The Fifth-Floor Lady
Margaret Peterson thought she knew everyone on her street. Who was rowing with the spouse, who struggled with bills. But that fifth-floor new tenant? A mystery appeared practically unnoticed. Margaret vaguely recalled flat fifty-three standing empty after old Simon Evans passed. His nephews from Manchester sometimes visited, clearing stuff out before selling. Who bought? Nobody quite knew.
“Likely landlords flipping it,” muttered Brenda Wilkins at the postboxes one Tuesday. “Flats get traded like they’re bags of spuds these days.”
Yet weeks later, someone unmistakeably moved in. Margaret heard faint classical music drifting down, and the sharp click of heels – proper heels, hardly trainers or flip-flops. A rare sound in their worn block with its ancient lift.
First sight came by accident. Peering through her spyhole at raised voices down the hall, Margaret froze. Opposite stood a tall woman in an elegant beige trench coat, her hair in a tidy bun, clutching white roses.
“Thank you so much,” she murmured to a middle-aged gent in a sharp suit. “I’ll pass it on.”
The man nodded, muttered something while stepping toward the lift. The woman lingered briefly, sighed softly at the flowers, then vanished into her flat.
“Brenda,” Margaret quizzed her friend next day on the bench outside. “Seen the new one?”
“What new one?”
“Fifth floor. Number fifty-three.”
Brenda shook her head. “Nope. Young?”
“Not especially. Mid-forties, perhaps fifty? Smartly turned out. Dresses properly, not like us lot.”
“Upmarket, then,” Brenda decided. “Buying central like that.”
Margaret agreed, yet something felt off. Proper money usually spurned crumbling blocks like theirs for new builds with concierges. Margaret soon noticed regular male callers at flat fifty-three. Always gentlemen, always bearing flowers. Morning, noon, or night. Some stayed twenty minutes, some lingered longer. All impeccably dressed, radiating confidence.
“She an artist?” Brenda suggested after Margaret shared sightings. “Or plays piano? Artistic types know people.”
“A wealthy artist?” Margaret snorted. “You ever meet one?”
Brenda conceded it seemed unlikely. Margaret’s curiosity grew daily. She’d time her rubbish run with footsteps above. But the neighbour seemed to vanish. Avoided crowds.
The puzzle cracked unexpectedly. Margaret returned from the GP after hours of waiting, feeling grim – useless doctor, just tests ordered. Inside the creaky lift, she bumped into Gary the handyman.
“Alright, Maggie?” Gary greeted, toolbox clanking.
“Gary. Off to?”
“Fifth floor. Tap needs fixing. Job came in.”
Margaret perked up. “Number fifty-three?”
“Yeah. Nice lady there. Always offers tea, biscuits. Pays full whack too, mind.”
“Really? What’s she like?”
Gary scratched his head. “Lovely woman. Polite. Keeps herself to herself. Seems sad though. Lives alone.”
“How d’you mean? Men visit constantly!”
Gary shot her an odd look. “Blokes? Been up five times – never seen a soul. Just her.”
Margaret pondered. Was Gary lying? Or had she misjudged? Maybe the neighbour was simply cautious.
The riddle deepened a week later. Margaret met the woman face-to-face in the Tesco Express. The neighbour stood by milk, studying a yoghurt pot.
“Excuse me,” Margaret started. “You live at Cedar House? I’m Margaret Peterson, fourth floor.”
The woman looked up. Close, she was even more striking – fine features, deep brown eyes, flawless skin. But those eyes held such weariness that Margaret flinched.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “Eleanor Williams. A pleasure.”
“How are you settling? Simon kept the place decent.”
“Fine, thanks. It’s quiet.”
Eleanor seemed reluctant to chat, but Margaret pressed. “Work locally? Or retired?”
“I work,” came the clipped reply before Eleanor turned to the cheese aisle. Margaret backed off, unsatisfied. Leaving only more questions.
At home, she called Brenda. “Brenda! Spoke to our lady! Eleanor Williams.”
“And?”
“Hardly a word. Awfully withdrawn. Positively miserable.”
“Lost her husband? Nasty divorce?”
“Doubt it. Something’s amiss. Gary says she’s always alone, but *I’ve* seen chaps visiting.”
Brenda paused before asking carefully, “Mags… you reckon she might be… you know?”
“What?”
“Men visiting, money about, lives alone…”
Margaret gasped. “Brenda! Really! She’s a respectable sort!”
“Respectable types eat too. Times get tough.”
Margaret couldn’t shake the idea. She watched Eleanor closer now, but with worrying curiosity. What if Brenda was right? What if Eleanor needed money so badly she…?
One night, Margaret heard crying faintly through the wall. Quiet yet unmistakable. It lasted ages. Pity nearly sent Margaret knocking.
Next day, she encountered Eleanor lugging a heavy bag downstairs, pale, dark circles under her eyes.
“Eleanor,” Margaret called. “Can I help with that?”
Eleanor stopped, startled. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Nonsense, let me.” Margaret insisted. “Looks heavy.”
Eleanor hesitated, sighed. “Alright. Ta.”
Silently, they walked. At the main door, Eleanor paused. “Margaret? Could I ask a favour?”
“Course!”
“If anyone calls for me… just say I’m out. Alright?”
Margaret nodded, puzzled. “Who’d ask?”
“Oh… just people,” Eleanor said vaguely. “Please say you haven’t seen me.”
After that, the visits ceased. Eleanor became invisible – vanishing from her flat unheard.
Weeks passed. Margaret was forgetting the mystery neighbour when the doorbell chimed. A man in an expensive suit stood there, holding blood-red roses.
“Forgive me,” he said politely. “Would Eleanor Williams of fifty-three happen to be home?”
Margaret recalled the request. “Afraid not. Gone away.”
Disappointment clouded his face. “Returning when?”
“Not sure. Been gone a bit.”
He hesitated, held out the roses. “Please take these. From Michael Thompson. Tell her I urgently need her to phone. Serious business.”
Margaret took the flowers, promising delivery though she doubted she’d see Eleanor soon. Fate had other ideas next day. Eleanor returned, clutching a work binder like a banker might carry.
“Eleanor!” Margaret called. “You had a caller yesterday.”
Eleanor froze. Colour drained from her face. “Who?”
“A Mr. Thompson. Michael. Left these. Wants you to ring.”
Eleanor took the roses. Her hands trembled. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“Eleanor,” Margaret began gently, “if there’s trouble… if you need help…”
Eleanor met her gaze, eyes welling. “It’s done. Simply… I couldn’t carry on.” She vanished into the lift. Margaret stood baffled.
The answer arrived a week later. An ambulance screamed into their street. Margaret dashed onto the balcony to see stretchers emerge. Eleanor lay there – pallid, utterly still.
“What happened?” Margaret yelled to Mrs. Higgins below.
“Pills,” came the grim reply. “Lucky Gary noticed – no one saw her for three days, and he keeps the master keys.”
Hospital staff saved Eleanor. Back home, she visited Margaret.
Margaret arranged a pot of tea and listened as Eleanor resolved to rebuild her life with newfound resilience and the support of her unexpected friend.
