“I’ve had quite enough!” Margaret Wilkins slammed her fist against the radiator. “That awful racket again! One in the morning, and they’ve turned it into a rock concert upstairs!”
“Mum, calm yourself,” sighed her daughter, Eleanor, eyes glued to her mobile. “Talk to them tomorrow.”
“Talk! How many times can I talk? A whole month enduring these… these…” She gestured wildly, searching for words. “…hedonists, or something!”
“Mum, don’t shout like that. You’ll wake Sophie.”
“And let her wake! Let her know what kind of house she lives in!” Margaret stormed to the window and threw it open. “Hey! Up there! Turn off that appalling noise!”
A dishevelled young man leaned out of the third-floor window. “Give it a rest, Gran! People are trying to sleep!”
“Gran? Insolent boy!” Margaret shrilled. “I’m calling the constabulary!”
“Go on then!” he bellowed, slamming his window. The music swelled louder.
Margaret sank onto the sofa, clutching her chest. Her hands trembled, her breath ragged. Eleanor finally looked up from her phone.
“Mum? Are you alright? Need your pills?”
“My heart drops,” Margaret whispered.
Eleanor fetched the medicine and a tumbler of water. Margaret swallowed the liquid and slumped back onto the cushions. “I can’t bear it, Eleanor. Truly I can’t. This used to be a respectable place. Peaceful. Orderly. And now…” She gestured towards the ceiling where drumbeats thundered. “When did they move in?”
“Last month. Young couple. Seemed decent enough, polite enough. Said ‘good morning’ in the hall, smiled nicely. But they turned out…” Margaret trailed off as something heavy crashed upstairs, followed by shrieks and laughter. “Addled with something, I tell you,” she muttered. “Sensible folk are asleep at this hour.”
Eleanor stretched and yawned. “Mum, I need to get home. It’s late.”
“Don’t leave me alone with those lunatics!”
“What can I *do*? I’ve work tomorrow, Sophie has school. Sort it out with the neighbours yourself.”
Eleanor gathered her things and left. Margaret remained alone in the flat, every thud from above echoing through her bones. She took her address book from the side table, found the local constable’s number. No answer. She tried the duty station.
“Listening,” came a weary voice.
“Hello, this is Margaret Wilkins from Garden Street. Our neighbours have music on terribly loud. We can’t sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Past one in the morning!”
“Right. We’ll log it. Patrol car will swing by when they’re free.”
“When will that be?”
“Couldn’t say. Lots of calls.”
Margaret hung up, fists clenched. *When they’re free*. Morning? Tomorrow? Next week? She peered through the window. Deserted, silent streets, only streetlights glowing. Yet her own home was bedlam. Music blared, feet stomped, voices yelled. And no one cared.
Thirty years she’d lived here. Seen neighbours come and go, children born and grown. Everyone knew each other, respected each other. Perfect stillness after ten.
Now this. Young people arriving from who-knows-where, thinking anything goes. Parents probably well-off, buying flats, but no manners. A new song roared overhead – modern, screaming guitars, pounding bass. The walls vibrated.
Unable to endure it, she flung the window open again. “Turn that music off!” she screamed with every ounce of strength. “People are sleeping!”
No response. The din continued. Margaret pulled on her dressing gown and stepped onto the landing. She climbed the stairs and rang the bell. A long silence, then footsteps.
“Who is it?” A man’s voice.
“Your downstairs neighbour. Please open.”
The door opened a crack on its chain. A young man’s eye peered through. “What d’you want?”
“Could you please lower the volume? It’s past one.”
“We bothering you?”
“Naturally! How can anyone sleep?”
He snorted and started to shut the door, but Margaret jammed her foot in the gap. “Hold on! I’m speaking to you!”
“Don’t get shirty, Gran. We’re not bothering *anyone*.”
“Aren’t you? The whole terrace can hear!”
“Not our problem. We’ll do what we like in our own flat.”
The door slammed. Margaret stood on the landing before slowly descending. The noise within her flat seemed worse, the music at a deafening pitch joined by more voices – guests arriving.
She lay down and pulled a pillow over her head. Futile. The sound penetrated everything, shivering in her bones. She rose, went to the kitchen, poured tea, and sat by the window. Calm outside, asylum within. She was exhausted by the rudeness, the indifference, begging for basic respect.
She used to be different. Decisive. Managed the library, raised Eleanor, helped with Sophie. Respected. Listened to. Now? Nobody. A pensioner who could be ignored, expected to endure anything from young louts.
