Neighbour Upstairs
Linda, where did you put my saucepan? The big one I use for making stew?
Mrs. Harris, it was in the middle of the walkway. I put it down on the lower shelf.
The lower shelf! I cant bend that far, my back! Do you ever think when you move other peoples things?
I stood at the sink, looking out the window. Outside, an October drizzle chilled the glass, quiet and grey. Something inside me drizzled too. Not anger, yet. More that feeling you get when you know: this is just the beginning.
***
Mrs. Harris arrived late Friday evening. Victor met her at the lift, hauling up her two heavy bags and a great tartan holdallthe sort the British call a classic granny bag. I smiled. I genuinely smiled, because I understood: the womans seventy-eight, the leak from the flat above caught her off guard, suddenly builders stripped her flat to concrete, the council got round to it only after half a year and now theres nowhere for her to go. This isnt an invasion, I told myself, its only temporary.
Temporary is a word Id soon recall with special feeling.
Im fifty-six. No crone, but not a spring chicken, right in the middleaware of my worth but still flexible enough not to snap at every wind. I work from home: bespoke needlework commissions for private collectors and small galleries. Not a hobby, it pays the billsand not badly. I also run an online course teaching English embroidery. My work spacemy corner in the bedroom with north-facing light, my threads, frames, fabrics, neat diagramsisnt just where I sit. Its my workshop. My bread-and-butter.
Victor and I live in a well-planned two-bedroom flat, moved here eight years ago after the children flew the nest. First two years I just cleared out the unnecessary. No drama, no regrets. Donated, sold, binned everything that wasnt serving us. Only kept whats needed, whats beautiful. Light walls, scant furniture, no carpets on walls, no glass cabinets full of trinkets, no dried flowers in vases for memory. Three live plants on the sillsnot one more: a ficus, a snake plant and a little rosemary bush in the kitchen. Each shelf knows its contents. Each drawer closes neatly, because theres only as much as it should hold.
Victor grumbled at first. Claimed he lived in a hotel. Then got used to it and now gets cross if things go astray. We found our rhythm, our oxygen, our way to breathe together in this space.
And then, into that space, came Mrs. Harris.
***
The first two days were almost pleasant. She settled the guest room wed hurriedly prepared: set up the fold-out bed, cleared half the wardrobe. I brought her a lamp, left a glass of water and a book on the bedside. I thought it was kind and thoughtful.
By the third day, I found a crocheted doily on the corridor windowsill. Round, cream, lacy edges. Just under Mrs. Harriss phone, as though itd always been hers.
I picked up the doily, folded it neatly and put it in her room.
Next morning, it sat on the windowsill again.
I realised it wasnt deliberate. And that was the crux of it. Mrs. Harris wasnt battling me; she just lived the way she knew to live. For her, a doily under the phone meant order. Cosiness. The right thing. She grew up where more things meant a richer home. An empty sill meant lack or carelessness. Storing grain in five mismatched jars showed thrift, not clutter.
I grew up in that world too. But I left it, deliberately.
***
By the end of week one, the kitchen was unrecognisable. Three enamel saucepans, sizes unmatched, that wouldnt fit any cupboard, simply stood on the counter. On top of them appeared a tree-shaped yellow plastic lid-holder. The fridge inside became a test site: open jars of pickled onions (brought from her daughters place), a tub of dripping in garlic marinade, a bag of soaking lentils, a Tupperware of something wrapped in three layers of cling film whose use I dared not question. My yogurts had been relegated to the very bottom of the door by her horseradish jar, her home-brewed ginger beer.
Id move the yogurts; shed move them back.
Evenings, the kitchen smelled of boiled cabbage, fried onions, and something elsehearty, heavy, unmistakably English-elderly. Not that it was bad; just not my scent, my evening, my air.
Victor would come home, sniff and say, Mums cooking! Smells lovely.
I said nothing.
