The Upstairs Neighbour
Ellen, where did you put my big saucepan? The one I make stew in?
Mrs. Baker, it was right in the way. I put it there, on the lower shelf.
On the lower shelf! But I cant bend over, my back! Do you ever think before you move other peoples things?
I stood at the sink, looking out the window. Outside, October drizzledgrey and soft. Inside, something was also drizzlingrestlessness, perhaps, not quite anger, but that sinking feeling you get when you just know this is only the beginning of a long stretch.
***
Mrs. Baker arrived early Friday evening. Victor met her at the lift, lugged up her two heavy suitcases and a huge checkered bag so big we call it travellers pride. I smiledgenuinely smiledbecause the woman was seventy-eight, her flat had been ripped up suddenly after a leak from downstairs; the property managers had dithered for months, and now everything was stripped bare to the brick. She had nowhere else to go. This wasnt an invasion, I told myself. This was temporary.
The word temporary would echo back at me with special weight later on.
I was fifty-six, no old biddy but long past foolishnessa middle ground, solid and flexible enough not to snap in a sharp wind. I worked from home, taking commissions for embroiderydelicate pieces for private collectors and small galleries. It wasnt a hobby; I was making a proper living out of it, and a fine one at that. On top, I ran an online course in counted thread and goldwork for eager students. My workspacemy corner in the bedroom with north light, my threads, frames, fabrics, pattern printoutswas more than just where I sat. It was my studio. My daily bread.
The flat Victor and I shared was two bedrooms, cleverly planned. Wed moved in eight years ago when the children grew up and flew the nest, and Id spent the first two calmly parting with what we didnt needno fussing, no drama. Id passed on, sold, or binned anything not serving us. The only things left were necessary or beautiful. Light walls, almost no furniture, no carpets on the walls, none of Grans glassware, no dried flowers for memorys sake. On the sills, just three plants: a ficus, a sansevieria, and a small pot of rosemary in the kitchen, no more. Every shelf knew what it held. Every drawer shut without resistance.
Victor grumbled in the beginning about living in a hotel. Then he was won over, and would fume if anyone left a thing out of place. Wed found our rhythm in this spaceour air.
And now, Mrs. Baker entered our air.
***
The first couple of days were almost pleasant. She arranged herself in the guest room wed hastily set upa folding bed, half the wardrobe freed up. I brought in a lamp and set a glass of water and a book on the table. I thought it all quite considerate.
But by the third day, I found a crochet doily on the windowsill in the corridora dainty, cream circle with lacy edges. Her phone sat on top, just so, as if the sill had always belonged to her.
I moved the doily, carefully folding it and placing it by her bed.
By morning, the doily was back on the sill.
It wasnt malicious. That was the trouble. Mrs. Baker didnt want a skirmish; she was simply living as she always had. For her, doilies under things meant order, meant comfort. It was right. Shed grown up where more things on show meant a wealthier home. A bare windowsill meant poverty, or carelessness. Five jars of grain in a cupboard showed a womans good sense, not clutter.
Id grown up in the same England, but chose, consciously, to move on.
***
By the end of the first week, the kitchen was unfamiliar. Three enamel pans of varying sizes crowded the counter, not fitting anywhere else. A bright yellow tree-shaped lid rack rose up beside them. The fridge was a battlefield: jars of homemade pickles (brought from her daughters in the country), a tub of pork belly swimming in garlic marinade, a bag of soaked haricot beans, a mystery box wrapped in endless clingfilm whose purpose I didnt dare probe. My yoghurts were pressed onto the bottom shelf of the side door, squeezed by a jar of horseradish and a bottle of homemade ginger beer.
I moved the yoghurts back; she moved them away again.
Evenings, the kitchen smelled of stewed cabbage, fried onions, and something else. Hearty, heavyvery much the air of an older England. Not unpleasant, but not mine.
Victor came in, sniffed, and said: Oh, smells like Mums cooking! Lovely.
I said nothing.
***
Near the end of that second week, a little mat appeared by the sitting-room sofa. Synthetic, bordered with pink rosebuds, the kind sold at every village shop for five pounds. Mrs. Baker explained her feet were always cold in the morning, so shes always had a mat by her bed. What could I say? I dont care for it? How petty that would have sounded.
So I said nothing.
Then her fleece cardigan appeared on the communal coat rack in the hallinstead of in the closet Id cleared for her. A big checked thing, beige and pale blue, crowding up next to Victors jacket.
I moved it to an empty hook by the bathroom door.
She found it and put it back. Its hard to reach from there, she said.
I nodded.
Later, Victor asked: You all right? Youre awfully quiet.
Everythings fine, I lied. We both knew it wasnt, but chose to pretend.
***
About the bedroomI must mention it, because this was my workspace, my livelihood, past mere tastes or mats.
By the north window stood my worktablelengthy, light, custom-built from birch ply, with shelving for patterns and drawers for reels. Over it, a daylight lamp with a bendy arm, strictly neutral spectrum; colour accuracy is everything in embroidery. Next to it, a stand of cubbiesskeins of silk and wool sorted by temperature, cool shades at the top, warm belowlike a rainbow, but practical. Not decor, but system.
My latest commission was taut in the big embroidery frame: a serious piece, a private order from a London collectora replica of an ancient church banner, smaller, goldwork style, using Japanese silk and gilt thread. Due end of November; hefty deposit already paid. The sum: five hundred pounds.
Three months Id worked on that.
No one touched my frame. I made that clear: even a brush-upset the tension, meant redoing all over. Victor understood; no pets; children long gone. Everything was controlled.
Or wasuntil Mrs. Baker arrived.
***
It was Thursday, near midday. Id popped out to buy new thread, a very specific terracotta-gold shadecouldnt order online, had to see it by eye. I was gone an hour or so, stopped at the chemist on the way back.
