The conflict on the groundfloor landing
Ethel Whitaker stood in the hallway, clutching an old metal watering can as if it were the last weapon she owned. On the landing of the ground floor, where her clay pots of petunias, geraniums and violets usually stood like tiny soldiers, chaos reigned: three pots shattered, soil spilled across the worn linoleum, petals littered the floor like the remnants of a storm. The air smelled of damp plaster, mould and a faint metallic tang from the rusted railings. From flat12 blared an electronic beat with thudding bass. Ethel, wrapped in a daisyprinted dressing gown and her silver hair pulled into a tight bun, stared at the culprit a brandnew black bike chained to the rail right where her flowerbed had been.
Who on earth has done this? she muttered, her voice trembling with anger. My flowers! Ive tended them for half a lifetime and now barbarians!
The door of flat12 swung open and Jack Harper, a twentysevenyearold neighbour in a grey sports tee and shorts, burst onto the landing. His dark hair was a mess from a workout and he clutched a brightlabelled bottle of water.
Ethel, why are you shouting? he said, glancing over the wreckage. Its just the bikes I parked my bike and the pots fell. Ill buy new ones, no problem.
Ethel jabbed the watering can toward him, splashing water onto the floor.
Buy new ones? These arent just pots, Jack! Theyre the soul of the hallway! You lot only know how to break things!
Jack rolled his eyes, taking a sip.
The soul? Grandmother, theyre just plants. My bike is more important I ride it to the gym, I work late. Your pots take up all the space!
Lucy Harper, Jacks younger sister, peeked out of the flat. Her light hair was tied in a careless knot and she cradled a battered psychology textbook, preparing for a university exam. She wore an oversized Tshirt that read Dream Big.
Jack, seriously? she said, seeing the broken pots. Ethel, forgive him, he didnt think. Ill clean it up.
Ethel snorted, her glasses flashing.
Didnt think? Thats selfish, Lucy! You young folk only think of yourselves! My flowers brought joy to the whole building, and he tossed them to the rubbish!
From above descended Sarah Collins, a thirtyfiveyearold mother of two from flat15. She pushed a pram with her youngest son, her jeans stained with apple purée. Behind her trailed her teenage daughter, Molly, with a backpack.
Whats all this noise? Sarah asked, scanning the scene. Jack, was it you who smashed the flowers? Ethels right, they brighten the hallway!
Jack flung the water bottle onto the windowsill, it clinked against the glass.
Brighten? Half of them are wilting! Wed be better off changing the lights than watering these things!
Simon Clarke, a solitary programmer from flat10, stuck his head out of his doorway, laptop under his arm. His glasses slid down his nose and his Linuxlogo tee was crumpled.
Jack, calm down, Simon said, adjusting his glasses. Flowers are ecology, they give us oxygen. Your bike could live in the basement.
Jack turned, his voice rising.
Ecology? Simon, you only pop up once a month, buried in code! Where am I supposed to keep my bike?
The landing turned into an arena, the broken pots becoming symbols of a war between neighbours, each seeing something different in the wilted blossoms.
The next day the dispute flared anew. Ethel hauled fresh pots from the basement, where she kept a reserve, and demonstratively watered the petunias, muttering about illbred youth. Her colourful gown swayed, the watering can glinting under the dim bulb. Jack, returning from training, found his bike again shoved into a corner piled with empty pots and called his sister.
Lucy, what circus is this? he shouted, jabbing at the pots. I told you I need space!
Lucy, sitting at their kitchen table surrounded by notes, set her textbook aside.
Jack, dont start. Ive spoken to Ethel shes truly upset. Maybe you could apologise?
Jack snorted, pulling off his trainers, which thudded heavily onto the floor.
Apologise? For what? Shes planted her flowers everywhere, and Im supposed to move? This is my hallway too!
Lucy breathed out, her tone softening but firm.
This is our hallway, Jack. And hers too. She grows those flowers for everyone, and you broke the pots. Understand that they matter to her.
From above Sarah appeared again, holding her younger sons hand. Molly dragged her backpack, a unicorn keyring swinging.
Jack, you again? Sarah said, eyebrows knit. My kids love those flowers! Molly even helped water them!
Jack flailed his arms, his tee riding up.
Kids? Sarah, your children trample the flowers, they run over them! Molly almost knocked a pot over yesterday!
Molly puffed out her cheeks, her braids bouncing.
Thats not true! I watered carefully! You ruined everything!
Simon, passing with a bag of rubbish, stopped, his laptop peeking from his bag.
Jack, relax, he said, readjusting his spectacles. I agree with Ethel flowers make the place feel like home. Maybe store the bike in a garage?
Jack turned, his cheeks flushing.
Garage? I dont have a garage! And you always think you can solve everything while the hallway stays a mess!
Ethel, hearing the clamor, emerged from her flat with the watering can, her slippers scuffing the floor.
Jack, enough! she cried, voice shaking. My flowers bother no one! Youre the selfish one, just like all the young folk!
Lucy stepped forward, pleading.
Ethel, Jack didnt mean it. Let me buy new pots and well find a place for the bike inside.
But Ethel shook her head, her glasses fogging.
I dont want your pots, Lucy. I want order. And respect!
That evening Lucy went to the shop to buy new pots, hoping to mend her brothers guilt. The garden aisle smelled of earth and plastic. She selected two clay pots, but her eyes fell on petunias bright as the ones Ethel adored. Lucy remembered a time when the old lady had given her a sweet when she was a child, after helping water the flowers. Then the hallway had felt like a home, not a battlefield.
In line she met Sophie, a friend of Sarahs who lived in the next block.
Lucy, whats with the pots? Sophie asked, tugging at her shopping basket. Another war over flowers?
Lucy sighed, fingers tightening around a pots handle.
Yes. Jack smashed them, Ethels furious. Im trying to make peace, but everyones shouting.
Sophie shook her head, her earrings tinkling.
Typical block of flats. But Ethels a woman with history. Those flowers arent just a hobby. Talk to her, Lucy.
The next night Lucy knocked on Ethels door. The old lady opened, her
