System Malfunction

System Error

– Elizabeth, are you at home?

– Oliver, you know Im always at home on a Sunday morning.

– Then open the door.

I peered through the spyhole for a good three seconds. My brother stood in the corridor, coat flapping open, with two hefty bags at his feet, wearing the expression of someone whos just lost an important argument. Behind him were two small figuresone tall, one shorter. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again. They stayed.

I flicked the lock.

– Morning, – Oliver greeted me with that particular smile Id known since childhood. The smile of a man who is about to ask a favour.

– No, – I replied immediately.

– I havent said anything yet.

– But youre smiling like that. So, no.

Arthur squeezed past his dad, looking up at me, a swirl in his hair and a shoelace trailing the newly laid oak floor. Beside him, Alice clutched a one-eared plush rabbit and studied me with the serene curiosity that only four-year-olds possessutterly fearless.

I glanced at the floor. Light oak, finished in Nordic by Estelle, fitted three months ago by a specialist who was booked up for weeks. Arthurs lace was caked in something brown. I made no attempt to discover what.

– Come in. But shoes off, straightaway.

The flat on the eighth floor of the new Northern Crown block was what I considered my true achievement. Not my position as Senior Sales Manager at Interiors Direct, not the car, not the bank balance. The flat itself. One hundred and four square metres, three-metre ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view across the city park. Id spent two years putting it together, swapping out lamps, fussing over curtain shades till I found that exact dusty blue that, come evening, went almost grey. The Estelle catalogue sofagrey, wide, high-backed. Solid wood coffee table with a hairline crack in the top the shop assistant called characterful and which I nearly returned at first, but grew to love. No excess things. No clutter on the sills. BelleVisage cosmetics lined up by height in the bathroom, matching towels, identical wooden hangers in the wardrobe.

This was a life Id built intentionally. Every detail in its place. Silencethe authentic city silence of the eighth floor, where you could hear nothing but the faint hum of a Livingstone fridge and the rare susurration of rain against glass.

Oliver dumped the bags in the hallway. The kids untied their shoes. Arthur immediately ran a sticky palm along the white wall.

– Arthur, – I said.

– What?

– Your hands.

He inspected his palm, then the wall, then me.

– Whats with my hands?

I took a deep breaththe sort of deep, slow one they teach you at stress management seminars. Three seconds in, three seconds out.

– Oliver, – I said, – speak quickly.

My brother walked into the kitchen, perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar, fingers steepled in resignation.

– Sophie and I are heading to a spa hotel. For eight days. We need to talk. Actually talk, and its impossible with the kids around.

– You have no other options?

– Mums at the seaside until next Friday, you know that. Sophies parents are in the countryside, and theyve got a quarantine on because of some virus, so no kids allowed. Liz. Im only asking you for one thing. Eight days.

– Eight days, – I repeated.

– Well, maybe nine. Were back Sunday.

A muted sound came from the lounge. Not loud, but clear enoughsomething landing on the floor.

– Alice, dont touch anything! – Oliver called towards the lounge, not even lookingan experts reflex.

– Oliver, – I kept my voice low, because low always works better than a shout (another thing from training). – I work from home. I have a crucial online presentation this Wednesday with clients from three different cities. I have no idea how to deal with children. I dont know what they eat, what Im supposed to say, how they sleep.

– They eat everything but onions. Arthur wont touch tomatoes. Say anything, theyre not fussy. Alice sleeps with her rabbit, Arthur needs a bedtime story, theres a book in his bag.

– Oliver.

– Liz, – he looked up, and I saw something in his eyes that made my chest tightennot pity. Something else. Resignation, the kind you dont argue with. – If we dont go now, I honestly dont know whatll happen to us. To our family. Do you understand? No idea.

I went quiet. Outside, a solitary cloud drifted above the park. Immaculately white, supremely calm.

– Eight days, – I said at last.

– Thank you.

– Dont thank me. Im not promising I wont ring you in three hours.

– Ill keep my phone on. So will Sophie.

Oliver left quickly. Far too quicklythe exit of a man who fears being stopped. He kissed the kids hair, mumbled something about Aunt Liz whos the best, left a sheet with instructions (his big, clumsy handwriting) on the bar, and in fifteen minutes the door closed behind him.