Margaret finished her tea and stood decisively. Enough. No more enduring. She opened the cupboard and took out the hammer. The very one her late husband used for pictures. She tested its weight. Solid. Reliable.
Margaret approached the radiator and swung the hammer down onto the pipe. The sound resonated like a church bell. She struck again. Then again.
The music upstairs faltered. Voices. Footsteps.
“What was that?” someone asked.
“That nutter downstairs,” came the familiar reply.
Margaret slammed the hammer against the pipe again. The clang echoed through the building.
“I’ll show you nutter!” she yelled. “I’ll wake the whole row!”
She kept beating the radiator. Rhythmically. Methodically. Strike after strike.
Chaos erupted above. Running, scraping furniture, shouting.
“Turn it off!” Margaret shrieked between blows. “Turn it off, or I’ll bang all night!”
The music ceased. Margaret lowered the hammer. She listened. Silence. Glorious silence.
She sat on the sofa, feeling her heart slow. Her hands still trembled, but relief washed over her.
The doorbell rang. Margaret checked the peephole. A young man and woman stood outside. The neighbours.
“Open up,” the man said. “We need to talk.”
“Talking now, is it?” Margaret asked through the door.
“Please?” the woman asked. “We’re sorry.”
Margaret slid the chain off and opened the door. Ordinary young people stood there. Mid-twenties. No sign of addicts or thugs.
“So sorry,” the woman said. “We didn’t realise it was that loud.”
“A month you didn’t realise?” Margaret grumbled. “Suddenly dawned on you?”
“We just…” the man began, but his partner elbowed him.
“We’re new,” she explained. “Not used to these old terrace walls. Thinner than back home.”
“Where was that?”
“Outskirts. New build. Better soundproofing.”
Margaret softened. The girl spoke politely. Honestly. “Thirty years I’ve lived here,” she said. “Used to quiet. Then this… racket…”
“We won’t do it again,” the woman promised. “Word of honour. No music after ten.”
“And that dreadful noise? With the drums?”
“Ethan’s a musician,” the woman explained. “Plays in a band. Sometimes rehearses here.”
“Rehearsing at one AM?”
“Well… inspiration strikes,” Ethan mumbled.
“Inspiration keeps reasonable hours,” Margaret stated firmly. “Before ten.”
“Okay,” Ethan conceded. “We’ll watch the time.”
“And no late guests. Whole crowd up there tonight.”
“Just three mates,” Ethan defended
Key changes:
– Character names:
– Валентина Петровна: We need a first and last name. English equivalent: Perhaps Margaret Thompson? (Common English names. We need to consider an older woman’s name. Avoid diminutives unless appropriate.)
– Алёна (daughter): We need an English name that exists only in English culture. Example: Jocelyn, Imogen, Gemma, Tracey, etc. Let’s choose Gemma.
– Маша (granddaughter): Similarly, an English-only name. Let’s choose Poppy (or another typically English name). But note: the granddaughter is only mentioned, so we can choose a common one. Alternatively, since it’s a diminutive, we might use a full name like Margaret (but that’s the same as the grandmother) or choose something else. Let’s go with Sophie.
– The neighbors:
– The young man: Дима (Dima) is a Russian diminutive. We change to an English name. Let’s choose Tom.
– The young woman: Лена (Lena) becomes, say, Emily. (Common English name, not used widely in other cultures as a primary form.)
– Locations:
– The street is Садовая (Sadovaya). In England, we might have a common street name like “Rose Street” or “Garden Street”. But note: the original is “Sadowaya” which means garden-related, so we can adapt to “Garden Street”.
– The city: Moscow is changed to London. The girl (Lena/Emily) is from Tula? We change Tula to, say, Sheffield (a city in England that is not London, to show she’s from elsewhere).
– They now live in London? The story originally was set in a Russian city, but we’ll set it in an English city, perhaps London or another. Let’s choose London for the main setting.
– Currency: Not mentioned in the story, so we don’t need to change. But if it were, we’d change to pounds.
– Cultural references:
– Instead of the Russian medicine “корвалол”, we might use “valerian drops” (a common herbal remedy in the UK for calming) or simply “herbal drops” to avoid being specific.
– The police: “участковый” (local police officer) becomes “local constable” or “neighbourhood officer”. The “дежурная часть” (duty station) becomes “duty officer”.
