Behind Someone Else’s Walls

Other Peoples Walls

“Do you know what goes through my mind sometimes?” I said to my husband, rubbing the same plate for the fifth time. “That we dont even have a single teaspoon to call our own anymore. Everything is in their room. Now, I go to bed in our own flat thinking, Are we being too loud in our own lounge watching the television? Are we disturbing them?”

He stared out of the window at the darkened garden. Then, with a heavy sigh that seemed to come from his very bones, he spoke, barely above a whisper.

“Guests,” he said, not turning away from the glass. “Were guests. In our own kitchen.”

And as if on cue, from the spare room where my niece was, came a peal of muffled girlish laughter followed by the deep chuckle of her boyfriend. They were watching a film. In our old sitting room.

And so we sat there, me with a plate in my hands, Charles by the window. My mind went around in circles: how had it come to this? How did we end up in a place where were afraid to flush the toilet too loudly in our own home for fear of waking someone in the next room? Especially when it all started out so well-intentioned. So innocent. So very much a family thing, as they say.

It was about a year and a half ago, just at the end of August, when the call came from my sister Margaret. I was bottling chutney in the kitchen, hair sticking to my forehead in the warm, stuffy air. When I picked up the phone, I wiped my hands hastily on my apron.

“Hello, Jane,” came Margarets voice, tentative and careful. Immediately I was on alert. Margaret was never one for idle chatsliving in Leeds, always busyand we barely rang each other three or four times a year. “Listen, theres something I wanted to ask. You remember Sophie, my eldest?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “Is everything alright with her?”

“Yes, nothing terrible,” Margaret reassured me. “Quite the opposite. Shes got into university. In your city, Liverpool. She was offered a place on a scholarshipso proud of her. The only thing is, student accommodation is full and she wont be offered a room until next term at the earliest. I was wondering Well, its just you and Charles in that three-bedroom flat. Maybe you could let her register her address with you? Just for the paperwork, you know. Shell find somewhere else to stay, you neednt worry. Weve talked it all over.”

I held the phone and my mind starting whirring. On the one hand, shes family. My niece. Always did well at school. Margaret often spoke of her as the clever one. But thenregistering someone at your address is a serious business. Charles had always said, “Never register anyone, family or not. Its a nightmare getting them out again.” But this was different. Sophie was only a student, just for a short while. And how could I say no to Margaret? She was still my sister, even if we werent close.

“Are you sure Sophie wont want to stay here?” I asked cautiously. “It wouldnt be all that comfortable for us living with someone extra all the time.”

Margaret laughed. “Oh, Jane! She needs her freedom, honestly. Shell be renting a room with some friends. Just the registration for the university, you know how fussy they are now with all the paperwork, proof of address a mere formality.”

I hesitated, told Margaret Id consult Charles. That evening, as soon as I told him, he frowned.

“Dont, Jane,” he said shortly. “Registering someone is no joke. Youll be chasing it round in circles to undo it. Ive seen it at work, it ends in disaster.”

“But shes only Sophie,” I protested. “Margarets daughter. Its only temporary, for her studies, just the forms Shell live elsewhere.”

He just grunted. “For now. Next thing its storing her stuff here, then a night over when it suits, then theres friends No, Jane.”

But the next day, my conscience got the better of me. After all, it felt petty to refuse. Sophie was studying in a strange city, she was so polite as a child, always quiet and well-mannered at family dos. Margaret said Sophie would call herself and explain.

When the phone rang a few days later, Sophies voice was soft and well-spoken.

“Aunt Jane, good afternoon. Mum said you might be able to help me with my address registration. It would be a great help for my studies. I wont disturb you, I promise. Ive already arranged a room with friends in Wavertree, but the universitys asking for a local registration. May I pop round to meet you and settle the details?”

How could I say no? She was so polite, so grateful. Charles just shrugged when I told him Sophie was coming. “Do as you like,” was all he said. “But dont say I didnt warn you.”

Sophie came by in early September. Tall, thin, wearing jeans and a crisp white blouse, her fair hair tied back in a plait. She smiled as she entered, a big rucksack on her shoulder.

“Thank you for seeing me, Aunt Jane! Mum made me bring you some treats.”

She handed me a bag with honeycomb, homemade jam, sweetsmy heart warmed to her at once. Such a lovely, well-bred girl.

We had tea. She spoke about her coursejournalismand her hopes of working on television, doing proper field reports. Her eyes shone with such earnestness. She explained shed already arranged a room with two friends in Wavertree, even showed me photos of the tiny little place, three beds squeezed inbut enough for them.