I stood in the hallway.

Arthur and Alice stared at me.

I stared back.

– Well, – I offered.

– Well, – Arthur agreed thoughtfully.

– Are you hungry?

– I want juice, – said Alice.

– What kind?

– Orange.

– As in orange juice?

– No. Orange. The orange one.

I opened the fridge. There was mineral water, a tub of chopped veg, a couple of plain BelleVisage yoghurts, and an open bottle of white wine. No kids juice. It had never occurred to me. Never a reason to buy it.

– Lets go to the shops, then.

– Yay! – Arthur shouted so energetically, the echo bounced off the three-metre ceiling.

I winced.

The supermarket was next doora five-minute walk. In that brief time Alice dropped her rabbit four times, Arthur pressed every lift button, including the emergency call, and gave me a blow-by-blow account of a boy at his nursery who could spit through his teeth two metres. I learned more about this boy than I ever wanted.

In the shop I bought four types of juice, milk, bread, strawberry yoghurts, pasta, chicken goujons, apples, bananas, and a brightly-wrapped packet of biscuits Arthur snuck into the trolley while I was distracted by cheese. I didnt put them back. A small surrender, which a week before would have been unthinkable.

The first day passed relatively smoothly. Aside from Alice spilling orange juice over the coffee table and Arthur smacking his shoulder into a doorframe, tears for five minutes. I had no clue how to comfort kids. I gave him a glass of water and told him it would pass. My standard advice to adults, oddly effective with him. He drank, snuffled, and went off to watch the tablet Oliver had packed.

Sleep was refused at 9pm, at 10, and finally by half ten. I read Arthur his bear-and-raspberry booktwice, at his request. Alice had already conked out on the sofa, rabbit clutched tight. Watching her for twenty seconds, I gently lifted and carried her to the pull-out guest bed. She was light and warm as a sunbeam, and she didnt wake.

Back in the kitchen, I poured myself herbal tea from my Livingstone flask, opened my laptop. Three days to the presentation. Two slides to finish, intro to rehearse.

Sat alone in the silence, mug in hand, and couldnt focus for the life of me.

Second day started at 6:37I remember because I checked the clock on my Livingstone phone right as a crash resounded from the lounge.

Arthur was up early, building a fortress from the Estelle sofa cushions. All four cushions were piled on the floor, with the blanket too, and Arthur at the centre, munching biscuits hed somehow located on the second shelf. Crumbs everywhere.

– Morning, – he said, entirely cheerful.

– Morning.

– Can you make pancakes?

– You mean drop scones?

– Yeah, the round ones with maple syrup.

– I dont have maple syrup.

– Oh. Shame.

I made porridge. Arthur ate with no fuss. Alice stumbled in at eight, rabbit in tow, crawled onto a chair and said, I want porridge like Arthur. I dared to hope things were looking up.

The flood happened Tuesday, two in the afternoon.

I was at my desk, tweaking my presentation. The kids played in the bathId let them float makeshift paper boats, courtesy of old water bills Arthur found in the bedside table and triumphantly transformed into a fleet. Harmless, or so it seemed. Water, contained, kids occupied, blissful silence.

Silence, as ever, was the harbinger.

I finished my slide, stood up for a glass, and finally noticed something shimmering, creeping across the hallway tileswater, spilling from under the bathroom door.

– Oh no, – I said aloud, in that flat tone you get when its already too late.

Tap wide open. At some point, the kids had wandered off, boats forgotten, flagship stuck cleverly in the drain. Waterby the amount, for at least ten minuteshad started overflowing.

I shut off the tap, took a look at the soaked floor, then closed my eyes.

The bell rang twenty minutes later. I was still mopping up, contemplating whether my BelleVisage wool slippers were beyond hope.

– Who is it?

– Downstairs neighbour. Seventh floor.

I opened up. A tallish man, early forties, hair tousled, in home jeans and a navy jumper, stood holding out his phone. On the screen, a close-up of a saturated, stained ceiling.

– Im Andrew, flat seventy-two.

– Elizabeth. Eighty-four. – I sighed. – I know what happened. The kids.

– Got it. – He slipped the phone away. – Need a hand?

