A Bedroom for Three
Margaret Whitlock stared at the resettlement notice in her hands as if it were a prison sentence. A cramped dorm room at the local college—her new home after forty years in her own flat. And not just any dorm room, but one she’d be sharing with two other lecturers.
“Where on earth am I supposed to keep my things?” she sighed, eyeing the caretaker, Mr. Thompson, a kindly old chap with an impressive salt-and-pepper moustache.
“Now, now, Mrs. Whitlock, what’s to be done?” Thompson spread his hands helplessly. “The place is bursting at the seams, and the faculty wing renovations are dragging on. The roof leaks, the wiring’s ancient—builders swear they’ll finish by the end of September. Meanwhile, the head’s decided you’ll bunk with Dr. Evelyn Hart and Dr. Beatrice Clarke.”
Margaret shook her head. At fifty-seven, she never imagined she’d be flat-sharing again. The divorce had left her ex-husband with the house—his name was on the deed first. All she had left was her job teaching literature at a small-town college. Her salary barely covered rent, so when the head offered her a room in the dorm, she’d had little choice.
“Here are the keys,” said Thompson, handing over a heavy set. “Third floor, Room 312. Dr. Hart and Dr. Clarke already know you’re coming.”
With a heavy heart, Margaret took the keys and trudged toward the lift, clutching a suitcase of essentials. The rest of her things were temporarily stored with her old neighbour.
The room turned out to be… not as dreadful as she’d feared. Sturdy, dated furniture from another era: three single beds, three bedside tables, a chunky wardrobe, and a desk by the window. Two beds were already claimed—neatly made, each with its own quilt. One floral, one deep red with tassels.
“You must be Margaret Whitlock?” came a voice behind her.
A silver-haired woman in steel-rimmed glasses stood in the doorway, her crisp suit and posture screaming “career academic.”
“Yes,” Margaret offered a hand. “And you are…?”
“Beatrice Clarke. Mathematics. Thirty-two years at this college.” The handshake was brisk, no-nonsense. “Your bed’s by the window. The wardrobe’s divided into thirds—you get the left section. Shower schedule’s on the door. Don’t be late—hot water’s on a timer.”
Margaret nodded, feeling like a fresher on her first day.
“And where’s Dr. Hart?”
“On canteen duty today,” Beatrice said, lips pursed. “She teaches chemistry. Quite… eccentric. Enjoys blasting the radio at dawn and drying herbs. The smell lingers.”
“Marvellous,” Margaret thought, unpacking her case. Adjusting to two strangers her age, each with their own quirks, would be an ordeal.
She met Evelyn that evening. A plump, exuberant woman with dyed auburn hair, she barrelled in clutching bags of apples.
“Ladies, look what I’ve got! From my garden—help yourselves!” Spotting Margaret, she gasped. “Oh, you’ve arrived! Dr. Evelyn Hart, charmed!” She pumped Margaret’s hand vigorously. “Apple?”
“Thank you,” Margaret said, accepting one though she had no appetite. “Lovely to meet you.”
“Evelyn, move your herbs from the windowsill,” Beatrice cut in. “It’s tight enough with three.”
“Oh, stop fussing, Bea,” Evelyn waved her off. “There’s room! Margaret, you teach literature, yes? I’ve heard about you! Word is you compose poetry during lectures?”
Margaret flushed. “Occasionally. Helps engage the students—”
“Brilliant!” Evelyn beamed. “Look at these!” She thrust out her hands, dotted with small chemical burns. “Occupational hazards. But my students learn—chemistry’s no joke!”
Beatrice snorted, pointedly opening a hefty textbook. Silence and order were clearly her sacred doctrines.
“Tea, girls?” Evelyn produced an electric kettle from her drawer.
“I’ll pass,” said Beatrice. “Marking to do.”
To her own surprise, Margaret said, “I’d love some.”
Over tea, Evelyn chattered about her garden, grandkids, and how the college head had once been her student. She talked nonstop, but warmly, and Margaret felt the day’s tension ebb.
“How long have you lived here?” Margaret asked.
“Three years,” Evelyn sighed. “My daughter and son-in-law rent a tiny flat—no space for me. Can’t blame them; youngsters need their privacy. Weekends at the garden keep me sane. And Bea?” She lowered her voice. “Seven years here. Husband passed, gave her flat to her son—Oxford grad, married now, grandkids and all.”
