Once a month
Susan Williams held a bin bag to her chest and stopped by the noticeboard next to the lift. On a sheet of lined paper pinned up with drawing pins, someone had written in big letters: Once a month one neighbour. Below, there were dates and surnames, and in the corner, Steve, Flat 34 was scrawled as a signature. Next to it, somebody had scribbled in biro: Need 2 people for Saturday to help with boxes. Susan read it twice out of habit and immediately felt that familiar irritation you get when someones loud voice echoes down the hall.
Shed lived in this building for ten years, and knew the unwritten rules: you nod hello if you meet by the front door, and then you move on. Sometimes it was, Excuse me, do you know the number for the electrician? or Could you please pass on the utilities bill? But to have a rota with names and pins It reminded her of those meetings from her old job where everyone pretended, were a team, then just looked after themselves.
At the communal bins, she bumped into Valerie from the fifth floor, who always carried two bags, as if worried one might split.
Seen it? Valerie nodded at the board. Steves idea. Says its easier this way. Not each running up and down on their own, but together.
Together, Susan echoed, trying to keep her voice steady. But what if you dont fancy doing things together?
Valerie shrugged, Well no one’s forcing anyone. But its good for when someone needs a hand.
Susan stepped outside into the courtyard, catching herself already having a mental debate with this Steve from Flat 34. When needed who decides, exactly? And why does it have to involve everyone?
On Saturday morning, she heard muffled thumps and voices in the stairwell: Careful, thats the corner! and Hold the lift, please. Susan was in her kitchen, clutching a damp cloth, unable to stop herself listening in. She imagined those people she only recognised by sight carrying someone elses boxes and a sofa, someone giving orders, someone moaning. She didnt like the thought of people seeing someones life packed in cardboard, and at the same time felt an odd envy at least theyd been asked.
After an hour, everything was quiet again. That evening, coming back from the shops, Susan saw a pile of empty boxes and rolls of tape on the bench outside. Steve, tall and looking worn out, was binning up rubbish.
Evening, he said, as if theyd known each other for ages. Hope we didnt get in your way?
No, Susan replied. Its just it was a bit noisy.
I get it. We tried to finish before lunch. Tanya from the second floor is moving, just her and her kid. Well, not just her He waved a hand. Anyway, if you ever need anything, just write it on the board. Doesnt have to be moving. Any little thing.
He said little thing in that way that made it hard for Susan to argue. He wasnt pushy, wasnt persuading her. He just said it and went back to tying up his bin bag.
Over the next few weeks, the noticeboard seemed to develop a life of its own. Every time Susan passed by, she spotted new notes: Mr Peterson in 19 need someone to collect prescriptions after surgery. Can anyone pop to the chemist? And, Need to fix a shelf in 27, got a drill. Collecting £2 each for the intercom, if you dont have change sort later. Different handwriting: some neat, some hurried and blotchy.
Susan never put her name down. It felt right: dont get involved. But she watched.
One night, coming back from work, she saw a teenage girl from the next block crying near the lift, her face buried in her sleeve. Valerie was beside her, arm on her shoulder, speaking gently, Dont be upset, well sort it. Steve says hes got some.
Whats happened? Susan asked, even though she could have kept walking.
Valerie glanced at her, as if shed already decided Susan wasnt one to laugh at distress. Their nans blood pressures shot up. Tablets have run out, and the chemists closed. Steves bringing his until we can buy them in the morning.
Susan nodded and inside her flat, lingered with her coat on, thinking about how easily Valerie had said well sort it. Not call the emergency services, not not our problem just well sort it. And that Steve was about to hand over his own tablets without asking if theyd be returned.
A few days later, there was a little drama in the hallway. Someone had scribbled on the intercom fund notice: Always after our money again. If you need it, get it yourself. No surname, all scrawled. By the lift, two women were arguing, raising voices.
Thats someone down from three, I know their handwriting, one hissed.
What do you know? the other shot back. People are on their pensions and here you lot are after another two quid, two quid!
Susan walked past, feeling the ache of collective tension: this was it, the group dynamic. Next would come who owes what, who doesnt pay, who still gets the benefit. She wanted it all to end, for the noticeboard to go back to ads for plumbers.
But that evening she saw Steve at the board. Calmly, he took down the squabble note, folded it and put it in his pocket. He posted a new, clean sheet: Intercom. If you can give, great. If you cant, thats fine. Main thing is it works. Steve. And that was that.
Susan realised she respected him for that and that was that. No lectures, no threats. Just a boundary.
Meanwhile, her own life had started creaking like the stairwell door nobody ever oils. First small things: the pipe under the bathroom sink sprang a leak. She grabbed a basin, tightened the nut, mopped up. Then work delayed the bonus pay, and her boss didnt meet her eye: Thats how it is at the moment. Bear with us. Susan bore it; she was good at that.
At the start of the month, her back began to ache not so bad she needed an ambulance, but enough that she stood leaning on the bed edge each morning until the pain faded. She bought ointment, kept a scarf round her waist, and didnt tell a soul. She believed any complaint led to chatter, and chatter to pity.
That evening, arms loaded with groceries, Susan heard an odd scuffling from the corridor her own front door. The lock was sticking; the key barely turned. She pushed harder, it finally gave with a crunch that made her heart beat faster.