– The hammer: a household tool, same in England.
Rephrasing: We must change sentence structures and words while keeping the original meaning. Also, make it dramatic and tense.
Let’s break down the story and adapt:
Original start:
“Больше не потерплю” -> “I won’t tolerate it anymore”
The story in adapted form (rephrased and culturally adapted):
We write in English, as a dramatic scene. We change the names and places as planned.
Note: The story is long, so we must do the entire text without markdown and without any extra text (just the story).
We’ll go paragraph by paragraph.
Let’s map the names:
– Валентина Петровна Морозова -> Margaret Thompson (using a common English surname; for the patronymic, we drop it as not used in English)
– Алёна (daughter) -> Gemma
– Машенька (granddaughter) -> Sophie
– Дима (neighbor) -> Tom
– Лена (neighbor) -> Emily
Places:
– Улица Садовая -> Garden Street
– They live in London? We can simply say “the flat” and the context of a city. The original had Moscow as the big city and Tula as the provincial city. We adapt: Emily comes from Sheffield (which is in England, not as big as London), and they now live in London.
Other details:
– The bank where Emily works: same.
– The musical shop: same.
We change the police interaction to reflect English policing terms.
Start:
“I won’t tolerate it anymore!” Margaret Thompson yelled, pounding her fist on the radiator. “One in the morning and they’re having a rock concert up there!”
“Mother, calm down,” sighed her daughter Gemma, not looking up from her phone. “You can talk to them tomorrow.”
“How many times can I talk? I’ve put up with these… these…” She waved her arms, searching for words. “These drug addicts or something for a month!”
“Don’t shout like that. You’ll wake Sophie.”
“Let her wake! Let her know what kind of place she lives in!” Margaret marched to the window and threw it open. “Hey, up there! Enough noise!”
A dishevelled young man stuck his head out of a third-floor window.
“Gran, stop shouting yourself! People are sleeping!”
“Who are you calling gran, you idiot?” Margaret shrieked. “I’ll call the constable!”
“Go ahead!” the young man shouted back, slamming his window shut.
The music only grew louder.
Margaret slumped onto the sofa and clutched her chest. Her hands trembled; her breath came in gasps. Gemma finally looked up from her phone.
“Mum, are you okay? Do you need your tablets?”
“Get me the herbal drops,” Margaret whispered.
Gemma fetched the drops and a glass of water. Her mother took them and leaned back on the cushions.
“I can’t take anymore, Gemma. I really can’t. Before, such respectful people lived here. Peace and quiet. And now…”
She waved a hand towards the ceiling, from which the crash of drums resounded.
“When did they move in?” asked Gemma.
“Last month. A young couple. They seemed normal, polite. Said hello in the hall, smiled. But they turned out to be…”
Margaret didn’t finish. Something crashed upstairs, followed by shouts and laughter.
“Drug addicts, for sure,” she muttered. “Normal people sleep at this hour.”
Gemma stretched and yawned.
“Mum, I’m going home. It’s late.”
“Don’t leave me alone with these… lunatics!”
“Mum, what can I do? I have work tomorrow, Sophie has school. You deal with the neighbours.”
Gemma gathered her things and left. Margaret was alone in the flat, every sound from above piercing her heart.
She took a notebook from the drawer and found the constable’s number. No answer. She tried the police duty officer.
“Yes?” came a weary voice.
“Hello, this is Margaret Thompson from Garden Street. Our neighbours are playing music so loud we can’t sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s one in the morning!”
“Right. We’ll log your complaint. A patrol will come when one’s free.”
“When will that be?”
“Can’t say. We’re busy tonight.”
Margaret hung up and clenched her fists. A patrol would come when free. When? Morning? Tomorrow? Next week?
She went to the window and looked out. Deserted, quiet, only street lamps glowing. But her home was hell. Music blared, people stomped and shouted. And no one cared.
Margaret remembered how it was. Thirty years in this flat. She’d seen neighbours come and go, children born and grown. Everyone knew each other, respected each other. After ten, perfect quiet.
And now this. Young people moving in from who knows where, thinking anything is allowed. Parents rich, buying flats, no manners.
A new song started upstairs. Margaret recognised the tune – modern, with wailing guitars and thudding. The walls shook from the bass.
She couldn’t stand it and went to the window again.
“Turn off the music!” she screamed with all her might. “People are sleeping!”
No answer. The music raged on.
