The Upstairs Neighbour

Neighbour Upstairs

Maggie, whereve you put my big saucepan? The one I use for my stew?

Mrs. Martin, it was right in the middle of the walkway. I moved it over there, onto the bottom shelf.

The bottom shelf! I cant bend down there, my backs gone. Do you ever think before you go moving other peoples things?

I just stood at the sink, staring out into the drizzle of October, grey and hush, the sort that seeps into you as well as the world outside. I wasnt angry yet; it was more like the feeling you get when you know youre only at the beginning of something, and you dont know how far itll go.

***

Mrs. Martin arrived Friday evening. Neil met her by the lift, lugged up two hefty bags and an enormous tartan holdall, the kind everyone jokingly calls a travellers best friend. Id put on my best smile, honestly meaning it, reminding myself: shes seventy-eight, her flats been gutted after the ceiling got flooded, and the housing committee finally got round to repairs after six months dithering. Theres nowhere she can go. Its not an invasion, I told myself. Its just temporary.

The word temporary would take on new significance in the weeks to come.

Im fifty-six. Neither ancient nor young, smack in the middle. I know my own worth by now, yet theres enough give left in me that I dont just snap every time the wind changes. I work from homecommissions for fine embroidery, bespoke jobs for collectors and a handful of small galleries. Not a hobby, this is my livingand it pays pretty well. Plus, I teach an online course for anyone who fancies learning hand embroidery and goldwork. My work corner, tucked beside the north window in our bedroom, with the daylight falling clear, is more than just where I sit. My threads, frames, fabrics, printed patternsits my studio. My bread and butter.

Neil and I have a two-bed flat, but its a good layout. We moved in eight years ago, after the kids flew the nest, and for the first two years I chucked out as much as I could bearno drama, no tears. Gave away things, sold things, dumped anything that didnt work for the two of us. We ended up with just what we needed, and what made us happy. Bright walls, hardly any furniture, no carpets hung on the walls, no glass cabinets full of crystal, no dead flowers for memorys sake. Real houseplants on the sillsthree, no more: a rubber tree, snake plant, and a tiny rosemary bush in the kitchen. Every shelf has a purpose. Every drawer closes easily because its not over-stuffed.

Neil had a few grumbles, said it felt like living in a hotel at first, but soon enough he got used to itbecame cross himself if anything was left out of place. We found our own rhythm, our own kind of breathing space as a couple.

And then, Mrs. Martin moved into that rhythm.

***

The first two days werent bad. She settled into the spare bedroom, which wed scrambled to get readypulled out the folding sofa, cleared half the wardrobe. I brought in a lamp, put a glass of water and a book on the bedside table. I thought it was all rather thoughtful.

By day three, though, I noticed a little crochet doily on the windowsill in the hallway. Round, ultra-cream, delicate edgeright under her phone, as though thats where it belonged. As though the windowsill had always been hers.

I quietly rolled it up and left it on her bedside table.

Next morning, the doily was back.

I understood then: she wasnt deliberately waging war. That was the tricky part. Mrs. Martin just lived as shed always known how. For her, a doily under the phone was tidy. Thats home. Thats right. Shed grown up in a world where more things meant a wealthier home. A bare windowsill felt empty, or careless. Five mismatched jars of rice wasnt clutterit was being house-proud.

Id grown up in that world too, but Id left it, purposefully.

***

By the end of the first week, the kitchen was unrecognisable. Three enamel saucepans of varying sizes were all over the worktopnone of them fit the cupboards. A bizarre plastic tree appeared for resting hot pan lids, yellow, curly, and slightly absurd. The fridge was a new frontier: jars of home-pickled onions (her daughter had made them), a tub of rendered dripping with garlic, a tied-up bag of soaking beans, and something strange in a plastic tub shrouded in layers of clingfilm Id thought wiser not to investigate. My yoghurts were shunted to the bottom door because the horseradish and her homebrew ginger beer had grabbed the shelf.

I moved my yoghurts back. Mrs. Martin moved them again.

Evenings, the kitchen smelt of stewed cabbage, fried onions, and something else hearty, heavy, unfashionably filling. It wasnt bad exactly. It just wasnt my food, my evening, my air.

Neil came home, took a sniff, and said, Mums been in the kitchen. Smells amazing.

I just smiled, silently.

***

By the end of week two, a little synthetic rug with roses on it had appeared by the sofa in the lounge. The sort you find in B&M for a fiver. Mrs. Martin explained her feet got cold in the morning, and shed always had a mat by her bed. What could I say? I dont like the rug? Id sound petty.

So I kept quiet.

Next up, her thick, checked fleece jumper showed up on the hallway hooksnext to Neils coat, instead of the wardrobe spot Id cleared for her. Oversized, beige and blue, swallowing its peg and trailing over Neils jacket.

