Neighbour Upstairs
Helen, where did you put my pot? The big one, the one I use for stew?
Mrs. Taylor, it was right in the way. I put it over there, on the bottom shelf.
The bottom shelf! I cant bend down there, my backs not up to it! Did you even think before moving someone elses things?
I stood by the sink, staring out of the window. Outside, a quiet, grey October drizzle washed over London. Inside, something quietly pitter-pattered as well. Not quite anger. More that feeling you get when you realise: its only the beginning.
***
Mrs. Taylor arrived on Friday evening. Victor met her at the lift, carried up two heavy bags and a massive tartan holdall one of those, affectionately called the bag for all lifes problems. I smiled. I truly meant it, because I understood: shes seventy-eight, her flat was suddenly under renovation after a burst pipe from the flat below, the management was sluggish and only got involved six months late, and now everything there is stripped back to concrete. She had nowhere to go. It wasnt an invasion, I told myself. It was temporary.
The word temporary would take on a special meaning for me in the weeks ahead.
Im fifty-six. Not old, not young very much in the middle, old enough to know my worth but still flexible, not ready to snap at every breeze. I work from home, taking commissions for artistic embroidery, selling pieces to private collectors and the occasional gallery. Its not just a hobby its real money, and not bad money, either. I also run an online course for those wanting to learn counted-thread work and goldwork embroidery. My setup my corner in the bedroom by the north-facing window, my cottons, frames, fabrics, pattern printouts its more than a seat. Its my workspace. My livelihood.
Our flat, Victors and mine, is two bedrooms but laid out well. We moved in eight years ago when the kids left home. For the first couple of years, I got rid of all the extra stuff. No dramas, no regrets just giving away, selling, or tossing anything that didnt serve us. All thats left is whats beautiful and whats needed. Pale walls, minimal furniture, no wall-to-wall carpets or display cabinets stuffed with crystal or withered flowers for memorys sake. Live plants on the windowsill three, no more: a ficus, a snake plant, and a little pot of rosemary in the kitchen. Every shelf knows its contents. Every drawer shuts smoothly because it holds just what it should.
At first, Victor grumbled said he felt like he lived in a hotel. Then grew used to it, even started to bristle if anyone left things where they didnt belong. We found our rhythm together our air, our space to breathe.
And now Mrs. Taylor entered that space.
***
The first two days were nearly pleasant. She made herself at home in the guest room wed thrown together we put up a folding sofa bed, cleared out half the wardrobe. I brought in an extra reading lamp, set a glass of water and a book beside her. I thought it was thoughtful.
But on the third day, I found a crocheted doily, round and cream, lacy on the edge, on the corridor windowsill beneath Mrs. Taylors phone as if that spot was always hers.
I removed it gently, folded it, and left it in her room.
The next morning, there it was again.
It wasnt deliberate defiance, I realised. That was the heart of the difficulty. Mrs. Taylor wasnt fighting me; she was just living how she knew to live. Doily under a phone signified order, comfort, the right way of doing things. Shed grown up believing the more things in a home, the richer and cosier it was. A bare windowsill meant poverty or neglect. Tubs of grains in five different jars meant thriftiness, not clutter.
Id grown up in the same world, but Id left it behind on purpose.
***
By the end of week one, the kitchen was transformed. There were now three enamel pans of various sizes, none fitting in any cupboard, so they just lived on the counter. Next to them, a lurid yellow plastic tree-shaped lid-rack appeared. The fridge turned into a test site: jars of homemade pickles (brought from her daughters allotment), a tub of cured pork in garlic, a bag of soaked beans, Tupperware of something unidentifiable but thoroughly shrouded in cling film. My yoghurts were shifted to the bottom door shelf, squeezed beside a jar of horseradish and a bottle of homemade kvass.
I moved my yoghurts back. Mrs. Taylor put them again where she liked.
Every evening, the kitchen filled with the lingering smells of braised cabbage, fried onions, and something else. Hearty, stodgy, reminiscent of the old days. Not a bad smell just not mine. Not my evening. Not my air.
Victor would come home from work, take a sniff, and say,
Mums cooking! Smells brilliant.
I kept quiet.
***
Come the second week, I found a small synthetic rug with roses around the edge in the living room, by the sofa. The kind sold at pound shops near train stations. Mrs. Taylor explained her feet got cold in the morning, and she always kept a rug by her bed. What could I say? That I didnt like the rug? It would have sounded absurdly petty.
So I said nothing.
Soon, her cardigan appeared on the coat rack in the hallway not in the space Id cleared for her in the wardrobe, but right there, next to Victors coat. A big, checked cardie, beige and blue, slipping over Victors jacket, claiming its place.
