Not long ago the block on Willow Crescent got a new caretaker. He keeps the steps tidy, sweeps the landing clean and even gives the lift a weekly wash. He follows the rota to the letter, and there is nothing to complain about except for the memory of the lady who tended the place before.
Eleanor Whitfield was the woman who turned our modest ninestorey entrance into something that resembled the foyer of a grand manor. At the doorway, past the battered old carpet that had seen better days, she always laid out a fresh rug. It looked rather comical and wholly out of place, yet someone was constantly ripping the old one to bits, and Eleanor would replace it, carefully covering up the cracked concrete and the jutting rebar, saving the residents from bruised knees and broken shoes.
Each of the nine windows along the landing boasted flowerpots, quaint ceramic figurines and odd little turtle ornaments. Dust never settled on those sills.
One evening a group of young men moved into the flat on the sixth floor. They celebrated life with cigarettes, cheap lager and, I suspect, something stronger. Their vases became ashtrays, the assortment of bottles on the landing turned into a chaotic display of discount spirits, and the shellcovered figurines were smashed to powder under their boots. The other tenants skirted the noisy bunch, wary of a volatile reaction. Somehow Eleanor managed to befriend them, not only preserving her little decorative treasures but also convincing the lads to relocate their revels elsewhere. The boisterous parties in the stairwell ceased, and in place of the vases a tidy ashtray now sits, which Eleanor wipes down and polishes each night.
What impressed me most was not her rare diligence today, but the way she rose before dawn, humming to herself while sweeping, and scrubbing the lift and railings with a spiritbased solution long before such disinfecting became a legal requirement. Even more striking was her genial manner with the other residents, who, by asking for extra services, only increased her workload. When she spent hours clearing the garden of an endless stream of cigarette butts a task I doubt even the councils groundsmen claim as theirs she chatted sweetly with the balcony smokers, never rebuking their uncouth habit of littering right under their noses. She spoke of the day’s bustle while quietly sweeping away the evidence of their mischief. In time the ground stopped being a carpet of ash, and Eleanors little flowerbed burst into tulips, oxeye daisies and proud chrysanthemums.
The most unforgettable sight was Eleanor when she wasnt in her orange work coat. Her makeup was immaculate, her hair styled just so, she wore sensible heels for any weather and dressed in soft pastel hues. One could swear she had just stepped out of the Queens garden party, only lacking a tiny hat.
Every evening her husband, Thomas Whitfield, would pull up in his battered Morris Minor, hand her a single daisy, and plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. Always.
At the end of August, the everwatchful grandmothers on the communal bench whispered that Eleanors last day is tomorrow; shes retiring! I wondered how the landing would survive without her.
The next morning I bought a modest bouquet for her. To my astonishment, a small crowd had gathered beside the broom cupboard where her mops and dustpans lived. Some, like me, carried flowers; others brought a bottle of champagne, a flask of brandy, and a few tinny pies and jars of pickles that the local women had prepared. The erstwhile sixthfloor lads, who once battered her vases, stood by, coaxing the 65yearold Eleanor into taking stylish selfies and fiddling with a phone they claimed would post her to Instagram and TikTok. I suspect they even signed her up.
Thomas, the reluctant organiser of this impromptu retirement fête, shuffled a trunk into the back of his car, loading it with flowers, brandy and the generous provisions of our neighbourhood grandmothers. He seemed at a loss for what to say.
Eleanor herself, dressed in an almondcoloured frock threaded with pearls and with a makeup a shade brighter than usual, listened absentmindedly, fighting back tears. Perhaps she realised that no other colleague had ever been sent off so warmly. Perhaps, intuitively, she understood that, without aiming for glory, her humble, unremarkable toil had made us ordinary residents of an ordinary ninestorey block a little kinder, a little better.