“I only need the registration, so my paperworks in order,” she repeated earnestly. “I promise you wont even notice Im here. I might have to pop by occasionally, but hardly ever.”

When Charles came in from work, Sophie stood respectfully, greeted him by name, clearly making an impression. After supper, she excused herself and left.

“Thank you so much,” she said, “Ill come round tomorrow with my papers, if thats alright. Well go to the registration office together?”

Three days later, we went to the council office. Sophie had every document ready, I signed as the property owner, and Charles added his name, though he was still reluctant. Temporary registration for a yeareasy enough. Two weeks later Sophie received her registration stamp and rang to thank me ten times over. I thought: thats that, job done. Shed live in her own place, and wed done our familial duty.

But life, as it tends to, had very different ideas.

At first, Sophie really didnt show up at all. One month, two months slipped by. Just a couple of phone calls with holiday greetings or a polite check-in. Margaret rang, overjoyed, said Sophie was doing well in her course, settling in. I relaxed, thinking wed done the right thing.

Then November rolled around and Sophie called to ask if she could stay a couple of nights. Thered been a falling out with her flatmatesone girl noisy, constantly bringing people over and playing music so loud Sophie couldnt study, and with exams looming, she needed somewhere peaceful to revise. I couldnt possibly say no. “Come on over, you can have the lounge sofa,” I said.

She arrived that evening, that enormous rucksack with her. Charles pressed his lips together but didnt comment. Sophie set herself up in the lounge, apologising repeatedly and promising it was just for a week, until the situation with the girls was back to normal or shed found somewhere else to stay. We agreedwhat could we do? She kept herself quiet, was out early each morning and back late, her nose in her books. We stopped watching television, not to disturb her. Charles took to going straight to bed, said he was tired. I lingered in the kitchen longer than usual, looking for distraction.

A week turned to two. Then Sophie said her exams started, no point moving now. We relented; it wasnt the time to hunt for flats in the freezing heart of winter. I thought: when exams are over shell go.

But January came and after Christmas she returned from Leeds with newsshed found a little job at a local newspaper, proper London rates, a rare chance to get valuable experience. She couldnt afford her own place now, wanted to save for a summer internship in London. Her family was stretched for money, Margaret couldnt send much.

“Aunt Jane, can I stay a little longer? Ill pay for my share of the bills, and I always buy my own food so youre not put out. I really need this workfor my future. If I rent somewhere, half my wage will be gone.”

When I told Charles, he erupted.

“Jane! What did I say? Shes using us! Got her registration, now shes living here, what nextmoving in her own furniture?”

“But shes working hard, Charles,” I tried, more to convince myself. “Shes a good girl, alone in a strange city. She offered to pay.”

He snorted. “Paid!” he jeered, “Slips us a few quid for the bills, but lives here, uses water, power, takes up space! Not rentjust a sop for her conscience!”

But though in my heart I knew he was right, I couldnt bring myself to ask Sophie to leave. I felt like Id be putting a young woman out on the street. It wasnt even proper rent, and I was too embarrassed to ask Margaret for advice; she’d say, “Well, you agreed in the first place. Now sort it out.”

By February, Sophie had truly settled in. Her things took up half the hall wardrobe, her boxes of books and work folders filled the airing cupboard, and her foodyoghurts, fruit, little pots of homemade soupfilled one whole fridge shelf. She really did buy her own, but after a while the lines blurred. Shed finish our sugar or milk, replace it later but still The feeling that youre not alone in your own home began to press.

Charles and I barely spoke, like ghosts at opposite ends of the flat, conversation reduced to bare essentials. He left early for work, stayed late, claimed he was tired but I knew he didnt want to see Sophie. For her part, Sophie really did try to be invisiblepolite, quiet, asking if she could help, cleaning up after herselfbut that made little difference. She was still, for all her good intentions, another presence in our home.

One evening, chopping salad in the kitchen, I watched as Sophie strolled in, filled the kettlethe pink one she bought herself, claiming ours was too slowand made her tea in that big mug with the trendy slogan. Even her tea was special, some fruity blend in silken bags.

“Sophie,” I blurted. “Are you looking at other places now? Are the problems with your flatmates over?”

She glanced up, apologetic. “Weve stopped talking really,” she said. “But yes, Im keeping my eyes open, promise. Nothing suitable so far. Either its too expensive, or too far from the uni. Here, its just easybuses nearby, everything close. If you really need the space, I can look harder.”

