The Girl Upstairs

The Upstairs Neighbour

Helen, where have you put my saucepan? The big one I make stew in?

Mrs. Green, it was in the middle of the kitchen, so I popped it on the bottom shelf.

The bottom shelf! I cant bend down there, my back wont take it! Do you ever think before you move other peoples things?

I stand at the kitchen sink, gazing out at an October drizzle, grey and quiet. Inside, its drizzling toonot anger, exactly, but the feeling you get when you realise: this is only the beginning.

***

Mrs. Green arrived on a Friday evening. Victor met her by the lift, lugged up two heavy bags and a massive checked holdallthe sort people call a travellers delight. I smiled. Honestly. Shes seventy-eight, her flats suddenly become unlivable thanks to a flooding from the neighbours below; the property managers only stirred themselves after six months, and now its all bare brickwork inside. Shes got nowhere else. I kept telling myself: this isnt an invasion, its temporary.

The word temporary will come to mean something different soon enough.

Im fifty-six. Not old, not youngright in that place where you begin to truly value yourself, but are still flexible enough to withstand lifes gusts. I work from home, taking commissions for decorative embroidery from private collectors and small galleries. Its not a hobby, it payswell, at that. I also run an online course for people wanting to learn the basics and the goldwork techniques. My work is done in the bedroom: a corner flooded with northern light, surrounded by threads, frames, fabric, design printoutsnot just a workspace, but my workshop. My bread and butter.

Our flat is a well-planned two-bedroom. Victor and I moved here eight years ago when the children had flown the nest, and for the first two years, I systematically got rid of everything unnecessary. No drama, no regretsgiving, selling, binning all that didnt suit us. Now, only whats useful and beautiful remains. Pale walls, little furniture, certainly no carpets on the walls or dusty glass cabinets. No dried flowers kept in vases for memories. Just three living things on the windowsill: a ficus, a snake plant, and a small rosemary bush in the kitchen. Every shelf knows its contents. Every drawer closes without a fight, because theres just enough in it.

Victor grumbled at first, said it was like living in a hotel. But he grew used to it, and now its him getting annoyed if somethings out of place. We found our own rhythm, our own air, and our way of sharing it.

Then Mrs. Green entered our life.

***

The first two days were almost fine. She settled into the spare room which wed hastily prepareda pull-out sofa, half the wardrobe cleared out. I brought in an extra lamp, left a glass of water and a book on the bedside tablethoughtful, I hoped.

But by day three, I spotted a crocheted doily on the window ledge in the hallwayround and cream with lacy edgeslying beneath Mrs. Greens phone as if it had always been hers.

I picked it up, folded it, and left it beside her bed.

The next morning the doily had returned to the window ledge.

I realised then: this wasnt purposeful. That was the trouble. Mrs. Green wasnt at war with me. She just lived how she knew best. For her, a doily beneath the phone was order. It was homely. It was right. She grew up where the richer your things, the better your home. A bare window ledge meant poverty or carelessness. Rice stored in five various-sized jars meant she ran a tight ship, not that she was a hoarder.

I grew up in that world too, but I left it, deliberately.

***

By the end of the first week, the kitchen looked nothing like my own. Three enamel pots of different sizes sat out on the countertopnone fit a single cupboard. Alongside, a bright yellow plastic lid tree sprouted beside them; the fridge was now a laboratoryjars of pickled onions (her daughters homegrown), a tub of leftover pork in garlic marinade, a bag of soaking beans, a mystery container covered in cling film too many times for comfort. My yoghurts were banished to the bottom door shelf, replaced by horseradish and a bottle of homemade ginger beer.

I moved the yoghurts back. Mrs. Green moved them again.

Evenings now reeked of fried onions, boiled cabbage and something elsehearty, clinging, nostalgic to some. It wasnt bad, just not my scent, not my night, not my air.

Victor came home, sniffed, and said: Ooh, smells like Mums cooking! Lovely.

I stayed quiet.

***

After another week, a tiny floral rug appeared by the lounge sofa. Synthetic, scalloped in pinksthe sort youd find near any high street hardware shop for a fiver. Mrs. Green explained her feet got cold in the mornings, and shed always had a bedside rug. What could I sayI cant stand the rug? That would sound petty.

So I said nothing.

Then her old beige-and-blue fleece jumper appeared on the coat stand in the hall right next to Victors coat, not in the wardrobe where Id made her space. It hung, slightly slumped, over his jacket.

I moved it to a spare hook by the bathroom.

She found it there and put it back, saying, Its awkward there, cant reach.

I nodded.

That night, Victor asked: Youre awfully quiet, are you all right?

All fine, I said.

It wasnt true, and we both knew it. But we both chose to pretend.