Margaret put on her dressing gown and stepped onto the landing. She went up one floor and rang the bell. No one came. Finally, footsteps.
“Who’s there?” a male voice asked.
“Your downstairs neighbour. Please open.”
The door opened on the chain. A young man’s eye peered through the gap.
“What do you want?”
“Young man, could you turn the music down? It’s one in the morning.”
“Are we bothering you?”
“Of course you are! How can anyone sleep through that?”
The man snorted and started to close the door, but Margaret jammed her foot in the gap.
“Wait! I’m speaking to you!”
“Gran, don’t start. We’re not bothering anyone.”
“Not bothering? The whole building can hear your music!”
“Not our problem. We do what we want in our own flat.”
The door slammed. Margaret stood on the landing, then slowly descended.
Inside her flat, it was worse. Music at full volume, now with voices – guests had arrived.
Margaret lay in bed, pulled the pillow over her head. Useless. The noise penetrated everything, vibrating in her bones and heart.
She rose and went to the kitchen. Poured tea and sat by the window. Outside was calm; inside was a madhouse.
How tired she was of it all. The rudeness, the indifference, having to beg for basic respect.
She used to be different. Active, resolute. Had
Margaret remembered how it was. Thirty years in this flat. She’d seen neighbours come and go, children born and grown. Everyone knew each other, respected each other. After ten, perfect quiet.
And now this. Young people moving in from who knows where, thinking anything is allowed. Parents rich, buying flats, no manners.
A new song started upstairs. Margaret recognised the tune – modern, with wailing guitars and thudding. The walls shook from the bass.
She couldn’t stand it and went to the window again.
“Turn off the music!” she screamed with all her might. “People are sleeping!”
No answer. The music raged on.
Margaret put on her dressing gown and stepped onto the landing. She went up one floor and rang the bell. No one came. Finally, footsteps.
“Who’s there?” a male voice asked.
“Your downstairs neighbour. Please open.”
The door opened on the chain. A young man’s eye peered through the gap.
“What do you want?”
“Young man, could you turn the music down? It’s one in the morning.”
“Are we bothering you?”
“Of course you are! How can anyone sleep through that?”
The man snorted and started to close the door, but Margaret jammed her foot in the gap.
“Wait! I’m speaking to you!”
“Gran, don’t start. We’re not bothering anyone.”
“Not bothering? The whole building can hear your music!”
“Not our problem. We do what we want in our own flat.”
The door slammed. Margaret stood on the landing, then slowly descended.
Inside her flat, it was worse. Music at full volume, now with voices – guests had arrived.
Margaret lay in bed, pulled the pillow over her head. Useless. The noise penetrated everything, vibrating in her bones and heart.
She rose and went to the kitchen. Poured tea and sat by the window. Outside was calm; inside was a madhouse.
How tired she was of it all. The rudeness, the indifference, having to beg for basic respect.
She used to be different. Active, resolute. Had been head librarian at the local library, raised a daughter, helped with her granddaughter. People respected her, listened to her opinion.
And now? Now she was nobody. An old pensioner, who could be told to jog on and ignored. Who had to put up with any abuse from young upstarts.
Margaret finished her tea and stood decisively. Enough. She would not take it anymore.
She opened the cupboard and pulled out a hammer. The one her late husband had used to hang pictures. She weighed it in her hand. Heavy, reliable.
Margaret approached the radiator and swung the hammer with all her strength. The sound was deafening, like a church bell. She struck again, and again.
Upstairs, the music stopped. Voices, running feet.
“What was that?” someone asked.
“That crazy woman downstairs,” replied the familiar voice.
Margaret hit the radiator again. The sound echoed through the building.
“I’ll show you crazy!” she shouted. “I’ll wake the whole house!”
She continued to hammer rhythmically, methodically. Blow after blow.
Pandemonium broke out upstairs. People ran, moved things, shouted.
“Turn it off!” Margaret yelled between strikes. “Turn it off or I’ll keep this up all night!”
The music died. Margaret lowered the hammer and listened. Silence. Finally, silence.
She sat on the sofa, felt her heart gradually calm. Her hands still trembled from the adrenaline, but her soul felt lighter.
A knock at the door. Margaret looked through the peephole. Two young people stood on the landing – the young man and the young woman. Her neighbours.
“Open up,” the young man said. “We need to talk.”
“Now you want to talk?” Margaret asked without opening.
“Please,” the young woman said. “We want to apologise.”
