Upstairs Neighbour
Helen, where did you put my big pot? You know, the one I use to make stew?
Mrs Margaret, it was in the middle of the walkway. I popped it on the bottom shelf over there.
The bottom shelf! I cant bend down there, my back! Do you even think before you move other peoples things?
I was standing by the sink, staring out at the dull October drizzle. Just that sort of English drizzle, gentle but insistent. And inside, it was starting to drizzle too. Not quite anger. More that feeling you get when you realise… this is only the beginning.
***
Mrs Margaret arrived on Friday evening. John met her at the lift, lugged in her two heavy bags and a checkered holdall you know, one of those bags everyone calls the move-everything bag. I smiled, genuinely. I understood: she was seventy-eight, the redecoration upstairs started out of the blue after the flat below flooded, the housing association took six months to get their act together, and now her flat was stripped back to bare brick. She had nowhere else to go. This wasnt an invasion, I told myself. It was temporary.
Temporary is a word Id look back on with a certain feeling.
Im fifty-six. Not old, not young, right in that awkward middle bit where you know your own worth but youre still flexible enough to cope with a few curveballs. I work from home: I do hand embroidery commissions for private collectors and a few galleries. Its not just a hobby, it pays well. Plus, I run an online course for those wanting to master drawn thread and goldwork embroidery. My workspace is my territory the corner in our bedroom by the north-facing window, flooded with daylight. My threads, frames, fabrics, pattern printoutsits not just where I sit. Its my studio. My provider.
Our flat mine and Johns is a two-bedroom, but beautifully planned. We moved in eight years ago, after the kids had flown the nest. The first couple of years, I decluttered. No drama, no fuss. I gave away, sold, or binned everything that wasnt working for us. Only things that were needed or brought joy stayed. Pale walls, the bare minimum of furniture, no carpet on the walls, no overflowing china cabinets, no dried flowers in vases for memorys sake. A couple of real plants on the windowsill, no more than three: a rubber plant, a snake plant, and a little rosemary bush in the kitchen. Every shelf knew its contents. Every drawer closed effortlessly because there was only as much as there should be.
At first, John grumbled. Said it felt like living in a hotel. Then he got used to it and started to get annoyed himself if anything was out of place. We found our rhythm, our breathing space, our way of living together.
And into this space, Mrs Margaret arrived.
***
The first couple of days, things were almost pleasant. She settled into the guest room, which wed quickly prepared, setting up the sofa bed and clearing half the wardrobe. I put in an extra lamp, left a glass of water and a book on the bedside table. It felt thoughtful, even a bit cosy.
By the third day, though, I came across a crocheted doily on the windowsill in the hallway. Round, off-white, frilly around the edge. It sat under Mrs Margarets landline handset, like it had always belonged there. Like this windowsill had always been hers.
I quietly moved the doily back to her bedside table.
The following morning, there it was again: back on the windowsill.
I realised this wasnt malicious. That was the tricky thing. Mrs Margaret wasnt battling me. She was just living as she knew how. For her, a doily under the phone meant order, comfort, the right way to do things. Shed grown up in a world where more things meant a richer home. A blank windowsill meant poverty or carelessness. Jars of rice in five different sizes meant that you were a proper housekeeper, not a hoarder.
I was raised in that same world, but left it, deliberately.
***
By the end of the first week, the kitchen was unrecognisable. Three enamel saucepans of different sizes appeared, none of which fit in any cupboard, simply sitting out on the worktop. Next to them, a plastic lid-holder shaped like a little yellow tree. The fridge was an experiment: jars of home-pickled onions shed brought from her daughters up north, a tub of lard in a garlicky marinade, a bag of soaked beans, a mystery bowl wrapped up in cling film that I didnt dare investigate. My yoghurts were pushed down to the bottom door shelf, squeezed in by a jar of horseradish and a bottle of homemade ginger beer.
I moved my yoghurts back. She moved them again.
In the evenings, the kitchen smelt of braised cabbage, fried onions, and something else hearty, heavy, and very traditional. Not bad just not my scent, not my evening, not my air.
John would get home from work, sniff and say,
Oh, Mums been cooking! Smells lovely.
I kept quiet.
***
By the end of the second week, a little synthetic rug with roses appeared by the sofa in the sitting room. The sort you get for a fiver at B&M. Mrs Margaret explained her feet got cold on the floor and shed always popped a rug beside the bed. What could I say? I dont like the rug? That would sound ridiculously petty.
I said nothing.
Soon, her fleece cardigan appeared on the hallway coat hooks not in the wardrobe wed cleared, but right next to Johns coat. A big checked beige and blue number, drooping over Johns jacket.
I discreetly moved it to a spare hook by the bathroom. She found it and put it back in the hallway.