***

Let me tell you about the bedroom. Because thats my workplacemy incomeand thats a serious matter, not one of flowers and rugs.

My desk sits under the north window. Long, pale, custom built with shelves for charts and little drawers for spools. Above, a daylight lamp with a flexible armabsolutely vital to see thread colours accurately. Next to it a standing unit where I sort my threads and silks by colourfrom cool to warm, top to bottom, just so. Not decoration. Its work.

A large embroidery hoop held my current projecta very major one: a commission from a private collector in London. A replica of a medieval church banner, miniaturised, in goldwork with Japanese silk and gilded thread. Deadline: end of November. Half the fee already in (£420). Id spent three months on this.

No one but me touches the hoop. Victor knows this well. No pets. Kids far away. All was under control.

Until Mrs. Green arrived.

***

It was Thursday, mid-morning. I had to nip out to buy just the right threadterra cotta with a gold shimmer. It must be matched in person, cant order online. Out for just over an hour, stopped by the chemist too.

When I got back, I went into the bedroom.

Mrs. Green was there, sorting my spools into boxes, arranging them by her own understanding. On my desk, next to the embroidery, was a spool of Japanese silk, half unravelled, thread tangled. The rosy-gold shade I no longer had spare of. Worsta corner of the hoops fabric was puckered, as if someone had leant on it or knocked it clumsily.

I stood in the doorway, speechless.

She turned and said, quite breezily, Helen, you had a right mess here. I sorted them by colour for you. Look how beautiful now!

Mrs. Green, I said very quietly, please leave.

What? I just wanted to help

I understand. Please leave.

She left, lips pressed tight, affronted.

I checked my work. Thank goodness the thread had missed the corner. The fabric hadnt shifted much, I could straighten it. I salvaged some of the silkcut a third out because of the tangle. Fine as cobweb, easily broken if stretched.

It wasnt a disaster, but it was the moment I knew: no more of this.

***

That evening, Victor asked why his mum was quiet over dinner.

I told him.

He chewed his lip and said, She didnt mean to. She just wanted to help.

I know it wasnt deliberate.

Helen, just try to put up with itits hard for her. Shes not at home.

Victor, its my workspace. This is how I earn.

I know. But she really wont be here for long.

That not long Id now heard for two weeks. I asked straight.

How much longer?

Well, the builders think December.

December. Another month and a half. I looked at my husband. His face wore that look: he loved us both, and wouldnt choose. Hes someone who honestly believes everything sorts itself out if you ask everyone to please be patient and keep smiling.

It was clear: if anything was going to get sorted, it was up to me.

***

That night I didnt sleep, just lay thinking. Talking it out with Mrs. Green? Shed be hurt, cry, tell Victor I was ejecting her. A row? Even worse. Make Victor choose? Hed be stuck in the middle, which was cruel. Just put up with it? Noalready nixed, with the wasted silk.

There was a fourth way: careful, gradual, but the only real option.

Keep Mrs. Green busy, out of the flat, and speed up her flats repairs so shed actually want to return sooner.

It wasnt revenge. It was survival. Quiet, diplomatic, honest: I didnt want her hurt. I wanted my home back.

***

I started with her social life.

I knew Mrs. Green was the active type. At home, she walked to the library, popped into church, spent summers in her daughters garden. Here she was boredand boredom in the elderly leads to excess activity in our flat.

I rang my friend Irene at the community centre, asking what was available for older folk.

Weve got tons! Walking club each morning, choir Wednesdays and Fridays, felt-making group, health talks every Tuesday. All free, just bring your ID and proof of address.

How does one join?

Just show up.

I didnt tell Mrs. Green, Heres a list, go. Too blunt. I took another tack.

Over dinner, casually, I said, Mrs. Green, didnt you used to love singing? Victor said you were in a choir ages ago.

She brightenedyes, she sang in her youth. Good voice, apparently.

I just heard our local centre has a choir for adults, I continued. My friend recommended itsays the conductors excellent, lovely bunch there, too, and its free. Thought you might fancy it, what with being away from your usual friends.

She brushed it offitd be awkward, turning up alone.

I didnt press. Id planted the idea.

Three days later, I mentioned the choir sings at local events, and gets their photo in the parish newsletter. Her head lifted at newsletter. Something clicked.

Next week, she asked me for directions.

I drew her a map from the tube, big letters on classy paper.

Wednesday, she set off at ten a.m., back at three, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

Such nice ladies there, she said over tea. The conductorSimon, young chap, strict but fair. Theyre singing Andrew Lloyd Webber and folk. I sang a bit, he said, Do come again, youve a lovely mezzo.

Did he? Thats brilliant, I said, truly glad.

