“I Tried to Be Nice”
“Gladys, I’m telling you for the last time—either clear your junk from the stairwell, or I’ll toss it out myself!” bellowed Ethel, waving her hands in front of her neighbour’s door. “What kind of mess is this? A rusty old pram, dusty crates, and now a bicycle too?”
“Calm down, Ethel!” Gladys called back, poking her head out. “The pram’s for my granddaughter—she’s off to the countryside soon. And the bike belongs to my grandson, David. He’s into fitness!”
“What David? He’s nearly thirty! When was the last time he even rode that thing?”
“That’s none of your business, is it? We’re not bothering anyone!”
“Oh, aren’t you? I tripped over that bike yesterday and nearly broke my neck! My ankle still aches!”
Gladys sighed and shut the door. She knew Ethel wouldn’t let this go. The woman was the self-appointed guardian of the building’s cleanliness—always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
It had all started six months ago when Gladys moved in with her daughter, Sophie, after selling her cottage in the Lake District. The flat, inherited from her late mother-in-law, was cosy but cramped.
“Mum, you can’t stay out there alone,” Sophie had insisted. “No shops nearby, no doctors—what if something happens?”
Gladys had resisted at first. The cottage held forty years of memories with her late husband, George. Every corner whispered his name. But her arthritis had worsened, so she’d relented.
The move was chaotic. Decades of clutter—baby prams, hand-built bookshelves, framed photos—had followed her.
“Mum, where do you plan to put all this?” Sophie had groaned.
“I’ll sort it,” Gladys had promised. But the stairwell became a temporary holding zone, and Ethel had noticed immediately.
“Gladys, how long’s this museum staying open?” she’d quipped, eyeing the pram.
“Just till I’ve got time,” Gladys had replied.
“Time’s the same for all of us,” Ethel had snipped.
Gladys hated conflict. Back in the village, neighbours dropped in for tea. Here, doors stayed shut.
“Look, Ethel,” she tried one day, “let’s not quarrel. Sophie promised to help, but work’s mad right now.”
“How much longer? It’s been half a year!”
“Four months,” Gladys corrected.
“Same difference! I tried to be nice, but you’re impossible!”
Just then, their elderly neighbour Margaret peeped out. “Ladies, what’s the fuss?”
“Gladys turned the landing into a tip!” Ethel huffed.
“That’s not true!” Gladys protested. “I said I’d clear it!”
“When?” Ethel pressed.
Gladys snapped. “You’re like a dog with a bone! No one else minds!”
“I do!” Ethel shot back. “Margaret, isn’t this ridiculous?”
Margaret hesitated. “I… don’t mind, really.”
“See?” Gladys brightened.
“Margaret’s just too polite!” Ethel scoffed.
“Please,” Margaret murmured, “let’s not argue.”
“Fine,” Gladys relented. “Ethel, I swear I’ll clear it by Sunday.”
“Today’s Tuesday. Four days—or I’ll bin it myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“It’s common property!” Ethel slammed her door.
Margaret gave Gladys a sympathetic look. “Don’t take it to heart. Ethel’s always been… forthright.”
Gladys sighed. “I’d sort it if I could. The bike’s David’s—he swears he’ll fix it.”
“Does he visit much?”
“Once a month, if that.”
Margaret paused. “How about I help? My grandchildren are grown—I’ve time to spare.”
The next morning, they tackled the clutter. The pram went to a friend’s daughter, books to the charity shop. The bike?
“David might want it,” Gladys fretted.
“Let’s stash it in the basement,” Margaret suggested. “Wrapped in cloth. Ethel needn’t know.”
By evening, the landing was nearly clear. Only two crates of winter coats remained.
Sophie gaped when she saw it. “Mum, did you do this alone?”
“Margaret helped. She’s lovely—not like Ethel.”
But Ethel erupted next morning at the sight of the crates. “You promised everything would be gone!”
“Sunday’s still two days away!”
Suddenly, a thud came from Margaret’s flat. They rushed in to find her clutching her swollen ankle.
“Tripped on the rug,” she grimaced.
Ethel, forgetting her rage, called an ambulance. As they waited, Gladys made tea.
“This is my fault,” she fretted. “You overworked yesterday.”
“Nonsense,” Margaret said weakly.
At the hospital, they learned it was a bad sprain. “Who’ll feed my cat?” Margaret worried.
“I will,” Ethel offered gruffly.
Back home, the crates suddenly seemed trivial. “Let’s move them to my balcony,” Ethel muttered.
Over tea, Ethel admitted, “My Harold used to rein me in. Now I’ve no one to tell me off.”
“I miss the village,” Gladys confessed. “Everyone knew everyone.”
“Maybe we just forgot how to talk,” Ethel mused.
When Margaret returned, they started a weekly tea club. Ethel told riotous stories; Margaret baked scones. One day, Ethel suggested, “Let’s plant a flower bed by the entrance. It’s all fag ends and litter.”
They did—petunias, marigolds. Neighbours stopped to admire it.
“How’d you manage this?” one asked.
“We just tried to be nice,” Ethel said, and Gladys laughed.
David never collected the bike. They donated it to a children’s home.
“Glad I moved here,” Gladys said one day, watering the blooms. “Never thought I’d find such good souls.”
“Good people are everywhere,” Ethel replied. “Takes time to see it.”
“And the will to understand,” Margaret added.
The stairwell stayed spotless—just neat doormats and the scent of polish.
“I tried to be nice,” Ethel repeated, but now it sounded entirely different.
