The Nasty Old Woman
Charlotte stepped out of the taxi and waited for little Emily to climb out after her.
“Thanks,” Charlotte said to the driver, taking her daughter’s hand as they made their way slowly to the building. Two elderly women sat on a bench near the low front steps.
“Good afternoon,” Charlotte greeted them.
“Afternoon,” one of them replied. “Who’s lucky enough to be getting a visit from such lovely ladies?”
Charlotte just smiled. She unlocked the security door, and they stepped inside. The moment it closed behind them, she heard one of the women say loudly, “I saw two lads carrying boxes in half an hour ago—looked like they were moving in.”
“That’ll be the new tenants upstairs, the flat the Wilsons rented out. Brace yourself, Maggie—sleepless nights ahead, I reckon,” the other replied.
“Not with me around. Let ’em try making a racket. I’ll have Child Services round before they can blink.”
Charlotte didn’t listen to the rest. The lift was already on the ground floor, so she and Emily rode up to the fifth.
The flat door was slightly ajar. Inside, two men sat in the kitchen drinking tea.
“Oh, you’re back, Charlotte. We made ourselves at home—hope you don’t mind.”
She reached into her bag for her purse.
“Come off it, love,” one of them said, winking at Emily, who grinned. “Helped you out as a mate. Maybe you shouldn’t have left Oliver. Could’ve patched things up. How’re you gonna manage with just part-time wages?”
“We’ll manage. I’ll file for divorce, get child support. I’m not going back to him. You can tell him that.”
“Fine. But if you’re stuck, call me—I’ll help if I can. Right, settle in. We’ll be off.”
Once they left, Charlotte sighed, looking at the boxes piled in the middle of the room.
“Feel like helping Mummy unpack?”
“No. I’ll play,” Emily said.
“All right. Just keep the noise down, or we’ll get kicked out.”
Emily nodded seriously.
Charlotte opened the toy box, and the little girl immediately pulled out a stuffed bear. Meanwhile, Charlotte started unpacking clothes into the wardrobe.
The flat was small, just one bedroom, but they didn’t need more. The furniture was decent, the place clean. They’d manage—if she scrimped and didn’t splurge.
Later, she boiled some pasta and sausages she’d brought from the old place, mopped the floor, and put Emily to bed. She was exhausted, but Emily demanded a story first. By the time the girl finally slept, Charlotte collapsed onto the sofa bed, only for her husband’s words to echo in her ears:
“You’ll come crawling back to me, begging, and I might just say no…”
Tears pricked her eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. She got up, went to the kitchen, and stood by the window in the dark, staring at the unfamiliar street below as twilight deepened.
***
She’d met Oliver at a bus stop. He’d asked which buses went to Wordsworth Avenue, and when she answered, he’d asked where *she* was headed.
Her bus arrived just then, and she hurried on.
“Sorry—I just wanted an excuse to talk to you,” he’d said, stepping on after her with a grin. She’d smiled back.
Just like that, they’d met. Charlotte’s heart was free, and Oliver—charming, quick to laugh—won it easily. She’d been sharing a flat with a uni friend, saving money. Oliver had his own place. He persuaded her to move in.
Her mother was strict, old-fashioned—no children out of wedlock. So Charlotte lied, saying she still lived with her friend.
Two years passed. Still no proposal, no talk of children. Then she found out she was pregnant.
“We’ll need a bigger place soon,” she ventured one evening.
“Why?”
“Because there’ll be three of us.”
“You’re *pregnant*? And when were you planning to tell me?”
“I’m telling you now. I wasn’t sure before.”
“I thought you were on the pill.”
“So I should put my life on hold? I’m keeping this baby—with or without you.”
“Christ. Bit sudden, isn’t it?”
They made up, started saving for a mortgage. Then one evening, waiting on the balcony, she saw him pull up in a car.
“Whose is that?”
“Ours. Nice, eh?”
“You *bought* it? With *our* savings?”
“We’ll never get the deposit at this rate. Now I can drive you and the baby—no more crammed buses.”
“That was *my* money too!”
“Well, you didn’t consult *me* about the baby.”
“You *made* the baby with me!”
Their first real row. They reconciled, even got married—Charlotte’s dream. But after the car, Oliver was always “working late.”
“Helping mates move… giving lifts.”
Uncheckable excuses. She seethed, doubted, grew jealous.
“It’s extra cash, love.”
When her contractions started, he was “out of town.” He finally met them at the hospital. At home, a second-hand cot and pram waited—hand-me-downs from a friend. She didn’t complain. Every penny counted.
Then the late nights resumed. Emily, sensing her tension, became fussy. Oliver rolled in at dawn, snapping about cold dinners, unmade beds.
“You’ve let yourself go. No wonder I look elsewhere.”
One day, he walked out. When he returned, she was packing.
“Where d’you think you’re going? You’ll come begging soon enough.”
She had savings now. Found a flat. Filed for divorce.
Her neighbours were worse—a drunken couple, shouting, blasting music. She took freelance work, endured the noise until she snapped and moved again. A friend of Oliver’s helped with the boxes.
***
Dawn crept in. Charlotte hadn’t slept. She needed a nursery spot for Emily—then she could work properly. She rang the nearest one.
“You should’ve registered at birth. We’re short-staffed. I’ll take her—if you work here too.”
She agreed instantly. Emily would be close, cared for.
The real nuisance was the downstairs neighbour. If Emily so much as giggled too loud, Mrs. Higgins thumped the ceiling with a broom.
“Your child’s a menace!” she’d snap in the yard.
Charlotte bit her tongue. Better this than drunkards next door.
Winter came. Emily caught every bug going. Then Charlotte woke one morning burning up—39.6°C. The medicine ran out. Too weak to shop, she willed herself better.
A ringing in her ears—someone knocking. She stumbled to the door.
“Drunk, are you?” Mrs. Higgins’s voice shrilled.
Then darkness. Later, stretcher straps. “Emily!” she gasped.
“She’s with me,” a familiar voice said.
Two feverish days passed. She woke craving an orange.
“Your mum brought these. Came with the little one,” the woman beside her said.
The doctor refused discharge. “You nearly died.”
A week later, weak but upright, she limped home. No keys in her coat. She knocked below.
“Escaped, have you?” Mrs. Higgins said.
Emily barrelled into her. The girl was clean, bright-eyed.
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered, weeping.
“What’s the waterworks for? You nearly died, stupid girl.”
They ate soup—homely, rich. Tea and pancakes followed. Mrs. Higgins talked: her village roots, her violent husband, the miscarriages. Alone after his death.
“Ask me if you need help. I’ll mind the little ’un.”
From then, they were friends.
“Where’ve you been?” Mrs. Higgins’s bench-mate asked.
“Busy. Got Emily to look after now.”
“That lodger’s kid? She paying you?”
“She calls me *Grandma*. Not ‘old bag,’ not ‘misery’—*Grandma*. I’ve got no one. Now I’ve got her.” She turned. “She asked for pies—I’m out of flour. Best be off.”
The friend sighed. No fun gossiping alone.
***
People wish for long lives but dread being old. Age isn’t pretty. But if we’re lucky, we’ll meet it. And what it looks like depends on love—on who we’ve taught to love us. As the saying goes, *Old age isn’t happiness. It’s either peace or misery. Peace, if respected. Misery, if forgotten.*
