**The Note on the Fridge**
Margaret Whitmore woke at half six, as always. Outside, it was still dark, but her internal clock had been unshakable for forty years. She rose, pulled on her dressing gown, and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A scrap of paper, held by a ladybird magnet, stood out against the fridge. Strange—she hadn’t left it there last night.
Margaret peeled it off and flicked on the light. The handwriting was unfamiliar, clumsy, as if written by someone unaccustomed to holding a pen.
*Dear Margaret, forgive the bother. I’m your neighbour from flat forty-seven. My name is Vera. I’m dreadfully embarrassed, but I’ve no one else to ask. Might I borrow a bit of sugar? I’ll return it, of course. Many thanks. Vera Sutcliffe.*
Margaret frowned. Neighbour from forty-seven? But the Wilsons lived there—a young family with children. She knew every resident in the building by heart, having been the tenants’ association chair for a decade.
The kettle whistled. She set the note aside and busied herself with breakfast, her stomach knotting. How had this Vera got into the flat? And why hadn’t she heard the Wilsons had moved out?
After eating, Margaret dressed and stepped into the hallway. She lingered outside number forty-seven, listening. Silence. No children’s voices, no chatter—just the faint hum of a telly.
Hesitantly, she pressed the buzzer.
“Who’s there?” came a raspy woman’s voice.
“Margaret Whitmore from forty-eight. Did you leave a note about sugar?”
The chain rattled, the door inched open. A wrinkled face and one wary eye peered through the gap.
“You’re Margaret?”
“I am. Vera Sutcliffe?”
“Yes, yes. Do come in.”
The chain dropped, the door swung wide. Margaret stepped inside—and froze. The flat was entirely different. No toys, no bright wallpaper, no family photos. Just modest, clean, old-fashioned furnishings.
“Sit down, please,” the woman gestured to the sofa. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Thank you, don’t mind if I do.”
Margaret studied her host. Vera looked well into her seventies, perhaps older. Silver hair neatly pinned, deep creases in her face—but her eyes were sharp, attentive.
“Sorry to trouble you,” Vera fretted with the tea. “Ran out of sugar, and I daren’t nip to the shop. My legs aren’t what they were.”
“Not to worry. But—where are the Wilsons? Have they moved?”
Vera stilled, cup in hand.
“Wilsons? Don’t know any Wilsons. I’ve lived here years.”
“How many?”
“Oh, fifteen at least. Maybe more.”
Margaret’s head spun. Fifteen years? Impossible. She’d seen the Wilsons just last week—the mother pushing a pram, the eldest boy scooting about on his bike.
“Vera, how did you stick the note on my fridge? My door’s always locked.”
The old woman blinked, bewildered.
“Note? What note?”
“The one you left this morning. About the sugar.”
“I didn’t leave any note. What on earth are you on about?”
Margaret pulled the scrap from her pocket. “This. Look—your name’s right here.”
Vera took it, tracing the words with a gnarled finger.
“No idea,” she said at last. “Not mine. Didn’t write it.”
“But it says Vera Sutcliffe.”
“Aye, that’s my name. But I didn’t write it. Someone’s pulling your leg.”
Margaret’s thoughts tangled. Vera seemed sincere—so who’d written it? And how had it ended up on her fridge?
“Tell you what,” she said, standing, “I’ll fetch that sugar. Keep the note—might jog your memory.”
“Ta ever so. You’re very kind.”
Back in her flat, Margaret’s questions multiplied. She filled a jar with sugar, then returned.
“Vera, might I ask—do you recall the Wilsons? Husband, wife, two kids. Lived here.”
Vera shook her head slowly.
“No, dear. Though… wait. Someone did live here once. But my memory’s not what it was.”
“Neighbours you chat with?”
“Hardly. All young, busy. Only old Mr. Harris from downstairs pops by, brings my shopping.”
Margaret knew Mr. Harris. Lived here since the building went up—he’d know.
“Thanks for the sugar,” Vera said. “I’ll bring it back.”
“No need. Keep it.”
