28August2025 Diary
Today the block on Beechfield Road finally got a new caretaker. She sweeps the entrance stairwell with such precision, gives the landing a neat onceover and mops the corridors on a strict timetable. In principle there is nothing to complain about except for one odd habit of hers.
Before her, the job was done by MrsMargaret Clarke, the lady who turned our ninestorey walkup into something that resembled a miniature palace foyer. At the front door, even when the hallway was cracked and weatherworn, she would always lay out a small rug. It looked a touch ridiculous, yet somehow it fit. The rug was constantly being torn, and she would fetch a fresh one, covering the cracked concrete and the exposed rebar, sparing us from bruised knees and broken shoes.
On every landing, the window sills were dressed with ceramic pots, quirky statuettes and odd little turtle figurines. Not a speck of dust ever settled on those ledges.
One afternoon, a group of lads from the flat on the sixth floor moved in. They celebrated life with cigarettes, pints and, I suspect, something stronger. Their flower pots became ash trays, the pile of bottles on the landing turned into a cheap kaleidoscope of cheap lager and gin, and the delicate shells were smashed to dust under their boots. We all skirted around them, wary of their rowdy energy. Remarkably, MrsClarke managed to befriend the lot, not only saving her little ornaments but somehow persuading the boys to move their social club elsewhere. The raucous gatherings in the stairwell ceased, and in place of the statues now sits a tidy ashtray, which Margaret tends to with a regular wipe and a gentle polish.
What impressed me most wasnt just her diligent work ethic. She would start early, humming under her breath while scrubbing the lift doors and railings with an alcoholic cleanserlong before such disinfecting became a mandatory health measure. And the way she talked to us, the residents, was always warm. When she cleared the grass and hedges behind the building of countless cigarette butts (something Im not even sure falls under a caretakers duties), she chatted amiably with the smokers on their balconies, never scolding them for their uncouth habit. She spoke about the weather, the garden, the news, while calmly sweeping away the evidence of their indulgence. Over time the litter stopped forming a carpet in the back courtyard. Then, as if by magic, the flower beds were replanted with tulips, blackeyed Susans and boastful chrysanthemums.
The sight of Margaret when she wasnt in her bright orange overalls was truly striking. Perfect makeup, a neat coiffure, sensible heels for any weather, and a wardrobe of pastel dresses that would have made any lady of the Queens court blush. After polishing our stairwell she seemed ready to attend a royal garden partyonly a hat was missing.
Every evening her husband, Thomas, would pull up in his old Mini, hand her a modest daisy, and kiss her forehead. It was a little ritual that never failed.
At the end of August, the gossiping grandmothers on the park bench whispered, Our Maggies last day is tomorrow; shes retiring! What will happen to the landing then? The next morning I bought a bouquet of mixed flowers for her. I wanted to give her a small token of appreciation. To my surprise, a small crowd gathered by the little cupboard where the brooms, brushes and mops were storedour very own caretakers closet. Some of us brought flowers, others a bottle of champagne and a small bottle of cognac; the older ladies shouted greetings and handed Maggie a tray of homemade pies and jars of pickles. Then the lads from the sixth floor, the same boys who once turned our flower pots into ash trays, swooped in. They taught the sixtyfiveyearold Maggie how to take stylish selfies and showed her something on their phoneslikely signing her up for Instagram and TikTok.
Thomas, looking a little bewildered, loaded the boot of his car with flowers, cognac and the assorted treats the neighbours had contributed.
Maggie herself seemed the most confused. Dressed in a classic almondcoloured dress threaded with pearls, her makeup a touch brighter than usual, she listened halfheartedly, trying desperately not to cry. Perhaps she realised that no one had ever celebrated a caretakers retirement the way she was being honoured.
Never before, never elsewhere.
Perhaps, in her quiet, unglamorous way, she understood that she had, without seeking any reward, made the ordinary residents of our ninestorey block a little better, a little kinder. And for that, I am grateful.
