The Neighbour Crossed the Line
Emily froze at the front door, key in hand. From inside the flat came faint rustling and murmurs. James was at work, and shed returned early, deciding to take a half-day after an exhausting week. But now her heart raced. Burglars? Carefully, she nudged the door open and heard a familiar voice:
“Oh, Emily, James, what a mess youve left! Dust on the windowsills, curtains all crumpled! You ought to hire a cleanerthis is no way to keep a home!”
In the hallway, clutching a feather duster, stood Auntie Margaret, their neighbour. Emily gaped.
“Auntie Margaret? How did you get in here?” Her voice trembled with shock and irritation.
“Oh, just being neighbourly, dear!” Auntie Margaret beamed as if her presence were perfectly natural. “Saw the door ajar and thought Id check if all was well. And what a state! Well, I couldnt just leave it, could I?”
“The door was locked,” Emily said coldly, gripping her bag. “Im certain of it.”
“Oh, dont fuss over locks, dear,” Auntie Margaret waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “Were all friends herenothing to fear! Better its me than some troublemaker!”
Emily didnt know what to say. Her new homehers and Jamess first proper flatsuddenly felt violated. She muttered thanks and ushered the woman out, but resentment simmered. How had Auntie Margaret gotten in? Why did she act as if she had the right?
It had begun six months earlier, when Emily and James, newly settled, moved into an ageing but cosy house on the outskirts of London. The flat was their pride: three years of saving for the deposit, skimping on everything from coffee to holidays. When theyd finally gotten the keys, Emily had nearly wept with joy, while James, usually reserved, spun her around the empty room, laughing.
“This is ours, Em! Ours!” hed said, eyes shining.
Theyd furnished it slowly: a second-hand sofa, crisp new curtains, a potted fern on the windowsill. But the little things delighted them mostmorning tea in their tiny kitchen, evenings under a shared blanket, plans for renovations.
The day after they moved in, the doorbell rang. A petite woman in her sixties stood there, hair neatly styled, holding a basket.
“Hello, dears! Im Margaret Whitmoreyour neighbour on the third floor. Auntie Margaret, if you like.” Her smile was so warm Emily couldnt help returning it. “Brought you some scones. Thought you might like a welcome!”
“Oh, thank you!” Emily accepted the basket, flustered. “Would you like to come in for tea?”
“Just for a tick,” Auntie Margaret said, stepping inside and glancing around. “Oh, what a peculiar layout! Lovely, though. Pity about the wallpaperbit dated, isnt it? And the kitchens rather cramped, dont you think?”
Emily hesitated, but James, brewing tea, cut in:
“Well redecorate when we can. Bit strapped just now.”
“Quite right, take your time!” Auntie Margaret patted Emilys shoulder. “If you need advice, just ask. I know all the best shops for bargains.”
The scones were delicious, and Auntie Margaret was chatty. She told them about the neighbours, how the building had gone up in her youth, even tips for getting the caretaker to clear snow promptly. Emily and James exchanged glancesperhaps theyd found an ally.
But soon, Auntie Margarets visits grew frequent. Shed pop by “just to say hello,” bring more scones, or insist on checking the plumbing because “these old pipes burst if you blink.” Emily, raised to respect her elders, bit her tongue, but the womans remarks grated.
Once, she barged in while they painted the living room.
“Oh, Emily, that shade is dreadful!” Auntie Margaret wrinkled her nose at the pale blue tin. “So cold! You ought to pick something warmer, like peach. And that roller will leave streaks, mark my words.”
“We like the blue,” Emily said tightly. “Its our style.”
“Style be blowed,” Auntie Margaret scoffed. “Ive lived here forty yearsI know what suits. Take my advice and repaint while you can.”
James, wiping his hands, interjected: “Thanks, but were set. Fancy a cuppa?”
Auntie Margaret pursed her lips but stayed. Over tea, she mentioned complaints about their renovation noise and how the caretaker thought they sorted rubbish wrong. Emilys cheeks burned. Theyd been consideratewere people really gossiping?
“Are we doing something wrong?” she whispered to James later.
“Em, were fine,” he said, hugging her. “Shes just a busybody. Lets keep our distance.”
But Auntie Margaret persisted. Shed corner Emily in the hall, prying about work, salaries, baby plans. Once, Emily returned to find their postbox open, bills neatly stacked on the bench.
“Did you take our post?” she asked when she spotted Auntie Margaret outside.
“Only meant to help, dear! Saw it overflowing and thought youd lose something. Goodness, your electricity bills steepI could show you how to adjust the meter!”
Emilys face flamed. She mumbled something and fled, suspicion gnawing. Why was Auntie Margaret so invested?
It worsened when a shabby-suited man knocked, claiming to be an estate agent. He pressed them to sell, insisting the building was “falling apart.” Emily refused, but he left a card, adding, “Think it over. Lovely Margaret speaks highly of you.”
“Margaret?” Emilys stomach dropped. “Whats she got to do with it?”
“Oh, she recommended you!” The man smiled. “Said you might reconsider for the right price.”
Emily slammed the door, livid. Was Auntie Margaret scheming?
A week later came the “open door” incident. Emily confided in James, who rarely lost his temper.
“This ends now,” he snapped. “We changed the locks! Howd she get in?”
Security footage confirmed their dread: Auntie Margaret had used a key multiple times while they were out.
“Is she spying? Stealing?” Emilys throat tightened.
“Nothings missing,” James said grimly. “But this is mad. Were confronting her.”
The talk was tense.
“Why were you in our flat?” Emily demanded at Auntie Margarets door. “Howd you get a key?”
“Goodness, such accusations!” Auntie Margaret clutched her chest. “I only wanted to help! The door was open, andoh, the keys an old one from the previous tenants. Id forgotten I had it!”
“Weve seen the recordings,” James said flatly. “Explain yourself.”
Auntie Margaret paled but rallied.
“After all Ive donescones, adviceand this is my thanks? Forty years Ive lived here!”
“Were grateful,” Emily said evenly. “But youve crossed a line. Hand over the key.”
Grudgingly, Auntie Margaret complied, muttering about ingratitude. Relief was short-lived. Days later, Emily overheard her gossiping:
“Those newcomers on the fourth floorrude as anything! I tried to help, and they threatened me! Good thing I tipped off that agent. Hell have them out soon. This buildings for decent folk.”
Emily called James, and they consulted a solicitor. The truth emerged: Auntie Margaret colluded with a shady agent, feeding him details about new residents. Hed pressure them to sell cheap, and shed take a cut. Their flat, in a sought-after area, was prime prey.
“Thats fraud,” the solicitor said. “Gather evidence.”
They played along, inviting Auntie Margaret for “peace talks” while recording her.
“That agent you mentionedis he trustworthy?” Emily asked innocently.
“Oh, absolutely, dear!” Auntie Margaret brightened. “Ive steered loads his way. This place is falling apartwhy stay?”
“How long have you worked with him?” James asked.
“Ten years, easy,” she boasted. “I point out the new ones, and he well, lets me know its appreciated.”
The recording sealed it. The solicitor alerted the police, and both Auntie Margaret and the agent were questioned. She tried apologising, but Emily stood firm.
“You made your choice. We wanted to be good neighbours. You betrayed that.”
Within a month, Auntie Margaret moved to her daughters in Bristol. The agent was fined, and the flat stayed quiet. Emily and James finished decoratingwalls now a serene blue, despite Auntie Margarets disdain. A second fern joined the first, and their post remained untouched.
“You know, Em,” James said one morning over tea, “I thought a home was just walls and furniture. Turns out, its about boundaries too.”
Emily smiled, gazing at their cosy kitchen.