Its just easier here, not such a reach, she said.
I nodded.
That evening, John asked,
You alright? Youre very quiet.
Fine, I said.
It wasnt true. We both knew that. But we both chose not to say any more.
***
The bedrooms worth mentioning, because that wasnt just about taste or little doilies it was my workspace, which meant money.
By the north window stood my long, bespoke birch worktable, with shelves for patterns, drawers for spools. Overhead, a daylight lamp with a neutral spectrum vital for accurate thread colour. By its side, my shelving unit: arranges, gleaming, all by colour, cold on the top, warm shades lower down, full spectrum. Not décor a working system.
On a big embroidery frame was a commission, a serious one. A private collector in London had ordered a copy of an old altar banner, scaled down, done in goldwork with Japanese silk and gilt thread. Delivery deadline: end of November. Deposit paid. Forty thousand pounds at stake.
Three months work.
No one was allowed to touch the frame. Id explained to everyone: even a little poke messes up the tension, then Id have to start again. John knew. No pets. Kids long gone. I was in control.
Until Mrs Margaret arrived.
***
It was Thursday, about midday. I popped out to the haberdashery for a strand of silk a terracotta-gold shade, not something you can trust to order online. Maybe an hour, a bit more, as I nipped into Boots too.
Back home, I walked into the bedroom and saw it.
Mrs Margaret was sorting through my yarns. Shed laid them all out, arranging them into boxes, grouping them as she saw fit. There on the worktable lay a spool of Japanese silk, partly undone and tangled. That rose-gold shade was my only one left. And, worst of all, the corner of the embroidery on the frame had a faint impression, as if someone had pressed or leaned on it.
I stood in the doorway, lost for words.
Mrs Margaret turned round, perfectly calm:
Helen, it was such a mess in here! I just wanted to help, sorted them by colour. See, looks lovely now.
Mrs Margaret, I said softly, please leave my workroom.
What? I was only trying to help…
I understand. Please, out.
She left, tightly pursed lips radiating offence.
I shut the door, slid to the floor in front of my frame, and started inspecting. Thank heaven, the thread wasnt snagged. The fabric corner was only slightly dented; I could re-tension it. The spool, though I had to cut away a third of the silk. So fine, it would snap under the least strain.
It wasnt a catastrophe. But it was the point where I knew: this could not carry on.
***
Later, John asked why his mum was so silent at dinner.
I told him.
He chewed his lip and said,
She didnt mean anything by it. Just wanted to help.
I know she didnt mean any harm.
Helen, just hang on. Shes struggling, its not her own space.
John, its my workspace. I rely on it for income.
I get it. But she wont be here long.
That not for long Id heard that two weeks running. I asked straight,
How much longer?
The builders reckon December.
December. So another six weeks. I looked at my husband. That guarded look I recognised: he loved us both, didnt want to pick sides. He genuinely believed if everyone just muddled along, things would sort themselves out.
I decided that, actually, Id need to do something myself.
***
I lay awake that night, thinking. Rehearsed the options. Honest chat with Mrs Margaret? Tearful, dramatic, shed tell John I was trying to evict her. Row? Wouldnt help. Ultimatum to John? Hed be stuck in the crossfire unfair and damaging. Suffer in silence? No, Id used up the last of my patience with that spooled silk.
So, plan four: subtle action. Not fast, not loud, but the only reasonable way.
I needed two things at once: keep Mrs Margaret busier so shed be home less, and speed up her own flats repairs, so shed want to move back as soon as possible.
It wasnt revenge just survival, honestly. I wasnt out to hurt her. I just wanted my own home back.
***
Step one: keep her occupied.
I knew Mrs Margaret was active. Back home, she went to the library, church, dabbled at her daughters allotment in the summer. Here in our part of south London, she was bored. And older peoples boredom becomes hyperactivity within arms reach i.e., our flat.
I rang my friend Karen, who works at the local community centre. Any clubs or groups for older folk?
She said, Yes! Nordic walking every morning, choir practice Wednesdays and Fridays, a craft group, health talks on Tuesdays. All free just need ID and proof of address.
So how does she sign up?
Just turn up, thats all.
I didnt tell Mrs Margaret, Here, theres some clubs for you, go along. Thatd be far too obvious. I was subtler.
Over dinner, I said lightly,
Mrs Margaret, you used to sing, didnt you? John told me about your choir days.
She brightened. She had sung, in school and at community groups, back in the day.
You know, I went on, Ive heard theres a local choir here, supposed to be lovely. A friend of mine said the conductors great, and everyones friendly. Not a penny to join. I thought you might like it, as youre here on your own.
She protested, embarrassed to turn up somewhere new alone.
