“- That dreadful racket again!” Margaret Higgins shouted, banging her fist on the radiator. “It’s one in the morning, and they’re having a full-blown rock concert up there!”
“Mum, calm down,” sighed her daughter Alison, not looking up from her phone. “Sort it out with them tomorrow.”
“And how many times is that now? I’ve put up with this for a month! Those… those… utter louts!” She waved her hands, searching for the right term. “Probably on something!”
“Mum, keep your voice down. You’ll wake Emma.”
“Let her wake! She should know what sort of building we live in!” Margaret marched to the window and flung it open. “Oi! Up there! Enough of that racket!”
A dishevelled young bloke stuck his head out from the window above. “Chill out, nan! People are trying to sleep!”
“Nan? You cheeky git!” Margaret bristled. “I’ll ring the police on you!”
“Yeah, ring ’em!” the lad snapped back, slamming his window shut.
The din just got louder.
Margaret sank onto the sofa, clutching her chest. Her hands trembled, her breath hitched. Finally, Alison looked up properly.
“Mum? Alright? Need your tablets?”
“Get my heart drops,” Margaret whispered.
Alison fetched the medicine and a glass of water. Her mother drank it down and leaned back on the cushions.
“I can’t cope anymore, love. Truly I can’t. We used to have such decent neighbours here. Peaceful, proper people. But now…”
She gestured angrily towards the ceiling where the drumming thudded.
“When did they move in?” Alison asked.
“A month back. Young couple. Seemed alright at first, polite. Said hello in the hallway, smiled. Turns out they’re…”
Margaret trailed off. Something crashed thunderously overhead, followed by shrieks and laughter.
“Must be druggies,” she muttered. “Proper folk are asleep at this hour.”
Alison stretched and yawned.
“Mum, I need to head home. It’s late.”
“Don’t leave me alone with these… nutters!”
“Mum, what can I do? I’ve work tomorrow, Emma’s got school. You’ll have to sort the neighbours yourself.”
Alison gathered her things and left. Margaret was alone in the flat where every thump from above echoed like a pain in her heart.
She dug out her address book from the drawer and found the local constable’s number. No answer. She tried the duty desk.
“Evening?” came a weary voice.
“Hello, Margaret Higgins here from Park Street. The neighbours upstairs have music blaring, won’t let a soul sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Past one in the morning!”
“Right. We’ll log your complaint. A unit will swing by when they’re free.”
“When might that be?”
“Couldn’t say. We’re swamped.”
Margaret hung up and clenched her fists. ‘When they’re free.’ When would that be? Morning? Tomorrow? Next week?
She looked out onto the deserted, quiet street. Just the streetlights glowing. While inside her home, it was bedlam. Music pounded, people stomped, yelled. And nobody cared.
She remembered how life used to be. Thirty years in this flat. She’d seen neighbours come and go, kids born and grown. Everyone knew each other, respected each other. After ten, perfect peace reigned.
Now this. Young folk moving in from goodness knows where, thinking anything goes. Parents probably loaded, buying flats, but no manners whatsoever.
A different track blasted from above. Something modern with wailing guitars and thudding that made the walls shake.
She couldn’t bear it. Back to the window.
“Turn that nonsense off!” she yelled with all her might. “People are asleep!”
No reply. The din continued.
Margaret pulled on her dressing gown and stepped onto the landing. Up the stairs she went and rang the bell. Finally, footsteps.
“Who is it?” a male voice called.
“Neighbour from downstairs. Please open.”
The door inched open on the chain. A young man’s eye peered through the gap.
“What d’you want?”
“Sir, could you keep the noise down? It’s one in the morning.”
“Are we bothering you?”
“Course you are! How could anyone sleep through that racket?”
The lad snorted and started to shut the door, but Margaret shoved her foot in the gap.
“Hold on! I’m speaking to you!”
“Nan, don’t start. We’re not hurting anyone.”
“Not hurting anyone? The whole street can hear it!”
“Not our problem. Our flat, we do what we like.”
The door slammed. Margaret stood on the landing for a moment, then trudged back down.
Inside felt worse. Music at full tilt now, mixed with voices – guests had arrived upstairs.
Margaret lay in bed and pulled the pillow over her head. Useless. The noise seeped through everything, vibrating her bones, her heart.
She got up and made tea. Sat by the window. The street was calm; inside it was pure madness.
She was so tired of it all. The rudeness, the indifference, having to beg for basic respect.
She used to be different. Active, determined. Ran the local library, raised Alison, helped with her grandchild. People respected her, listened.
Now? Now she was nobody. An old pensioner they could tell to get lost. Expected to put up with anything from cheeky youngsters.
Margaret finished her tea and stood up resolved. Enough. No more putting up.
She opened the cupboard and pulled out a hammer. The one her late husband used to hang pictures. Weighed it in her hand. Solid. Reliable.
Margaret stood by the radiator and swung the hammer at the pipe with all her strength. An almighty, bell-like clang echoed. She hit again. Again.
Upstairs, the music stopped. Voices, frantic footsteps.
“What was that?”
“That batty old dear downstairs,” the familiar voice answered.
Margaret swung again. The sound reverberated through the building.
“Batty, am I? I’ll show you batty!” she screamed. “I’ll rouse the entire street!”
She kept hammering the radiator. Rhythmic. Methodical. Bang after bang.
Chaos erupted above. Scuffling, furniture scraping, shouts.
“Turn it off!” Margaret bellowed between strikes. “Turn it off or I’m at this all night!”
Silence fell. Margaret lowered the hammer and listened. Peace. Finally, peace.
She sank onto the sofa, feeling her heart slow. Her hands still shook from the adrenaline, but her spirit felt lighter.
The buzzer went. Margaret peered through the spyhole. Two young people stood there – the lad and a girl. The neighbours.
“Open up,” the lad said. “We need a word.”
“Fancy talking now?” Margaret called, not opening.
“Please open,” the girl implored. “We want to apologise.”
Margaret slid the chain free. They looked perfectly ordinary. Lad about twenty-five, girl a bit younger. No druggies or yobs.
“Sorry,” the girl said earnestly. “We didn’t think it was that loud.”
“A month without thinking?” Margaret grumbled. “Suddenly dawned on you?”
“We just…” the lad started, but the girl nudged him.
“We’re new here,” she explained. “Still getting used to how thin the walls are in these old places. At our last flat, we could play music, no complaints.”
“Where was that?”
“Out by the retail park. New build. Bigger flats, better soundproofing.”
Margaret softened a little. The girl sounded polite, genuine.
“You see,” Margaret said, “I’ve lived here thirty years.
Mrs Davies smiled to herself as she sipped her rose tea the next dawn, the hammer tucked safely but accessibly away beneath the sink – a silent symbol that peace, once earned through stubborn Yorkshire grit and neighborly understanding with young Lena, was finally hers to enjoy without threat needed.
