Once a Month
Edith Clarkson clutched a bin bag to her chest and paused by the noticeboard near the lift. On a sheet of lined paper, pinned up with old drawing pins, someone had scrawled in large letters: Once a Month For a Neighbour. Underneath were dates and surnames; in the corner, a signature: Simon, Flat 34. Someone had scribbled in biro nearby: Need 2 people this Saturday, help with boxes. Edith read it twice, more out of habit than curiosity, and felt a surge of annoyance like overhearing a stranger arguing in a corridor.
Shed lived in this block for ten years and knew the unwritten rule: you said hello if you bumped into someone at the door, then you hurried on with your life. Sometimes, it was Do you know where I can find an electrician? Sometimes, Would you mind passing on the bill? But noticeboards with schedules? Names stuck up with pins? It reminded her of those dreadful office meetings, everyone pretending to be a team, then when trouble came saving their own skin.
At the rubbish chute, Edith bumped into Val from Flat 5, who always dragged two rubbish bags, just in case one burst.
Seen it? Val nodded at the noticeboard. Simons bright idea. Says its easier this way. Not doing odd jobs one by one, but mucking in together.
Together, Edith echoed, working hard to keep her tone neutral. But what if you dont fancy together?
Val shrugged.
Well no ones forcing anybody. Just nice to know someones about if youre stuck.
Edith stepped out into the courtyard, already mentally picking a row with Simon from Flat 34. If needed what does that even mean? Who decides whats needed? Why should it involve everybody?
Saturday morning, she heard dull thumps and voices echoing through the communal hallway. Through the front door came, Careful, mind the corner! and Hold the lift! Edith stood in her kitchen, damp cloth in hand, determined not to listen, but failing. She pictured faces she recognised only from awkward greetings, carting someones boxes and sofa, whilst someone bossed, someone complained. The idea of her neighbours glimpsing anothers life in battered cardboard boxes made her uncomfortable and a little absurdly jealous. At least theyd been asked.
An hour later, all was quiet again. That evening, returning from Tesco, she spotted a heap of empty boxes by the entrance and some tape on a nearby bench. Simon tall, looking worn out was bundling up more rubbish.
Evening, he said, as if theyd known each other since childhood. Not got in your way, have we?
No, Edith replied. Just a bit noisy.
Sorry about that. We tried to wrap up before lunch. Tanya from Flat 2 is moving, just her and her little boy. Well, not just her he waved vaguely. Anyway, if ever jot it on the noticeboard. Doesnt just have to be moving. Any old thing.
The word thing sounded so casual, Edith couldnt muster a reply. He wasnt pushy, wasnt pleading. He just said it, then busied himself tying up his bin bag.
Over the next few weeks, the noticeboard developed a life of its own. Every time Edith passed, there was something new: Pete in 19 needs meds, post-op, can anyone do a Boots run? Flat 27 needs a shelf put up got a drill. Collection for entry phone, £2 a head; if youre short, pay later. The handwriting changed each time some neat, some frantic and heavy-handed.
She never signed up. She liked keeping her distance. But watched, all the same.
One evening, coming home from work, Edith found a teenager from the next block sobbing at the lift, face buried in her sleeve. Val was beside her, hand on her shoulder, murmuring gently.
Dont cry now, love. Well sort it. Simons got some.
Whats going on? Edith asked, though she could have walked by.
Val looked at her as if shed already decided Edith wasnt the mocking type.
Their nan blood pressure. Tablets have run out and Boots is shut. Simons fetching some of his to tide them over till morning.
Edith nodded and, upon entering her flat, took an eternity to remove her coat. How easily Val had said, Well sort it. Not Call an ambulance, not Someone elses problem, but Well find some. And Simon handing over his own tablets, not a word about when or if theyd be returned.
A few days later, the inevitable happened: a mini-drama by the lift. Someone had added to the entry phone collection notice: Always us coughing up. If you want an entry phone, buy it yourself. The signature was a scrawl no surname. Two women squabbled nearby, utterly uninhibited.
Its one of number three, I know their handwriting, hissed one.
Oh, do you now? snapped the other. Some folk are on pension, not sitting on a fortune. Two quid here, two quid there.
Edith hurried past, feeling the familiar dread: here comes the community spirit. Next, accusations, sulking about who pays, who doesnt, who gets the benefits. She wished it would end and the noticeboard would revert to plumber available Tuesday.
But that night, she saw Simon at the board. He quietly peeled off the hostile message, folded it, pocketed it, and pinned up a new, clean note: Entry Phone. Pay if you can, dont if you cant. Main thing: it works. Simon. And that was it.
She found herself respecting that and that was it. No lectures, no threats. Just a boundary.
Meanwhile, Ediths own life creaked like a stairwell door long overdue some WD-40. First petty troubles: the bathroom tap leaking; she stuck a bowl underneath, tightened the joint, mopped up. Then work problems: bonus delayed, manager not meeting anyones gaze, mumbling Just for now. Bear with us. Edith she was good at bearing with.
Then, at the start of the month, Ediths back gave in. Nothing dramatic enough for 999, but bad enough that she had to stand and wait a minute for her back to quit arguing each morning. She bought a rub-on ointment and bundled herself in a scarf, telling no one. Complaints just led to conversation, conversation to pity so best not.
One evening, carrying shopping home, Edith heard a scrape in the corridor like someone quietly tearing paper. It was her own door: the lock was sticking, key refusing to budge. She shoved harder, and the key turned, but with a nasty crunch. Her heart fluttered.
