There was a ruckus on the groundfloor landing of the blocks in Manchester. MrsMargaret Hughes was standing by the entrance, clutching an old metal watering can as if it were her last line of defence. Usually shed lined the landing with her clay pots of petunias, geraniums and violets, but now it looked like a battlefield three pots smashed, soil scattered over the scuffed linoleum, petals strewn about like the aftermath of a storm. The air smelled of damp, mould and a faint metallic tang from the railings.
From flat12 a thumping bass line blared some electronic track with heavy beats. Margaret, in a daisypatterned housecoat and her grey hair pulled into a tight bun, glared at the culprit: a brandnew black bike chained to the rail right where her flower bed had been.
Who on earth did this? she muttered, her voice shaking with anger. My flowers! Ive tended them for half a lifetime and now barbarians!
The door of flat12 swung open and Jack burst out, twentyseven, dressed in a grey sports tee and shorts, his dark hair a mess from the gym, holding a bottle of brightlylabelled water.
MrsHughes, why are you shouting? he said, taking in the mess. Its just the pots, they fell when I parked my bike. Ill buy new ones, no problem.
Margaret jabbed the watering can at him, splashing water onto the floor.
Buy new ones? These arent just pots, Jack! Theyre the soul of the hallway! You lot only know how to break things!
Jack rolled his eyes, taking a sip.
Soul? Its just plants, love. My bikes my gymticket, I need it for work. Your pots are taking up all the space!
Katie, Jacks younger sister, peeked out of the flat. Her light hair was tied in a loose bun, and she clutched a battered psychology textbook she was cramming for her university exams. She wore an oversized tee that said Dream Big.
Jack, seriously? she said, spotting the broken pots. MrsHughes, sorry about him, he didnt think. Ill clean it up.
Margaret snorted, her glasses flashing.
Didnt think? Thats selfish, Katie! You youngsters only care about yourselves! My flowers brightened the whole building, and you toss them away!
From above, Susan, a thirtyfiveyearold mum of two from flat15, came down pushing a pram with her baby son. Her jeans were stained with apple purée. Behind her trailed her teenage daughter Lily, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Whats all this noise? Susan asked, glancing around. Jack, did you break the flowers? Margarets right, they make the landing look nice!
Jack tossed his water bottle onto the windowsill, it clinked against the glass.
Nice? Half of them are wilted! Wed be better off swapping the bulbs in the hallway than watering these things!
Oliver, a single programmer from flat10, stuck his head out of his door, laptop under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose, a crumpled Linux tee on.
Jack, calm down, Oliver said, adjusting his specs. Plants are good for the air, you know. And you could store the bike in the basement.
Jack turned, voice louder.
Air? Oliver, you only pop up once a month to stare at your code! Where am I supposed to keep my bike?
The landing turned into a kind of arena, the broken pots becoming symbols of the neighbourly feud, each side seeing the flowers through their own lens.
The next day the tension flared again. Margaret hauled out fresh pots from her storage basement, deliberately watering the petunias while grumbling about illmannered youth. Her colourful housecoat swayed, the watering can glinting under the dim hallway light. Jack, back from his training, found his bike shoved into a corner, surrounded by empty pots, and called his sister.
Katie, whats this circus? he shouted, jabbing at the pots. I told you I need space!
Katie, sitting at their kitchen table buried under notes, set her textbook aside.
Jack, dont start. Ive spoken to Margaret shes genuinely upset. Maybe apologise?
Jack scoffed, kicking off his trainers with a thud.
Apologise? For what? Shes planted those flowers everywhere, and Im supposed to move? This is my hallway too!
Katie sighed, her tone softening but firm.
This is our hallway, Jack. And hers too. She grows those flowers for everyone, and you smashed the pots. Try to see why it matters to her.
Susan floated back down, holding her babys hand, Lily trailing behind with a unicornkeychain dangling from her backpack.
Jack, you again? Susan asked, eyebrows knit. My kids love those flowers! Lily even helped water them!
Jack waved his arms, his tee lifting.
Kids? Susan, your children trample over the flowers, they run through them! Lily almost knocked a pot over yesterday!
Lily puffed her cheeks, her braids bouncing.
Thats not true! I was careful! You ruined everything!
Oliver, passing by with a bag of rubbish, stopped, his laptop peeking out of his backpack.
Jack, chill out, Oliver said, readjusting his glasses. I agree with Margaret the plants make the place feel homely. Maybe store the bike in the garage?
Jacks cheeks flushed.
Garage? I dont have one! And youre always telling everyone what to do, yet you never tidy the hallway yourself!
Hearing the commotion, Margaret stepped out of her flat, watering can in hand, slippers scuffing the floor.
Jack, enough! she cried, voice trembling. My flowers dont bother anyone. Youre being selfish, just like the rest of your generation!
Katie stepped forward, pleading.
MrsHughes, Jack didnt mean it. Let me buy new pots and well find a proper spot for the bike.
Margaret shook her head, her glasses fogging.
I dont need your pots, Katie. I want order. I want respect!
That evening Katie rushed to the local DIY shop to pick up new pots, hoping to make amends for her brother. The garden aisle smelled of fresh soil and plastic. She chose two sturdy clay pots, then spotted a row of petunias, bright as the ones Margaret loved. She remembered the old lady once giving her a sweet when she helped water the plants as a child the hallway had felt like home then, not a war zone.
In the checkout line she ran into Emily, Susans neighbour from the next block.
Katie, whats with the pots? Emily asked, juggling a basket of groceries. Another flower fight?
Katie exhaled, gripping the pot handles.
Yeah. Jack smashed them, Margarets furious. Im trying to smooth things over but everyones shouting.
Emily shook her head, earrings jingling.
Typical blockofflats drama. But Margarets got history with those blooms. Talk to her, love.
The following evening Katie knocked on Margarets door. The kitchen inside smelled of mint tea and fresh cabbage pastries. On the table lay an old photo album that Margaret had pulled out while brewing tea in a chipped kettle.
Come in, sit down, Margaret said, placing a daisypatterned mug before Katie. Youre a good girl, unlike your brother.
Katie smiled, eyes drifting to the album.
MrsHughes, may I look? she asked. Are those your flowers?
Margaret nodded, her eyes softening, fingers trembling.
Look here. Thats me with my son, Sam, planting petunias when he was ten.
Katie opened the album and froze. A young Margaret beamed, watering a tray of petunias alongside a boy with the same lightbrown hair and cheek dimples as Katies. The later pages were newspaper clippings about a tragic road accident that claimed a teenage boy.
Is that your son? Katie whispered, throat tight.
Margaret nodded, voice hoarse.
Yes. Sam was sixteen when a lorry hit him at a crossroads. Ive kept the flowers going ever since. He loved them, especially the petunias.
Katie felt