***
Near the end of week two, a little rug appeared beside the sofa in the living room. Synthetic, with pink roses round the edge, the kind you find at Poundland or any local market for a fiver. Mrs. Harris explained her feet were always cold in the mornings, so shes always had a rug by her bed. What could I say? That I didnt like the rug? Id seem absurdly petty.
I stayed quiet.
Next, her cardigan joined our cloakroom rack. Not in the cupboard space Id offered, but right there on our shared hooks next to Victors coata large checked beige-and-blue fleece, draping over his jacket.
I moved her cardigan onto a spare hook by the bathroom door.
She found it and returned it. Thats awkward, too far for me to reach, she said.
I nodded.
That evening, Victor asked, Are you all right? You seem quiet.
Im fine, I replied.
It wasnt true, and we both knew it. But both chose not to mention it.
***
The bedroom needs mentioning, because it was my working space, my incomenot a matter of taste or rugs.
Beneath the north window is my worktable. Long, pale wood, built to order, shelves for charts, drawers for thread. Overhead, a special daylight lamp. Next to it, a rack sorted top to bottom by colour, from cool to warm, like a rainbow. Not decoration; a working system.
On a large embroidery hoop, stretched taut, was a serious project: a commission from a London collectora replica banner in goldwork with Japanese silk, deadline end of November, deposit paid. Forty thousand pounds worth.
Three months work on that.
No one touched the hoop. The tension would ruin the piece. Victor knew that. We have no pets. Kids far away. All under control.
Then Mrs. Harris arrived.
***
It was Thursday, midday. Id gone out for threada specific shade, copper with a gold sheen. You have to buy in person, see the real colour. I spent about an hour, nipped to the pharmacy too.
Returning home, I entered the bedroom and saw
Mrs. Harris at my shelving, sorting my yarn skeins into boxes. She was rearranging them on her own logic. On my table, next to the hoop, lay a reel of Japanese silk, half-unwound and tangled. Unique rose-gold, none left in stock. Worst: the fabric in the hoop at one corner was faintly squashed, as if someones elbow or carelessness had pressed it.
Speechless, I stood in the doorway.
Mrs. Harris turned, utterly calm: Linda, you had such a muddle here. I thought Id help, put everything in colour order. Look how nice!
Mrs. Harris, I managed very quietly, please leave the room.
What? I only meant well
I know. Just, please leave.
She didoffended, lips pinched.
I closed the door, knelt by the hoop, and checked the work. Thank God, no snag on the threads. The fabric tension I restored. The silk? Only partly salvageda third cut off, thanks to the tangling. Silk this fine, one wrong pull and it snaps.
Not a catastrophe. But the line after which I knew: this couldnt go on.
***
That evening, Victor asked why his mum wasnt talking over dinner.
I told him.
He listened, chewed his lip, then said, She meant well, you know. Didnt mean to
I know.
Linda, just try to put up with it a bit longer. Shes having a rough time of it, in a different place.
Victor, this is my work space. This is my livelihood.
I know. But she wont be here forever.
Id been hearing this not forever for two weeks. I asked straight out:
How much longer?
Well, builders say December.
December: another month and a half. I looked at him. He met my eyes with the look Id seen many times: he loved us both, didnt want to pick sides. He was the sort who believed that, if you just smile and ask people to be patient, things would sort themselves out.
It was clear Id have to be the one to sort it.
***
That night, sleepless, I considered my options. A forthright talk with my mother-in-law? Shed be insulted, tears, tell Victor I was driving her out. A row? Worse. An ultimatum for my husband? Hed be caught in the middleunfair and destructive. Endure it? No. That option went the way of the ruined silk reel.
One path left: measured, slow, but the only sensible option.
To solve two things at once: keep Mrs. Harris busier out of the flat, and speed up the builders so shed want to return home as soon as possible.
It wasnt revenge, but survival. Quiet, diplomatic, honest at its heart: I did not wish her ill. I just wanted my home back.
