Monday, 14th August
I was waiting in the lobby of the council block on Victoria Street, clutching an old metal watering can as if it were my last line of defence. The firstfloor landing, usually brightened by my clay pots of petunias, geraniums and violas, now looked like a battlefield: three pots shattered, soil scattered across the scuffed linoleum, petals strewn like the wreckage of a storm. The air was heavy with damp, mould and a faint metallic tang from the handrail. From flat12 came a thumping bass line of electronic music. I, in my daisypatterned bathrobe and grey hair pulled into a tight bun, stared at the culprita brandnew black bike chained to the rail, parked right where my flower bed had been.
Who on earth did this? I muttered, my voice shaking with anger. My flowers! Ive tended them for fifty years and now barbarians!
The door of flat12 flung open and out burst Ethan, a twentysevenyearold neighbour in a grey sports tee and shorts. His dark hair was a mess after a gym session and he was holding a bottle of water with a bright label.
MrsAgnes, why are you shouting? he asked, glancing at the mess. Its just the pots falling over. Ill buy new ones, no problem.
I jabbed the watering can toward him and splashed water onto the floor.
No problem? These arent just pots, Ethan! Theyre the soul of the hallway! You lot only know how to break things!
Ethan rolled his eyes, taking a sip.
Soul? Theyre just plants, MrsAgnes. My bike is importantI ride it to the gym, its my work commute. Your pots take up all the space!
From the doorway came my younger sister, Millie, her light hair in a casual bun, clutching a battered psychology textbook as she prepared for her university exams. She wore an oversized tee that read Dream Big.
Ethan, are you serious? she said, seeing the broken pots. MrsAgnes, forgive him, he didnt mean it. Ill clean it up.
I snorted, my eyes flashing behind my glasses.
Didnt mean it? Thats selfish, Millie! You youngsters only think of yourselves! My flowers brightened the whole block, and now theyre rubbish!
From above descended Susan, a thirtyfiveyearold mother of two from flat15, pushing a pram with her youngest son. Her jeans were stained with apple puree. Behind her trailed her older daughter, Emma, with a backpack.
Whats all this noise? Susan asked, looking around. Ethan, did you break the flowers? MrsAgnes is right, they do add something to the hallway!
Ethan tossed his water bottle onto the windowsill, where it clinked against the glass.
Add something? Half of them are wilting! Wed be better off changing the lighting than watering these plants!
From flat10, Oliver, a lone programmer, peeked out of his door with a laptop under his arm. His glasses slipped down his nose and his Linuxlogo tee was crumpled.
Ethan, calm down, Oliver said, adjusting his glasses. Plants are good for the environment, they give us oxygen. You could store the bike in the basement.
Ethan turned up the volume of his voice.
Environment? Oliver, you only pop in once a month, glued to your code! Where am I supposed to put my bike?
The landing had turned into a arena, the broken pots the symbols of a war between neighbours, each seeing something different in the flowers.
The next day the conflict flared anew. MrsAgnes hauled fresh pots from the basement where she kept a spare stock and, with theatrical flourish, watered the petunias while grumbling about illbehaved youths. Her colourful bathrobe swayed under the dim hallway light, the watering can glinting. Ethan, back from his workout, found his bike again shoved into a corner surrounded by empty pots and called for his sister.
Millie, whats this circus? he shouted, jabjabbing at the pots. I told you I need space!
Millie, sitting at their kitchen table piled with notes, set her textbook aside.
Ethan, dont start. I spoke to MrsAgnesshes genuinely upset. Maybe you could apologise?
Ethan scoffed, kicking off his trainers with a dull thud.
Apologise? For what? Shes planted her flowers everywhere, and Im supposed to rearrange my life? This is my hallway too!
Millie sighed, her voice softening but firm.
Its our hallway, Ethan. And hers too. She grows those flowers for everyone, and you broke the pots. Understand that it matters to her.
From above Susan arrived again, holding her younger sons hand. Emma lagged behind with a unicorn keyring dangling from her backpack.
Ethan, you again? Susan asked, eyebrows knitting. My kids love those flowers! Emma even helped water them!
Ethan waved his arms, his tee lifting.
Kids? Susan, your children run over the flowers, they dont care. Emma almost knocked a pot over yesterday!
Emma pouted, her braids bouncing.
Thats not true! I watered carefully! You ruined everything!
Oliver, passing by with a bag of rubbish, stopped, his laptop peeking out of his backpack.
Ethan, relax, he said, readjusting his glasses. I agree with MrsAgnesflowers make the place feel like home. Maybe store the bike in a garage?
Ethans cheeks reddened.
Garage? I dont have one! And youre always solving everyones problems while never cleaning the hallway yourself!
MrsAgnes, hearing the commotion, emerged from her flat with the watering can, her slippers clacking on the tiles.
Enough, Ethan! she declared, voice trembling. My flowers dont bother anyone! Youre selfish, just like the rest of the youngsters!
Millie stepped forward, pleading.
MrsAgnes, Ethan didnt mean it. Let me buy new pots and well move the bike inside.
MrsAgnes shook her head, her glasses fogging.
I dont need your pots, Millie. I need order. I need respect!
That evening Millie went to the local DIY shop to buy new pots, hoping to make amends for her brother. The aisles smelled of earth and fresh paint. She selected two sturdy clay pots, but her eyes lingered on a tray of petuniasbright as the ones MrsAgnes loved. She remembered an old lady once giving her a sweet when she helped water the flowers as a child. Back then the hallway felt like a home, not a battlefield.
In the queue she ran into Doris, Susans friend from the neighbouring