I looked at him, waiting for the usual onslaught about property damage, insurance, managers will be involved, and so on. I knew how to handle such talksit was half my job.

– Did you say help? – I checked.

– Judging by the sounds, youve still got a sea on your floor. Ive a builders fan and a great mopproper squeezy one.

Arthur peeked from behind me.

– Are you the one underneath us? Did we make your ceiling all wet?

– Yep, – Andrew replied evenly, not a trace of anger, just a slight tilt of the head. – Did the boats float well?

– Brilliantly! Mine was an aircraft carrier!

– Thats impressive.

– Come in, – I said, realising there was little point keeping him on the landing.

The next hour blurred a little. Andrew fetched his mop and genuinely helped dry the bathroom and hallway, no fuss, no remarksjust the odd instruction, letting Arthur help with the cloth (a big deal for the boy). Alice supervised, rabbit clamped to her chest, saying, Its still wet there, to cornerswith uncanny accuracy, in fairness.

– Your ceiling, is it damaged? – I asked, when finished.

– A bit. It was flaking before, really. The damp patch will dry out.

– Ill pay for the paintwork.

– Well see. – His well see wasnt a threat, just sensible. Wait and see. – Had the kids long?

– Since yesterday.

– Yours?

– My niece and nephew. Ino, I havent got children.

He nodded, glanced at Arthur already engrossed with TV remote buttons.

– Got it, – Andrew said. – Advice, then: buy a proper drain cover for the bath, any DIY shop will have one. And always turn the tap off low.

– Duly noted.

– Good luck. – He picked up the mop, paused at the door. – Seventh floor if you need anything.

– Why are you so calm? – I asked, the words escaping before Id planned.

He thought for a second.

– Whats the point of getting angry? Ceiling wont dry faster that way.

He left. I shut the door and sagged against it. Sun was setting outside. In the kitchen, Alice was demanding half the last biscuit from Arthur; Arthur objected. I went in and shared it equally, without a word. Both looked at me with newfound respect.

By Wednesday morning, the routine was settling in. The kids watched cartoons in the lounge, tablet charged, with sliced apples and crackers waiting on the table. All under control.

Presentation started at eleven. I sat at my desk, laptop camera on, blazer hiding my t-shirt. Seven clients from three citiesa London branch director, two partners from Manchester, one regional from Birmingham.

The first fifteen minutes went smoothly. I showcased the new Estelle collection, explained costs, fielded two questions.

Minute sixteen: the study door crashed open.

– Aunt Liz! – Alices voice could have rattled the cutlery. – Arthurs got my rabbit!

– Alice, – I said, low and meaningful, – Im working.

– He says my rabbits ugly!

– It is ugly! – came Arthurs rejoinder.

– Sorry, folks, – I gave my most controlled, apologetic smile to the screen. – One moment.

I paused my camera, headed into the lounge. Arthur was clutching the rabbit by one ear, Alice the bodyan English tug-of-war.

– Let go, both.

They did. The rabbit thumped to the floor. Alice swooped to rescue him.

– Arthur, could you watch quietly?

– The cartoons finished.

– Find something else.

– What?

– Whatevers next in the queue.

– Its adverts.

I glared. He stared right back. I found a kids TV channelsome noisy animalsand returned to my desk.

Eight peaceful minutes. Then Arthur sidled in, wordlessly, while I was presenting.

– I need the loo, – he announced directly to the webcam.

The London branch director burst out laughing, everyone else followed. I could feel myself blushingafter fifteen years, that was a new one.

– Arthur, you know where it is.

– I know. Just telling you.

– Go on then, please.

He went. I returned to my slides, the presentation irreversibly off-kilter in business terms, but rescued in human terms. The Manchester partner said, Ive got three kids myselfsay no more. The Birmingham guy said the collection offer was interesting; we arranged a follow-up.

For a while afterwards, I just sat there. Then realised, strangely, that I wasnt angry.

I made cheese sandwiches for the kids. Arthur said they were tasty. Alice ate halftoo involved in her own imaginary rabbit conversation.

At four, the bell.

– Came to drop round the bath plug, – Andrew said. – For the drain.

He handed me a little bag with a rubber stopper.

– Did you make a special trip?

– Needed bread anyway.

