I am 58 years old, and in this strange, endless dream, Ive lost all sense of how to deal with my neighbour across the road.
Her house squats precisely opposite mine, as though the entire purpose of its bricks is to let her watch every flickering movement of my life. She knows when the Tesco van rattles up, clocking the minute I sign for the delivery noting, with surreal precision, if Im carrying home curry or just groceries, how many shopping bags arrive, and who, phantom-like, lifts them into my kitchen. Should the delivery driver be delayed by two strokes of Big Ben, shell air her observations the very next morning as if the late bread and milk were world-changing news.
But thats only the beginning of this feverish, uncanny surveillance. She even knows when I take out the rubbish bins exactly how many bags, on which daft day. If, one week, two grey bin bags emerge, and the next, three, shell mutter, raising a ghostly eyebrow. On those rare days when the waste basket stays empty, she marks it down somewhere in the ledger of her mind. Once, she confronted me directly, asking whether I was throwing away food not a drop of embarrassment in her voice, as if the contents of my kitchen bin were a matter of urgent national concern. I stared at her, lost between reality and the odd logic of dreams, wondering when my discarded teabags became for public debate.
Even my dog a mild, mid-sized spaniel named Jasper finds himself caught in her net. He never bites, but will bark if someone strays too near the gate. Each snap, each yelp, becomes a fresh symphony of complaint. She has rung my doorbell, face pinched with imaginary furies, to recite precisely how many barks Jasper let out while I was at work, and at what hour. Now and then, with bizarre accuracy, she tells me why she thinks he did it: At quarter past three, a postman! or At half four, two crows! Sometimes, I wonder if she keeps rhythm with the pulse of my house better than I do.
Then theres my husband. If he wanders home late from the office, next day theres word round the green: You lot were up late last night, or Your husband slinked in at nearly midnight. But early arrivals are met with, Hes back already is he poorly, or sacked? Nothing escapes her. She comments on everything, though not always to my face whispers spool among neighbours, twisted by invisible hands before returning, garbled, to me.
My sixteen-year-old daughter, Lily, isnt spared. When she heads out with her friends, my neighbour counts every teenager who passes our door, tallying silently who enters and who drifts out again. Should anyone visit, she notes, with peculiar authority, exactly who, when, and how long they lingered. Once, she told another on our street, That girls always out, as though she owned my daughters curfew. I was finally forced into a confrontation, feeling her claims crawl under my skin as a monstrous insult.
What truly unmoors me in this dreamlike suburbia is that she isnt a new arrival. Shes lived in that house her whole life just as Ive lived in mine. The cottage belonged to my mother, God rest her soul. She left it to me, her only child, and I cannot leave. I love this street, its terraced histories, the patch of grass behind my door. The issue is not the place. The trouble is coexisting, unwillingly, with someone who knows no boundaries; who mistakes my existence for her personal puzzle.
Now, waking or dreaming, I truly dont know how to cope. I have tried ignoring her, replying politely, even being sharp and cold all efforts simply dissolve. She remains ever-present, watchful, narrating, drawing wild conclusions from scraps of ordinary life. Tell me, is there any spell to handle such a neighbour? Is there a path to peace that doesnt end in quarrelling, but also shields my life from this constant, surreal intrusion?
Have you any advice at all?