What could I say? “Yes, I want you out”? I wasnt raised that way, and I minded, but I could not force it. She truly wasnt being difficult, just caught by circumstance.

“Maybe you should try,” I said, feeling I ought to make an effort. “You need your own space, Sophie, and the sofas hardly a home.”

“Its fine,” she replied lightly, “Honestly, I dont disturb you at all.”

And off she went, mug in hand. I watched her, feeling the old tiredness rise. She thought she wasnt troubling us, but wed taken to spending every evening in the kitchen, never venturing into our own sitting room. Wed stopped watching our favourite shows to avoid awkwardness.

That night, Charles, half-whispering before bed, said, “Jane, you mustnt renew her registration. Its up in August. Let her find somewhere else. Dont extend it, alright?”

“I wont,” I promised.

Yet deep inside, I knew it wasnt so easy. Sophie had lived here more than half a year. Removing her would mean tricky conversations, perhaps even legal action. What would family say? That I was cold, unkind? But sometimes enough is enough.

Spring rolled around, and Sophie was glued to her laptop, bent over endless assignments. By then she had a part-time subbing job at the paper. She knocked about more, came home late, wrote at the sitting room table. I, in my bed, could hear the laptop clattering away.

Then May brought the final straw.

Sophie arrived one evening with a young man in towearly twenties, leather jacket, hair artfully cut. “This is Matthew, Mum, hes at the college too, does programming. We met at the newspaper office.”

“Aunt Jane, can he come in for a bit? Weve a group project to finish, promise we wont be long.”

What was I to say? Charles was out; I let them in. They went to the lounge and closed the door. Muffled voices, laughter drifted through to the kitchen. I sipped tea, barely containing my anger; now my niece was bringing young men into the house, into our sitting room!

Charles returned late, saw my face, and scowled.

“Whats happened?”

“Her friend is herein the lounge!”

He gritted his teeth, went to bed without a word.

After they left, Sophie came through to apologise, but Id had enough.

“Sophie, you must understand, this isnt a student share. This is our home, our flat, and youre not a tenant. You shouldnt be bringing people round here.”

Her lips quivered. “Were just friends! Its coursework, nothing untoward, Aunt Jane.”

She scurried away, and I felt both justified and horribly guilty.

Charles was firmer. “Enough, Jane. August. She goes. Tell her soon.”

But in June, Sophie asked to renew her registration for another year, pleading exams and necessary paperwork. I phoned Margaret, who sighed, “Stick it out a bit longer, Jane. Shes a good kidshes not causing trouble. Let her get sorted after the next round of assignments.” And I agreed. I went to the council office and, alone this time, renewed her address. Charles refused to sign.

Sophie went back to Leeds for most of July and August, and for the first time in ages, Charles and I had the flat to ourselves. We watched television in the lounge, chatted over late suppersit was as if, for a little while, we had our home back. I dared hope Sophie might stay in Leeds, get a job there, not come back.

But September came, and back she came, this time with a suitcase full. Set on working for a first-class degree, she intended to spend more time at home, revising.

In October, Matthew was back too, more often now, coming by for group projects, and Sophie didnt bother to ask any longer. One evening I walked in on them halfway through a debate in our lounge, the television on, their things spread out everywhere.

“Sophie, we agreedno more guests.”

“Its not a guest, Aunt Jane. This is work for my course.”

I had no reply. I simply left the room, hands shaking, and lit a cigarette in the kitchen, though Id long since given up.

From then on, Matthew came by regularly. Sometimes he stayed late, sometimes he and Sophie cooked together. Charles started staying at work longer still, just to avoid it. I felt worn to the bone.

One evening, I made up my mind.

“Sophie, you promised youd move,” I told her, as we sat awkwardly in the kitchen. “Its been over a year now. When will you start looking in earnest?”

She looked down, guilty. “Its just so expensive, Aunt Jane. Or its grotty. I need a quiet, safe place for work, and hereits got everything I need. I pay my way, I dont get in your way. Isnt it tolerable for a bit longer?”

“It isnt,” I said honestly. “Were used to our routines. And having Matthew here its not appropriate. This is our home, not a student hall.”

She bristled for the first time; “Its not just your address, Aunt Jane! Im registered here. I have rights. And its not as if I dont contribute. You want to force me out?”