I moved it to a spare hook by the bathroom.
She found it, returned it.
Thats awkward, I cant reach over there.
I just nodded.
That evening, Victor asked,
Are you all right? Youre a bit quiet.
Im fine, I said.
That wasnt true, and we both knew it. But we both pretended not to notice.
***
I need to tell you about the bedroom, because that was sacred ground: my work, my money and no longer about tastes or rugs.
By the north window is my worktable, a long, pale, custom-made birch-veneer desk, with shelves for patterns and boxes for spools. Above it, a daylight lamp on a flexi-arm, crucial for proper thread colour. Beside it, a tiered rack, displaying skeins of cotton and silk by colour gradient, cool to warm, just so. Its not for show its my system.
On my big embroidery hoop sat a major commission: a scale replica of an antique church banner in goldwork and Japanese silk, for a private collector up in Edinburgh. The deadline, end of November. Deposit paid. Value: £400.
Id been at it for three months.
Nobody was allowed to touch my hoop any contact messes the tension and means hours of rework. Victor understood. We had no pets. The kids are far away. Everything was under control.
Until Mrs. Taylor arrived.
***
It was Thursday, just after midday. Id popped out for thread a particular shade, terracotta with gold undertone, that you cant order online. Needed to match it in person. I also stopped by the chemist. Gone about an hour, maybe a bit more.
When I came back, I found Mrs. Taylor at my tiered rack, rearranging my skeins into little boxes, sorting them as she saw fit. On the desk, next to the embroidery hoop, a spool of my Japanese silk, half-unwound and looped over itself. That pink-gold shade Id no more in reserve. Worst of all, the fabric corner was slightly creased, like someone had leaned on or knocked it.
I stood in the doorway, speechless.
She turned, utterly unconcerned.
Helen, it was so untidy here. I sorted it all, nice and neat. See how lovely it looks?
Mrs. Taylor, very softly, please leave the room.
What? I was only helping
Please. Just go.
She left, wounded lips pursed.
I closed the door, slumped in front of my hoop, and began checking my work. The thread hadnt snagged, thank God. The crease was minor, I managed to readjust the tension. The spool was only partly salvageable about a third I had to cut off, the thread too fine and at risk of breaking.
It wasnt a disaster. But it was the moment I knew: it couldnt go on.
***
That evening, Victor asked why his mum was so quiet at dinner.
I explained.
He chewed his lip, thinking.
She didnt mean any harm, he said. She was only trying to help.
I know.
Helen, can you put up with it for a bit? Shes having a hard time, out of her usual space.
Victor, this is my workspace. Its my income.
I understand. But it wont be for long.
Id heard that wont be for long for the past two weeks. I asked plainly,
How much longer?
Builders say hopefully December.
December. Another month and a half. I looked at my husband. He was gazing at me with a familiar expression: he loved us both, didnt want to choose. Victor was a man who believed if you just smiled at everyone and asked them to have some patience, things would sort themselves out.
I knew then: it was up to me to sort it.
***
That night I didnt sleep. Went through options in my mind. Confront Mrs. Taylor? Shed feel hurt, cry, tell Victor I was evicting her. Fight? Pointless. Deliver an ultimatum to Victor? It would put him torn between us unfair, and damaging. Keep suffering quietly? No. Id ruled that out with the ruined silk.
One option left careful, slow, perhaps a bit cunning, but the only sensible route.
I had two aims: keep Mrs. Taylor occupied and out of the flat as much as possible, and get her renovation done so shed want to return, and soon.
Not revenge survival. Quiet diplomacy. I didnt want to hurt her. I just wanted my home back.
***
First, giving her things to do.
Mrs. Taylor was always active. At home, she went to the local library, attended church, tended her daughters garden in summer. Here, she was bored and boredom in the elderly turns into hyperactivity within reach i.e., our flat.
I rang my friend Irene at the local community centre: Whats on for older folk?
Loads! Morning walking groups, choir on Wednesdays and Fridays, feltmaking, health talks all free, just turn up with registration.
How does she sign up?
Just come along, love.
But I didnt just tell Mrs. Taylor to go to these activities. Too blunt. I went subtler.
Over dinner, casually, I said,
Mrs. Taylor, Victor told me you used to sing, didnt you?
Her face lit up shed been in amateur choirs in her youth.
I heard theres a choir locally for adults, I added. Supposed to be lovely. Good director, friendly people. Free, too. Maybe youd like it youre a bit out of your circle here.
