Margaret Brown always kept tabs on their building – who came and went, who quarreled, who scraped pennies together for the utility bills. But the neighbour from the fifth floor? Utterly unknown territory.
The woman appeared in their stairwell rather quietly. Margaret recalled flat fifty-three sitting empty ages after old Simon Johnson passed. His nieces and nephews from Manchester visited occasionally, sorted things out, then sold it. Who bought the place? Nobody really knew.
“Estate agents flipping it, probably,” speculated neighbour Valerie Green, bumping into Margaret by the postboxes. “All the rage now, flogging flats like fish at Billingsgate Market.”
Yet it soon became clear the flat wasn’t flipped. Someone had moved in. Margaret deduced this from the soft music drifting downstairs occasionally, and the distinct tap-tap of heels on the stairs – not flip-flops or trainers, but proper heeled shoes. Few in their block indulged in such luxuries.
Margaret first glimpsed the newcomer quite by chance. Peeking through her spyhole upon hearing voices on the landing, she froze in surprise. Opposite stood a tall woman in an elegant beige coat. Her hair was neatly pinned up, and she held a bouquet of white roses.
“Much obliged,” the stranger was saying to a middle-aged man in a smart suit. “I’ll pass them along.”
The man nodded, murmured something indistinct, and headed for the lift. The woman lingered a moment, gazing at the flowers, sighed softly, and vanished inside her flat.
“Val, see the new neighbour?” Margaret asked her friend Valerie the next day, perched on the estate bench. “Which new one?”
“The fifth-floor one. Flat fifty-three now.”
Valerie shook her head: “Haven’t. She young?”
“Not really. Mid-forties, maybe fifty. Quite lovely, well-kept. Dresses smartly, not like us lot.”
“Must be loaded,” Valerie concluded. “Buying a central London flat.”
Margaret concurred, yet something felt off. Wealthy folk usually didn’t settle in their crumbling block with its ancient lift and peeling walls. They went for new builds or posh pads with concierges.
Gradually, Margaret noticed frequent visitors to the fifth-floor neighbour. Always men. Always bearing flowers. At all hours – some stayed briefly, others lingered. Without exception, they looked prosperous and confident.
“An artist, maybe?” Valerie suggested when Margaret shared her observations. “Or a musician? They always know loads of people.” “An artist rolling in it?” Margaret snorted sceptically. “Ever seen a rich artist?” Valerie shrugged, conceding it seemed unlikely.
Margaret’s curiosity grew daily. She deliberately listened for sounds upstairs, timed her rubbish runs to coincide with steps on the stairs. But the neighbour seemed to dissolve into thin air – either treaded silently or sensed surveillance and avoided encounters.
The puzzle came undone unexpectedly. Margaret returned from the clinic after interminably waiting to see the GP, grumpy – the doctor offered nothing sensible, just scribbled referrals for tests. In the lift, she encountered Gary, the council plumber, toolbox in hand.
“Alright, Marg?” he greeted her.
“Hello Gary. Off somewhere?”
“Fifth floor. Fixing a tap. Got a request.”
Margaret perked up: “Flat fifty-three?”
“Yeah. Lives there, this lady. Interesting sort. Always offers tea, biscuits. Pays a bit extra too, mind.”
“Does she? What’s she like?”
Gary scratched his neck: “Lovely woman. Polite, proper. Always seems a bit downcast, though. Lives alone, haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone else.”
“Alone? But men visit her constantly!”
The plumber stared: “What men? Been round five times – never saw a soul. She’s always alone.”
Margaret pondered. Either Gary was fibbing, or she’d misunderstood. Perhaps the neighbour was cagey and didn’t receive guests while others were present.
The answer came a week later from an unexpected quarter. Margaret collided with the neighbour face-to-face at Sainsbury’s. The woman stood by the dairy aisle, carefully examining a carton of yogurt.
“Excuse me,” Margaret addressed her. “You’re from our building? Margaret Brown, fourth floor.”
The neighbour looked up. Close-up, she was even more striking – fine features, expressive brown eyes, flawless skin. But Margaret saw such weariness and sorrow reflected there, she flinched involuntarily.
“Yes, I remember,” the woman murmured quietly. “Eleanor Williams. Pleased to meet you.”
“Settling in alright? Nice flat, old Simon kept it tidy.”
“Thank you, fine. Quiet. Peaceful.”
Ele
Marina quietly resolved to pop round with a cuppa and some digestive biscuits next Tuesday, realizing sometimes a friendly natter over tea was worth more than a lifetime of hallway gossip.