– Come in.

It wasnt planned, just automatic. He stepped inside, shoes off. Arthur appeared, excited:

– Oh, youre the man who helped!

– The very man.

– Has your ceiling dried out now?

– Nearly. Give it a day or two.

– Good. – Arthur was genuinely pleased. – Can you play Jenga? Weve got a setDad packed it.

– I can.

– Ill go get it!

And so Andrew ended up playing Jenga on my Estelle coffee tableArthur one side, Alice on the other (Alice didnt really understand the rules, but held her rabbit as a cheerleader). Andrew played with the patience and seriousness of someone who respected the game, whichlaterI realised was what the children responded to.

I busied myself in the kitchen, watching.

– Careful, – Andrew coached. – That one on the edge looks loose.

– How can you tell?

– Towers often have one weak spotjust have to find it.

– Is life like that? – Arthur asked, with the unsettling gravity only six-year-olds can manage.

Andrew paused.

– In some ways, yes.

We all ate together. Not planned, but Andrew naturally stayed. He helped fry the chicken, chopped the bread properly, because he saw my cuts were wonky. Slightly bossy, perhaps, but the bread looked better.

– Have you lived here long? – I asked.

– Three years. You moved in last yearI saw the furniture lorry.

– Observant.

– Just happened to be leaving for work.

– Where do you work?

– Architectural firm. I design support structuresdull stuff.

– Why dull?

– No one asks if a support column is beautiful. Just if it holds up.

– But surely thats more important, – I said.

He looked at me as though Id offered a rare, intelligent answer.

– Yes, – he said. – I suppose it is.

The children fell asleep by nine. Andrew finished his tea, thanked me, and stood to leave.

– Goodnight, – he said in the hallway.

– Goodnight. And thank youfor the plug, and for the other night.

Something in his gaze lingered.

– Youre doing well, – he said. – For a first-timer.

– How can you tell?

– You look like someone carrying a crystal vase, afraid to drop it.

I surprised myself by laughing, genuinely.

He left. I lingered in the hallway. On the row of coat hooks hung Alices small blue coat with a bear button, Arthurs jacket, and minewhich seemed oddly apart.

Thursday and Friday were different. I startled less at every crash. Porridge and juice became a peaceful ritual. Alice liked sitting beside me as I workeda notepad from my desk for company, filling it with rabbit families. Every rabbit had a name.

– Thats Mummy Rabbit, – Alice whispered, drawing. – Thats Daddy Rabbit. Thats baby Button.

– Why Button?

– Because hes small and round.

– Fair enough.

Friday evening, Andrew stopped by again, with an old travel board gameclearly from the nineties. The kids didnt recognise any cities on the cards, but it didnt matter. They played with wild enthusiasm.

– Where did you get this? – I asked.

– Childhood. When I moved, I brought a few old thingswho knows why.

– Im glad you did.

We sat on the floor (first time in years for me). The Nordic parquet was cool and smooth. Alice snuggled beside me, soon nodded off. I held her, without noticing.

Andrew noticed but said nothing.

Saturday was spent in the parkAndrews idea, I didnt object. Arthur found a puddle, stomped through despite my protest. I carried home wet boots in a bag, Arthur in damp socks, unbothered.

– Doesnt it annoy you? – I asked.

– Why?

– Boots are soaking wet.

– So? Theyll dry.

– Youre like Andrew, – I blurted out.

– Andrews brilliant, – Arthur agreed. – Aunt Liz, is he your friend?

– Hes my neighbour.

– Isnt that the same?

– Not always.

– Why?

I had no answer. Behind us, Andrew carried Alice on his shoulders, explaining trees. She listened with deep importance.

Sunday evening, Oliver rang. His voice was lighter than a week ago.

– How are they?

– Alive, – I replied. – Arthur conquered the puddles. Alice drew forty-seven rabbits.

Oliver laughed.

– Youre coping.

– Not too badly. Hows it going there?

A brief pause.

– Much better. Honestly. Thank you.

– Good, – I replied. Quietly. – Im glad.

The second week was smoother. I now knew Arthur didnt eat tomatoes but would eat tomato soup unwittingly. Alice requested the window just a crack at bedtime. Both fussed at half seven with fatiguebest to agree and settle them. Small, unremarkable knowledge, but gained naturally, not from any manual.