So it became routine: out every Wednesday and Friday for choir. Then walking group on Tuesdays, thanks to her new friend Jean from choirwho lived just a street away.

The flat became quieter. Not empty, just calmer.

***

Part two took more cunning.

I rang Mrs. Greens daughter, Caroline. Wed never been closerelated only through my husband. I said it plain:

Caroline, we love having your mum. But she needs her own space, and prolonged repairs are knocking her off-balance.

She explained the builders were dragging it out, impossible to pin down.

I asked, Do you manage things yourself or through someone else?

Through someone elsea friend of her husbands who deals with it and just rings the builders now and then. So, unchecked.

I offered, Let me help. A friend of ours works in the tradecan take a look and tell us whats actually needed, and whats waffle.

Caroline agreed, clearly fed up.

Our friendGraham, from downstairshad been in building for donkeys years. I explained the situation over coffee.

Floor needs pouring, walls skimmed, plumbing replaced? he repeated. Thats three weeks work tops, not three months.

He visited, spoke to the foreman. It turned out the firm was juggling several jobs, rarely on site, most of the money paid in advance.

Graham had a word; the upshotthree weeks with proper, daily workers. He pledged to check in regularly.

Caroline reviewed the contract, set firmer terms. The workmen, realising the free ride was up, sped up.

I said nothing to Victor. Not secrecyjust didnt want to make him feel caught in the middle. This was my job, and I did it.

***

Three weeks passed unevenly as all this unfolded.

Some evenings were good, Mrs. Green glowing after choir, full of stories about Jean or Simon, about their trip to the patisserie after rehearsal, about compliments at practice. On those nights, she was cheerful. The three of us would sit together and shed tell the most endearing tales about her youthgenuinely warm.

Other days, not so much.

One morning, I found my favourite ficus banished from the windowsill to the corner behind the sofa, replaced by her own geranium. Her reason: The ficus was shading the window; geraniums love sun.

By evening, the ficus leaves were beginning to curl.

I moved it back. The geranium went on her table. We met eyes.

She said, You might have asked.

I replied, Likewise.

That was the only flashpointthe one true spark. No row, no tears. Just a moment of realisation: we really are different.

She withdrew. I went to the kitchen. We cooled down. Dinner touched on other things.

Victor saw it all and said nothing. Sometimes I think his silence grated more than the plant shuffling. He tried to ignore the fissure running right across our dinner table. Men do that, hoping cracks just heal.

They dont. Ever.

***

One evening when Mrs. Green went to bed early, I worked at my desk. Victor stood behind, then sat on the bed.

Youre angry at me, he saida statement.

A bit, I admitted. Not at you, at all this.

He nodded.

What do you want me to do?

Nothing, Victor. Im sorting it myself.

He didnt ask what. Maybe he didnt want to know. He read awhile, then slept. I stitched another hour in the quiet, listening to the ticking clock and the breath of the old lady in the next roomhere not from malice, but just from a life that clashed with mine.

It struck me: the most destructive thing in families isnt hatred. Hatred, at least, is honest. Most suffocating is when everyones decent, everyone truly caresand yet everyone feels wretched, and no ones sure who to blame.

***

The building work finished earlier than Graham predicted.

Caroline phoned meme, not VictorSaturday morning. The crew packed up last night, its all done. Just needs a good airing and clean.

I thanked her. We chatted; I felt a shift. Caroline saw me differentlynot just as her brothers wife, but as someone who gets stuff done.

Now came the tricky part: telling Mrs. Green without making her feel pushed out.

I turned it over all Saturday.

At dinner, while she chatted about the choir concert at Christmas, I smiled and said:

Mrs. Green, Ive got some newsdont worry, its good!

She fell silent, watching.

I planned a little surprise weeks backgot a proper builder I know to check progress. Thanks to him getting the team together, Caroline says its all finished. You can go home.

Mrs. Green just stared, then looked at Victor, then back to me.

You sorted all this?

Not aloneGraham next door helped. I just didnt want you to feel awkward staying longer than you had to. Youll be much happier back homeyour own nest, your own things.

Victor looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

Mrs. Green was silent, then rose, took my hand in hersdry, warm, hands that carried years.

Helen, she said, you are a good soul.

I squeezed her hand, unsure what to say.

***

She moved back on Sunday. Victor drove her, carried her bags, made sure everything was fine. I stayed behind, said Id cook suppertruthfully, just wanting some time alone in my home.

For the first half hour, I simply walked the flat, room to room, touching the walls, standing at my desk by the northern window, looking at my embroidery hoop.

I removed the floral rug from the guest room. It lay there, an orphan, now. Retrieved the last doily from the windowsillprobably forgotten in the hurry. Opened a window, listened as the chilly October air swept in.