Beatrice didn’t look up, but her stiff shoulders said she’d heard every word.
The first night was restless. Margaret tossed on the unfamiliar bed. Beatrice snored softly; Evelyn muttered in her sleep. Thin walls carried the din of rowdy students.
Morning arrived with Evelyn’s tinny radio blasting cheerful tunes.
“Rise and shine, neighbours!” she trilled, pouring tea.
Beatrice winced. “Must it be so loud, Evelyn?”
“Sorry, sorry!” She turned it down. “Force of habit. Margaret, you’ve got second period, yes? Plenty of time for breakfast—canteen’s doing pancakes!”
The first week was an adjustment. Morning queues for the shower, negotiating shared space, learning each other’s rhythms. Beatrice was finicky—towels hung by size, shoes aligned just so. Evelyn embodied cheerful chaos, her jars of herbal concoctions always straying onto others’ territory.
One evening, as Margaret marked essays, Evelyn burst in, distraught.
“Disaster! My test tubes shattered—chemistry lab’s closed! The head’s furious!”
Beatrice peered over her glasses. “I told you not to store reagents in that cupboard.”
“Hardly my fault the equipment’s ancient!” Evelyn wailed. “There goes my bonus!”
“You won’t lose it,” Margaret said suddenly. “I’ll ring up Simon at the council—old schoolmate. He might squeeze out funds for repairs.”
Evelyn gaped. “Really? You’d save me! It’s hard making ends meet on one salary, especially with the grandkids visiting…”
Even Beatrice thawed. “That would be… most helpful. This college is held together with string and hope.”
That night, over tea, they talked properly for the first time. Beatrice spoke of her son in London who rarely called; Evelyn confessed to widowhood at forty, raising her daughter alone; Margaret shared her divorce after twenty years.
“Left me for someone younger,” she said bitterly. “Claimed I cared more about work than him.”
“Men,” Evelyn huffed. “Mine—God rest him—was a wanderer too. Just didn’t live to regret it.”
“Mine simply… vanished,” Beatrice murmured. “Business trip, never returned. Called months later—met someone else. I had our eight-year-old to raise alone.”
They talked late into the night, early tensions dissolving into shared understanding.
True to her word, Margaret called her contact. Within a week, new lab equipment arrived. Evelyn baked an enormous apple cake in thanks.
“Heavens, this is divine!” Margaret exclaimed.
“Gran’s recipe,” Evelyn glowed. “Secret’s a dash of cinnamon and brandy in the batter.”
To their shock, Beatrice took a slice and—after a bite—nodded approval. “Superb, Evelyn. You’ve hidden talents.”
And so their odd friendship began. Three very different women, slowly adapting. Beatrice needed everything just-so; Evelyn talked to herself; Margaret graded papers late under a desklamp. But they learned to compromise. Margaret warned before late work; Evelyn dried herbs in the kitchen; Beatrice bit back nitpicks.
By October, when the renovations still weren’t done, they’d stopped minding.
“Let them drag on till spring!” Evelyn laughed, arranging jam jars. “I’m comfy here!”
“Never thought I’d say this,” Beatrice smiled, “but I agree.”
By November, their room had transformed. Beatrice’s geraniums bloomed on the sill; Evelyn brought a lace tablecloth from home; Margaret hung her secret hobby—watercolour landscapes.
Then came the bombshell. The head barged in unannounced.
“Ladies, wonderful news! Renovations are complete—you can move back to your own rooms next week!”
Silence fell.
“Well,” Beatrice said at last. “We’ll each have our own space again.”
“Yes,” Margaret said, feeling an odd weight. “That’s… good.”
Only Evelyn looked truly crestfallen. “But I’ve grown fond of… our teatimes.”
That evening, no one spoke of it, but the air was thick with unspoken dread.
The next day, returning from lectures, they found a surprise—a cake iced with “Thanks for Saving the Chem Lab,” and a bottle of wine, courtesy of the science staff.
“ShAs they clinked their teacups that final evening, the three women—once strangers, now something far dearer—silently vowed that no matter where life took them next, this unlikely friendship would outlast any dormitory walls.
