13September2024 Diary
The block has just taken on a new caretaker. He does a tidy job, sweeping the landing clean and giving the stairwell a regular wash. Everything runs on schedule and, frankly, I have no complaints except for one thing.
Before him the flat5 door was tended by MrsEmily Smith, a woman who turned our ninestorey block into something resembling a grand foyer. At the entrance to the weatherworn hallway she would always lay out a rug, an odd sight in a place where the tiles are all we have. Someone was constantly stealing the rug, yet she kept finding a replacement, draping it over the sagging concrete and the jutting rebar, saving us all from bruised knees and broken shoes.
The windows of every floor were dressed with potplants, ceramic figurines and curious little tortoises. Dust never settled on those sills.
One night a group of lads from the sixth floor moved in. Their idea of a good night involved cigarettes, pints and, I suspect, something stronger. The potplants became ashtrays, the shelves filled with cheap bottles in a dizzying array, and the figurines were trampled into dust by their boots. We all tried to avoid the noisy crew, wary of their unpredictable temper. Somehow MrsSmith struck up a friendship with them, not only saving her ornaments but somehow persuading the boys to relocate their club elsewhere. The raucous gatherings in the landing ceased, and in place of the figurines now sits a neat ashtray that Emily cleans and polishes each day.
What struck me most wasnt just her diligent work. She would start her shift at dawn, humming to herself while wiping the stairwell, scrubbing the lift doors and handrails with an alcohol solutionlong before such disinfecting became standard practice. And her cheerful manner with the residents, who initially seemed to increase her workload, was remarkable. When she cleared the garden behind the block of endless cigarette butts (Im not even sure thats part of a caretakers duties), she chatted politely with the smokers on their balconies, never reproaching them for their uncouth habit. She talked about the weather, the news, and calmly swept away the evidence of their mischief. After a while, the litter stopped carpeting the back garden. Then Emily, or rather the caretaker as we now call her, broke up a flowerbed, and tulips, black-eyed Susans and proud chrysanthemums began to bloom beneath the windows.
The sight that left the biggest impression was Emily when she wasnt in her bright orange work overalls. She wore immaculate makeup, a tidy coiffure, sensible heels regardless of the rain, and clothing in soft pastel shades. It was as if, after polishing our landing, she were on her way to serve the English queen herselfonly a hat was missing.
Every evening her husband would drive up, hand her a tiny bouquet, and plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. It was a small ritual, but it never failed.
At the end of August, the old ladies on the communal bench whispered, Emilys last day is tomorrow; then shes off to her pension. Who will keep the landing looking spickspan?
The next day I bought a bunch of wildflowers for Emily. I wanted to do something nice for her, even if only a little token. When I arrived at the little storage room where the brooms and mops are kept, I found a small crowd from our block gathered there. Some of us had flowers, others brought a bottle of champagne or a flask of brandy. The elderly women shouted greetings and handed flustered Emily homemade pies and jars of pickles.
Then the lads from the sixth floor turned up, the same boys who once turned our sills into ashtrays. They taught 65yearold Emily how to take a stylish selfie, showing her some tricks on their phones. I reckon they even signed her up to Instagram and TikTok.
Emilys husband, the organiser of this impromptu retirement party, looked a little bewildered as he packed the trunk with flowers, brandy and the elderly ladies pantry staples.
Emily herself seemed the most confused. Dressed in a classic almondcoloured dress trimmed with a strand of pearls and sporting a slightly brighter makeup than usual, she listened halfheartedly to the chatter, fighting back tears.
Perhaps she realised that none of her fellow caretakers had ever been sent off with such fanfare. Never before, in any block Ive lived in.
Or maybe she understood, without words, that by quietly going about her unglamorous work, she had made us the ordinary residents of an ordinary ninestorey block a little better and kinder.
Lesson learned: the smallest, most consistent acts of care can leave the brightest legacy, even if no one ever writes it on a plaque.