Then, in the kitchen, I found, on the second shelf of the fridge, a neatly wrapped dish. I opened itinside was our favourite beef casserole, sour like Victor loves, the sort Mrs. Green made with three types of meat. Enough for us both, two days running.

I closed the fridge and leaned back against it.

People are funny. Three weeks of treading on each other, and still she leaves a homemade dish as a parting gift.

***

Victor came home that evening. We ate together, chatting a little, peacefully. He washed up, I dried, as always.

At bedtime, he gazed at the ceiling and said, So you were sorting the building work all along.

I was.

Why didnt you tell me?

I thought for a second.

You asked me to bear it. I did this insteadI just reckoned you wouldnt want to get drawn in.

You could have trusted me.

Victor, I said gently, I do trust you. I just knew youd feel dreadful for your mum if you had to pick sides. You didnt need to.

He was quiet for a while.

That was clever, he said at last. And it stings a bit.

I know, I said. Im sorry.

We lay in the dark; I thought: its no fairytale ending. No one said everything they felt. No grand, honest talking things through like those self-help books recommend. It happened by sidestep, by nearly invisible effort.

Is that good or bad? I still cant say.

***

Mrs. Green called, a week later. Her voice sparkled. The flat was lovelyfresh, light, the walls beige as she wanted. Shed found her teacups, put them back in their place. Visited her neighbour, the one whod been ill for ages, and was glad to see her.

Im keeping on with choir, she said. Simon says were entering the town contest in February. Jean says were going together.

Thats wonderful, I answered.

Helen, she added, her voice slower now. I know I probably got in your way. When I was with you.

I didnt say, Oh, not at all, its fine. That would have been a lie for both of us.

Were just different, Mrs. Green, I said. Thats all right. The main thing is youre happy now.

She paused.

Yes, she said. Thats the main thing.

***

I think about those seven weeks sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.

About the rug with the pink flowers. About the pots on the counter. The geranium on my windowsill. The casserole dish in the fridge. The dry, warm feel of her hand in mine. How Victor said stings a bit, more honest than any other word that whole time.

It wasnt a war. There was no battle. Just a problem, solved. A home, defendedwithout shouting, or shaming anyone.

Not heroismjust what sometimes needs doing: keeping the shape of your life intact, when someone else, without malice, just by their way, starts bending it.

Protecting your boundaries isnt about walls or rows. Sometimes, its simply knowing what you need and quietly, doggedly setting things right.

And as for familywell, families are odd things. They survive in the strangest conditions, breathing through cracks. And sometimes, when they leave, they still leave behind a homemade casserole, just for you.

***

In November, I delivered the banner to my client. He emailed: loved it, paid the balance. I bought myself a new skein of Japanese silka pale gold, like an autumn leafand put it in my drawer, right where it belongs.

Three pots: ficus, snake plant, rosemary, lined up on the windowsill. Not a doily in sight.

Quiet in the flat. Smelling of coffee andjust faintlycandle wax from my evening ritual. Victor reads in his chair. Already, it’s nearly winter outside.

Everything, finally, in its place.

***

A month later we visited Mrs. Green. I brought her a box of pastilles from her favourite patisserie, the one she and Jean visited after choir. She ushered us in, showing off the newly done roomslight, beige, exactly as shed wanted. And yes, on every windowsill, a lacy doily. The same floral rug by the sofa.

I looked around and felt nothingno irritation, no judgement. Justthis was her home.

Over tea, she smiled at Victor and me.

You must come in February for the contest. Well be singing Lloyd Webbers Memory. Id like you both to hear.

Victor said, We wouldnt miss it, Mum.

I said, Of course well be there.Afterwards, as we walked home through the cold evening, Victor tucked my arm into his and said, Funny, isnt it? All that fuss and now it feels easy.

I smiled, breathing in the damp air. You know, for the first time in weeks, I dont mind the idea of a rug by the sofa.

He laughed. Getting sentimental?

Justaccepting. That everyone needs a little corner to soften the world.

As the streetlights blinked on and our breath curled white in the dark, I thought of Mrs. Greens voice joining the others, rising up in song. Her world, perfectly arranged. My own, restored. Somewhere in between, a thread running: not quite invisible, stretching quietly from home to home.

When we reached our building, I glanced upthree neat plants in our window, golden light glowing behind the curtains. The flat waiting, peaceful.

I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and for a moment simply stood still, listening to the hush.

It wasnt silence, really. Just space: generous enough to hold what was mine, roomy enough to welcome what passed through, and forgiving enough to let a little of it remain.

That, I thought, is home.

And closing the door softly behind us, I felt the whole of it settle around memessy, complicated, and dear. Even now, with winter pressing at the glass, the warmth lingeredproof that wed all found our places, just in time.