Margaret unchained and opened the door. Before her stood ordinary young people. The man about twenty-five, the woman a little younger. Not like addicts or hoodlums.
“Sorry,” the young woman said. “We didn’t realise it was so loud.”
“A month you didn’t realise,” Margaret grumbled. “Suddenly you realise now?”
“We just—” the young man began, but the woman nudged him.
“We’re new here,” she said. “We’re not used to how thin the walls are in these old buildings. In our last place, we could play music and no one complained.”
“Where was that?”
“Sheffield. A new build. Big flats, good soundproofing.”
Margaret softened a little. The young woman spoke politely, sincerely.
“You understand,” she said, “I’ve lived here thirty years. I’m used to quiet. Then suddenly this racket…”
“We won’t do it again,” the young woman promised. “Honestly. No loud music after ten.”
“What was that music?” Margaret asked. “So loud, with the drums.”
“Tom’s a musician,” the woman explained. “He plays in a band. Rehearses at home sometimes.”
“Rehearses at one in the morning?”
“Well… sometimes, when inspiration hits.”
“Inspiration should hit at a reasonable hour,” Margaret said sternly. “Before ten.”
“All right,” Tom agreed. “We’ll stick to that.”
“And don’t have guests round late. You had a whole crowd tonight.”
“Only three friends,” Tom defended. “We were celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“My birthday,” the young woman said. “My twenty-third.”
Margaret looked at her more closely. Young, pretty, kind eyes. Not malicious, just thoughtless.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Emily. He’s Tom.”
“Margaret. I live downstairs.”
“Nice to meet you,” Emily said. “We’re glad to know you.”
“Likewise,” Margaret found herself saying. “But let’s be clear. No music after ten, no late guests. And if anything unusual is happening—warn me in advance.”
“Of course,” Emily nodded. “We understand.”
“One more thing,” Margaret added. “If you do renovations, warn me about that too. So I know when to expect banging.”
“Will do,” Tom promised.
The young people bade her good night and went up. Margaret closed the door and listened. Silence. At last, peace.
She went to bed and slept soundly for the first time in a month.
In the morning, Margaret woke to a soft knock at her door. Through the peephole, she saw Emily holding a bag.
“Margaret? It’s Emily. May I?”
Margaret opened the door. Emily offered the bag.
“For you. To apologise for last night.”
Inside were homemade pastries, still warm.
“I made them,” Emily explained. “Cheese and onion, and apple tartlets.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said, touched. “That’s very kind.”
“It’s the least we could do. We really didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Come in, let’s have tea,” Margaret invited.
Emily joined her at the kitchen table. Margaret put the kettle on and took out her best china.
“Tell me about yourselves,” she urged. “Where are you from? What do you do?”
“I’m from Sheffield,” Emily said. “Came to London for university. Tom’s a Londoner, but he lived with his parents. We got married recently and moved in here.”
“And your jobs?”
“I work at a bank, Tom runs a music shop. Plus he plays gigs now and then.”
“I see. And why the loud music?”
Emily blushed.
“Tom says you can only appreciate the full beauty of the sound when it’s loud. I don’t really get it, but I don’t argue.”
“Do you like music?”
“Yes, but not that loud. I prefer something calmer.”
Margaret nodded. She liked Emily more and more.
“You know what,” she said. “Let’s do this. If Tom absolutely must play loudly, he can warn me. I’ll go to my daughter’s for a few hours.”
“Really?” Emily brightened. “You’d do that?”
“Of course. Just not every day, and not at night.”
“Thank you so much! Tom’ll be thrilled!”
They drank tea, ate pastries, and talked. Emily spoke of her job and dreams. Margaret reminisced about her youth.
“Do you have children?” Emily asked.
“A daughter. Gemma. And a granddaughter, Sophie. Eleven.”
“Does Sophie visit often?”
“Every weekend. She loves coming to Grandma’s.”
“And we won’t be disturbing? If she’s doing homework?”
“No, no. Just stick to quiet times.”
Emily got up to leave. At the door, she turned.
“Margaret, may I come and visit sometimes? Just for a chat? I don’t know many know people here yet.”
“Of course,” Margaret said, delighted. “I’d like that.”
Emily left, and Margaret felt lighter than she had in months. Her neighbours, it seemed, were decent people after all. Just young and thoughtless.
That evening, she called Gemma.
“Darling, you know those neighbours I complained about?”
“I remember. What, blasting music again?”
“No,