I moved it onto the spare hook near the bathroom.

She found it and moved it straight back. Thats too far, cant reach, she explained quietly.

I nodded.

That evening, Neil asked, You alright? Youre very quiet.

Im fine, I replied.

This was a lie, and we both knew it. But we both decided to leave it unsaid.

***

Now, the bedroom. This was differentit was about my work, about my earnings. Here, it wasnt about tastes or rugs.

The north-facing corner held my work tablea long, pale birch plywood desk, shelves for patterns, drawers for bobbins. Above it, a daylight lamp, vital for matching thread shades. By the wall, a set of shelves: skeins of thread laid out by tone, cold to warm, top to bottoma system, not a show.

The embroidery frame held a big project: an exacting commission for a London collector, a replica of an ancient altar banner in goldwork with Japanese silk. Due end of November. Deposit paid. Fee: six hundred pounds.

Three months work.

No one ever touched my embroidery stand. Id made it clear: bump the fabric, and you upset the tensionyou might have to start again. Neil respected that. No cats in the house. Kids were gone. All under control.

Then Mrs. Martin arrived.

***

One Thursday, late morning, I popped out to the haberdasheryneeded a specific silk shade you just cant trust to order online. I was gone an hour, maybe a bit more, dropped into the chemist on my way back.

I walked into the bedroom and stopped cold.

Mrs. Martin was at my thread shelves, rearranging my skeins into her own little boxes, sorting them by her logic. A reel of Japanese silkmy only one in that rose-gold huewas unspooled, trailing across the desk. Worst of all: the corner of the embroidery fabric was pressed flat, where someone mustve leant or brushed by.

I stood in the doorway, lost for words.

Mrs. Martin turned, utterly calm: Maggie, you had such a muddle here. I tidied it up, sorted by colour. Looks lovely now.

Mrs. Martin, I said quietly, could you please leave?

What? Only wanted to help…

I know. Pleasejust go.

She left, lips pursed in a wounded pout.

I closed the door, knelt on the floor by the frame, and checked the work. The silk thread, by some miracle, hadnt caught. The pressed fabric was mended easily enough. That precious Japanese thread, however, was a messI lost a third of it cutting out tangles; the stuffs thinner than spider web, and pulls apart if you so much as blink.

Not a disaster, but enough. Enough for me to know things had to change.

***

That evening, Neil asked why his mum was silent over dinner.

I spelled it out.

He listened, chewed his lip, then said, She didnt mean any harm. Only wanted to help.

I know she didnt.

Just be patient a bit longer, Maggie. Shes finding it hard. This isnt her home.

Neil, its my work space. My income.

I get it. But Mums only here for a bit longer.

Id heard just a bit longer for two weeks straight now. So I asked, How much longer, exactly?

He shrugged, They say by December, when the builders finish.

December. Another month and a half. I looked at himhe wore that helpless look I know so well. He loved us both; he didnt want to choose sides. Hes the type who truly believes if you just smile and keep the peace, things sort themselves out.

I realised thenit was up to me to sort things.

***

I barely slept. Lay there mulling every option. Sit down and be properly frank with her? Shed take offence, probably cry, tell Neil I was turfing her out. A row? Only worse. Ultimatum to Neil? Hed be caught, miserable. Tolerate it? NoId already binned that with the ruined silk.

That left the fourth way: careful, steady, no dramathe only sensible path.

I needed to keep Mrs. Martin occupied and out of the flat as much as possible, while speeding up her flats repairs, so shed be back there in no timeand want to go back, on her own terms.

This wasnt some Machiavellian plan. Just survival. Fair and honest. I had no wish to upset her. I just wanted my own space back.

***

First up, I tackled her free time.

Mrs. Martin, I knew, liked to be busy. Back home she went to the library, the church, pottered about her daughters allotment in summer. Now, she was bored, which for the elderly often meant bursting with helpfulness in any available spacemeaning, our home.

I called my friend Emma, who worked at the local community centre. Whats on for pensioners in our area?

Emma laughed. Loads! Nordic walking in the park, choir rehearsals Wednesdays and Fridays, beginners felt-making, health talks every Tuesday. All free, just need to bring ID and your NI number.

How do you sign up?

Just turn up.

I didnt tell Mrs. Martin outrightHeres your activity schedule. That would be too obvious. Instead, I played it gentle.

Over supper, just conversational, I said, Mrs. Martin, Neil said you used to sing a lot, didnt you?

Her eyes lit up. Yes, shed sung in the am-dram choir back in the day, apparently had a lovely voice.

I heard theyve a choir club locally. Good people, apparently, very friendly choir master. Free. Just thought, since youre here and were all out at work, you might like it?