She kicked off her shoes, put the shopping on a stool, pulled a screwdriver from the drawer, and tried to take the lock apart. Her hands trembled, her back throbbed. The hush in the flat pressed in on her.
Next evening the lock seized up completely. Susan got home late, bag and folder in hand, and couldnt open the door. She stood in the landing, resting her forehead on the cold metal, trying not to panic. Her mind whirred: Locksmith. Keys. Money. Night. She rang the emergency number; two-hour wait for the repairman.
Two hours in the stairwell wasnt humiliating because of neighbours, but because she felt powerless. She sat on the step, bag beside her, staring at her hands now dry and lined, cracked from cleaning. The hands that always managed.
The lift doors slid open and Steve stepped out, clocking her instantly.
Susan? You alright?
She lifted her head, feeling her face flush with embarrassment.
Locks jammed, she said, just the facts. Waiting for repair.
How long?
They said two hours
Steve eyed the door, then her bag. Ive got a kit upstairs. We can have a go while you wait. If not, at least well know whats up. Youre okay with that?
He asked okay with that. He didnt say let me do it, or what are you doing sitting here. He checked first.
Susan almost answered, No thanks, Im fine. That wouldve been safer, easier. But her back screamed, her phone battery was dying, and the idea of two hours on the stairs was suddenly unbearable.
Go on, give it a try, she said, surprised her voice didnt waver.
Steve fetched his little toolbox, set it on the floor, spread his tools out on a sheet of newspaper she noticed it automatically: not marking the tiles, showing care, respect. This isnt really my job, he warned. But Ive seen a few locks before.
He took off the cover, lined up the screws in an old tin lid so they wouldnt get lost. Susan sat on the step, bag on her lap, feeling odd: as if her life was a shared hallway, and perhaps that wasnt so bad.
Looks like the barrels worn, Steve said. You could grease it to get by, but it ought to be changed really. Have you got a spare key?
No, she admitted. It never crossed my mind.
Steve nodded without comment.
Ten minutes later, the door eased open not at once, but enough. Susan stepped inside, switched on the hall light, feeling the strain melt away slightly. She turned.
Thank you, she said, and added so it wasnt a final full stop: Just Id rather it didnt get passed around the building.
Steve looked up. No problem. I wont say a word. But you should get the lock swapped. Let me know, Ill send you the details for a proper repair guy. Discreet, no fuss.
Susan nodded, appreciating that he hadnt suggested a big group fix or making a meal of it. Hed offered something specific, quiet.
When Steve left, she locked the door tight and stood in the hall, listening to the fridge hum. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once, because help hadnt felt like pity. It felt like being handed a spanner when your hands are full.
Next day, she phoned Steves recommended locksmith, who arrived that evening, took out the worn old barrel, fitted a new lock, showed her the problem part. Susan paid him, got two keys, labelled one spare with a marker and tucked it in a box on the top shelf. Her small acknowledgement: sometimes you cant do it all alone.
A week later a new note appeared on the board: Saturday, help Mr Peterson in 19 carry groceries and medicine, tough after hospital. Need 2 people, 11 to 12. Susan read it and realised she could.
On Saturday, she left her flat early, a pack of biscuits and tea in her bag not charity, just something to bring, so she wouldnt enter empty-handed. Steve was already at the landing.
You here to help? he asked, not surprised, just checking.
Yes, Susan replied. But let me take the lighter stuff. And please, no fussing over health, alright?
She heard herself being firm, not apologetic.
Alright, deal, Steve said.
Upstairs, Mr Peterson opened the door a pale, silver-haired gent in a worn cardigan and managed a wobbly smile.
Oh, a committee! he murmured.
Not a committee, Susan corrected, handing over the bag. Brought you some groceries. Theres tea and biscuits, if you fancy.
He took them, both hands trembling. Thank you. I would do it myself but the legs
No need to would, Steve answered, softly. Just tell us where to put things.
Into the kitchen they went. Susan unpacked, spotted the list of tablets and an empty pill box, but didnt quiz him. She just asked:
Care if I take your rubbish out?
If you wouldnt mind, Mr Peterson said, awkward and grateful.
Susan tied up the little sack and carried it down. Coming back, she noticed her back hardly hurt not because the pain was gone, but everything inside felt lighter.
On their way out, Mr Peterson tried to press money on Steve.
No, its fine, Steve said.
Well, at least Mr Peterson looked to Susan. Pop by if ever youre at a loose end. I wont bite.
Susan nodded. If you need anything, just let us know. And dont be a hero write on the board.
She spoke with quiet confidence: she could say it just as Steve did. Not above, not below beside.
That evening, she stopped by the noticeboard. Someone had left a pack of drawing pins and a notepad. Susan picked up a pen and wrote, carefully, simply: Flat 46. Susan Williams. If you need I can collect prescriptions or parcels after 7 on weekdays. Cant lift heavy. She pinned it up, made sure it stuck, and tucked her pen away.
At home, she made tea, got her spare key out and slipped it into a small envelope. On the front, she wrote Steves number, then left it in the drawer by the door. Not a symbol of dependence, just a safety net she allowed herself.
When a neighbours door slammed or footsteps echoed on the landing, Susan didnt flinch. She simply turned off the stove, poured herself tea, and thought: Once a month isnt about crowds. Its about not gripping everything with one hand when others are nearby.
