“Stop Whining—Get On with It!”
“Marjorie, for goodness’ sake!” A loud voice rang from the hallway. “Are you crying again? I can hear you through the wall! What’s happened this time?”
Marjorie wiped her tears with the sleeve of her dressing gown and reluctantly opened the door. Mrs. Hopkins stood on the threshold, holding a bag of scones.
“It’s the same old thing, Mrs. Hopkins… work again,” Marjorie began, but the neighbour marched inside before she could finish.
“Stop whining, girl!” Mrs. Hopkins cut in, setting the bag on the table. “How old are you? Forty-two? Acting like a schoolgirl! Sit down. We’ll have tea and talk properly.”
Marjorie obeyed, trailing into the kitchen. Despite being seventy-five, Mrs. Hopkins was sharper than most women half her age—energetic, straight-backed, with a piercing gaze. She had no patience for self-pity.
“Tell me what’s happened,” she ordered, switching the kettle on. “No snivelling—just the facts.”
“Well, Mrs. Hopkins,” Marjorie slouched onto the stool, “my boss said I might be laid off. They’re cutting costs, and I’ve only been their accountant for two years. Lowest seniority—first on the chopping block.”
“So what are you doing about it?” Mrs. Hopkins asked, fetching teacups.
“What can I do? Wait to be sacked. I’ve updated my CV, but who’d hire me at my age? Plenty of younger ones around. And I don’t even have much experience…”
“Enough!” Mrs. Hopkins spun round. “There’s your problem! You give up before even trying. You think your boss enjoys cutting jobs?”
“But what can I—”
“You can do plenty!” Mrs. Hopkins interrupted. “How long have I known you? Clever, meticulous, responsible—remember how you cared for your mother till the end? Never complained. Now you’re panicking over a job?”
Marjorie opened her mouth, but Mrs. Hopkins was already pouring tea.
“Listen,” she said, sitting opposite. “My late husband worked at the factory his whole life. When it shut down, he was fifty-eight. Thought it was the end. I told him—stop whining, do something! And what d’you think? He apprenticed with a local mechanic, then opened his own shop. Fixed appliances till retirement.”
“But he was a man,” Marjorie sighed. “I’m—”
“What—a helpless flower?” Mrs. Hopkins scoffed. “Got arms, haven’t you? A working brain? So why act like porridge?”
Marjorie stirred her tea silently. Mrs. Hopkins was right, of course. But how to explain the dread, the doubt, that choked her whenever she had to act alone?
“Mrs. Hopkins… were you ever afraid?” she asked softly.
“Terrified!” the old woman laughed. “Who isn’t? Seeing my husband off to war nearly drove me mad. Childbirth? Petrified. Fear’s normal—just don’t let it steer.”
Marjorie shook her head. “I don’t think I can do anything but shuffle papers.”
“Rubbish! Remember fixing my laptop? Helping Mrs. Clarke with her taxes? Explaining contracts when I sold my cottage?”
Marjorie hesitated. It was true—neighbours often asked her advice on forms, bills, legal jargon.
“But that’s not a real job,” she muttered.
“Why not? People need help—you can help. Start your own business!”
“My own business?” Marjorie paled. “I’m no entrepreneur!”
“And who is? Think they hatched fully formed? My niece Emily was a secretary—now owns a salon. Started cutting hair in her kitchen, employs three stylists now.”
“That’s different—”
“It’s exactly the same! See a need? Fill it. People drown in paperwork—you could rescue them.”
Marjorie chewed her lip. How often had she heard friends despair over HMRC forms, tenancy agreements?
“But how?” she whispered.
“Start small! Post on the community board—‘Documents sorted, taxes managed—affordable, from home.’ Watch them flock!”
“What if they don’t?”
“What if they do?” Mrs. Hopkins countered. “You’re programming yourself to fail. Think positively!”
Marjorie nodded, but doubt lingered.
“Listen, pet,” Mrs. Hopkins softened. “After your mum passed, you folded in on yourself. But life goes on. She wouldn’t want you paralysed like this.”
At the mention of her mother, Marjorie’s eyes welled. It was true—without her mother’s steadying presence, every decision felt like stepping off a cliff.
“Tell you what,” Mrs. Hopkins said decisively. “Tomorrow, offer your boss a deal.”
“What deal?”
“Say—let me work remotely. I’ll handle the accounts digitally. Pay me less, save on office costs. Win-win.”
“But he wants cuts—”
“Exactly! You’ll cost peanuts. Work’s better from home anyway—no distractions.”
Marjorie considered it. Mad… but what if?
“What if he refuses?”
“Then he refuses! But at least you tried. Sitting here waiting for the boot isn’t a solution!”
Mrs. Hopkins stood by the window.
“I’ve seen two kinds of people. One lot whinge about bad luck. The other lot—they just get on with it. Guess which ones get places?”
“Must be born that way,” Marjorie sighed.
“Character’s built by doing! Move forward—you’ll toughen up. Sit and moan—you’ll stay a soggy biscuit.”
The words stung. A soggy biscuit—was that really her?
“How did you get so… fearless?” Marjorie asked.
“No choice,” Mrs. Hopkins said wryly. “War, rationing, rebuilding. Sit still? You starve. I was eighteen when Dad died at Dunkirk. Mum took ill—two little sisters to feed. Got a factory job, kept chickens, grew veggies. No time for tears. Later, my husband used to say I bulldozed through life.”
Marjorie pictured young Mrs. Hopkins—just a girl, hauling her family through the Blitz. Then herself—forty-two, trembling at a conversation.
“Mrs. Hopkins… would you help me?” she blurted.
“’Course! Not with talk—with action. Tomorrow, you’ll see your boss. We’ll rehearse your pitch like actors.”
That night, Marjorie lay awake. “Stop whining—get on with it.” Could she? What was the worst that could happen? A ‘no’? No worse than waiting to be sacked.
Next morning, unfamiliar energy prickled her skin. Fear hadn’t vanished—but beneath it fizzed something new.
At lunch, she knocked on Mr. Thompson’s office.
“Marjorie? Everything alright?”
“Sir, about the redundancies… I’d like to propose a solution. Let me work remotely—reduced salary, but you’ll save on overheads. Same output, less expense.”
Mr. Thompson blinked.
“Interesting. How would that work?”
Marjorie outlined the plan—digital files, Zoom meetings, flexible hours.
“Let’s try it,” he said finally. “One-month trial. If it works, we’ll formalise it.”
It took everything not to gasp.
“Thank you! I won’t let you down.”
“Oh, and—my brother-in-law needs remote bookkeeping. Do well here, I’ll refer you.”
Walking out, Marjorie felt ten stone lighter. She’d done it!
That evening, she burst into Mrs. Hopkins’ flat.
“It worked! He agreed!”
“Told you!” Mrs. Hopkins beamed. “Now—keep going. This is just the start.”
Marjorie grinned. For the first time in years, she felt awake. Fear was still there—but now it pushed, not pinned.
A month later, she juggled books for three firms, filed neighbours’ taxes, and researched registering as self-employed. The woman who’d wept at change was gone.
Mrs. Hopkins had been right: life didn’t change until you did.