Oh, Im not sure. Feels odd going by myself, she said.

I let it rest. Waited.

Three days later, I mentioned they performed at local festivals, made the front page of the parish magazine, even. At the word magazine, she perked up. Got her thinking.

Next week, she asked me how to get there.

I drew her a map: from the tube to the church hall, in fat black pen on nice notepaper.

That Wednesday, she left at ten in the morning, back at three, pink-cheekedwith a new gleam in her eye.

The women there are marvellous! she told me, clutching her cuppa. And the choir masterTom, very firm, but fair. They do musical theatre and folk too. I sang a bit, he said, youve a proper mezzo-soprano, come back again.

Thats wonderful, I said, and meant it.

From then on, Wednesdays and Fridays, she was out for hours. Then a Tuesday walking group, thanks to her new pal Nina, who lived a couple doors up and was, genuinely, a wonder.

Our flat got quieter. Not empty, but calmer.

***

Next was the tough bither own flat.

I called Mrs. Martins daughter, Rachel. She and I werent closefamily by marriage, civil but nothing more. I laid it out: Rachel, your mums always welcome, but she really needs to get home soon. She misses her neighbours, her place. All this dragging on does her head in.

Rachel sighed that the builders wouldnt commit on dates, dodged calls, always stringing her along.

So are you supervising the repairs yourself? I asked.

Turns outa friend of her husband, meant to keep tabs, but hadnt really. So, no one was actually overseeing anything.

I suggested, Let me help. I know a chap whos a retired project manager. Could get a proper job list together, work out whats dragging and whats just the builders swinging the lead.

Rachel leapt at it, evidently desperate herself.

So I tapped up our neighbour, Mr. Harris, retired from the building trade but still sharp as a tack. We chatted over a cuppa. Floor to pour, walls to skim, a bit of plumbing? he checked. Three weeks work max, with a proper crew. Not three months.

He went to have a shufty, had words with the team boss, andbig surprisethe builders were splitting shifts across three jobs, hardly bothered showing up, already had half the money, and had no sense of urgency.

Mr. Harris gave them what-for, set out a real deadline: three weeks, working every day. Said hed be checking in.

Rachel reviewed their contract, laid down the law. Miraculously, the builders pulled their finger out.

I didnt fill Neil inwasnt hiding anything, just didnt want to make him pick a side. This was my job, so thats what I did.

***

Those next three weeks were a mixed bag.

Sometimes, wed have a lovely eveningMrs. Martin, beaming from choir, would regale us with Ninas stories or tales of Toms praise. On nights like that, she was light-hearted, lively, and it was genuinely warm, the three of us chatting as she retold some memory from her youth.

Other days, far less so.

One morning I came in to find my rubber plant dumped unceremoniously in a corner, replaced on the windowsill by her pink, thriving pelargonium shed smuggled in from somewhere. Her reasoning was plain: That plant blocks the light, the pelargonium loves it.

By tea time, my rubber plant was sulking, its leaves drooping noticeably.

In silence, I restored it, moved her plant into her room. Our eyes met in passing.

She said, You might have asked.

I replied, Likewise.

Thats the closest we ever came to a real argument. No shouting, just a line drawn and understood on both sides.

After, she retreated to her room. I went to the kitchen. By dinnertime, wed both cooled off. We chatted about safer topics.

Neil watched it all, silent. Sometimes I thought I was angrier with his wordless sidestepping than any plant-relocation saga. He wanted to pretend no fissure ran right through our family tablethe classic male hope that if you ignore a crack, maybe itll heal itself.

It doesnt. Not ever.

***

One evening when Mrs. Martin had turned in early, I was at my desk working by lamplight, sewing quietly. Neil hovered, then sank onto the bed.

Youre cross with me, he saidnot a question.

A bit, I admitted. Not at you, at the situation.

I know its tough, he said.

You do, I agreed, not looking up. But knowing and doing are two different things.

He paused.

What do you want me to do?

Nothing, Neil. Im sorting it.

He didnt ask what exactly I was sorting. Maybe he didnt want to knowor feared hed have to pick a side. He read a while, fell asleep. I stitched another hour, listening to the faint clock and Mrs. Martins snoring through the wall.

I thought, at heart: in family rows, its not hatred that scalds. At least hatreds honest. The worst is being stuffed with fondnessand still miserable, because theres no one to blame, nowhere to put your anger.

***

The repairs finished sooner than even Mr. Harris predicted.

Rachel rang meme, not Neilon Saturday morning: Dads lot packed up last night, all done, just needs an airing and a good clean.

I thanked her. As we talked, I sensed something shiftlike she recognised I wasnt just the wife. I could get things sorted.

Now for the delicacy: telling Mrs. Martin it was time, but without making her feel unwanted.