She took off her shoes, put the bag on a stool, fetched a screwdriver, and tried to take the lock apart. Her hands were shaky from tiredness, her back twinged. The silence felt particularly heavy.
The next day, the lock gave up for good. Edith came home late, arms full, folder under one arm, and could not open the door. She stood on the landing, forehead pressed to the cold metal, fighting not to panic. Her mind raced: Locksmith. Spare key. Cost. Night. Emergency repairs line promised a two-hour wait.
Two hours on the landing humiliating not because of the neighbours, but her own helplessness. She perched on a step, shopping beside her, studied her hands. Dry, split from cleaning, hands that always managed somehow.
The lift doors pinged open and Simon appeared. He spotted her straightaway.
Edith Clarkson? he asked, just to be sure.
She looked up, mortified.
The lock, she said, blunt. Waiting for a bloke to come fix it.
How long?
Two hours apparently.
Simon eyed the door, then her bag.
Ive got a toolkit. Mind if I have a go while you wait? If not, at least well see whats up. Only if youre alright with it?
The words if youre alright with it were vital. He didnt say Let me, didnt ask, What are you doing sitting out here? He checked.
Edith wanted to retort, Thanks, but no thanks. That would have been safe and familiar. But her back nagged, her phone battery was nearly dead, and two hours on the stairs suddenly seemed utterly dreadful.
Give it a shot, she said, surprised at how steady she sounded.
Simon fetched his case, laid out a newspaper, arranged his tools. Edith noticed he didnt want to scuff the tiles. Thoughtful, tidy, respectful.
Im no locksmith, he warned. But Ive seen a few locks in my time.
He took the cover off, lined up all the screws in an old lid so none got lost. Edith sat beside him holding her shopping and felt oddly as if her life had become communal, and maybe that wasnt such a bad thing after all.
Looks like the barrels worn, Simon said. Bit of oil might tide it over, but youll want a new one. Got a spare key?
No, Edith replied. Never really thought about it.
Simon nodded, didnt comment.
Ten minutes later, the door gave in reluctantly, but finally. Edith stepped inside, switched on the hall light, and felt the stress melt away. She glanced behind.
Thank you, she said. And because it would have sounded like the end of conversation, added, Id rather folks here didnt know.
Simon looked at her.
Of course. My lips are sealed. But youll need a new lock. If youd like, Ill text you the number of a good locksmith tomorrow. He doesnt chat.
Edith nodded. She appreciated he hadnt suggested Lets all have a flat party and fit you a lock. Just something specific and discreet.
After hed gone, Edith locked up and stood in the hallway, listening to the fridge. She wanted to laugh and cry at once help hadnt felt like pity. It was more like someone handing you a screwdriver when your hands were full.
Next day, she rang the recommended locksmith. He came round, swapped the old lock for a shiny new one, showed her the worn barrel. Edith paid, received two keys, stashed one in a little box on her top shelf, labelled it spare in marker. Her small admission: it happens you dont always manage alone.
A week later, another notice: Saturday, help Pete in 19 carry groceries and meds post-hospital, needs two helpers, 1112am. Edith read it and realised she could.
Saturday, she stepped into the hall early. In her shopping bag were two packets of biscuits and some tea not a handout, but a reason not to turn up empty-handed. On the landing, Simon was already there.
You too? he asked, not surprised, just confirming.
Yes, Edith said. But heres the deal: Im carrying the light stuff. And no pep talks about health, alright?
She heard her own firmness not apologising, not asking, just stating terms.
Works for me, said Simon.
Upstairs, Pete greeted them in a faded cardigan, pale, half-grinning.
Oh dear, a committee, he muttered.
Not a committee, Edith replied, handing him a bag. Groceries, tea and biscuits if you fancy.
Pete took the bag with both hands, like he feared dropping it.
Cheers. Id do it myself my legs
No need for wouldve, Simon interjected gently. Just tell us where to put everything.
In the kitchen, Edith spotted a list of medicines and an empty tablet box. She didnt ask questions, simply asked,
Want me to take the rubbish out?
If you wouldnt mind Pete looked sheepish.
Edith bagged up a small carrier, knotted it, left it on the landing. Coming back, she noticed her back hardly hurt not gone, just somehow less troubling.
At the door, Pete tried to hand Simon money.
No need, Simon said.
Well then Pete eyed Edith. Drop in if ever, both of you. Dont bite.
Edith nodded.
If you need something, just ask. And dont be a knight about it. Write it on the board.
She said it with a quiet certainty: she had the right to talk as plainly as Simon. Neither patronising nor begging just side by side.
That evening, Edith lingered at the noticeboard. Someone had left a pack of pins and a notepad. She took up her pen, wrote with care and no fuss: Flat 46. Edith Clarkson. If anyone needs: I can do pharmacy runs or collect parcels on weekdays after 7pm. Not lifting anything heavy. She pinned the note, made sure it held, and tucked the pen away.
Back home, she boiled the kettle, dug out her spare key, and slipped it into a little envelope. She wrote Simons mobile number on it and put it in the front drawer. Not as dependence, but as a bit of insurance shed forgiven herself for needing.
When someones door slammed in the block and footsteps thudded past, Edith didnt jump. She just switched off the hob, poured her tea, and thought: once a month isnt really about crowds. Its about not gripping everything with your own one hand when, sometimes, others have a free one.
