If not for the Water Incident
“All right, here’s my number—settle in, I must dash. I’ve a flight tomorrow night for my holiday,” called out Eleanor Whitmore, the landlady, as she hurried off after handing over the keys to Emily. “Ring if anything comes up. Cheers!”
“Right, cheers,” Emily replied, slightly flustered, still clutching the tenancy agreement and the power of attorney for the building management—just in case.
“Sharp and quick-witted, that landlady. Suppose they all ought to be,” Emily mused.
She adored the flat in the new-build, and the view was splendid: a wooded area nearby and a little brook that never froze, even in winter. No one knew why. Some joked it must be filled with antifreeze.
A week and a half passed. Emily returned from work after dark—winter nights were long. The neighbour across the hall, Margaret Holloway, a kind and gentle elderly woman, dropped by on the third day.
“Good evening,” she said softly. “Margaret Holloway, from across the way. Best we get acquainted, now you’ve let the flat. Neighbours ought to know one another.” Whether she was explaining it to Emily or reminding herself wasn’t clear.
“Hello, do come in, Margaret. I’m Emily, ever so pleased you’ve called. It’s true, I’ve been here days and barely know a soul.” Emily smiled warmly. “Fancy a cuppa? I’ve not much to offer—just a bar of chocolate, I’m afraid.”
“Ta, love, but I’ve come to invite *you* for tea. Fresh apple pie, just out of the oven. Come along. And forgive me—I’ll speak plain, if you don’t mind. First, you’re young; second, we’re neighbours; and third, I was a schoolteacher—always on first-name terms with my pupils.” Her smile was warm as sunlight.
*She must’ve been a wonderful teacher*, Emily thought fleetingly before replying, “Oh, ta ever so! Fancy that—apple pie out of the blue!” She laughed. “Nothing beats a proper pie.”
Emily stayed late at Margaret’s, not regretting a moment. The older woman was a splendid storyteller, full of tales from her teaching days, though she admitted retirement left her restless. “Years take their toll,” she sighed.
Emily, twenty-eight and unmarried, had parted ways with her beau three months prior. Too soft, that one—couldn’t even rinse a cup, let alone handle proper man’s work about the flat. They’d rowed over the silliest things, living together a year before calling it quits.
That night, after tea and pie, Emily returned late and fell straight asleep. Work had been a slog—reports due, another late finish tomorrow. The thought carried her into dreams.
When she finally dragged herself home the next evening, relief washed over her.
“Thank heavens, that report’s done,” she thought. “A few more days till the Christmas break—I’ll ski then. If only I can persuade Lucy. Lazy thing, that one—hates the slopes.”
After supper, Emily curled on the sofa, scrolling her phone. How long she sat, she couldn’t say, but thirst finally drove her to the kitchen. Setting down her mug, she started at an unfamiliar noise—water gushing violently from the tap, spraying everywhere.
“Oh blimey—this’ll be a flood!” Panic gripped her. She’d never dealt with such a mess.
Steeling herself, she remembered the landlady showing her the water shut-off. She dashed to the bathroom, wrenching at the stiff valve—long unused, it resisted. Water still surged. A rag on the floor did little. Worst of all, the flat below would bear the brunt.
*Who even lives down there? They’ll be swimming soon.*
She heaved again. The valve budged slightly, slowing the flow to a trickle. Hands shaking, she grabbed the tenancy agreement and rang Eleanor—no answer. Of course—she was abroad.
Next, the building management. No pick-up. Her mother answered, frantic.
“We’ll come straight over!”
“Mum, it’s a hundred miles! What could you even do? I’ll keep trying the management—no luck yet.”
Emily mopped haphazardly, but the leak persisted. Desperate, she knocked on Margaret’s door. The older woman, in her nightdress, grasped the situation at once and dialled emergency services. Emily’s stomach dropped.
*Why didn’t I think of that? This is an emergency! The flat below—God forbid even lower…*
Margaret rattled off details, urgency sharpening her tone. The call was logged.
“What now?” Emily fretted.
“Now, we wait. They’ll come sharpish—ticket’s in.” Margaret’s calm was steel-clad. Years in a classroom had taught her composure.
Then Margaret’s phone rang.
“Yes, Edward, I know—she’s called the management, no answer. That’s why I’ve rung emergency. The water’s near flooding the place—the flat below’ll be drenched!”
Ten minutes later, boots thudded in the hall. As Emily explained, a drowsy, disgruntled man in joggers entered Margaret’s flat. He glanced at Emily.
“Edward Whitmore,” he said. “Building engineer.” They hurried to her flat, where emergency crews were already at work.
“I’ll shut off the mains,” Edward muttered before vanishing downstairs.
Emily watched the men—four of them—tramping through puddles. Nearly midnight now.
*How late will this run? I’ll be cleaning ’til dawn. Rotten luck.*
Eventually, order was restored. Exhausted, Emily tidied, relieved the downstairs flat was spared. The crews had checked there too.
Late as it was, she finally trudged home.
The next evening, Edward dropped by—Emily even flubbed his last name. He checked the tap, grunted approval, and made to leave. But Margaret swooped in, berating him over the lift’s constant breakdowns, then the state of the playground. Oddly, he stayed for tea, enduring her complaints.
Late again, Emily excused herself. Days later, she spotted Edward leaving her building. Then, she nearly collided with him at the doorstep.
“Margaret,” she asked later, “does the building engineer live here? I’ve seen him about.”
“Fancy that—maybe he fancies *you*,” Margaret teased.
“Hardly. He’d’ve asked for my number.”
“Perhaps he’s shy,” Margaret mused. Then, after a pause: “He’s my son. And I’ve taken a shine to you.”
Emily blinked. “Why call emergency services if you could’ve rung him?”
“Because each to their trade. Organising repairs on a Friday night’s no small feat—that’s why I rang emergency. *They* called Edward. Speaking of—has Eleanor rung?”
“She did. Back in three days—said she’d pop round.”
As Emily turned to leave, Margaret caught her arm.
“Listen—Edward’s a good man. His first marriage… well, it soured him. Three years alone now. Clever with his hands, steady as they come—but wary now. I’m not meddling, love, but if he rings… well, answer if you fancy him.”
Emily balked at the lack of romance, but her busy life left little room for suitors. She agreed.
The next day, Edward met her at the doorstep—roses in one hand, cake in the other.
“Emily. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Come in.” They chatted like old friends.
Over tea, he met her gaze. “Forgive the rush—work’s relentless. Tea tonight, cinema next time?”
They laughed.
“Aye, I know the drill. No time for courting in your line.”
The next day, her hot water failed. She texted Edward. He fixed it—and stayed.
A month later, they moved in together—his flat, next building over. Two months after, they wed. Lucy gawped at the haste.
Emily grinned. “No time for moonlit strolls, love. Work keeps us busy—hardly room for refusals.”
