Once a Month
Martha Collins clutched her rubbish bag to her chest and paused by the noticeboard next to the lift. On a sheet of lined paper, pinned up with drawing pins, was written in large letters: Once a monthfor one neighbour. Below that, a list of dates and surnames, and in the corner, the signature: Simon, flat 34. Someone had already scribbled in biro, Need two people Saturday to help with boxes. Martha read it twice, as if suffering from a persistent radio someone left on in the hallway, and instantly felt annoyed.
Shed lived in this block for ten years and knew the unwritten code: greet if you meet at the door, then go your separate ways. Sometimes it was, You wouldnt happen to know where the electrician is? or a quick, Would you mind giving flat 17 their letter? But the help rota, names, pins… It reminded her of those team-building sessions at her old office, where everyone pretended they were unified, but in reality, it was every person for themselves.
By the rubbish chute, she bumped into Sally from the fifth floor, who always hauled two bags, as if convinced one would split.
Have you seen it? Sally nodded towards the board. Simons idea. Says its easier this way. Not running around one at a time, but together.
Together, Martha repeated, trying to keep her voice even. And what if youre not in the mood to do things together?
Sally just shrugged.
Well nobodys forcing you. Its just, when something needs doing, therell be someone.
Out in the courtyard, Martha realised she was already mentally battling with this Simon from flat thirty-four. When neededwhat does that mean? Who decides who needs what? And why does it have to involve absolutely everyone?
Saturday morning brought muffled thuds and voices in the stairwell. Through the door, she caught snippets: Careful, mind the corner! and Hold the lift. Martha stood in her kitchen, clutching a dripping dishcloth, unable to tune out. She pictured people she only recognised by their faces lugging someone elses boxes and a sofa, with someone barking orders while another grumbled. She felt uneasy thinking theyd see glimpses of some strangers life through cardboard boxesand at the same time, a pinch of envy: at least someone invited them.
An hour later, silence. Returning from the shops later, Martha saw a pile of empty boxes and a roll of tape left on a bench. Simon, tall and looking utterly spent, was gathering rubbish into a bin bag.
Hello, he said, as if theyd known each other for years. Hope were not in the way?
No, Martha replied. Just noisy, thats all.
Know what you mean. Tried to be finished before lunch. Tanya from the second floors movingjust her and her little one. Well, just her… He gestured vaguely. Anyway, just pop stuff on the board if you ever need to. Doesnt have to be dramas. Any old thing.
Hed dropped the word any old thing so smoothly, Martha couldnt even find a peg to hang an argument on. He wasnt pushy, no hard sell. He just said it and tightened the bag.
In the weeks that followed, the noticeboard took on a life of its own. Martha walked past and spotted new notes every time. Mr Jenkins, flat 19medicine after surgery, could someone fetch it from the chemist? Shelf needs putting up in 27, got the drill. Chipping in £5 each for a new entry system, no change? Pay later. The handwriting ranged from precise to jagged and frantic.
She didnt sign up. She believed it was best not to interfere. But she watched.
One evening, on her way home from the office, she saw a teenage girl from the block next door sobbing into her sleeve by the lift. Sally was beside her, holding her gently and whispering:
No tears now. Well sort it. Simon said hes got some.
Whats happened? Martha couldnt help but ask, though she could have just walked by.
Sally gave her a lookone deciding, Youre not the sort to laugh about this.
Their gran, blood pressure problems. Tablets run out, chemist closed. Simons bringing his own, just to tide us over till morning.
Martha nodded and, once indoors, couldnt bring herself to take off her coat for ages. She thought about how simply Sally had said, Well sort it. No, Oh, well, call an ambulance, not, None of our businessjust, Well sort it. And that Simon would hand over his tablets, not even asking if hed get them back.
A couple of days later, a minor showdown broke out in the hall. By the note about money for the entry system, someone had added: Always us coughing up, again. If you want it, pay yourselves. The signature was a casual scrawl, no surname attached. Two women were arguing loudly at the lift.
Its third floor, I know that handwriting, hissed one.
And you think you know everything? snapped the other. People dont have spare fivers, and you lot are always collecting, always collecting.
Martha walked past, feeling the old sensation rising: here it comes, the drama of togetherness. Soon theyd be dissecting who owed what, who doesnt chip in, who takes advantage. She wished the board would go back to postings about plumbers, nothing more.
But that evening she saw Simon at the noticeboard, quietly taking down the sheet with the complaint, folding it and tucking it in his pocket. He pinned up a fresh, blank one and wrote: Entry system. Pay if you can. If you cant, dont. Main thingit works. Simon. That was all.
Martha found herself respecting that thats all. No lectures, no threats. Just a line in the sand.
Her own life, meanwhile, began to creak like the stairwell door that hadnt seen WD-40 in years. First some plumbing issue: pipe connector in the bathroom started leaking. She fetched a washing up bowl, tightened the nut, wiped the floor. Then her boss delayed the bonus and couldnt meet her eye. Martha waited. She was good at waiting.
Early in the month, her back started acting up. Not call for help-level, but enough so mornings meant clinging to the bed frame for a minute until it let up. She bought some ointment and wrapped herself in a scarf, told no one. In her mind, a complaint led to conversation, conversations led to pity.
One evening, arriving home with groceries, she heard a strange rustling sound in the hallway. Her own front door: the lock was sticking, the key didnt want to turn. She pushed harder, and the key gave way, but with a nasty crunch. Her heart gave a sharp, unwelcome jolt.
