Margaret Willoughby knew exactly what went on in their building. Who came home late, who argued with whom, whose benefits didn’t stretch to the council tax. But the neighbour from flat 53 on the fifth floor? She was a complete mystery.
The woman had appeared in their block almost unnoticed. Margaret remembered the flat sat empty after old Reginald Smythe passed on. His distant nephews from Edinburgh popped down occasionally, rummaged about, then sold it. Who bought it? No one really knew.
“Probably property flippers,” reasoned neighbour Valerie Bishop, bumping into Margaret by the post boxes. “All the rage now, trading flats like so many spuds at the market.”
But it soon became clear the flat wasn’t flipped. Someone moved in. Margaret sensed this by the faint classical music sometimes drifting down and the *clip-clip* of heels on the stairs. Proper heels, mind – not flip-flops or trainers – elegant shoes with a heel. A bit flash for their block, truth be told.
She first saw the new neighbour by chance. Hearing voices in the hall, Margaret peeked through her spyhole and nearly gasped. Opposite her flat stood a tall woman in a smart beige trench coat, hair in a neat chignon, holding a bouquet of white roses.
“Thank you ever so much,” the stranger was saying to a middle-aged man in a sharp suit. “I’ll be sure to pass it on.”
The man nodded, murmured something, and headed for the lift. The woman lingered for a moment, gazing at the flowers, gave a quiet sigh, and vanished into her flat.
“Val, have you seen the new neighbour?” Margaret asked her friend Valerie the next day as they sat on the bench in the communal garden.
“What new neighbour?”
“On the fifth. Flat fifty-three.”
Valerie shook her head. “Haven’t set eyes on her. Young, is she?”
“Not terribly. Mid-forties, maybe fifty. Quite lovely, really polished. Dresses smartly, not like the rest of us rabble.”
“Must be loaded,” Valerie declared. “Buying a place central like this.”
Margaret agreed, but something felt off. Well-off people didn’t usually settle in their creaky building with its prehistoric lift and peeling paint. They bought new-builds or swanky places with a concierge.
Gradually, Margaret noticed visitors calling on the fifth-floor neighbour. Always men. Always bearing flowers. Came at all hours – morning, lunchtime, evening. Some stayed twenty minutes; others lingered for an hour or two. Without fail, they were well-dressed and carried themselves confidently.
“Perhaps she’s an artist?” Valerie suggested when Margaret shared her findings. “Or a musician? They always know heaps of people.”
“An artist *with* that sort of money?” Margaret snorted derisively. “When did you last meet a wealthy artist?”
Valerie shrugged but conceded it seemed unlikely.
Margaret’s curiosity grew daily. She started deliberately listening for sounds above, timing her trips to the bins to coincide with footsteps on the stairs. But the neighbour seemed to vanish into thin air. Either she moved like a ghost or sensed observation and avoided it.
The answer arrived unexpectedly. Margaret was returning from the NHS clinic after an eternal queue to see her GP. Her mood was foul – the doctor hadn’t been helpful, just handed her a slew of test referrals. In the lift, she bumped into Gaz the plumber from the council.
“Alright, Mrs W?” Gaz greeted her, clutching his toolbox.
“Hello, Gary. Off to mend something?”
“Fifth floor, leaky tap. Got a work order.”
Margaret perked up. “Flat fifty-three?”
“Yep. Bloke who lives there? Interesting sort. Always offers tea and biscuits. Pays cash on top, an’ all.”
“Really? What’s she like?”
Gaz scratched his head. “Nice lady. Polite, proper, like. But seems a bit down. And lives all on her own, no one else there.”
“Alone? But men visit her constantly!”
The plumber looked bewildered. “What men? I’ve been ‘round five times – never seen a soul. Always just her.”
Margaret pondered. Either Gaz was fibbing, or she’d got the wrong end of the stick. Maybe the neighbour was just discreet and didn’t entertain callers with strangers present.
The mystery unraveled a week later, from the most unexpected quarter. Margaret came face-to-face with the neighbour in Tesco Express. The woman stood by the chilled section, intently examining a carton of yogurt.
“Excuse me,” Margaret addressed her. “You’re from our building, yes? Margaret Willoughby, fourth floor.”
The neighbour looked up. Close up, she was even prettier – fine features, lovely hazel eyes, cared for skin. But those eyes held such exhaustion and sadness that Margaret gave an involuntary shiver.
“Yes, I recall,” the woman answered softly. “Eleanor Ashworth. Pleased to meet you.”
“How are you settling in? Lovely flat Reg Smythe left; kept it tip-top.”
“Thank you, it’s fine. Quiet. Peaceful.”
Eleanor clearly wasn’t keen on chit-chat, but Margaret wasn’t letting this chance pass.
“Working somewhere? Or retired already?”
“Working,” Eleanor answered curtly and turned back to the cheese aisle.
Taking the hint, Margaret excused herself. But the chat left her more baffled. Only more questions piled up.
At home, she rang Valerie immediately. “Val! I spoke to her! Eleanor Ashworth.”
“And? Learn anything?”
“Hardly a thing. Very private. And terribly sad-looking, actually brought a lump to my throat.”
“Husband passed on? Messy divorce?”
“No clue. But something’s amiss. Gaz reckons she’s always alone, but I’ve *seen* men go up.”
Valerie paused, then tentatively asked, “Marg… you haven’t thought maybe she’s… well… you know?”
“You know what?”
“Well, the men calling, she’s got cash, lives alone…”
Margaret gasped. “Valerie Bishop! What a thing to say! She’s a proper lady! Educated!”
“So? Educated people get hungry too. Life happens. Maybe she got made redundant, pension’s not enough…”
The thought was so shocking Margaret was speechless. Partly, it explained things – the men with flowers, the money, the secrecy. Yet Eleanor seemed nothing like… that sort of woman.
“No,” Margaret stated firmly. “Impossible. You haven’t seen her. She’s pure Kensington, not King’s Cross.”
“Even Kensington ladies have bills to pay,” Valerie retorted.
The conversation nagged at Margaret. She watched Eleanor even more closely now, her curiosity tinged with concern. What if Valerie was right? What if Eleanor had such money troubles she *had* to…
One evening, Margaret heard crying through the wall. Quiet, muffled, but unmistakable. She wept for ages, and Margaret’s heart ached so much she nearly went and knocked.
Next day, she met Eleanor in the hall. The neighbour was coming downstairs, struggling with a heavy shopping bag. Her face was pale, shadows under her eyes.
“Eleanor,” Margaret called, “can I give you a hand with that? Looks heavy.”
Eleanor stopped, looking surprised. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Come on, let me help. Honestly, you look worn out.”
Eleanor hesitated, then sighed. “Alright. Thank you.”
They walked silently down to the entrance. By the main door, Eleanor paused. “Margaret… could I ask you a favour?”
“Of course!”
“
Margaret felt rather silly recalling her unkind suspicions about the lady from the flat above, who was simply a decent woman caught in a dreadful mess, yet was finding her feet again now that the nasty business with those persistent former colleagues had finally, thankfully, blown over. And Elaine, standing on steadier ground at last, quietly treasured the unexpected kindness of the neighbour who hadn’t pried further that difficult day.