She waved it off, nervous about going alone to something new.
I left it there.
Three days later, I mentioned the choir performed at local fairs and sometimes appeared in the community newsletter. At the word newsletter she perked up I saw the spark.
Next week, she asked me for directions to the centre.
I drew her a map, big letters and all.
On Wednesday, she left at ten and came back at three, flushed and bright-eyed.
Such wonderful ladies there! And the choirmaster, Mr. Spencer, is strict but fair. They sing all sorts even old folk songs. He told me to come again, said Ive a good mezzo.
Really? I said. And was truly pleased.
From then on, every Wednesday and Friday, she was out for hours. Added to that was Tuesdays walking group, invited by her new friend Nina Harris from the next street a smashing woman.
The flat grew quieter. Not empty, just calmer.
***
The second part of the plan took more effort and some finesse.
I called Mrs. Taylors daughter, Sarah. We werent close just related. I was direct:
Sarah, were glad to have your mum, truly. But you see itd be best if she could get back to her own surroundings soon. This draggy renovation throws her off her routine.
Sarah said the builders kept dragging their feet and put off finishing.
I asked,
Are you managing directly, or via someone else?
Turned out: through her husbands mate, who was on top of it, but in practice, there was almost no oversight.
Let me help, I said. I know a few tradesmen, they could take a look and say what really needs doing, and whats just being delayed.
She agreed, quite relieved.
I did have a contact our downstairs neighbour, George, an old site foreman. Over a cuppa, I explained.
Re-lay the floor, plaster the walls, up-date the plumbing? Three weeks work max, not three months.
He took a look, spoke to the builders, and as usual they were doing other jobs too, showing up at Mrs. Taylors once in a while, already partly paid, in no rush. George spelled out the facts: three weeks if they worked daily. Promised to drop in to check.
Sarah reviewed the contract and set a strict schedule. Suddenly, the builders sped up.
I didnt mention all this to Victor. Not hiding just sparing him the dilemma.
***
Those three weeks while this all unfolded were uneven.
There were good evenings, Mrs. Taylor back from choir, talking animatedly about Nina Harris and how the choirmaster, Mr. Spencer, praised her. On those nights, she was light-hearted; all three of us would sit together, and shed share tales from her youth and it felt genuinely warm.
But there were rough days too.
One morning, I found my beloved ficus moved from the window to the floor in the corner. In its spot, her little pot of geranium pink and bushy, brought in her luggage. Simple reason: The ficus blocks the light, and geraniums love a window.
By evening, the ficus leaves were curling.
I quietly returned the ficus to the window, set the geranium in her room. Our eyes met.
She said,
You could have asked.
I replied,
Right back at you.
It was the only time a real spark passed between us. No fight, no tears just a shared moment of candour.
Then she went to her room, and I went to the kitchen. We both cooled off. At supper, we spoke of other things.
Victor watched and stayed silent. Sometimes I thought his silence angered me more than the geranium raid ever could. He pretended not to see the tension bisecting our dining table. Men do that: ignore the cracks, hoping theyll heal on their own.
They never do.
***
One night, Mrs. Taylor turned in early. I sat at my desk, lamp glowing, working calmly. Victor came in, hovered, settled on the beds edge.
Youre angry at me, he said. Not a question.
A bit, I admitted. Not at you, exactly. At this.
I know its tough for you.
Knowing and being supportive arent the same, I replied, not looking up from my hoop.
He was quiet for a while.
What do you want me to do?
Nothing, Vic. Im sorting it.
He didnt ask what. Maybe he didnt want to know. Maybe he feared having to choose. He went to bed, read a bit, and slept. I worked a while, listening to the clock tick, and to the sighs of an old woman, not a villain, just used to her own ways.
I realised then: in family conflict, its not hate thats most damaging. Hate is at least honest. What really corrodes is when good people love each other and still cant bear things. When you dont know who to blame.
***
The builders finished faster than even George predicted.
Sarah rang me, not Victor, on Saturday morning.
Dads builders moved their gear out last night. Its done. Needs airing, thats all.
I thanked her. We chatted a bit more, and I sensed something shift Sarah saw me not just as a wife-in-law but as someone capable.
I thought all Saturday about how to tell Mrs. Taylor without her feeling evicted.
That evening, during dinner, when all three of us sat together and she talked about the choirs Christmas concert, I smiled and said,
Mrs. Taylor, Ive got good news. Dont be startled, its nothing bad.
She stopped, looked puzzled.
I arranged, a few weeks ago, for a foreman to check on your renovation wanted to surprise you. He pushed the builders, and Sarah says its finished. You can go home.
