“Enough is enough!” Margaret screamed, banging her fist against the radiator. “It’s one in the morning, and they’ve got a blasted rock concert going upstairs!”
“Mum, calm down,” sighed her daughter Eleanor, not looking up from her phone. “Talk to them tomorrow.”
“How much more talking can I do? I’ve put up with these… these…” She flapped her hands, searching for words. “Absolute hooligans for a month!”
“Mum, stop shouting like that. You’ll wake Maisie.”
“And good thing too! Let her know what sort of neighbours we have!” Margaret strode to the window and threw it open. “Hey, upstairs! Pack it in!”
A tousled head popped out from the flat above. “Pipe down, Gran! People are trying to sleep!”
“Gran? Cheeky beggar!” Margaret fumed. “I’m calling the constable!”
“Get on with it, then!” the lad yelled before slamming his window shut. The music only got louder.
Margaret sank onto the sofa, clutching her chest. Her hands trembled, her breath came short. Eleanor finally looked up properly. “Mum? You alright? Need your pills?”
“Get my valerian drops,” Margaret whispered. Eleanor brought the medicine and some water. Margaret swallowed the drops and slumped back against the cushions. “I can’t take any more, Eleanor. I just can’t. Decent folk used to live round here. Quiet as mice. Proper order. And now…” She waved a hand towards the ceiling, where drumbeats echoed. “When did they move in?”
“Month ago. Young couple. Seemed alright at first. Polite. Smiled in the hallway.” She broke off as something crashed overhead, followed by shrieks and laughter. “Probably druggies,” she muttered. “Decent people are asleep at this hour.”
Eleanor stretched and yawned. “Mum, I’ve got to get home. It’s late.”
“Don’t leave me alone with these… lunatics!”
“Mum, what can I do? I’ve got work tomorrow, Maisie’s got school. Deal with the neighbours yourself.” Eleanor collected her things and left.
Margaret was alone in the flat, every thump from upstairs feeling like a blow. She pulled out her old address book and found the community officer’s number. No answer. She tried the station duty desk.
“Hello?” a weary voice answered.
“Hello, it’s Margaret Jenkins from Elm Avenue. Our neighbours have got loud music on, won’t let us sleep!”
“What time is it?”
“After one in the morning!”
“Right. We’ll log the complaint. Patrol will swing by when they’re free.”
“When will that be?”
“Couldn’t say. A lot on tonight.” Margaret hung up, fists clenched. ‘When they’re free.’ When? Tomorrow? Next week?
She looked out onto the silent, empty street, lampposts glowing. But inside her home? Bedlam. Music booming, stomping, shouting. And no one cared. She thought about thirty years in this flat. Watching neighbours change, children grow. Everyone knew each other. Respectful. Dead quiet after ten. Now this. Youngsters moving in who think they own half of London, parents probably flush with cash buying flats, no manners to speak of.
Upstairs, a new song crashed in – modern rubbish with wailing guitars and pounding bass, shaking the walls. She couldn’t stand it. She marched to the window. “Turn that music off!” she bellowed. “People need their sleep!” No reply, just the thumping beat.
Margaret pulled on her dressing gown and stepped onto the landing. She climbed the stairs and pressed the bell. No answer at first, then footsteps.
“Who is it?” a man called.
“Your neighbour downstairs. Open up, please.”
The door opened on the chain. A young man’s eye peered through. “What d’you want?”
“Turn the music down, young man. It’s one in the morning.”
“Are we bothering you?”
“Course you are! How can anyone sleep with that racket?”
The lad snorted and started to close the door. Margaret jammed her foot in the gap. “Hang on! I’m talking to you!”
“Give over, Gran. We’re not bothering anyone.”
“Not bothering anyone? The whole bloomin’ building can hear it!”
“Not our problem. We do what we like in our own place.” The door slammed.
Back in her flat, it felt worse. The music blasted louder, joined by voices – guests had arrived. Margaret lay in bed, pulling a pillow over her head. Useless. The noise vibrated through her bones, right into her heart.
She got up, made a cup of tea, and sat by the window. Peace outside, madhouse within. She was so tired of the rudeness, the indifference, of begging for basic consideration.
She used to be someone. Assertive. In charge at the library, raised Eleanor, helped with Maisie. People respected her. Now? An old pensioner who could be ignored, expected to put up with cheek from young upstarts.
Finishing her tea, Margaret stood up resolutely. Enough. She opened the cupboard and pulled out a wrench – the heavy one her husband used for fixing pipes, solid and sure. She walked to the radiator and swung it hard against the pipe. The sound was deafening, like Big Ben. She struck again. Again.
The music upstairs stopped. Voices murmured, feet shuffled.
“What was that?”
“That nutty old bird downstairs,” came the familiar voice.
Margaret hit the pipe again. The clang echoed through the building. “I’ll show you nutty!” she yelled. “I’ll wake the whole blooming neighbourhood!” She kept striking rhythmically. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Pandemonium broke out upstairs. Scuffling, dragging furniture, shouts.
“Turn the music off!” Margaret roared between strikes. “Turn it off or I’ll do this all night!”
The music died. Margaret lowered the wrench. Silence. Beautiful silence.
She sat on the sofa, feeling her heartbeat slow. Her hands still shook with adrenaline, but she felt lighter. A knock came at the door. Margaret peered through the peephole. Two young people stood there – the neighbours. Him and her.
“Open up,” the lad said. “We need to talk.”
“Want a chat now, do you?” Margaret asked, door still closed.
“Please open,” the girl pleaded. “We want to say sorry.”
Margaret undid the chain. They looked normal. Him mid-twenties, her a bit younger. No druggies or thugs.
“We’re really sorry,” the girl said. “We didn’t realise it was so loud.”
“A month you didn’t realise?” Margaret grumbled. “Suddenly dawned on you?”
“We just…” the lad began, but
The hammer stayed right there in the hall cupboard, Ivy thought, looking at its handle peeking out – a quiet promise to herself that from now on, she’d speak up straight away and never just endure things meekly again.
