The conflict on the ground floor
Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves stood in the stairwell, clutching an old metal watering can as if it were her last weapon. On the firstfloor landing, where her clay pots of petunias, geraniums and violets usually brightened the hallway, chaos reigned: three pots lay shattered, soil spilled across the worn linoleum, and petals littered the floor like the remnants of a storm. The air smelled of damp, mould and a faint metallic tang from the handrails. From flat12, throbbing electronic music with heavy bass echoed out.
Margaret, wrapped in a colourful daisypatterned dressing gown and with her silver hair pulled into a tight bun, stared at the culprit a brandnew black bike chained to the rail, parked right on top of her flower bed.
Who on earth did this? she muttered, her voice trembling with fury. My flowers! Ive tended them for half a lifetime and now barbarians!
The door of flat12 burst open and Jack Whitaker, a twentysevenyearold neighbour in a grey sports tee and shorts, sprang onto the landing. His dark hair was ragged from a workout and he clutched a bottle of water with a bright label.
MrsHargreaves, why are you shouting? he said, glancing at the wreckage. Its just the pots, they fell off the bike. Ill buy new ones, no problem.
Margaret jabbed the watering can toward him, splashing water onto the floor.
No problem? These arent just flowers, Jack! Theyre the soul of this building! And you lot only know how to smash things!
Jack rolled his eyes, taking a sip.
The soul? Maam, theyre just plants. My bike is more important I ride it to the gym, I work late, and your pots take up all the space!
Molly Whitaker, Jacks younger sister, peeked out of the flat. Her light hair was tied in a careless knot and she held a battered psychology textbook, preparing for a university exam. She wore an oversized tee that read Dream Big.
Jack, are you serious? she said, seeing the broken pots. MrsHargreaves, forgive him, he didnt think. Ill clean it up now.
Margaret snorted, her eyes flashing behind her glasses.
Didnt think? Thats selfish, Molly! You youngsters only think of yourselves! My flowers brought joy to everyone, and hes turned them to rubbish!
From above, Sarah Collins, a thirtyfiveyearold mother of two from flat15, descended pushing a pram with her youngest son. Her jeans were stained with apple puree. Behind her trailed her older daughter, Lucy, with a backpack.
Whats all this noise? Sarah asked, looking around. Jack, did you break the flowers? Margarets right, they brighten the hallway!
Jack tossed the water bottle onto the windowsill, the glass clinking.
Brighten? Half of them are wilted! We should be changing the lights, not watering flowers!
Peter Morgan, 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 crumpled.
Jack, calm down, Peter said, adjusting his glasses. Plants are ecology, they give us oxygen. You could store the bike in the basement.
Jack turned, his voice rising.
Ecology? Peter, you only appear here once a month, buried in your code! Where am I supposed to keep a bike?
The landing turned into an arena, the broken pots symbols of a neighbourly war, each side seeing the flowers as something different.
The next day the dispute flared anew. Margaret hauled fresh pots from the basement where she kept a reserve, and deliberately watered the petunias while muttering about illmannered youth. Her colourful gown swayed, the watering can glinting under the dim bulb. Jack, returning from a training session, found his bike shoved into a corner piled with empty pots and called his sister.
Molly, whats this circus? he shouted, gesturing at the pots. I told you I need space!
Molly, sitting at the kitchen table in their flat surrounded by notes, set her textbook aside.
Jack, dont start. Ive spoken to Margaret shes genuinely upset. Maybe you could apologise?
Jack snorted, kicking off his trainers with a dull thud.
Apologise? For what? Shes planted those flowers everywhere, and Im supposed to bend? This is my hallway too!
Molly sighed, her tone softening but firm.
This is our hallway, Jack. And hers too. She grows the flowers for everyone, and you broke the pots. Understand they matter to her.
Sarah descended again, holding her younger sons hand. Lucy tugged her backpack, a unicorn keychain dangling.
Jack, you again? Sarah said, eyebrows knit. My kids love those flowers! Lucy even helped water them!
Jack waved his arms, his tee flapping.
Kids? Sarah, your children trample the flowers, they run over them! Lucy almost knocked a pot over yesterday!
Lucy pouted, her braids bouncing.
Thats not true! I watered carefully! You ruined everything!
Peter, passing by with a garbage bag, stopped, his laptop peeking from his bag.
Jack, relax, he said, adjusting his glasses. I agree with Margaret the flowers make the place feel like home. Maybe the bike belongs in the garage?
Jack turned, cheeks reddening.
Garage? I dont have a garage! And youre always solving everyones problems while never cleaning the hallway yourself!
Margaret, hearing the commotion, emerged from her flat with her watering can, slippers scuffing the floor.
Jack, enough! she shouted, voice shaking. My flowers dont bother anyone! Youre an egoist, just like all the young folk!
Molly stepped forward, pleading.
MrsHargreaves, Jack didnt mean it. Let me buy new pots and well move the bike inside.
But Margaret shook her head, her glasses fogging.
I dont need your pots, Molly. I need order. And respect!
That evening Molly went to the local DIY store to buy new pots, hoping to atone for her brothers mistake. The gardencentre aisles smelled of soil and plastic. She selected two clay pots, but then her eyes fell on a tray of petunias bright as the ones Margaret adored. She recalled a time when the old lady had given her a sweet when she was a child, after helping water the flowers. Back then the hallway felt like a home, not a battlefield.
In line she met Sophie, a friend of Sarahs who lived in the next block.
Molly, what are you doing with those pots? Sophie asked, juggling a grocery basket. Another flower war?
Molly exhaled, gripping the pot handle.
Exactly. Jack smashed them, Margarets furious. Im trying to make peace, but everyones shouting.
Sophie shook her head, earrings tinkling.
Typical flatblock drama. But Margarets a woman with a story. Those flowers mean more than a hobby. Talk to her, Molly.
The next night Molly knocked on Margarets door. The old woman opened, the kitchen smelling of mint tea and fresh cabbage pies. On the table lay an old photo album, which Molly noticed as Margaret brewed tea in a dented kettle.
Come in, dear, Margaret said, placing a daisypatterned cup