Andrew called by every evening. Sometimes with bread, sometimes just for a chat. Wed talk in the kitchen about work, life, books. Surprisingly, for someone in construction, he read widely. I did too, once, but not recently.

– What are you reading? – he asked once.

– Nothing other than work stuff, really.

– That doesnt count.

– I know.

– Want me to bring you something?

– Please.

He brought a Japanese novel I hadnt heard of. A story about a woman clearing her late mothers things, realising how little shed really known her. I read in the quiet half-hour after the children fell asleep. The best half-hour of the day.

One Thursday, Arthur asked me to show him where I worked.

– My studys here.

– I know. Show me.

He stood in the doorway, eyeing the laptop, stacks of Estelle catalogues, and a small cactus on the sill.

– Are you happy? – he queried.

– In what way?

– With your work.

– I probably. I like it.

– Dad says you should work so youre happy, or whats the point?

– Wise dad.

– Mmm. – Arthur pondered. – Aunt Liz, why do you live alone?

– Thats how it turned out.

– Didnt you want someone?

– Im used to it. I liked it.

– Liked?

I paused.

– Liked.

The last day came too soon. Sunday lunchtime, Oliver and Sophie arrived. Sophie looked transformedcalmer. She hugged the children for a long time; Alice clung to her, wouldnt let go. Sophie turned to me.

– ElizabethI dont know how to thank you.

– You dont need to.

– Did they behave?

– They were children, – I smiled. – Thats how it should be.

Sophie gave me a strange look, as if expecting something else.

Packing up took an hour. Alice tearfully said goodbye; I assured her theyd be back. Arthur gave me a most serious handshake, which was both touching and amusing. He then dashed back for a real hugquick and tightbefore running to his dad.

The door closed.

I stood in the hall.

Alices coat was gone. Only mine left.

The flat was quiet.

I wandered into the lounge. A squashed pillow on the sofaArthurs spot this morning. On the floor, by the coffee table, a small drawing Alice had forgotten: rabbit familymum, dad, little Button, and, nearby, a girl with yellow hair labelled in childish scrawl: aunt liz.

I stood for a while, holding the picture.

Then I went to the kitchen, put the kettle on. Filtered Livingstone water. Favourite mug. Everything in its place. Everything right, clean, quietjust as Id always liked.

I waited for relief to come. The relief after a noisy trip, after a work party, after any event breaking routine. Relief in returning to myself.

It didnt come.

There was just the drawing and this new silencea pause after music, when the notes stop and you arent quite sure if it’s good or bad, but you recognise somethings changed.

I drank my tea, watched the park through the window and thought of Arthur and his question about happiness. Of Alice, falling asleep in my arms that Friday night, right on the Nordic floor, and how Id left my arm there. Of what my study had been before Arthur asked to see it, and how it seemed different after.

I thought of Andrew.

How he cut bread with precise fingers. His steady patiencenot indifference, but something solid and comfortingsupport, like the structures he built. How he came every evening, never expecting anything. Just turned up. Was there.

And for the last nine days, not once had I woken up at night anxious about work. A strange absenceanxiety had been my constant for years.

At six, I stood, washed my face, put on my favourite navy jumper. Picked up the phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.

I didnt call. I took the lift to the seventh floor and rang the bell for number seventy-two.

Andrew opened in seconds. Not surprised, but attentive.

– Theyve gone, – I said.

– I heard the door.

– Its so quiet.

– Id imagine.

– Would you like to come up for tea? Kettles just boiled, but Ill re-boil it.

A pause.

– Id like that, – he replied.

Back in my kitchen, Andrew settled onto the same barstool Oliver had, but everything was different.

– You know, – I began, – todays the first day in nine where Ive nothing to do. And Im not sure what to make of it.

– Good thing? Bad thing?

– Neither. – The word came to me: – Unfamiliar.

– Youll get used to new unfamiliar.

– What do you mean?

– At first, alone felt strange. Then you adapted. Now its strange again, but differently.

– You talk like someone whos been through it.

He met my gaze.

– I was married. Six years. Not anymorethree years now.

– Im sorry.

