The Note on the Fridge
Margaret Hamilton woke at half six, as she always did. It was still dark outside, but her internal clock had never failed her in forty years. She pulled on her dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A sheet of paper was stuck to the fridge with a ladybird magnet. Strange—it hadn’t been there last night.
She peeled it off and flicked on the light. The handwriting was unfamiliar, shaky, as if written by someone unsteady.
*Margaret, I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I’m your neighbour from flat 47. My name is Edith. I hate to trouble you, but I’ve no one else to turn to. Might I borrow a bit of sugar? I’ll return it, of course. Many thanks, Edith Whitaker.*
Margaret frowned. Flat 47? That was the Cartwrights’ flat—young family with two children. She knew every tenant in the building by heart. She’d been the block’s resident warden for a decade.
The kettle shrieked. She set the note aside and busied herself with breakfast, but unease gnawed at her. How had this Edith gotten into the Cartwrights’ flat? And why hadn’t she heard they’d moved out?
After breakfast, she dressed and stepped out into the hall. Pausing outside number 47, she listened. Silence. No children’s voices, no footsteps. Just the faint hum of a television.
Hesitantly, she pressed the buzzer.
“Who’s there?” came a raspy woman’s voice.
“Margaret from 48. Did you leave a note about sugar?”
The chain rattled, the door cracked open. A wrinkled face peered through, one wary eye studying her.
“You’re Margaret?” the woman asked doubtfully.
“I am. And you’re Edith Whitaker?”
“Yes, yes. Do come in.”
The chain fell away. Margaret stepped inside—and froze. The flat was nothing like it should’ve been. No toys, no bright wallpaper, no family photos. Just sparse, clean furnishings, aged and outdated.
“Sit, please,” Edith gestured to the sofa. “Would you like tea?”
“That’d be lovely.”
Margaret studied her host. Edith looked seventy, perhaps older. Silver hair neatly pinned, deep wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp.
“Sorry to trouble you,” Edith said, fussing with the kettle. “Ran out of sugar, and these old legs won’t carry me to the shop anymore.”
“No bother. But tell me—where are the Cartwrights? Have they moved?”
Edith went still, tea cup in hand.
“Cartwrights? Don’t know any Cartwrights. I’ve lived here years.”
“How many years?”
“Oh, fifteen at least. Maybe longer.”
Margaret’s head swam. Fifteen years? Impossible. She’d seen them just last week—Mrs. Cartwright pushing the pram, the eldest boy on his scooter.
“Edith, how did you stick this note to my fridge? My door was locked.”
The old woman blinked.
“Note? What note?”
“The one you left this morning. About the sugar.”
“I didn’t leave any note. What on earth are you talking about?”
Margaret pulled the note from her pocket.
“It’s right here. Your name’s on it.”
Edith took it, tracing the words slowly.
“I didn’t write this,” she finally said.
“But it says Edith Whitaker.”
“Right, that’s me. But I didn’t write it. Maybe someone’s playing tricks?”
Margaret’s thoughts tangled. Edith seemed sincere—but then who’d written it? And how had it ended up on her fridge?
“Tell you what,” she stood, “I’ll fetch your sugar. Keep the note—might jog your memory.”
“Thank you, dear. You’re very kind.”
Back in her flat, Margaret’s questions multiplied. She scooped sugar into a jar, then hesitated.
“Edith, may I ask—do you remember the Cartwrights? Husband, wife, two children. They lived here.”
Edith shook her head.
“Don’t recall. Though… wait. Someone did live here before me. But my memory’s not what it was.”
“Do you speak with any neighbours?”
“Not really. All busy young folks. Only old Mr. Thompson from downstairs checks in now and then.”
Margaret knew Mr. Thompson. He’d lived here since the building went up—he’d know the truth.
“Thanks for the sugar,” Edith said. “I’ll return it.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
Downstairs, Margaret knocked on Mr. Thompson’s door. He answered at once.
“Margaret! Come in, come in. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Not just now. Arthur—who lives in flat 47?”
“Why, Edith Whitaker. Poor soul’s been poorly.”
“And the Cartwrights?”
“Ah, the Cartwrights. Gone months back.”
“No, they were here last week—”
Arthur studied her.
“Margaret, love, are you feeling alright? The Cartwrights moved out last summer. Edith’s been in 47 nearly twenty years.”
Margaret’s legs buckled. Had she imagined them?
“Arthur,” she whispered, “what’s wrong with Edith?”
“Memory’s gone, poor dear. Some days she doesn’t know her own name. I bring her shopping—no family left.”
That evening, her son James rang.
“Mum, you alright? You sound shaken.”
“Jamie, be honest—have I been… forgetting things?”
“What? No. Why?”
She told him about the note, about Edith. James listened carefully.
“Maybe Edith wrote it in a confused moment? You said her memory’s gone.”
“But how’d she get into my flat?”
“Door might’ve been unlocked. Or asked someone to slip it under.”
It made sense. Margaret almost believed it.
Next morning, she knocked on 47 again—to see if Edith needed anything.
A stranger answered—a workman in overalls.
“Yeah?”
“I’m here for Edith.”
“Ah. Well, she’s not well today.”
Inside, Edith lay on the sofa, pale and trembling.
“Edith, how are you?” Margaret asked softly.
The old woman turned her head blindly.
“Who’re you?”
“Margaret. Your neighbour.”
“Don’t know you.”
The workman stepped forward.
“I’m her nephew. Came up from Bristol. Taking her back with me—she can’t manage alone.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just age, I reckon. Memory’s gone. Not safe for her here.”
That evening, no one answered at 47.
“Arthur,” Margaret rushed downstairs, “where’s Edith?”
“Gone. Nephew took her this morning.”
“But he said tomorrow—”
“Changed their minds, I expect.”
The next morning, another note waited on the fridge.
*Margaret, please. I’m in flat 47. I need help. Please come.*
Margaret’s hands shook. Edith was gone.
She rang the buzzer. No answer. Only faint noises from inside.
“Arthur!” she cried, “there’s someone in there!”
“Flat’s empty, love. I told you.”
The caretaker came, sceptical but concerned.
“Open it,” Margaret insisted.
The locksmith obliged.
The flat was empty. No furniture. No signs of life. Just dust.
Margaret stood in the hollow space, lost. Where was the tea set? The lace doilies?
“Margaret,” the caretaker said gently, “maybe see a doctor?”
She did.
“Mild memory lapses,” the neurologist said. “Nothing alarming, but we’ll monitor it.”
At home, she threw out the ladybird magnet and all the notes.
But next morning—another. Different handwriting. Familiar.
*Mum, coming over with Sophie and the kids tomorrow. Make your famous roast? Love, James.*
She smiled. This one was real. James always left notes before visiting.
She took lamb from the freezer and began preparing. The notes about Edith? Best forgotten.
Still, passing flat 47, she sometimes paused—listening.
Only silence answered.
And Margaret walked on.
