The Note on the Fridge
Margaret Whitaker woke at half past six, as usual. It was still dark outside, but her internal clock hadn’t failed her in forty years. She pulled on her dressing gown and shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
A sheet of paper was stuck to the fridge with a ladybird magnet. Odd—it hadn’t been there last night.
Margaret took the note and flicked on the light. The handwriting was unfamiliar, shaky, as if written by someone unused to holding a pen.
*”Margaret Whitaker, sorry to trouble you. I’m your neighbour from flat 47. My name is Beatrice. I hate to ask, but I’ve no one else to turn to. Could I borrow a bit of sugar? I’ll return it. Yours, Beatrice Holloway.”*
Margaret frowned. Neighbour from 47? That was the Wilsons’ flat—a young family with two children. She knew every tenant by heart; she’d been the building’s caretaker for a decade.
The kettle whistled. She set the note aside and fixed her breakfast, unease creeping in. How had this Beatrice gotten into the Wilsons’ flat? And why hadn’t she heard they’d moved out?
After breakfast, she dressed and stepped into the hallway. She lingered outside number 47, listening. Silence. No children’s voices, no noise—just the quiet hum of a telly.
She pressed the buzzer.
*”Who is it?”* rasped a woman’s voice.
*”Margaret Whitaker from 48. Did you leave me a note about sugar?”*
The lock clicked, the door opening a crack on the chain. A wrinkled face and one wary eye peered through.
*”You’re Margaret?”* the stranger asked, doubtful.
*”Yes. Are you Beatrice Holloway?”*
*”That’s right. Come in, please.”*
The chain came off, and Margaret stepped inside—then froze. The flat was entirely different. No toys, no bright wallpaper, no family photos. Just sparse, clean furnishings, all oddly old-fashioned.
*”Sit down,”* the woman gestured to the sofa. *”Fancy a cuppa?”*
*”Thank you.”*
Margaret studied her host. Beatrice looked about seventy, maybe older. Grey hair neatly pinned, deep wrinkles, but sharp, attentive eyes.
*”Sorry to trouble you,”* Beatrice said, fussing with the tea. *”Ran out of sugar, and I can’t pop to the shop. My legs aren’t what they were.”*
*”It’s no trouble. But—where are the Wilsons? Did they move out?”*
Beatrice stilled, the cup in her hand.
*”The Wilsons? Don’t know any Wilsons. I’ve lived here a long while.”*
*”How long?”*
*”Fifteen years, at least. Maybe more.”*
Margaret’s head spun. Fifteen years? Impossible. She’d seen the Wilsons just last week—the mother pushing a pram, the older boy racing ahead.
*”Beatrice, how did you put this note on my fridge? My door was locked.”*
The old woman blinked, confused.
*”A note? What note?”*
*”The one you left this morning. About the sugar.”*
*”I didn’t leave any note. What are you on about?”*
Margaret pulled the slip from her pocket. *”This. It’s signed ‘Beatrice Holloway.’”*
Beatrice took it, squinting at the words, tracing them with a finger.
*”Not mine,”* she said finally. *”I didn’t write this. Must be someone’s idea of a joke.”*
Margaret’s mind reeled. The woman seemed sincere—but who’d written it? And how had they stuck it to her fridge?
*”Tell you what,”* she said, standing. *”I’ll fetch that sugar. Keep the note—see if it jogs your memory.”*
*”Ta, love. You’re very kind.”*
Back in her flat, Margaret’s questions multiplied. She scooped sugar into a jar, then returned to Beatrice.
*”Beatrice, may I ask something?”*
*”Course, dear.”*
*”Do you remember the Wilsons? Husband, wife, two kids. They lived here.”*
Beatrice shook her head slowly.
*”No. Though… wait. Maybe someone did, years back. Can’t recall properly. Memory’s not what it was.”*
*”Do you talk to any other neighbours?”*
*”Hardly. They’re all young, busy. Only Old Tom from the ground floor checks on me, brings my shopping.”*
Margaret knew Old Tom—Thomas Grady. Lived here since the building went up. He’d know the truth.
*”Thanks for the sugar,”* Beatrice said. *”I’ll return it.”*
*”No need.”*
Margaret went downstairs and knocked on Thomas’s door. He answered at once, as if he’d been waiting.
*”Margaret! Come in. Kettle’s on.”*
*”No, ta. Thomas—who lives in 47?”*
*”Beatrice Holloway. Sweet woman, though poorly.”*
*”And the Wilsons—where are they?”*
Thomas frowned. *”Which Wilsons?”*
*”The family who lived there before. Two kids.”*
He studied her carefully.
*”Margaret, you feeling alright? There’ve never been Wilsons in this building. Beatrice has been in 47 nigh on twenty years.”*
*”But I saw them! Just days ago!”*
*”Maybe you’ve mixed them up with someone? Age does funny things to memory.”*
Her legs wobbled. Could Thomas be right? Had she imagined them?
*”Thomas, what’s wrong with Beatrice? You said she’s poorly.”*
*”Dementia, poor love. Forgets things—what she ate, people’s names. I look in on her, fetch her bits. No family left.”*
*”I see,”* Margaret murmured.
She climbed back upstairs, bewildered. At home, she stared at the spot where the note had been. The magnet remained.
All day, she couldn’t focus. Fog clouded her thoughts. Was this early dementia? Was she forgetting things too?
That evening, her son Daniel rang.
*”Mum, how are you? Anything new?”*
*”Dan, tell me honestly—have I been acting strange?”*
*”Strange how?”*
*”Forgetful? Mixing things up?”*
*”No, Mum. You’re fine. Why?”*
She told him about the note and Beatrice. He listened carefully.
*”Mum, maybe Beatrice wrote it during a bad spell? You said she’s got dementia. Could’ve forgotten she did it.”*
*”But how’d she get into my flat?”*
*”Maybe the door was unlocked? Or she asked someone to pass it on?”*
His explanation soothed her.
Next morning, she visited Beatrice again. A middle-aged man in work clothes answered.
*”Can I help?”*
*”I’m here for Beatrice. I’m her neighbour.”*
*”Right. She’s not well today.”*
Inside, Beatrice lay on the sofa, blanket drawn up. She looked ghastly—pale, eyes glassy.
*”Beatrice, how are you?”* Margaret asked softly.
The woman turned her head with effort.
*”Who’re you?”* she whispered.
*”Margaret, your neighbour. I came yesterday.”*
*”Don’t remember.”*
The man approached.
*”I’m her nephew,”* he said. *”Came up from Kent. Aunt’s not safe alone anymore. Taking her home with me.”*
*”What’s wrong?”*
*”Old age, illness. Memory’s gone. Can’t look after herself.”*
Margaret glanced at Beatrice, who’d closed her eyes, breathing heavily.
*”Need any help?”*
*”We’ll manage. Leaving tomorrow.”*
That evening, she knocked again. No answer.
Downstairs, Thomas shrugged.
*”She’s gone, love. Nephew took her this morning. Saw them loading up.”*
*”Gone? But last night he said tomorrow!”*
*”Plans change.”*
Margaret returned home, unsettled. Something wasn’t right.
Next morning, another note waited on the fridge—different handwriting now, neat and familiar.
*”Mum! Coming tomorrow night. Make your famous shepherd’s pie? Love, Dan.”*
She smiled. This note was real. Dan always did this before visiting.
She took mince from the freezer and began preparing. The notes about Beatrice? Best forgotten.
Still, passing number 47, she’d pause, listening. But there was only silence. And Margaret would walk on, pushing the unease away.