I didnt push. Just a suggestion.
Three days later, I brought it up again. Mentioned the choir performed at the local Christmas lights switch-on, and their group photo was published in the local paper. At newspaper, she perked right up. I saw something click.
The next week she asked me to jot down directions to the centre.
Which I did, nice and clear map from the bus stop, big letters, no fuss.
On Wednesday, she left at ten and came back at three, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling.
Such a nice group, she said at tea. And the choir leader, Mr White, is young, strict but fair. Were singing folk songs and musicals. He said I have a good mezzo!
Really? I said, genuinely pleased.
From then on, on Wednesdays and Fridays, shed be out for hours. Then, thanks to a choir friend, Nina (lives nearby, lovely lady), she started Nordic walking on Tuesdays too.
The flat was quieter. Not empty. Justquieter.
***
The second half of the plan needed more effort. I rang Mrs Margarets daughter, Susan. Wed never really been close, just polite as sisters-in-law. I was direct:
Susan, were happy to have your mum. But honestly, shed be much better off back at home she misses her friends, her routines. This dragged-out building work is really hard on her.
She said the builders were slow and always pushing back completion.
I asked,
Have you been overseeing or is someone else dealing with them?
It turned out, it was all through her husbands mate, who took care of it and occasionally called the foreman. In other words, no real supervision.
I said:
Let me help. I know some people in building, they can take a look and be honest about whats really needed and whats just delaying tactics.
Susan agreed she was fed up, too.
This wasnt a fib. Our neighbour Terry, downstairs, was a builder by trade for years. I got him round over a coffee, explained everything.
Subflooring, replaster, new loo? he said, Three, maybe four weeks tops, not three months.
He went up there, had words with the builder. Turned out, classic the crew were doing two other jobs at once, only came round every few days, most of the cash already paid. So, not much urgency.
Terry had a no-nonsense chat with the foreman. Realistically, three weeks, daily work. Promised to check in regularly.
Susan rewrote the contract, told the builders to get their skates on. Suddenly, the work sped up.
I didnt tell John about any of this not to be sneaky, but just to spare him feeling caught in the middle. It was my job, Id do it.
***
The next three weeks, as the plan unfolded, were a bit all over the place.
There were good evenings, when Mrs Margaret got in from choir, happily chatting about Nina, about stopping for tea and cakes afterwards, about what Mr White said at practice. On those nights, wed all sit together with John, hearing stories from her younger days, and it was genuinely warm and pleasant.
And there were bad days, too.
One morning, I found my beloved rubber plant moved from the windowsill to a spot in the corner on the floor. In its place, a pot of geraniums Mrs Margaret had smuggled in her big bag in full, pink blossom. Her reasoning was simple: The rubber plant blocks the light. Geraniums need window sun.
By evening, my rubber plants leaves were curled up in protest.
I moved it back in silence and put the geranium in her room. We met eyes in the hallway.
She said,
You might have asked.
I replied,
Right back at you.
That was the only time a proper spark passed between us. No tearful row, no drama. Just, for once, we both saw each other, properly.
She retreated to her room. I went to the kitchen. By dinner, we talked about something else.
John noticed, but said nothing. Sometimes I thought his silent diplomacy annoyed me more than the plant ambush. He tried to ignore the fault line forming across our home, like a lot of men do look away from the cracks, maybe theyll seal up on their own.
They never do.
***
One evening, after Mrs Margaret went to bed early, I sat working at my desk. Lamp on, stitches even, the world quiet. John came in, stood behind for a moment, then sat on the bed.
Youre angry with me, he said. Not a question, a statement.
A bit, I admitted. Not with you personally. Just at life.
I know its hard.
Yes, I replied without glancing up. Understanding and being helpful are two things.
He fell silent.
What do you want me to do?
Nothing, John. Im already sorting it.
He didnt ask what. Maybe didnt want to know. Or feared hed be forced to pick sides. He read for a bit and drifted off. I stitched in the soft glow, listening to the clock and, through the wall, the quiet breathing of the old lady who was here through no fault of her own just living out her own patterns that clashed with mine.
What struck me: In family rows, the most corrosive thing isnt hate at least hate is honest. Whats worse is when everyone is decent and well-meaning, and yet its still unbearable. You dont know whos to blame or where to put your anger.
***
The renovations finished ahead of even Terrys predictions.
Susan phoned me not John early on Saturday. Said, The builders packed up last night, everythings ready, just needs a bit of an airing and a clean.
I thanked her. We chatted, and I felt like she saw me differently now not just as the wife of her brother, but as someone who sees things through.
Now the trick was: tell Mrs Margaret in a way that didnt make her feel shoved out.
I pondered it all day.
