“I don’t care!” Emily stormed across the room, flailing her arms. “Mum, how much longer do we have to put up with this? My friends are already laughing at me—”
“Mum, it’s leaking again! Again!” shrieked Emily, bursting from the bathroom with dripping hair and a towel in hand. “I told you there was something wrong with this flat!”
“Keep your voice down! The neighbours will hear!” hissed Margaret, dropping her mop and rushing to her daughter. “Where’s it leaking?”
“Everywhere! From the tap, the shower, even under the sink—there’s a puddle!” Emily waved her arms, splashing water down the hall. “I told you! I told you we shouldn’t have taken this dump!”
Margaret silently stepped into the bathroom, stared at the water creeping across the tiles, and sank onto the stool. A month ago, they’d moved into this two-bedroom flat in central London, selling their house in the suburbs. It was supposed to be a fresh start—close to work, shops, the clinic. And now…
“Mum, why are you just sitting there? We have to do something!” Emily stood in the doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown.
“And what should we do?” Margaret sighed. “Call a plumber? Out of our own pockets again? Third time this month.”
“What about the landlady? Make her pay—it’s her flat!”
“I’ve tried. She says we’re at fault, using the plumbing wrong. How can you use a tap wrong?” Margaret stood, mopping at the water. “Go have breakfast. You’ll be late for work.”
“Breakfast? The cooker’s broken again!” Emily huffed. “I struggled with it all last night, barely managed porridge. Today, it won’t turn on at all.”
Margaret exhaled. The cooker had been dodgy from day one, but the landlady, Mrs. Whitmore, insisted it was fine—just needed “getting used to.” Used to burners that only worked half the time, an oven with moods.
“Fine, I’ll pop over to Lydia’s, ask to boil the kettle,” Emily muttered, pulling on her jeans.
“No, don’t bother the neighbours!” Margaret stopped her. “It’s embarrassing. We borrowed butter yesterday, salt the day before. They’ll think we’re beggars.”
“Then what? Go to work on an empty stomach?”
Margaret looked at her daughter, that familiar lump rising in her throat. Why had they agreed to this move? The old house had fewer problems. Quiet. No one to answer to. Here, every day brought a fresh disaster.
Emily left hungry and furious. Margaret stayed behind, battling the flood. She mopped, tightened the taps—useless. A thin trickle still seeped.
The phone rang just as she reached for the plumber’s number.
“Margaret? Mrs. Whitmore here. Everything alright? No complaints, I hope?”
“Well… the plumbing’s acting up again—”
“Again?” the landlady cut in. “What on earth are you doing to my flat? I told you to be careful!”
“We’re not doing anything! Just turning taps on and off like normal people!”
“Then why call a plumber every week? Dropped something heavy, have you?”
Margaret clenched her jaw. They hadn’t dropped a thing. The flat just wasn’t what Mrs. Whitmore had promised. During the viewing, everything worked—taps flowed, cooker burned, sockets didn’t spark. Now, daily surprises.
“Mrs. Whitmore, please send someone. It’s getting embarrassing…”
“Send who? You’re the ones at fault! I warned you the fittings were old, needed gentle hands!”
“But the contract said everything was in working order—”
“It is! You just haven’t got a clue!” The line went dead.
Margaret set down the phone. The flat was central, bright, high-ceilinged. But daily, its flaws surfaced—frayed wiring, rusty pipes, windows that wouldn’t shut. Repairs? Not a chance.
Emily returned at lunch, storm-cloud grim.
“Any fixes?” she asked, dropping her bag.
“Hardly. Landlady says it’s our fault.”
“Our fault? How?” Emily’s voice spiked. “Because her flat’s falling apart?”
“Emily, keep it down. The walls are thin.”
“I don’t care!” Emily paced, arms flailing. “Mum, how much more can we take? My friends laugh—say I live like a gypsy! No water, no power, cooker’s dead!”