***
First, I tackled her spare time.
Mrs. Harris, I knew, had always been busy. At home, she visited the library, sometimes church, in summer helped with her daughters allotment. Here, she was bored. With elderly people, boredom becomes hyperactivity inside whatever space is at handour flat, in this case.
I phoned my friend Irene, who works at the councils community centre. Asked what activities they had for retirees.
Irene replied: Plenty! Walking group in the park, choir on Wednesdays and Fridays, wool felting group, health lectures every Tuesday. All free, just need identity and address.
How do you sign up?
Just turn up!
I didnt say to Mrs. Harris, Theres a club, off you go. Too blunt. I tried another tack.
At dinner, off-hand, I mentioned, Victor said you used to sing? In your youth?
She brightened. She had sung, in amateur groups, had a good voice.
Ive heard theres a local adult choir, I said. A friend told me about it, good conductor, friendly crowd. Free to join. Thought you might be interested, especially as youre new to the area.
She was evasive: not sure, uncomfortable starting something new alone.
I let it be.
Three days later, I brought it up againhow the choir sings at local festivals, gets featured in the community magazine. The word magazine made her bristle with interest.
The following week, she asked for directions to the centre.
I gave her a map, big letters, clear pen.
That Wednesday, she left at ten and didnt return till three. Rosy-cheeked, sparkling eyes.
Oh, what lovely ladies, she said over tea. And the conductor, Mr. Anderson, young but very fair. They sing all the classics. I joined in for a bithe invited me back!
Wonderful, I repliedand I truly meant it.
From then on, Wednesdays and Fridays meant several hours of peace. Tuesdays, she started park-walking with a new friend from choir, Mrs. Evans, who lived around the corner and, as it turned out, was absolutely lovely.
The house grew quieter. Not empty, but peaceful.
***
Next stage took more effort and a little cunning.
I phoned Mrs. Harriss daughter, Sarah. Wed never really been friends, just polite as family. I told her straight:
Sarah, were glad to have your mum, but she belongs in her own home, amongst her neighbours. Builders dragging their feet only knock her further off balance.
Sarah said the builders kept delaying, you couldnt get them to commit.
I asked, Do you oversee them directly?
Turns outno. She relied on a mate of her husbands to handle it, who just rang the crew occasionally. More or less no proper oversight.
I said, I have a few connections in trade. Lets send someone we trust to take a look and work out whats genuine and whats being strung out.
She agreed happilyshed had enough herself.
Those contacts were genuine. Our neighbour downstairs, Mr. Peterson, had run building crews for years. Over coffee, I explained.
Floor relaid, walls skimmed, plumbing replaced? he repeated. Thats three weeks, not three months.
He visited, spoke with the foreman. Discovered the usualthey were juggling three jobs, only popped in to Mrs. Harriss every few days, had already pocketed half the pay, no intention to rush.
Mr. Peterson had a word with the builder, straight to the point. Set a three-week deadline. Promised to drop by and check.
Sarah renegotiated the contract. The workmen, seeing the fun was over, picked up speed.
None of this I told Victor. Not to keep secrets, but to spare him the feeling hed need to choose sides. This was my load to carry.
***
Those three weeks were a bit uneven.
There were good eveningsMrs. Harris would return from choir cheerful, chat about Mrs. Evans, about stopping off at the cake shop, about how Mr. Anderson complimented her voice. On those evenings she was light, bright, we sat together, and shed tell stories from her youth, and it all felt truly warm.
Bad days, too.
One morning, my beloved ficus had been moved from the windowsill to a dark corner. In its place stood Mrs. Harriss bright pink-flowered geranium. Her explanation: The ficus blocks the light; geraniums love the window.
By evening, the ficus in the corner was dropping its leaves.
I quietly swapped them back, moving the geranium to her bedside table. Mrs. Harris and I exchanged looks.
She said, You could have asked, you know.
I replied, Likewise.
