. She’d meant to sort through it—donate some, bin the rest—but time slipped away.
Susan had complained from the start. Hints at first, then outright demands.
“Margaret, how long is your little museum staying here?” she’d asked, eyeing the pram.
“I’ll sort it soon,” Margaret had replied. “Just haven’t had the time.”
“We all have the same hours in a day,” Susan had shot back.
Margaret hated conflict. Back in the village, neighbours knew one another—helped, visited. Here, people lived behind stone walls, exchanging polite nods but little else.
“Listen, Susan,” Margaret tried now, “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?” Susan snapped. “It’s been half a year!”
“Four months,” Margaret corrected.
“Same difference! I tried being nice—you just don’t listen!”
The next-door door creaked open. An elderly woman—Eleanor Clarke—peeked out.
“Ladies, what’s all this?” she asked softly.
“Eleanor,” Susan huffed, “Margaret’s turned the stairwell into a junkyard and refuses to clear it!”
“I never refused!” Margaret protested. “I said I would!”
“When?” Susan pressed.
“For heaven’s sake!” Margaret snapped. “It’s not hurting anyone!”
“It’s hurting me!” Susan barked. “And others! Eleanor, surely you agree—this isn’t normal?”
Eleanor shifted uncomfortably. “I—I don’t mind, really…”
“See?” Margaret brightened. “Eleanor understands!”
“Eleanor’s just too polite to say it!” Susan shot back. “I’ll speak the truth!”
“Please,” Eleanor murmured, “let’s not fight. We’re neighbours…”
“Fine,” Margaret agreed. “No more arguing. Susan, I promise—everything’s gone by Sunday.”
“Sunday?” Susan narrowed her eyes. “What day is it today?”
“Wednesday.”
“That’s five days. If a single item’s left, I’m throwing it out myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Margaret gasped. “Those are my things!”
“And this is a shared space!” Susan slammed her door.
Eleanor gave Margaret a sympathetic look. “Don’t take it to heart. Susan’s always been blunt. Even as a young woman, she rowed with everyone.”
“I know,” Margaret sighed. “But must she be so cruel? I didn’t leave it there on purpose! I’ve nowhere else to put it.”
“No room in the flat?”
“Barely. I meant to sort it—donate some, bin some. That bicycle? Christopher begged me to keep it—says he’ll fix it one day.”
“Does he visit often?”
“Once a month, if that. Always busy with work.”
“And Emily?”
“Swamped. Keeps promising to help but never does.”
Eleanor hesitated. “You know what—let me help. I’ve time on my hands. Pensioner life, grandchildren grown.”
“Oh, Eleanor, no—I couldn’t trouble you!”
“Nonsense! We’ll manage faster together. Tomorrow morning, yes?”
Margaret nearly teared up. Kindness—real kindness—not like Susan’s constant nagging.
The next day, Eleanor arrived early. They sorted through the clutter. The pram went to Emily’s friend—her granddaughter had just been born. Old books were earmarked for the charity shop.
“And the bicycle?” Eleanor asked.
“I don’t know,” Margaret admitted. “Christopher insisted I keep it, but who knows when he’ll take it?”
“Perhaps store it in the basement? I’ve space near my boxes.”
“But it’s rusted—it’ll stain everything.”
“A blanket beneath it. Just till Susan calms down.”
They worked all day. By evening, the stairwell was almost clear—just two boxes of winter clothes left for tomorrow.
“Well,” Eleanor wiped her brow, “that’s better!”
“Thank you,” Margaret squeezed her hand. “I’d never have managed alone.”
“Nonsense! We’ll finish tomorrow.”
That evening, Emily dropped by, staring at the near-empty hallway.
“Mum, you cleared it all yourself?”
“Eleanor helped. She’s lovely—not like that Susan.”
“And Susan? Still fuming?”
“Haven’t seen her. Hopefully, once the last boxes go, she’ll quieten.”
But the next morning, Susan stormed out, spotting the remaining boxes.
“Margaret Whitmore!” she yelled. “What’s this? You promised everything would be gone by Sunday!”
“Susan, it’s Thursday!” Margaret protested. “Two days left!”
“Are you seriously waiting till the last minute? I thought you meant what you said!”
“I do! Look how much we’ve cleared! Just these two boxes!”
“Just!” Susan mocked. “I’m sick of your excuses!”
A loud thud interrupted them—then a groan from Eleanor’s flat.
“Eleanor!” Margaret rushed to her door, Susan close behind.
Inside, Eleanor lay clutching her ankle.
“Fell,” she winced. “Hurts terribly.”
“Call an ambulance!” Susan barked, all anger forgotten.
“No, no,” Eleanor protested. “Just help me up.”
They eased her onto a chair. Her ankle was swollen, purpling.
“That’s definitely a fracture,” Margaret fretted.
“Just a sprain,” Eleanor insisted. “Tripped over the doorframe.”
Susan silently dialled emergency services. While they waited, Margaret brewed tea and pressed a cold compress to Eleanor’s ankle.
“This is my fault,” she murmured. “If you hadn’t been helping me yesterday—”
“Nonsense,” Eleanor smiled weakly. “Just clumsy.”
Susan stayed silent, thoughts churning. When the paramedics arrived, she helped pack Eleanor’s things.
“Ring me,” she told Eleanor. “If you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor said, touched. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Neither did I,” Susan admitted.
Once the ambulance left, the two women stood awkwardly in the hallway. The boxes suddenly seemed trivial.
“Margaret,” Susan finally said, “let’s move those boxes to my flat. I’ve space on the balcony.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“You’re not imposing. I wanted them gone—now I’m helping. If it’s to be done nicely, let’s do it nicely.”
They carried the boxes inside. Then Margaret put the kettle on.
“Tea?” she offered.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Susan said.
Over biscuits, Susan admitted she lived alone—husband gone five years, children abroad.
“I lash out,” she confessed. “Henry used toAs the three women planted flowers by the front steps the following spring, Susan turned to Margaret with a rare smile and said, “Suppose it was never about the clutter at all,” and Margaret simply nodded, knowing that what had truly needed clearing was the space between their hearts.
