A clash on the groundfloor landing
Maggie Hughes stood in the stairwell, clutching an old metal watering can as if it were her last weapon. On the landing of the first floor, where her clay pots of petunias, geraniums and violets usually brightened the space, chaos reigned: three pots smashed, soil scattered across the scuffed linoleum, and petals lay about like the remnants of a storm. The air smelled of damp, mould and a faint metallic tang from the railings. From flat12 blared electronic music with thudding bass. Maggie, in a floral housecoat dotted with daisies and her grey hair pulled into a tight bun, glared at the culprita brandnew black bike chained to the rail, parked squarely on her flower bed.
Who on earth did this? she muttered, her voice trembling with anger. My flowers! Ive tended them for decades, and now barbarians!
The door of flat12 swung open and Ryan, a twentysevenyearold neighbour in a grey sports tee and shorts, burst onto the landing. His dark hair was tousled from a workout and he clutched a brightlabelled water bottle.
Maggie, why are you shouting? he said, taking in the wreckage. Its just the pots, Im sorry, they fell off the bike. Ill buy new ones, no problem.
Maggie jabbed the watering can at him; a splash of water hit the floor.
No problem? Its not just flowers, Ryan! Theyre the soul of this building! You lot only know how to break things!
Ryan rolled his eyes, taking a sip.
Soul? Love, its just plants. My bike is more important I use it to get to the gym, I work early. And your pots take up all the space!
Lucy, Ryans younger sister, peeked out of her flat. Her light hair was tied in a careless bun and she held a battered psychology textbook, prepping for a university exam. She wore an oversized tee that read Dream Big.
Ryan, are you serious? she said, spotting the broken pots. Maggie, sorry, he didnt think. Ill clean it up.
Maggie snorted, her eyes flashing behind her glasses.
Didnt think? Thats selfish, Lucy! You youngsters only think of yourselves! My flowers brightened the whole block, and now theyre rubbish!
From above descended Sarah, a thirtyfiveyearold mother of two from flat15, pushing a pram with her little boy while her jeans bore smudges of apple puree. Trailing behind her was her teenage daughter Ellie, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Whats all this noise? Sarah asked, scanning the scene. Ryan, did you smash the flowers? Maggies right, they make the hall look nice!
Ryan tossed his water bottle onto the windowsill, the glass chiming.
Make the hall look nice? Half of them are wilted! Wed be better off changing the light bulbs than watering dead plants!
Mark, a solitary programmer from flat10, stuck his head out of his door, laptop under his arm. His glasses slid down his nose and his Linuxlogo tee was rumpled.
Ryan, calm down, he said, readjusting his spectacles. Plants are ecology, they give us oxygen. And your bike could live in the basement.
Ryan turned, his voice rising.
Ecology? Mark, you only pop up once a month and stare at your code! Where am I supposed to put my bike?
The landing turned into a battlefield, the broken pots symbolising a war of neighbours, each assigning their own meaning to the flowers.
The next day the dispute flared anew. Maggie hauled fresh pots from her basement stash and, with theatrical flourish, watered the petunias while grumbling about illbehaved youth. Her colourful coat swayed, the watering can glittered under the dim bulb. Ryan, back from his workout, found his bike again shoved into a corner, surrounded by empty pots, and called his sister.
Lucy, what circus is this? he shouted, jabjabbing at the pots. I told you I need space!
Lucy, sitting at their kitchen table piled with notes, put down her textbook.
Ryan, dont start. I talked to Maggie shes genuinely upset. Maybe apologise?
Ryan snorted, kicking off his trainers with a thud.
Apologise? For what? Shes planted her flowers everywhere, and Im supposed to rearrange my life? This is my hall too!
Lucy sighed, her tone softening but firm.
This is our hall, Ryan. And hers too. She grows those flowers for everyone, and you smashed the pots. Understand it matters to her.
Sarah appeared again, holding her younger sons hand, while Ellie dragged her backpack, a unicorn keyring swinging.
Ryan, you again? Sarah asked, eyebrows knitting. My kids love those flowers! Ellie even helped water them!
Ryan flailed, his tee lifting.
Kids? Sarah, your children trample the flowers, they run over them! Ellie almost knocked a pot over yesterday!
Ellie pouted, her braids bouncing.
Thats not true! I watered carefully! You ruined everything!
Mark, passing by with a bin bag, stopped, his laptop peeking from his bag.
Ryan, chill out, he said, adjusting his glasses. I agree with Maggie the flowers make the place cosy. Maybe store the bike in the garage?
Ryan turned, cheeks reddening.
Garage? I dont have a garage! And youre always solving everyones problems while the hall stays a mess!
Hearing the commotion, Maggie emerged from her flat, watering can in hand, slippers shuffling on the floor.
Ryan, enough! she cried, voice shaking. My flowers dont bother anyone! Youre the selfish one, just like all young people!
Lucy stepped forward, pleading.
Maggie, Ryan didnt mean it. Let me buy new pots and well move the bike inside.
Maggie shook her head, her glasses fogging.
I dont need your pots, Lucy. I need order. And respect!
That evening Lucy went to the DIY shop to buy new pots, hoping to make up for her brothers mistake. The gardencentre aisles smelled of earth and plastic. She selected two sturdy clay pots, but then her eyes landed on a tray of petunias bright as the ones Maggie loved. Lucy remembered the old lady once giving her a sweet when she helped water the flowers as a child. Back then the stairwell felt like a home, not a battlefield.
In line she ran into Sophie, Sarahs friend from the next block.
Lucy, what are you doing with those pots? Sophie asked, tugging a grocery basket. Another flower war?
Lucy exhaled, fingers tightening around a pots handle.
Yes. Ryan broke them, Maggies furious. Im trying to patch things up, but everyones shouting.
Sophie shook her head, earrings tinkling.
Typical block of flats. But Maggies a woman with a story. Those flowers arent just a hobby. Talk to her, Lucy.
The next night Lucy knocked on Maggies door. The elderly woman opened, her kitchen smelling of mint tea and fresh cabbage pastries. On the table lay an old photo album that Maggie had pulled out while brewing tea in a scuffed teapot.
Come in, dear, Maggie said, placing a daisypatterned mug before her. Youre a good girl, unlike your brother.
Lucy smiled, but her gaze fell on the album.
Maggie, may I look? Are these your flowers?
Maggie nodded, eyes softening, fingers trembling.
Take a look. Thats me with my son, Sam, planting petunias. He was ten.
Lucy opened the album and froze. The photo showed a young Maggie laughing, watering a pot alongside a boy with the same lightcoloured eyes and cheek dimples as Lucys. The following pages were newspaper clippings about a tragic accident in which a teenager had died.
Is that your son? Lucy whispered, voice shaking.
Maggie gave a hoarse nod.
Yes. Sam was sixteen when a lorry hit him at a crossroads. Ive kept