I pondered it all day.

At supper, when all three of us were together and she was describing an upcoming Christmas concert with the choir, I smiled and said, Mrs. Martin, I have some news. Dont worryits good.

She fell silent, expectant.

A few weeks ago I arranged for someone from my knitting grouphes an expert builderto have a look at your place as a surprise. He had stern words, and things sped up. Rachel says your flats all finished. You can move back whenever you like.

She stared at me, then up at Neil, then back at me.

You sorted all that?

I had help from our neighbour. I just didnt want you to feel you had to stay here, out of politeness, longer than you needed. Youve always been most at home in your place. Thats where you belong.

Neil looked at me, really looked.

Mrs. Martin was quiet. Then she stood, came over, and took my hands in hers. Hers were dry, warm, weightyyears pressed into them.

Maggie, she said, youre a good soul.

I just gripped her hands back, not knowing what else to say.

***

Move-out day was Sunday. Neil took her back, carried up her things, checked it was snug. I didnt goI said Id stay in and make dinner. Truthfully, I just wanted an hour alone in my own home.

For half an hour, I wandered the flat, stroked the walls, stood by the north window and gazed at my embroidery.

I found the little rug with roses still in the spare roomownerless, a bit forlorn. I removed the last doily from the windowsill. Opened a window, let the chilly November air breeze through.

In the kitchen, I discovered a dish on the middle fridge shelf, neatly wrapped. Inside was a generous helping of the Martin family stew Neil lovedher special recipe with three kinds of meat. Enough for two days.

I shut the fridge and leant against it.

People are odd, arent they. You can spend three weeks in each others way, and still show kindness with a casserole at the end.

***

When Neil got home, we ate quietly, in peace. He washed; I dried.

Before bed, staring at the ceiling, he finally asked, So you were sorting the repair all this time?

I was.

Why didnt you tell me?

I hesitated.

You asked me to put up with it. I chose not to, but didnt want you wrestling with guilt for taking part. Youd have felt caught in the middle.

He was silent for a while.

It was clever, he said at last. But a little hurtful, too.

I know, I said softly. Sorry.

We lay there, neither of us saints. No big honest heart-to-heart, no perfect ending like you read about in those books. Just work done, feelings mostly unspoken, effort showing only at the edges.

Is that good or bad? Im still not sure.

***

Mrs. Martin rang about a week later, chirpy as a sparrow. She described the flatlight and airy, walls just the beige shed picked, unpacked her cups, dropped in on neighbour Mrs. King, whod been unwell but so pleased to see her.

Ill keep up with choir, she said. Tom says we might make the borough finals in February. Ninas up for it. Well go together.

Thats wonderful, I said.

She hesitated. Maggie, I know I mustve been a nuisance living with you.

I didnt say: Of course not, it was fine. Shed know I was fibbing.

Were just different, Mrs. Martin, I replied. Now youre settled, thats what matters.

She let that settle.

Yes, she agreed. Thats what matters.

***

Sometimes I think back on those seven weeks.

The rug with roses. The pans in the kitchen. The pelargonium on my windowsill. The stew in the fridge. The feel of her hand, dry and warm. Neil saying a bit hurt, and being more honest than anything else hed said in all those weeks.

I didnt win a battle. There wasnt one. There was a problem, and I solved it. I stood up for my home, quietly, without shouting, without making anyone small.

Thats no great achievement. Its just what you do, sometimeshold the shape of your life, even when someone else, no malice, just habit, starts reshaping it for you.

Setting boundaries isnt about building a wall or picking a fight. Its knowing what you want, and moving towards itquietly, stubbornly, without a fuss.

And family? Its a strange beast. Survives against the odds. Breaths through tiny cracks. Sometimes it leaves you a container of stew in your fridge when its time to leave.

***

In November, I finished the altar banner and handed it to the collector. He was pleased. Paid the remainder. I bought myself a new roll of Japanese silk, barely-gold and shimmery as autumn leaves, and tucked it into my drawer. Exactly where it belonged.

Three pots on the windowsill: rubber plant, snake plant, rosemary. No doilies.

Peace and quiet. The air smells of coffee and a little of beeswax from my evening candle. Neils reading in his chair. Almost winter now outside.

Everythings in its place.

***

A month later we went to visit Mrs. Martin. I brought her a box of Turkish Delight from that bakery she and Nina always nipped into. She let us in, proudly showed us her flatlight, beige walls just as she wanted. And on every sill, a crochet doily. The rosy rug back by her sofa.

I saw it alland felt nothing but relief. No irritation. No resentment. Justthis was her home now.

Over tea, she said, Will you come hear us sing in February? Were performing Hope at the town contestId love you both to be there.

Neil promised, Well be there, Mum.

And so did I.