The Caretaker of Our Street
Emily was walking home in the early autumn twilight. The streetlights, as usual, were only half working, and the courtyards were left in darkness. There was always a massive puddle by the entrance of her building in autumn, and the parked cars made it impossible to avoid. But today, despite the persistent drizzle, the puddle was gone.
Emily pushed open the front door and glanced back. The light from the hallway spilled onto the wet, glistening tarmac. “Not my imagination, then. Well, that’s a mystery.”
The lift was waiting for her on the ground floor, which was unusual—normally, it camped upstairs in the evenings. The doors slid open, inviting her in. “Unbelievable. Something miraculous is happening,” Emily thought as she stepped inside. She pressed the button and caught a quick glimpse of herself in the smudged mirror.
A tired face with sad eyes stared back. Emily turned away, habitually fixing a stray strand of hair poking out from under her beret. Just then, the lift shuddered to a stop, the doors rattled open, and she stepped out into the hallway.
“I’m home,” she announced to the empty flat, flicking the switch and scattering the shadows.
Six months had passed since her mother’s death. Since then, loneliness, emptiness, and memories were all that waited for her. She no longer hurried home, often lingering late at the editorial office, tidying up, planning the next day’s tasks. Her colleagues thought her pedantic and inflexible, but she simply believed in doing things properly—and expected the same from others.
Before, Emily’s sick mother had been waiting for her, leaving no time for self-pity. Her mother had been a strict schoolteacher who raised her to excel at everything, though not without quiet rebellion. Now Emily had become just as exacting.
She’d had only one real relationship, which had fizzled out before reaching the altar. Her mother had been ill by then, and Emily refused to move in with her fiancé, unwilling to leave her alone. He, in turn, wouldn’t consider living in a tiny flat with an ailing mother-in-law.
So at thirty-two, Emily remained alone. The men at work were either married or flirted with anything in a skirt, and outside the office, she had no life—first because of her mother, now because of exhaustion and apathy. Another evening stretched ahead: TV or a book, the same as always.
On Saturday, she woke late, stretched, and peered outside. A thin layer of snow covered the courtyard, crisscrossed with dark footprints. It mustn’t have frozen, then—the snow would soon melt. The sight made her want to step onto that delicate white veil and leave her own mark. She hurried to the bathroom.
How much did happiness really require? Fresh snow and two cosy days off. After breakfast, Emily wrapped up and stepped outside.
“Emma love, off to the shops? Fancy grabbing me a loaf and a baguette?” The voice came from a half-open window—Mrs. Whittaker from the ground floor.
“Sure. Need anything else?”
The old woman paused. “No, just the bread, ta.” The window closed.
Well, at least she had a purpose now. Emily set off, avoiding the trodden paths.
Handing over the bread, she asked, “What happened to the puddle by the entrance?”
“Oh, that’s the new caretaker—nipped it in the bud. Good lad, isn’t he?”
“What happened to the old one?” Not that she particularly cared—it was just polite conversation.
“Passed last week. Come in, I’ll tell you all about it.”
With nothing better to do, Emily stepped into the cluttered, cosy flat.
“Few days ago, I’m coming back from the post office, and there’s this bloke sitting on the bench. Glum, but not drunk—I can always tell, my late husband was a drinker, may he rest in peace. This one didn’t seem the layabout type. Every time I looked out, there he was. Freezing November, mind you. Figured he had nowhere to go.”
“So I went out, asked what he was waiting for. His eyes—proper miserable. Told him to come inside, warm up. Said if he needed work, our caretaker’d just died, the place was drowning in leaves. Told him to pop by the council, ask for the job. And look—spotless now. Polite, hardworking. Lives in the storage shed. Poor sod’s got no place else. Oh, speak of the devil!” She nodded out the window.
A tall man was crossing the yard—not old, but the scruffy stubble aged him.