Downstairs, she knocked on Mr. Harris’s door. He answered at once—must’ve been home.
“Margaret! Come in, come in. Fancy a brew?”
“No, ta. Mr. Harris—who lives in forty-seven?”
“Who d’you think? Vera Sutcliffe. Lovely woman, poorly though.”
“And the Wilsons?”
“What Wilsons?”
“The family that lived there before. Two kids.”
Mr. Harris gave her a long look.
“Margaret, you feeling alright? Never been any Wilsons here. Vera’s lived there nigh on twenty years.”
“But I saw them! Recently!”
“Must’ve mixed ’em up with someone. Age plays tricks, you know.”
Her legs wobbled. Was he right? Had she imagined them?
“Mr. Harris, Vera’s illness—you said she’s poorly?”
“Aye, poor soul. Memory’s gone. Forgets meals, names. I check on her, fetch her bits. No family left.”
“I see,” Margaret murmured.
Upstairs, she stared at the fridge where the note had been. The ladybird magnet remained.
All day, her mind buzzed. Was this early dementia? Were her memories slipping?
That evening, her son Daniel rang.
“Mum, you alright? Anything new?”
“Dan—be honest. Have I been acting odd?”
“Odd how?”
“Forgetful? Mixing things up?”
“No, Mum, you’re fine. Why?”
She told him about the note, the neighbour. Dan listened carefully.
“Mum, maybe Vera wrote it during a bad spell? You said her memory’s shot. Could’ve written then forgot.”
“But how’d she get into my flat?”
“Door not latched? Or asked someone to pass it on?”
His logic soothed her.
Next morning, she checked on Vera. A middle-aged workman answered.
“You wanting someone?”
“Vera Sutcliffe. I’m her neighbour.”
“Ah. Come in. She’s not great today.”
Inside, Vera lay on the sofa, blankets tucked round her. Frail, pale, eyes clouded.
“Vera, how are you?” Margaret asked softly.
The woman turned her head with effort.
“Who’re you?”
“Margaret Whitmore. Your neighbour. Came yesterday.”
“Don’t recall,” Vera whispered, eyes closing. “Don’t recall anything.”
The workman approached.
“Her nephew,” he said. “Came up from Dorset when I heard she’d taken bad. Taking her home.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Age, illness. Memory’s gone. Can’t look after herself. Not safe alone.”
Margaret watched Vera’s laboured breathing.
“Need any help?”
“Cheers, but we’re sorted. Taking her tomorrow.”
That evening, Margaret knocked again. No answer. She pressed her ear to the door—silence.
Downstairs, Mr. Harris shrugged.
“Gone, she has. Nephew took her. Saw ’em loading up this morning.”
“Gone? But last night he said tomorrow!”
“Plans change, love.”
Back home, unease gnawed at her. Something wasn’t right.
Next morning—another note on the fridge.
*Margaret—please forgive me. My name’s Vera. I live opposite, flat forty-seven. I need your help. Could you come? It’s urgent. Vera.*
Her hands shook. Vera was gone!
She rushed into the hall. Sounds drifted from number forty-seven—faint, but unmistakable.
No one answered the buzzer. She knocked, called—nothing.
“Mr. Harris!” She flew downstairs. “There’s someone in forty-seven!”
“Can’t be. Flat’s empty.”
“But I heard them!”
“Margaret… maybe see a doctor? You’ve not been yourself.”
At home, she stared at the note. Who was writing these? How were they getting in?
She checked locks, windows—all secure.
That night, Dan rang.
“Mum, alright? No more neighbour trouble?”
“Dan—remember the Wilsons from our building?”
“What Wilsons?”
“Husband, wife, two kids. Lived in forty-seven.”
“Mum, I’m hardly round. Don’t know your neighbours.”
“But you’ve seen them! The boy on his bike!”
“HonestlyAs she stood outside flat forty-seven one last time, the door creaked open on its own, revealing nothing but an empty, dust-filled room—and Margaret finally understood that some questions were never meant to be answered.
