The Note on the Fridge
Margaret Whitmore woke at half past six, as she always did. Outside, the sky was still dark, but her internal clock had been flawless for forty years. She rose, pulled on her dressing gown, and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A slip of paper, held by a ladybird magnet, was stuck to the fridge. Strange—it hadn’t been there the night before.
Margaret peeled off the note and flicked on the light. The handwriting was unfamiliar, clumsy, as if written by someone unused to holding a pen.
*”Margaret Whitmore, please forgive the bother. I’m your neighbour from flat 47 across the hall. My name is Vera. I’m dreadfully embarrassed, but there’s no one else to ask. Might I borrow a bit of sugar? I’ll return it. Yours sincerely, Vera Thompson.”*
Margaret frowned. Neighbour from 47? That was the Carter family’s flat, with their two children. She knew every resident in the building by heart—had been the block’s caretaker for a decade.
The kettle whistled. She set the note aside and began making breakfast, unease prickling at her. How had this Vera gotten into the flat? And why hadn’t she heard the Carters had moved?
After eating, Margaret dressed and stepped into the hallway. She lingered outside number 47, listening. Silence. No children’s laughter, no noise—just the faint hum of a telly.
Hesitantly, she pressed the buzzer.
“Who’s there?” came a hoarse woman’s voice.
“Margaret Whitmore, from 48. Did you leave a note about sugar?”
The lock clicked, the door opened a crack on its chain. A wrinkled face and one wary eye peered through.
“You’re Margaret?” the stranger asked, doubtful.
“I am. And you’re Vera Thompson?”
“Yes, yes. Do come in.”
The chain unhooked, the door swung wide. Margaret stepped inside—and froze. The flat was completely different. No toys, no bright wallpaper, no family photos. Just modest, clean furnishings, all terribly old-fashioned.
“Have a seat,” the woman gestured to the sofa. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Thank you, don’t mind if I do.”
Margaret studied her host. Vera Thompson looked about seventy, perhaps older. Silver hair neatly pinned, deep creases in her face—but her eyes were sharp, alert.
“Sorry to trouble you,” Vera said, fussing with the tea. “Run out of sugar, and I daren’t go to the shops. My legs aren’t what they were.”
“Not to worry. But—where are the Carters? Have they moved?”
Vera went still, teacup in hand.
“Carters? Don’t know any Carters. I’ve lived here a good while.”
“How long?”
“Oh, fifteen years, at least. Maybe more.”
Margaret’s head spun. Fifteen years? Impossible. She’d seen the Carters just last week—the mother pushing a pram, the older boy racing ahead.
“Vera, how did you stick this note on my fridge? My door’s always locked.”
The old woman blinked, confused.
“Note? What note?”
“The one you left this morning. About sugar.”
“I didn’t leave any note. What on earth are you talking about?”
Margaret pulled the crumpled paper from her pocket.
“This one. It’s signed with your name.”
Vera took it, squinting as she traced the lines with a finger.
“No idea,” she finally said. “Not mine. I didn’t write this.”
“But it says Vera Thompson.”
“Yes, that’s my name. But I didn’t write it. Maybe someone’s having a laugh?”
Margaret felt adrift. Vera seemed sincere—but who’d written the note? And how had it ended up on her fridge?
“Tell you what,” she stood, “I’ll fetch you some sugar. Keep the note, in case you remember.”
“Ta ever so. You’re very kind.”
Back in her flat, Margaret’s questions multiplied. She scooped sugar into a jar and returned next door.
“Vera, might I ask you something?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Do you remember the Carters? Husband, wife, two kids. They lived here.”
Vera shook her head slowly.
“No, can’t say I do. Though… wait. Seems to me someone did live here before. But I can’t rightly recall. Mind’s not what it was.”
“Do you speak with any other neighbours?”
“Hardly any. All young folk, busy with work. Only old Mr. Higgins from the ground floor pops by sometimes, brings my shopping.”