That evening, as we sat round the table and she chatted about a concert the choir was planning for New Year, I smiled and said:
Mrs Margaret, Ive got some news. Dont worry, its good!
She paused, looking at me.
I got hold of a builder weeks back, wanted to surprise you. He went over your flat, sorted things out with the team. Susan says its all finished. You can move home.
Mrs Margaret stared at me for a moment, then at John, then back at me.
Did you… sort it all yourself?
Not entirely, Terry downstairs helped. I just didnt want you feeling uncomfortable with us longer than necessary. Youll feel more yourself at home. Its your place, after all.
John looked at me like hed never seen me before.
Mrs Margaret was quiet, then got up, walked over and took my hand in hers. Her hands were dry, warm, heavy with life.
Helen, she said, youre a good soul.
I didnt know how to answer. So I held her hand back.
***
The move was Sunday. John took his mum, helped lug things, checked all was as it should be. I didnt go, said Id stay and make dinner really, I just wanted half an hour alone.
For the first half hour after they left, I wandered about. Went into every room. Touched the walls, stood by my worktable, looking at my frame.
Then I took the rose-patterned rug out of the guest room and folded it up it looked rather forlorn, forgotten. I removed the last stray doily from the windowsill (just missed during packing up), opened the window, and stood, letting in the cold October air.
Then headed to the kitchen, where I discovered, on the middle shelf of the fridge, a bowl wrapped in clingfilm. I peeled it back: our favourite stew, Mrs Margarets special recipe with three cuts of meat. Enough to last us two days.
I closed the fridge and leaned against it.
People are odd, arent they? Three weeks of nerve-jangling cohabitation, and yet she left us homemade stew to say goodbye.
***
John got home that evening. We ate, mostly in silence, but peaceably. He washed up, I dried like always.
As he got into bed that night, he stared at the ceiling:
So, you really were sorting out the repairs all this time.
I was.
Why didnt you tell me?
I pondered.
You told me to be patient. But instead, I took action. I thought if I got you involved, youd feel guilty about your mum. You didnt need that.
He was quiet.
Clever, he said, at last. And a bit hurtful.
I know, I said. Sorry.
We lay in the dark. I thought: it isnt some perfect, fairytale story. No one said everything they felt. No big talk like in self-help books. It was solved quietly, by effort that went unseen.
Whether thats good or bad, Im still not sure.
***
Mrs Margaret rang a week later sounded content. Told me the flat was fresh and bright, just how shed wanted. Coffee with neighbour Valerie, whod recovered from illness. Her own mugs unpacked and in their rightful places.
Im keeping on with the choir. Mr White says were entering the borough contest in February Nina and Ill go together.
Brilliant, I said.
Helen, her voice changed, I know I was probably in your way when I stayed.
I didnt bother to protest or say It was fine. We would both have known that wasnt true.
Were just different, Mrs Margaret. Thats alright. The main thing is youre happy now.
She paused.
Yes, she said, softly. Thats it.
***
Sometimes I think about those seven weeks. Not often. But I do.
About the rug with roses, the saucepans on the counter, the geranium pot on my window, the leftovers in the fridge, Mrs Margarets tough, warm hand over mine, and that odd a bit hurtful honesty from John.
I didnt win a war there wasnt one. There was a problem, which I solved. A home I reclaimed, without shouting or shaming anyone.
Not a feat of heroism. Just something you have to do: quietly hold the shape of your own life, when someone else, not out of malice, just habit, starts kneading it out of shape.
Boundaries arent always brick walls or fights. Sometimes boundaries are just knowing what you want and heading there, steadily, in your own way.
As for family well, its a funny organism. Survives hardship, breathes through the cracks. And sometimes, leaves you a tub of stew in the fridge as it goes.
***
In November, I delivered the embroidery to my client. He was pleased, paid the balance. I treated myself to a new spool of Japanese gold silk, the colour of autumn leaves, and placed it in my little drawer. Just where it belonged.
On the windowsill: a rubber plant, a snake plant, rosemary. No doilies.
Its quiet. The flat smells of coffee and the faint tang of candle wax in the evening. John is reading in his armchair. The weather is almost winter now.
Everything in its place.
***
A month later, we visited Mrs Margaret. I brought her a box of apple pastilles from that bakery she raved about with Nina. She welcomed us in, gave us the grand tour of the repairs. All the rooms were bright, beige just as shed dreamed. Yes, every windowsill had a crocheted doily. The sofa had its rose rug.
I looked around and felt … nothing. No irritation, no superiority. Just, this was her home.
Over tea, she said to us,
You must come in February for the competition. Were singing Hope, and I want you to be there.
John replied, Of course we will, Mum.
And I said, Wed love to.
