And where does it say the airs yours? The stairwells for everyone. If I want to smoke here, I will. Read up on the law, woman!
Rebecca, the twenty-year-old daughter of Mrs. Brown, blew a thick cloud of sickly-sweet vapour into Mrs. Eleanor Suttons face. Two lads lounged on the window ledge in the half-landing, cackling. On the concrete floor, stubbed cigarettes, empty Red Bull cans, and sunflower seed husks had started a colony of their own.
Mrs. Sutton, chief financial officer of a major manufacturing firm, didnt splutter or flap her hands as the teenagers clearly hoped. Instead, she adjusted her glasses and regarded Rebecca with the exact frosty stare that made managers in the finance department sweat during audits.
Its a shared space, Rebecca, Eleanors voice was sharp as a November wind. That means no smoking, no spitting, and not a rubbish tip. You have five minutes to tidy up this mess, otherwise well have a different sort of conversation.
Oh, do excuse me, Im quaking in my boots! Rebecca sneered, flicking ash deliberately onto the freshly mopped floor. Go have a cup of tea and a lie-down before your blood pressure goes off again. Going to complain to my mum? She lets me sit here so I dont smoke in the flat.
The lads burst out laughing. The flat door thunked shut behind Mrs. Sutton, cutting off their jeers.
The hallway smelt of fried potatoes and old pinea comfortingly familiar scent, now ruined by the stink of cheap cigarettes seeping through the keyhole. In the kitchen, hunched at the table, sat Paul.
Paul, thirty-two but looking nearer forty thanks to thinning hair and a stoop, was the late Mr Suttons nephew and had lived with Eleanor for a decade. Meek, awkward, and with a stammer, he repaired clocks in a small shop and was terrified of confrontation. To the neighbours, he was a bit oddan easy target for mockery.
E-Ellie, are they out there again? Pauls voice shrank as a bang echoed from the landing.
Finish your dinner, Paul. Dont worry about them, Eleanor replied, piling more potatoes on his plate. But inside, she was stewing.
That evening, she called round to Mrs. Browns. Her neighbour opened the door in a dressing gown, face mask on, scrolling her mobile.
Gail, your Rebeccas made the landing a hangout. Smoke gets in my flat, its loud all night. Im asking you to do something.
Gail rolled her eyes, not even lowering her phone:
Oh, Eleanor, honestly. Theyre just young. Where else can they go? Its freezing out. Theyre not criminals, just having a chat. Be a bit more tolerant. No kids of your own, thats why you get cross. And your Pauls a funny one, he wont even notice.
Gails words cut sharp and deep. Eleanor breathed in slowly.
So its just youth, is it? And youve a problem with Paul. Fine, Gail. I hear you.
She returned home, sat at her desk, and pulled out her folder. Feelings, she thought, are for the weak. The strong have the law on their side.
For the week that followed, Eleanor stayed quiet and calm. Convinced that the old witch had given up, Rebecca claimed the landing completely, dragging out a battered old armchair from the tip while bass-heavy music boomed well past midnight.
It unravelled on Friday.
Paul was returning from work, carrying a shopping bag and a small box for a client. As he reached the landing, one of the lads, Rebeccas boyfriend they called Sticky, stuck out his foot.
Paul tripped. The bag burst, apples scattered across the mucky floor, straight into a puddle of cigarette ends. The clockwork box clattered away.
Oi, look, the big birds taken flight! Sticky guffawed.
Rebecca lazily exhaled a plume of smoke:
Watch your step, mate. Dont stink up the place. Pick it up, before I change my mind about being nice.
Paul flushed brick red, hands shaking as he collected apples. Behind his glasses, his eyes shone with helpless tears. He was used to this. Used to being no one. Used to getting kicked and never defended.
Suddenly the door flew open. Eleanor filled the frame, not with a broom or rolling pin but with her phone, its camera pointed steadily at Sticky.
Petty harassment, insults, and property damage, she enunciated. Its all recorded. Im calling the police, and this video goes to your parents and the housing association.
Put it away, you old bat! the lad barked, but didnt dare step close. Eleanors stare was more terrifying than any coppers.
Paul, get up, she commanded, not taking her eyes off Sticky. Go inside.
B-but the apples he whimpered.
Leave them. Its refuse now, like the rest of this landing.
When Pauls door clicked shut, Eleanor faced Rebecca.
Now, listen close, young lady. Did you think Id just put up with this? For a week? Ive been collecting evidence.
What evidence? Rebecca scoffed, though her voice trembled.
Ive spoken with the flats owner. Your mother isnt the owner, is she? Its your fathers. He lives in London, thinks his daughters a model undergrad, not a yob running a squat in the stairwell.
Rebeccas face turned white. Her father wasnt just stricthe was ruthless, only paying for them on the condition of her supposed perfect conduct.
You wouldnt dare she whispered.
Already done. Ten minutes ago he got all the photos and videos: your social gatherings, noise, filth, and smoking, with dates and times. The estate office and local bobby are getting copies too. Your fathers coming up tomorrow.
Saturday morning, the entire building shook with a mans shout.
Eleanor was sipping tea when the bell rang. On her doorstep stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in an expensive coatRebeccas father, Charles Brown. Gail was beside him, eyes down, wiping away tears. No sign of Rebecca.
Mrs. Sutton? Charles spoke firmly, if civilly. I apologise for my daughters and ex-wifes behaviour. Cleaners are tidying the entire floor as we speak. Ill pay for the repainting. Rebecca is moving into halls. Ive frozen her account.
Eleanor nodded. It was only right.
Theres one more thing.
She called Paul from his room. He emerged hunched, expecting a scene.
One of your daughters friends insulted my nephew yesterday. Smashed his work. Pauls a rare craftsman. He repairs clockwork even the Swiss wont attempt.
Charles regarded Paul with new interest.
Clockmaker?
R-restorer, Paul stammered, eyes wide.
Really? Charles stepped forward. Paul flinched, but Charles offered his broad palm. Ive a collection of Breguet pocket watches. Ones broken, three workshops turned me down. Will you have a look at it?
Paul finally raised his head. For the first time, someone saw him as more than a jokehe was an expert.
I I can try. If the springs not ruined.
Deal, Charles squeezed Pauls hand. Sorry about my girl. I failed there. No hard feelings, eh? Ill sort you compensation and repairs.
After the door closed, Paul stared at his hand in awe. Then, something shifted in his shouldersthey lifted, squaring for the first time in years.
Auntie Eleanor, he said, his voice quieter, but steady I think Ill gather the apples after all. Shame for good food to go to waste.
Eleanor turned to the window so he wouldnt see the tears in her eyes.
Please do, Paul. And pop the kettle on. I think we deserve a celebration today.
The landing was quiet and spotless. It smelt of bleach and clean paint. From Eleanors kitchen drifted the aroma of baking, and Pauls clear, gentle voice explaining the workings of a tourbillon.
The smoking den was gone. For good.