The next day, Emily watched from her window as the new caretaker swept the pavement. *Swish-swish, swish-swish.* The rhythmic motions held her attention. He didn’t look like the usual labourer. Curiosity gnawed at her, and soon fate intervened.
Taking out the rubbish, she tripped. A strong hand caught her before she fell.
“Thanks,” Emily said, recognising the caretaker.
Under a knitted beanie (inherited from his predecessor), intelligent grey eyes studied her. The stubble gave him an unkempt look.
“You’re the new caretaker,” she observed, studying him back.
“Suppose so,” he muttered, walking off.
“Charming,” Emily muttered, tossing the bin bag.
Another time, returning from the shops, she blocked his path as he carried boxes from the shed. She greeted him and stepped aside.
“Hey, why are you working as a caretaker? It’s a pensioner’s job—you’re young,” she called after him.
“What’s it to you?” He barely glanced back.
“Nothing. Just curious.”
He didn’t answer, his entire demeanour screaming that baring his soul—especially to this pale, nosy woman—wasn’t on the agenda.
“Rude,” Emily huffed, but he was already gone. “Weird bloke. Why do I even care? He probably thinks I’m some desperate singleton clinging to the janitor.” Annoyed at herself and him, she hurried inside.
She found herself watching him often—sweeping, clearing the playground. He didn’t seem the type to hit rock bottom. Educated, clearly. Something had gone wrong in his life.
Mrs. Whittaker eventually filled her in. “Girls at the council say his business went bust. Left him skint, and his wife kicked him out. Ended up on the streets.”
“But—how?” Emily couldn’t help but pity him.
“Too proud, I reckon.”
She started greeting him at every chance. He’d grunt in reply, always alone in that cramped shed. He’d vanish one day, just like that. She decided to help. Scribbling a note (“Flat 14. Come for tea.”), she slid it under his door—a simple offer, expecting nothing.
Hours later, her doorbell rang. There he stood, scowling under that ridiculous hat.
“Why?” he demanded.
“What?”
“This.” He shook the note. “Why?”
“People should help each other.”
He scoffed, shaking his head like she was a naïve child.
“What if I’m a thief? A psycho? Not scared? You’ll regret inviting me in.”
“You? Don’t be daft. You’ve got kind eyes.” She stepped aside. “Come in.”
He entered. She warmed soup, then served roast potatoes with beef. His glower unnerved her. He ate carefully, his hands—unused to labour—covered in blisters.
“Parents?” she asked to break the silence.
“Mum. Lives up north.”
“I’ve got no one,” she blurted, then panicked. *Now he knows I’m alone. What if he* is *a psycho?*
“I’d better go. The food was nice. But—” He studied her, and her pulse jumped.
“Don’t do this again.” He left, and Emily felt stung. She’d tried to help, and he’d thrown it back. Fine. Forget him.
Yet she couldn’t. She lingered outside, hoping for glimpses. He ignored her.
Before New Year’s, Emily bought a real Christmas tree. Fumbling with her keys outside the building, she cursed as the door swung shut behind her.
“Oh, for—”
“Need help?” The caretaker appeared. He lifted the tree effortlessly, waiting as she unlocked the door.
“Thanks,” she said at the lift. But he followed her in, carried the tree to her flat, and left without a word.
Closing the door, Emily realised her handbag was gone. She’d *definitely* set it on the side table—hadn’t she? *Idiot. Trusting a stranger.* She bolted outside. His footsteps echoed below.
“Stop!” she yelled over the railing.
On the landing between floors, he waited.
“You—where’s my bag?!”
“What bag?” He smirked.
“My brown handbag! It was on the table!”
A door creaked open downstairs. He grabbed her elbow, tugging her upstairs.
“Let go!”She pulled away, cheeks burning, but he held up the missing bag—lodged behind the coat rack all along—and with a quiet chuckle, said, “Maybe next time, check before accusing, yeah?” and turned to leave, but Emily, heart pounding, reached out and caught his sleeve, whispering, “Stay—just for tonight.” And as the snow fell softly outside, he did.
