If Not for the Water Incident
“Alright, here’s my number—settle in, I’ve got to dash. My flight to holiday leaves tomorrow night,” said Emily Archer, the landlady, hurrying out the door of the flat she’d just rented to Lillian. “Call if anything comes up. Cheers!”
“Right, cheers,” Lillian replied, slightly dazed, still clutching the rental agreement and the power of attorney for the maintenance company—just in case.
“Quick and sharp, this landlady,” Lillian thought. “Then again, I suppose they all ought to be.”
She adored the rented flat in the new building, and the view was simply stunning: a stretch of woodland nearby and a little stream that never froze, even in winter. No one knew why. Some joked it was filled with antifreeze.
A week and a half passed. Lillian returned from work long after dark—winter hours. Her neighbour across the hall, Margaret Wilson, a sweet and kindly elderly woman, knocked on her door on the third day.
“Good evening,” Margaret said softly. “Margaret Wilson, from across the way. Thought I’d introduce myself since you’ve moved in. Good to know your neighbours, don’t you think?” She seemed to be explaining it as much to herself as to Lillian.
“Hello, Margaret! Do come in. I’m Lillian—so glad you stopped by. You’re right, I’ve been here ages and barely know a soul,” Lillian replied warmly. “Fancy a cuppa? Though I’ve nothing special—just a bar of chocolate.”
“Thank you, dear, but I’ve come to invite you for tea at mine. Just pulled an apple pie from the oven. Come along. And forgive me—I’ll speak plainly with you. You’re young, we’re neighbours, and—well—I was a schoolteacher. Always on first-name terms with my pupils.” She smiled, warm and bright.
“She must’ve been a wonderful teacher,” Lillian thought fleetingly before answering, “Oh, thank you! What a lovely surprise—apple pie’s just the thing.”
She stayed far longer than intended but didn’t regret a moment. Margaret was a brilliant storyteller—tales of her teaching days, her students, how she missed it in retirement. “But that’s life,” she sighed. “Time marches on.”
Lillian, twenty-eight and single, had broken up with her boyfriend three months prior. Too soft, too useless—couldn’t even rinse a cup, let alone handle a man’s chores. They’d bickered over nothing until it all fell apart after a year together.
Late that night, after tea and pie with Margaret, Lillian turned in, already dreading tomorrow’s report at work. She’d likely be home late again.
Work was a blur—eyes glued to the screen, a rushed lunch break. Finally home, she exhaled. “Thank heavens, the report’s done. A few more days till the Christmas holiday. Ski trip—just need to drag lazy Sarah along.”
After dinner, she curled on the sofa, scrolling her phone. How long she sat, she didn’t know—until thirst drove her to the kitchen. Cup in hand, she froze at an odd noise. Turning, she gasped—water gushed from the tap, spraying everywhere.
“Oh no—this’ll be a flood! What do I do?” Panic set in. She’d never dealt with anything like this.
Steadying herself, she remembered the landlady showing her the water shut-off. She dashed to the bathroom, fighting the stiff valve. It barely budged—rusted from disuse. Water still sprayed. A rag on the floor did little. Worst of all—the flat below.
“Who lives there? I’ll drown them!”
She heaved again. The valve gave slightly, reducing the spray to a trickle. Frantic, she grabbed the contract, dialled Emily—no answer. Right, she was abroad.
Next, the building management—no luck. Her mum answered, flustered: “We’ll come now!”
“Mum, no—I’m ninety miles away! What could you even do? I’ll keep trying the management.”
She mopped half-heartedly—water still seeped. Desperate, she knocked on Margaret’s door. Margaret, in her nightdress, took charge at once, dialling emergency services.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Lillian realised. “This is an emergency—the flat below could be ruined!”
Margaret rattled off details, demanding action. The call logged, she turned to Lillian. “Now what?”
“Now, we wait. Ten minutes—they’ll come running.” Margaret was calm—years of school crises had taught her composure.
Her phone rang. “Yes, Anthony, I know. No one answered at management. That’s why I called the emergency line. Water’s everywhere—could flood the downstairs.”
Ten minutes later, boots thudded outside. The emergency crew arrived just as a disgruntled man in tracksuits—Anthony Reynolds, the building’s engineer—stumbled in.
“I’ll shut the water in the basement,” he muttered before vanishing.
Lillian watched the crew work—four men sloshing through her kitchen. Nearly midnight. “When will I sleep? Still have to clean after this.”
Eventually, order was restored. Exhausted, Lillian tidied up, relieved the downstairs was spared.
The next evening, Anthony checked in. Lillian fumbled his surname. He inspected the tap, grunted approval, and turned to leave—just as Margaret marched in, scolding him over the lift’s frequent breakdowns. She invited him for tea—oddly, he agreed, though she berated him all the while about the neglected playground.
Late again, Lillian excused herself. Days later, she spotted Anthony leaving their building. Then, bumping into him at the entrance, she mused to Margaret, “Does he live here?”
Margaret smirked. “Perhaps he fancies you.”
“Then why not ask for my number?”
“Shy, maybe. He’s my son. And I like you.”
Lillian gaped. “Why call emergency services if you could’ve just rung him?”
“Because everyone has their job. Friday night, seventh floor—emergencies get things moving. They called him. By the way, has Emily phoned?”
“Yes, she’ll stop by in three days.”
As Lillian turned to leave, Margaret added, “Anthony’s a good man. Just unlucky in his first marriage. Three years alone. Skilled, decent—but cautious now. If he calls, answer him. If you like him, that is.”
It wasn’t the romance Lillian imagined—but with her busy life, options were scarce. She agreed.
Next day, Anthony waited by the door with red roses and a cake. “Lillian, fancy a cuppa?”
“Come in,” she said. They chatted like old friends.
Over tea, he met her gaze. “I won’t stay long—work calls. Next time, dinner?”
They laughed. “I understand—your job leaves little time for courting.”
Next day, her hot water failed. She texted Anthony. He fixed it—and stayed.
A month later, she moved into his flat nearby. Two months after that—a wedding. Sarah was stunned. “So fast!”
Lillian grinned. “No time for moonlit strolls. Both too busy working—hardly had the chance to refuse.”
Life’s surprises often come through cracked pipes and kind neighbours—sometimes, the best things start with a flood.