Margaret knew Mr. Higgins. Nicholas Higgins had lived here since the building went up. He’d know.
“Ta for the sugar,” Vera said. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s nothing.”
Downstairs, Margaret knocked on Mr. Higgins’ door. He answered at once—must’ve been home.
“Margaret! Come in, come in. Fancy a brew?”
“No, thank you. Nicholas, who lives in flat 47?”
“Eh? Vera Thompson, o’ course. Lovely woman, poorly though.”
“And the Carters—where’d they go?”
“What Carters?”
“The family that lived there before. Two children.”
Nicholas studied her closely.
“Margaret, you feeling alright? There’s never been any Carters in this building. Vera’s been in 47 nigh on twenty years.”
“But I saw them! Just days ago!”
“Perhaps you’ve mixed them up with someone? Age plays tricks, you know. Memory starts to slip.”
Margaret’s legs wobbled. Was Nicholas right? Had she imagined them?
“Nicholas, what’s wrong with Vera? You said she’s poorly.”
“Ah, poor soul. Got dementia. Forgetful as they come. Can’t recall what she ate, sometimes forgets names. I look in on her, fetch her shopping. No family left, see.”
“I see,” Margaret murmured.
Upstairs, she stared at the fridge, baffled. The ladybird magnet still clung to its surface.
All day, she couldn’t focus. Her thoughts swirled, foggy. Was it really dementia creeping in? Was she losing track of things?
That evening, her son James rang.
“Mum, how are you? What’s new?”
“James, be honest—have I been acting odd lately?”
“Odd? How d’you mean?”
“Forgotten things? Mixed things up?”
“No, Mum, you’re fine. What’s happened?”
Margaret told him about the note and the neighbour. James listened carefully.
“Maybe this Vera wrote it in a muddle? You said she’s got dementia. Could’ve written it and forgot.”
“But how’d she get into my flat?”
“Was the door unlocked? Or maybe she asked someone to pass it along?”
It made sense. Margaret relaxed a little.
Next morning, she visited Vera again, wanting to check on her.
A middle-aged man in work clothes opened the door.
“You after someone?”
“Vera Thompson. I’m her neighbour.”
“Ah. Come in, but she’s not well.”
Inside, Vera lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. She looked dreadful—pale, eyes unfocused.
“Vera, how are you?” Margaret whispered.
The old woman turned her head weakly.
“Who’re you?”
“I’m Margaret, your neighbour. I came yesterday.”
“Don’t remember,” Vera closed her eyes. “Can’t remember owt.”
The man approached.
“I’m her nephew,” he said. “Came up from Leeds when I heard she’d taken bad. Taking her home with me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just age, illness. Memory’s gone, can’t look after herself. Not safe alone.”
Margaret looked at Vera, breathing heavily beneath the blanket.
“Can I help with anything?”
“Ta, but we’ll manage. Taking her tomorrow.”
Margaret left, heart heavy. Poor woman, all alone—and now this cruel illness.
That evening, she knocked again. No answer. She knocked harder.
“Vera? It’s Margaret!”
Silence. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing.
Downstairs, she found Nicholas.
“Nicholas, what’s happened to Vera? She’s not answering.”
“Gone, love. Nephew took her. Saw ’em moving her things this morning.”
“Gone? But last night he said they’d leave tomorrow!”
“Plans change, don’t they?”
Margaret returned home, unsettled. Something wasn’t right—but what?
Next morning, another note waited on the fridge. Different handwriting, neat and familiar.
*”Mum! Coming tomorrow night. Fancy your famous Sunday roast? Love, James.”*
Margaret smiled. This note was real. James always did this before visiting—asked for her cooking in advance.
She took meat from the freezer, preparing for her son’As she passed flat 47 later that evening, she thought she heard the faintest rustle of paper slipping beneath the door, but when she turned, there was nothing there but dust and shadows.