Mrs. Taylor just stared at me. Then Victor. Then back at me.
Youarranged all that?
Not by myself, George downstairs helped. I just didnt want you here any longer than you had to be. Youll feel more yourself in your own space. Thats your home.
Victor was amazed.
After a pause, Mrs. Taylor got up, came over, took my hand in hers dry, warm, weighted with years.
Helen, she said, youre good.
I didnt know what else to say. I just squeezed back.
***
The move happened on Sunday. Victor drove her and her bags, helped her in, checked everything. I stayed, saying Id make dinner. Truth was, I wanted to be alone in my house.
For a while after they left, I just wandered from room to room. Touched the walls. Stood by my desk at the north window and stared at my embroidery hoop.
Next, I gathered the rose-edged rug from the guest room. Stood a while, holding it it looked so lost without her. Took the last doily from the windowsill a forgotten relic. I opened up the window, let the autumn air drift in.
In the kitchen, I spotted a lidded tub in the fridge. I opened it. Inside was our favourite stew Mrs. Taylors secret recipe, a tangy, meaty thing that Victor loved. Shed left enough to feed us for two days.
I closed the fridge and leaned against it.
People are strange like that. You can get under each others feet for weeks, and still leave a casserole behind as a goodbye.
***
Victor came home. We ate the stew, talked kindly but not much. He did the washing up, I dried as usual.
Before bed, he lay beside me and stared at the ceiling.
So you were sorting things all along? With the building work.
I was.
Why didnt you tell me?
I paused.
You asked me to put up with it. I couldnt. So I took action. I guessed youd rather not get caught between your mum and me.
You could trust me, you know.
I do, Vic. But I thought knowing would weigh on you. Youd feel guilty whichever way.
He mulled that over.
It was clever, he said at last. A bit hurtful.
I know. Im sorry.
We lay beside each other in the dark. It wasnt perfect. Nobody said everything they meant. Nobody held that big honest conversation the therapists write about. Things got fixed, quietly, out of sight.
Is it good or bad Im still not sure.
***
A week later, Mrs. Taylor rang. She sounded chipper, told me the flat was all bright and clean beige walls, just as she wanted. Found her china mugs in a box, set them out. Visited her friend Mrs. Kennedy, whod been ill and was thrilled to see her.
Ill keep up with the choir, she said. Mr. Spencer reckons well go to the city competition in February. Nina Harris wants to go together.
Thats wonderful, I said.
Helen, she added, her voice softer, I realise I was probably a nuisance. While living with you.
I didnt say, Oh no, it was fine. That wouldnt be true. We both knew it.
Were just different, Mrs. Taylor, I said gently. All that matters is youre comfortable now.
She paused.
Quite right, she said. Thats what matters most.
***
Sometimes, I still think back on those seven weeks. Not often, but now and then.
On the rose patterned rug. The pans on the countertop. The geranium perched on my window. The casserole waiting in the fridge. The feel of Mrs. Taylors hand in mine dry, warm. Victors soft, bit hurtful probably the truest thing he said all those weeks.
I didnt win a war. There wasnt a war. Just a problem, and I solved it. I held on to my home, quietly, without shaming or shouting at anyone.
Not a feat just, sometimes, what you have to do: keep the shape of your own life when someone else, by habit not malice, starts to reshape it.
Defending your boundaries isnt about walls or rows. Sometimes its just knowing what you want and quietly, persistently, moving towards it.
And family well, families are strange creatures. They survive in the most awkward conditions. They breathe through the gaps. And sometimes, when theyre gone, they leave you a casserole in the fridge.
***
In November I handed the finished commission to the collector. He said he was delighted, transferred the final payment. I bought myself a new spool of Japanese silk pale gold, like an autumn leaf and placed it in my desk drawer. Right where it belonged.
On my windowsill: ficus, snake plant, rosemary. No doilies.
The flat is quiet. Smells of coffee, and a little of wax from the candle I light in the evening. Victor reads in the armchair. Outside, its nearly winter.
Everything is in its place.
***
A month later we visited Mrs. Taylor. I brought her a box of marshmallow from the patisserie shed visited with Nina Harris. She led us around, showing off her refurbishment light rooms, beige tones, as shed always wanted. And yes, a crocheted doily on every windowsill and the same old rug by the sofa.
I looked at the scene and felt nothing. No irritation, no condescension. Just it was hers.
Over tea, she said,
You two must come to the choir competition in February. Were singing Hope by Alexandra. I want you to be there.
Victor said,
Of course well come, Mum.
I said,
Of course.