“Your friends should keep quiet,” Margaret muttered. “Their parents buy flats, not rent.”
“So why don’t we buy?” Emily blurted. “We’ve got money from the house—save a bit more…”
“What money?” Margaret frowned. “Most went on your treatment.”
Emily went quiet. The surgery had cost a fortune. That’s why they’d moved—closer to the hospital. Temporary, till Emily recovered. Instead, they’d stepped into a trap.
“Maybe we should look for another place?” Emily ventured.
“With what?” Margaret pointed at the bills on the table. “Electric, water, rent, your meds. We’re stretched as it is.”
Emily flipped through the papers, whistled.
“Blimey. Had no idea it was this bad…”
“You weren’t meant to. That’s my job.” Margaret stacked the bills. “Now you see why we can’t just leave?”
Emily nodded. Then, softly: “Mum… do you regret selling the house?”
Margaret hesitated. Did she? Of course. That little house—cosy. A garden, familiar neighbours. Here, they were strangers.
“I do,” she admitted. “But it’s done. No money for another. We make do.”
“Maybe we talk to the landlady?” Emily suggested. “Offer to fix some things if she lowers the rent?”
“What fixes?” Margaret scoffed. “Seen the state of this place? We’d go broke!”
The lights died.
“Brilliant!” Emily groaned. “Fuse blew again!”
Margaret checked the fuse box—fine. Faulty wiring. She sighed, dug out a torch.
“Mum, we can’t live like this,” Emily said in the dim glow. “It’s medieval.”
“What’s your idea?” Margaret rubbed her temples.
“Dunno. A solicitor? Council housing office?”
“And say what? We signed the lease. No one forced us.”
“But she lied! Said everything worked!”
“Prove it. She’ll say we broke it. Then what?”
Emily fell silent. Trapped. Nowhere to go, no money for better. The flat’s flaws pressed heavier each day.
The lights flickered back. Margaret put away the torch, headed to the cooker. One burner grudgingly sparked to life.
“Mum,” Emily said suddenly, “remember our first day here? You said we’d finally live proper?”
“I remember.” Margaret stirred soup.
“I thought you were right. Nice flat, central, everything close. Felt like a fairy tale.”
Margaret gave a wry smile. “Just the wrong one.”
“Maybe we’re just… bad at this?” Emily mused. “At the house, we fixed things ourselves. Here, there’s rules, the landlady…”
“Rules? We know how taps work! It’s not us—it’s this wreck, and that greedy woman.”
“Then what do we do?”
Margaret turned off the cooker, faced her daughter. “You tell me. You’re grown. You decide.”
Emily thought. Then, slowly: “I think we gave up too quick. There’s got to be another way.”
“Like what?”
“Find better jobs. Side gigs. Save up, rent somewhere decent.”
“Emily, you’re still recovering. Doctor said no strain.”
“Mum, I’m not an invalid! There’s light work. You could sew again—remember how the neighbours begged for alterations?”
Margaret considered. Back home, she’d taken in sewing. Maybe here too?
“Alright,” she said. “We try. Slowly. Deal with this flat first.”
“How?”
“Gather evidence. Photos of leaks. Maybe the council’s housing standards team…”
Emily brightened. “Yes! I’ll ask at work—someone might’ve done it.”
“Don’t air our troubles. Just advice.”
“Course.”
Dinner felt lighter. For the first time in weeks, they had a plan—not just despair.
Days later, Emily brought news.
“Mum, there’s a housing inspection service!” she burst in. “Megan says they came for her mate, forced the landlord to fix everything!”
“Really?” Margaret’s interest sparked.
“Really! You file a complaint, document the issues.”
“I’ve started photos,” Margaret admitted. “When the sink blocked yesterday, I took shots.”
“Brilliant! I’ll get the service’s address.”
Then—another flood. They woke to gushing water, shouts from below.
“Margaret! Open up! You’re flooding us!”
Margaret raced to the