That was the only moment sparks really flew. Not shouting or tears. Just, for once, we truly saw each other.
She went to her room. I to the kitchen. By dinner, the air had cleared.
Victor saw it all, and said nothing. Sometimes I found his silence more frustrating than any geranium incursion. He tried to ignore the faultline running right across our dinner table. Men often do: as if not looking at the crack might heal it.
It doesnt. Ever.
***
One night, Mrs. Harris in bed early, I sat at my worktable quietly sewing, lamp on, threads smooth between my fingers. Victor came in, lingered behind me, then sat on the bed.
Youre angry with me, he statednot askedflatly.
A little, I confessed. Not at you, just the situation.
I know youre struggling.
You understand, I said, not looking up, but understanding and sharing are different things.
He was silent.
What do you want me to do?
Nothing, Vic. Im sorting it.
He didnt ask how. Maybe he didnt want to know. Maybe he suspected itd mean choosing. He lay down, read for a while, and fell asleep. I worked for another hour, listening to the clock and the soft breathing of an old woman whose life simply didnt fit with mine.
I thought that night: In family disagreements, it isnt hatred that destroys anythingits when everyone means well and loves each other, yet everyone is miserable. Because theres no clear villain, no easy blame.
***
The work finished ahead of even Mr. Petersons prediction.
Sarah called meme, not Victoron Saturday morning. Dads builders cleared out last night, all done, just needs a bit of an airing.
I thanked her. We chatted, and I sensed something had subtly changedSarah looked at me as a person who gets things done, not just her brothers wife.
Now to break the news to Mrs. Harris without making her feel cast out.
I thought this over all Saturday.
At dinner, while Mrs. Harris chatted about the choirs upcoming Christmas concert, I smiled and said:
Mrs. Harris, Ive something to tell you. Dont be alarmedits good news.
She went silent, turned to me.
I arranged with a foreman weeks back, wanted to surprise you. He looked over the job, gave the builders a bit of a hurry, and now Sarah says its all sorted. You can go home.
She gazed at me, then at Victor, then back at me.
You arranged all that?
Well, not just me, the neighbour helped. I didnt want you to feel awkward with us any longer than needed. Youre happiest in your own placeyour home.
Victor looked at me as if hed never really seen me before.
Mrs. Harris paused, then stood, reached for my hand. Her hands were dry, warm, heavy with age.
Linda, she said, youre a good one.
I didnt know what to reply. Just squeezed her hand gently.
***
The move-back was Sunday. Victor took his mother, helped her in with her bags, made sure all was sorted. I stayed behind, said Id have tea ready. Really, I just wanted time alone in my own home.
For half an hour after theyd gone, I wandered each room. Touched the walls. Stood at my work table under the north window, inspected my embroidery.
Then I picked up the rug with roses from the guest room. It lay there now, lonely without its owner. I took the last doily from a windowsillprobably forgotten in the packing. Opened a window, stood breathing in drizzly October air.
Then to the kitchenand found, on the second shelf of the fridge, a tub carefully wrapped in cling film. I opened it. Inside was our favourite soup, that tangy British brine stew Mrs. Harris made Victor as a boy. Enough for two days.
I shut the fridge, and leaned back against it.
Strange, isnt it, people? Three weeks you can be driving each other mad and still leave behind soup as a goodbye.
***
That night Victor came home. We ate. Little talk, but peaceful. He washed up, I driedlike always.
At bedtime, lying back, he stared at the ceiling.
So youd been sorting the builders out all this time?
I had.
Why didnt you tell me?
I waited.
You told me to be patient, Vic. I decided not to be, but to act. I thought you wouldnt want to get involved.
You could have trusted me.
I do, love. I softened my voice. But I knew if you helped itd only burden you with guilt towards your mum. You didnt need that.
He was quiet a long time.
It was clever, he admitted at last. And a bit hurtful.
I know, I said. Im sorry.
