“I’ve asked nicely!”
Margaret Whitmore stood in the hallway, arms crossed, glaring at her neighbour’s door. “Eleanor, I’m telling you for the last time—clear your rubbish off the landing, or I’ll drag it to the skip myself! A broken pram, old crates, and now a rusted bicycle? It’s an absolute disgrace!”
The door creaked open a crack, revealing Eleanor’s frazzled face. “Margaret, calm yourself! The pram’s for my granddaughter’s visit to the countryside. And the bike belongs to James—he’s into fitness!”
“James?” Margaret scoffed. “Your grandson’s nearly thirty! When was the last time he even sat on that thing?”
“And what’s it to you? We’re not bothering anyone!”
“Not bothering—? I tripped over that blasted bike yesterday! My ankle’s still throbbing!”
Eleanor sighed and shut the door. She knew Margaret wouldn’t let this go. The woman fancied herself the building’s unofficial caretaker, always poking her nose where it didn’t belong.
It had started six months ago, when Eleanor moved from her cottage in Kent to this flat in Manchester, left to her by her late mother-in-law. Her daughter, Emily, had insisted.
“Mum, you can’t stay out there alone,” Emily had argued. “The nearest shop’s miles away, and what if you fall ill? Here, the doctor’s down the road, and I can pop in more often.”
Eleanor had resisted. The cottage held forty years of memories—every creaking floorboard, every chipped teacup. But age and aching joints wore her down, and she’d finally relented.
The move had been chaos. A lifetime of clutter—James’s old football trophies, her late husband’s handmade bookshelves, boxes of yellowed photographs.
“Mum, where on earth are you putting all this?” Emily had groaned.
“I’ll manage,” Eleanor had muttered, stubborn as ever. “It’s not rubbish—it’s history.”
So, some of it had ended up on the landing. Temporarily. She’d meant to sort it, really—but days bled into weeks, and Margaret’s complaints had grown sharper.
“Planning to open a museum out here?” Margaret had sniffed, eyeing the pram.
“I’ll get to it,” Eleanor had promised.
“Time’s the same for us all,” Margaret had retorted.
Eleanor hated confrontation. Back in the village, neighbours popped in for tea, shared gossip over garden fences. Here, doors stayed shut, greetings clipped.
She’d tried reasoning with Margaret earlier. “Let’s not quarrel. Emily promised to help, but she’s swamped at work.”
“How much longer?” Margaret had snapped. “It’s been half a year!”
“Four months,” Eleanor corrected.
“Semantics! I’ve asked nicely, but you don’t listen!”
Just then, the door across the hall had opened, revealing frail Mrs. Higgins from Flat 2.
“Ladies, what’s all this?” she’d murmured.
“Eleanor’s turned the landing into a junkyard,” Margaret announced.
“I never said I wouldn’t clear it!” Eleanor shot back.
“When?” Margaret demanded.
“For heaven’s sake!” Eleanor had burst out. “It’s not harming anyone!”
“It’s harming me!” Margaret had barked. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Higgins?”
The old woman had shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I don’t mind, really…”
“There, you see?” Eleanor had brightened.
“She’s just too polite to say!” Margaret had huffed before slamming her door.
Mrs. Higgins had lingered, offering a sympathetic smile. “Don’t take it to heart. Margaret’s always been… forthright.”
Eleanor had sighed. “But must she shout? I’m not hoarding out of spite. The bike’s for James—he swears he’ll fix it.”
“Does he visit often?”
“Once a month, if that.”
Mrs. Higgins had hesitated. “Well… perhaps I could help? My arthritis isn’t too bad today.”
By evening, the landing was nearly clear—just two boxes of winter coats remained. When Emily arrived, she’d gaped. “You managed all this alone?”
“Mrs. Higgins helped. Lovely woman.”
“And Margaret? Still breathing fire?”
“Haven’t seen her. Hopefully, she’ll ease up once the last boxes go.”
But at dawn, Margaret had stormed out, spotting the lingering clutter.
“Eleanor! You promised!”
“It’s Thursday! I’ve got till Sunday!”
“Oh, so you’ll drag it out to the wire?”
Before Eleanor could retort, a thud echoed from Mrs. Higgins’s flat, followed by a pained cry. Both women rushed over to find the old woman sprawled in the hallway, clutching her leg.
“I slipped,” she winced.
Margaret, all earlier fury forgotten, dialled 999. While they waited, Eleanor fetched tea and a cold compress.
“This is my fault,” Eleanor fretted. “She overdid it helping me yesterday.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Higgins whispered.
When the paramedics left, the two neighbours stood in silence. The boxes suddenly seemed trivial.
“Listen,” Margaret muttered, “let’s stash those in my flat. My balcony’s got space.”
Over tea, Margaret admitted, “I’ve been foul. My Harold used to rein me in, God rest him. Now I’ve no one to tell me off.”
“I miss the village,” Eleanor confessed. “People knew each other there.”
Margaret had nodded. “Maybe we just forgot how to talk properly.”
They visited Mrs. Higgins daily in hospital (just a bad sprain, thankfully), feeding her cat and watering her plants. By the time she returned, the three women had fallen into a rhythm—tea on Tuesdays, Margaret’s sharp wit balanced by Mrs. Higgins’s gentle wisdom.
One afternoon, Margaret eyed the drab patch of dirt by the building’s entrance. “Let’s plant something. This eyesore’s depressing.”
Soon, marigolds and pansies bloomed under their care. Neighbours paused to admire them, bewildered.
“How’d you manage it?” one asked.
Margaret smirked. “Asked nicely.”
Eleanor laughed. “Asked nicely—got nicely.”
James never took the bike. They donated it to a children’s home instead.
As they stood admiring their flowers, Eleanor murmured, “I’m glad I moved here.”
Margaret snorted. “Good people are everywhere. You just have to look properly.”
Mrs. Higgins added softly, “And want to see them.”
The landing stayed spotless after that—just clean doormats and the scent of fresh paint.
“Asked nicely,” Margaret would say now, and the words rang warm, not sharp. Like a beginning, not an end.