She took off her shoes, put the shopping on a stool, grabbed a screwdriver, and tried to dismantle the lock. Hands shaking from tiredness, back aching, the silence inside pressing in hard.
The next day the lock jammed completely. Martha returned late, weighed down with her bag and folder, and couldnt open the door. She stood in the landing, forehead resting on the cold metal, trying not to panic. Her thoughts raced: Locksmith. Spare keys. Money. Night. She phoned for emergency repairs, was told: wait two hours for the bloke.
Two hours on the stairs felt more humiliating than anything neighbours might see; it was her own helplessness. She sat on a step, shopping beside her, staring at her handsdry, cracked from all the cleaning fluids. Hands that always coped.
The lift doors opened. Out stepped Simon. He spotted her.
Martha Collins, right? he asked, as if double-checking.
She looked up, feeling her cheeks glow red.
Locks gone. Waiting for a locksmith, she said, abruptly.
How long?
They said, two hours.
Simon considered the door, then her bag.
Ive got a kit at mine. Could have a go, while you wait? If it doesnt work, at least well know whats up. Do you mind?
Those wordsdo you mindfelt crucial. He didnt say let me, or what are you doing sitting there? He asked.
Martha wanted to say, No thanks, out of habit. It was safer. But her back ached, her phone battery was dying, and the thought of two hours on a step became unbearable.
Please try, she said, surprised that her voice was steady.
Simon popped off and returned with a little toolbox. He laid a newspaper on the floor before his toolsMartha noticed, almost despite herself: not dirtying the tiles. Little gestures, respect for someone elses space.
Im no professional, he warned. But Ive seen a few locks.
He removed the casing, stored the screws in a box lid. Martha perched nearby, handbag in lap, feeling odd: as if her life had suddenly become communal territory, and it wasnt necessarily terrible.
Looks like the barrels worn out, said Simon. I can oil it for now, but best to replace. Any spare key?
No, Martha replied. I never thought of it.
Simon simply nodded.
Ten minutes later, the door surrendered. Not gracefully, but it opened. Martha entered, flicked on the hall light, feeling the tension ebb away. She turned back.
Thank you, she said. And, because it felt too final otherwise, added: Just I dont want the whole block hearing about this.
Simon met her gaze.
Of course. Mums the word. But still, get that lock changed. Want me to message you a good locksmith? No chit-chat, he just sorts it.
Martha nodded. She appreciated that he hadnt suggested hosting a block-wide lock replacement party. Hed offered something specificand quiet.
After Simon left, she locked up and stood in the hallway, listening to the fridge hum. She wanted to cry and laugh; help hadnt felt like pity. It had felt like a wrench handed to her because her hands were full.
Next day, she called the recommended locksmith. He turned up in the evening, stripped out the old lock, showed her the worn-out part, fitted the new one. Martha paid, received two keys, and put one in a box on the top shelf, marked spare with a Sharpie. Her tiny admission: sometimes you dont cope all by yourself.
A week on, the noticeboard sprouted a fresh message: This Saturday, help Mr Jenkins in flat 19 carry shopping and medicinejust out of hospital, needs two people, 1112am. Martha read it and suddenly realised: she could do this.
On the Saturday, she left her flat early. Her bag contained two packets of biscuits and a box of tea. Not a handoutjust a reason to not turn up empty-handed. Simon was already on the landing.
You too? he askednot shocked, just confirming.
Yep, Martha replied. But, listen. Ill take the light stuff. And no health talks, alright?
She noticed her voice was firmnot apologising or asking if thats okay, but making conditions.
Deal, Simon smiled.
They went up to Mr Jenkins flat. A man in a well-worn jumper, pale-faced, opened the door and tried a weak grin.
Oh, the committee, he muttered.
Not a committee, Martha replied, handing over the bag. Weve brought some shopping. Tea and biccies as well, if you fancy.
Mr Jenkins accepted the bag with both hands, as if worried hed drop it.
Thanks. I wouldve but my legs
No wouldve, Simon interrupted gently. Just say where you want it.
They entered the kitchen. Martha placed the bags on the table, spied a list of meds and an empty plastic pill box. She didnt ask questionsjust said:
Want me to take out the rubbish?
If you wouldnt mind, Mr Jenkins replied and looked embarrassed.
Martha tied up the bag and carried it to the landing. On her way back, she realised her back had almost stopped hurting. Not because the pain had gone, but because something inside felt steadier.
At the door, Mr Jenkins tried to slip Simon some money.
No need, Simon said.
Well, at least, Mr Jenkins looked at Martha. Pop in if you need anything. I dont bite.
Martha nodded.
Well pop in if needed. And dont play the herowrite on the board if you need something.
And saying it, she felt a gentle certainty: she had the right to speak just like Simon, not from above or belowbut alongside.
Back at the noticeboard that evening, she found someone had left a fresh box of drawing pins and a small notepad. Martha took out a pen and wrote neatly and simply: Flat 46, Martha Collins. If anyone needs: I can pop to the chemist or collect parcels weekdays after 7pm. Cant lift heavy stuff. She pinned it, made sure it stuck, and put her pen away.
At home, she boiled the kettle, took the spare key from the cupboard, slipped it into a little envelope. On it, she wrote Simons number and left it in her hallway drawer. Not as a sign of dependence, but as a safety net shed finally allowed herself.
When someones door slammed in the building and footsteps echoed, Martha didnt flinch. She simply switched off the hob, poured her tea, and realised that once a month wasnt about crowds at all. It was about not having to carry everything alone when there might be someone else nearby.