We lay there together in the dark, and I thought: It wasnt perfect. We all left much unsaid. There never was the big honest chat books recommend. The problem got solved sideways, quietly, through invisible effort.
If thats good or bad, even now Im unsure.
***
Mrs. Harris rang a week later. She sounded cheerful. She told me her flat was bright, freshly painted, cream walls just as she wanted. Shed found her cups unpacking. Visited her neighbour Mrs. Evans, who, it turned out, had been unwell all this time and was glad to see her.
Ill carry on with the choir, she told me. Mr. Anderson says the neighbourhood will field a team for the city competition come February. Mrs. Evans says well go together.
Thats wonderful, I replied.
Linda, she said, more gently, I know I probably was in your way, staying with you.
I didnt lie: No, not at all, it was fine. Shed have known it wasnt true.
Were just different, Mrs. Harris, I said. Thats all. The important thing is that youre happy now.
She was silent a moment.
Yes, she agreed. Thats what matters.
***
Sometimes I think back on those seven weeks. Not often, but sometimes.
The rug of roses. Saucepan on the table. Her geranium on my sill. Soup in the fridge. The feel of Mrs. Harriss dry warm hand, Victors honest, It was hurtful,more honest than anything else those weeks.
I didnt win a battle. There wasnt one. It was a problem, which I solved. A home I reclaimednot by shouting nor by rubbing faces in the dirt.
No great heroism. Just what one sometimes must do: hold to the shape of your own life, when someone else, not out of spite but from habit, starts to reshape it.
Protecting your boundaries isnt drawing battle lines. Its knowing what you want and quietly, stubbornly, without fuss, moving toward it.
And family? Family is a strange animal. It survives the most awkward setups. Breathes through the cracks. Sometimes, it leaves soup in your fridge when it goes.
***
Come November, I finished the banner and sent it to the client. He wrote back, delighted, and paid the rest of the fee. I bought myself a new reel of Japanese silkpale gold as an autumn leafand tucked it into the drawer by my table. Right where it belongs.
On the windowsill sit three pots: the ficus, the snake plant, the rosemary. No doilies.
The flat is peaceful. Smells of coffee and a touch of beeswax from my evening candle. Victor reads in his armchair. Winters almost here.
Everythings in its place.
***
A month later, we visited Mrs. Harris for tea. I brought her a box of Turkish delight from that bakery shed discovered with Mrs. Evans. She opened the door and led us straight to admire the renovations: bright cream rooms, just as shed wanted. And yes, every windowsill had its doily. The rug with roses was back by the sofa.
I looked at it all, and felt nothingno irritation, no condescension. Just it was her home.
Over tea, she said to us both: Come for the choir competition in February. Well be singing Hope. I want you to hear it.
Victor said, Well be there, Mum.
I said, Of course.
And, really, I meant it.
*Lesson: Sometimes, protecting your peace means acting quietly, not blaming, and trusting that the shape of your life is worth preservingeven when it means quietly moving doilies off the windowsill.*On the way home that evening, Victor squeezed my hand in his coat pocket, wordless and solid as ever. The city glowed wet and amber. A single window on Mrs. Harriss floor shone: silhouettesher, and Mrs. Evans, laughing, swaying to music only they could hear.
We walked silent, warmed by streets that belonged again to us. Home rose up around us, familiar and steadythe echo of soup and roses and all the difficult kindnesses it sometimes takes to keep loving, to let go and let be. In the lift, Victor leaned into me, resting his head for a moment on my shoulder.
Its good, isnt it? he whispered.
It really is, I said, and I felt it: not victory, not compromise, just the small grace of having weathered something together.
Later, as I stitched beneath the north window, the light gold thread caught and shimmered, a line brighter than before. I smiled, softlybecause some repairs, the best, are invisible. And sometimes, just sometimes, the peace you reclaim is large enough for all of you to fit inside.
Outside, rain pattered the glass, and through it, somewhere upstairs, faint as memory, someone sang.