– Dont be. It had run its course. We were good people, just not for each other. Hardest part wasnt the endit was the silence after. Realising theres silence with, and silence without someone. Not the same thing.

I glanced into my mug.

– I always thought silence meant freedom. That being alone was a conscious choice.

– Maybe it is. But choices can be revisited.

– Have you revisited yours?

– I think I am. – He smiled. – Thing is, children upstairs causing chaos probably helped.

I laughed, genuinely.

– Andrew.

– Yes?

– I – I hesitated. Always ready to backtrack, make things polite. My lifelong skill. – I like you. I want you to know that.

He looked at me.

– Thats good, – he replied warmly. – Because I like you too. Ive thought about it.

– Long?

– Since the day you asked why I was calm. No one bothered before.

– Odd reason.

– I have odd reasons.

We sat and talked for hours, till eleven. About my work, his, the view from eighth versus seventh floor. About children, whod left their rabbit drawing and yellow-haired aunt as evidence of existence. He didnt rush to go; I didnt hurry him out.

When he left, he took my hand gently for a moment.

– Goodnight, Liz.

– Goodnight.

I leant against the door. It felt different nowwarm, not empty.

I set Alices drawing on the shelf, next to a vase. The rabbit family (and Aunt Liz) watched me with drawn eyes. Crooked, but recognisable.

A year passed.

The flat had changed, subtly but undeniably. Children’s books now filled the bottom shelf, left after the cousins visits. There were four plant pots on the sill now, one somewhat wonky from Alices enthusiastic watering. Two coats hung in the hall: my dark blue, and a grey mens.

On the Estelle coffee table with its characterful crack, Andrews architectural catalogue lay open, next to a half-full mug of coffee and a book with a bookmark.

I stood at the window, watching the now autumnal, russet park below. I loved it best in autumn.

My bump was beginning to showfive months. Each day, I got used to that quiet presence, until impossible became simply normal, then the main thing.

The door swung open.

– Theyre on their way, – Andrew announced, coming into the kitchen. – Oliver messaged, theyre driving now.

– So, half an hour.

– Has Arthur rung you yet?

– Three times. Wants to know if he can watch cartoons or if well all be off to the park.

– You said yes?

– I said both.

Andrew boiled water, then looked my way.

– How are you?

– Fine, – I smiled. – My feet ache, but Im alright.

– Sit down, then.

– Im fine like this.

– Elizabeth.

– Alright, Ill sit. – I moved to the sofa. – Funny, its a year since they left. I stood in this kitchen waiting for the silence to feel like relief.

– Did it?

– No.

– I remember you turned up.

– Were you expecting me?

A short pause.

– Not sure. Maybe I hoped.

The bell rang. Loud and insistentthe sound only children can manage, for whom the buzzer is pure excitement.

– Thatll be Arthur, – I said.

– Of course.

– You answer? Id rather not get up.

Andrew went.

– Aunt Liz! – Arthurs voice rolled down the hall before the door had fully opened. – Were here! Can we go to the park? Are the leaves out? Has your bump grown?

– Arthur, – Olivers voice followed, – give people a moment to get in.

– Im already in.

Alice entered silently, as always, found me, hugged me tight and serious. Then looked at me:

– Aunt Liz, is my rabbit here?

– On the shelf in the guest room.

– Good. I knew hed be safe here.

The hallway was a happy jumble; Oliver and Andrew greeted with backslaps, Sophie chattered about traffic, Arthur dashed about, found the bear-and-raspberry book.

– Aunt Liz! You kept it!

– Of course.

– For the little one when its born?

– Absolutely.

– Good. – He nodded, satisfied. – Andrew, park? Leaves?

– Leaves everywhere.

– Let’s go then!

– Tea first, – I said. – Then park.

– You always say that.

– And always will.

– Fine, – Arthur conceded. He met my gaze, utterly directthe same as last year and likely for many more. – Aunt Liz, are you happy now?

The flat bustled: voices, Sophie laughing, Alice calling her rabbit, the kettle, the city just outside, the golden autumn, and, inside me, someone small and utterly new, making their presence known in soft little kicks.

I looked at Arthur.

– Yes, – I said.

And that, I believe, is the best lesson I have ever learned.