“No ones forcing you,” I was exhausted. “But its become too much. Charles is out more than home, and I feel like a stranger here myself. Youre grown up, Sophie. Please, try to understand.”

She was quiet, said shed try. But from that day, the air grew even heavier. Conversations grew colder, briefer. Christmas approached but spirits fell. Our little fake tree was put up in the kitchen; the lounge had become Sophies territory.

She spent New Year in Leeds. Charles and I quietly toasted midnight, just the two of us in the kitchen.

“Jane, this cant go on,” he said afterwards. “If we have to, well go to court. I want my house back.”

I shivered. Court Margaret would never forgive me. Family fallout, rows, hard words. But was it fair to go on like this?

In January, not long after returning, Sophie dropped another bombshell.

“Aunt Jane, Uncle Charles,” she announced over supperthe first wed all eaten together for months. “I want you to know, Matthew would like to move in. His student flats unbearablerowdy, messy. Just for a couple of months, until we graduate. Were serious now, we plan to marry after uni. Hes a good man, hard-working, and will pay bills.”

I dropped my cup. Charles went from white to red, and almost shouted: “You bring a young man to stay in my house? Absolutely not! This is our home. Sophie, I want you out. One month. February at the latest.”

Sophie looked at him, her tone ice-cold. “You have no right to throw me out. Im legally registered here until August. You can only remove me through court, and only if you prove I broke the rules. I havent. So, until then, Im staying. And Matthew, too, if I choose.”

She left for the lounge, closing the door silently.

Margaret was sympathetic when I phoned again, but there was no solution: “Shes a grown woman, Jane. I cant make her do anything. Go to court, if you mustI wont take it personally.”

But family never forgets, and I knew a rift was on the cards.

Matthew arrived three days later, with his bags. I remember staring through the hallway as they brought his things in, Sophie beaming with excitement. Charles came home, saw another mans trainers by the door, boiled with rage. He called a solicitor the next morning. We were told it would take months. But being unregistered, Matthew was officially a guest, and after a week we could have him removed.

A week later, the local police officer came, took notes, and told Matthew to be gone within three days or face a fine. Reluctantly, he left. Sophie glared at us for weeks.

But it didnt end there. Weeks later, Sophie coolly informed us shed applied to register Matthew at our address, as her fiancé, and that, by law, she had that right as a resident. Another trip to the solicitor confirmed she could try, but we could contest it.

Charles followed through, and by March legal papers were in the works for her removal. Margaret cut off contact, family gossiped, Charles was pitied at work.

Matthew moved back in unofficially, and we lived day to day at the edge of our wits, clinging to our old routines in a flat that was no longer our own.

Recently, Sophie and Matthew bought a televisionfar nicer than oursand hung it up in the lounge, stashing our old one on the balcony. Charles saw and said nothing. I felt nothing but emptiness.

“We could sell up,” I confided one chilly evening in March, “move somewhere smaller. Let them keep it if theyre so desperate.”

Charles looked at me, deeply. “So were throwing in the towel? Giving them what we paid for, sweated for, loved?”

“But theres nothing for us here now,” I replied. “This isnt our home anymore. Were living as strangers in our own place. Maybe its best to go somewhere we might feel peace again.”

He nodded, slowly. “Its probably the only way. But, Janeits a bitter pill to swallow.”

From the lounge, Sophies laughter drifted out againa flash of youth, laughter, life returned. But all I felt was the hollow ache of loss.

That night, as Sophie and Matthew said their brisk goodnights, Charles quietly said, “Ill call an agent tomorrow. Find out what we could get for the place. Maybe we can begin again, somewhere small, just ours. Entirely ours.”

I said nothing more, and after wed tidied away, we made our way to bed, casting a last look at the door that was now closed to us. On our side was only the silence of two people who had lost their home, not to disaster but to good intentions carried too far.

“Where did we go wrong?” Charles wondered in the half-light. “We only wanted to help.”

“We were too trusting,” I answered softly. “We believed in gratitude, in decency, in family loyalty left from another time.”

He sighed. “Old fools, Jane.”

“Yes,” I echoed.

As sleep overtook Charles, I lay awake, listening to the laughter and the hum of the television through our once-solid walls. We were guests now, forgotten in the house wed made, and all I could do was remember how, years ago, it had been filled with our own voices, our laughter. Ours, and ours alone.

But that, I realised, had become nothing more than a memory. The future belonged to others now, and we, like ghosts, watched from the kitchen, not knowing how or when to finally leave.