When I returned and stepped into my room, I saw it.
There was Mrs. Baker, sorting my skeins beside the frame, putting them in boxes by her own idea of logic. Shed unwound a spool of Japanese silkpink-gold with a soft shimmerso that the fine thread was tangled, overlapping. That shade was my only spool, irreplaceable. Worst of all, the fabrics corner on the frame was creased as if shed leaned or fumbled at it.
I stared at her, unable to speak.
She turned, saying cheerfully, Ellen, I tidied your bits up a bitsorted them by colour. So much nicer now!
Mrs. Baker, I said quietly, please leave the room.
What? I was just trying to help
I know. Please would you step out now?
She did, reluctantly, lips pursed in mild indignation.
I closed the door, knelt before my frame to check the damage. The crease hadnt caught the thread, thank heaven. I managed to retighten the fabric gently. The silk spool was only partly savedabout a third of the thread I had to cut out where it tangled; it was spider-fine, snapped under any strain.
Not a disaster. But a signal: this could not go on.
***
Victor asked at dinner why his mother was so quiet.
I told him.
He listened, chewing on his lip. She didnt mean to. She only wanted to help.
I know.
Cant you be patient, love? Its hard for her, not in her own place.
Victor, this is my workspace. My income.
I get it. But Mum wont be here long.
That not long had been my mantra for two weeks. I asked, Exactly how long?
He shrugged. The builders reckon December. Another month and a half.
I looked at my husbandthe dear man caught between two loyalties. He thought, truly, that if he smiled and waited out the storm, everything would right itself.
I knew someone had to right things. That someone was me.
***
That night I lay awake, turning over options. A clashhonest, bluntwould wound her to tears, strain Victor to breaking. A row would be ruinous. Some stand-off with Victor? Thatd trap him in a deadlock. Stoic endurance? No. That too had unravelled with that ruined spool of silk.
So it had to be an alternative. Careful, quiet, indirect.
Id have to solve two problems: keep Mrs. Baker occupied and out as much as possible, and nudge her homes renovation to finish rapidlyyet do it so shed want to go.
It wasnt revenge. It was survival.
***
First, her free time.
I knew Mrs. Baker was always a woman of action: in her own neighbourhood shed gone to the library, the village church, to her daughters allotment in the summer. Here, she was bored. And bored elderly folk turn their energies to their immediate environmentnamely, my flat.
I called Irene, a friend who worked at the local community centre. Asked her what activities they offered older folk.
Oh, heaps! She chirped. Walking club, choir meets Wednesdays and Fridays, felting crafts, health talks Tuesdays. All freeshe just needs two forms of ID.
How to join?
Just turn up!
But I didnt push Mrs. Baker to joinit would have been obvious and rude. I took another tack.
At dinner, I remarked, Mrs. Baker, didnt you sing once? Victor says you used to perform.
She perked upindeed, shed sung in amateur shows in her youth.
Theres a good adult choir here, I heard, I added. A friend of mine says the conductors excellent, everyone very friendly. Free, too. Thought maybe youd enjoy itit must be lonely here sometimes.
She dismissed it at firstawkward, alone, in a strange place.
I let it sit.
Three days later, I casually brought up the choirs local concerts and their photo in the parish paper. The mention of the paper sparked interest.
The next week she asked me how to reach the centre. I drew her a big map, in easy script, from the bus stop.
On Wednesday, she left at ten, back by three, cheeks glowing.
The women there are lovely! she gushed. And that conductor, Mr. Johnsonstrict but fair. We sang some show tunes and folk. I joined in, and he said I had a good mezzo.
Really? I said, honestly pleased.
From then, Wednesdays and Fridays shed vanish for hours. The walking club followedinvited by a new friend, Mrs. Newman from the next block.
The flat grew quieter. Not lonely, just more peaceful.
***
The second part of my plan took more effortsome diplomacy.
I rang Mrs. Bakers daughter, Margaret. Wed never been close, just polite as in-laws. I was direct: Were glad to have your mum, but she really needs to get home. Prolonged displacement upsets anyone at her age.
Margaret explained: The builders delay, cant get them in, always making excuses.
Do you oversee them directly?
No, it was the husbands mate handling itmeaning, nobody kept proper tabs.
I offered, I know some decent builders locally. They could quote what really needs doing, check if theres any foot-dragging.
Margaret agreed readily. She, too, sounded worn out by the whole affair.
I wasnt bluffingI did know reliable tradesmen. The fellow living below, Mr. Edwards, had been in construction for decades. Over a coffee, I explained.
Flooring, plastering, new fittingsthree weeks, tops, with a dedicated crew, he shrugged. Not three months.
He visited, sized up the work, sized up the builders. Same old storythey were juggling other jobs, barely present, already cash in hand.
Mr. Edwards had a wordor twowith the foreman, setting a deadline and promising regular checks.
Margaret tightened the terms, insisting on progress. The lot, faced with scrutiny for once, sped up overnight.
I said nothing to Victornot out of secrecy, but to spare him divided loyalties. This was on me.
***
The following three weeks were uneven.
Some evenings were genuinely warmMrs. Baker would return from choir, brimming with stories about Mrs. Newman or the conductor praising her, even bakery trips after practice. On such nights, she glowed; we actually felt like a family, and Id even enjoy her nostalgia.
Other days, less so.
One morning, my beloved Benjamin ficus had been moved to a back corner, replaced by the geranium shed carried here in her giant bag. Pink blossoms, pride of place. The logic was simple enough: The ficus blocked the light; the geranium likes the sill.
By the evening, my ficus looked distressed on that cold floor.
Wordlessly, I swapped themficus back to its rightful place, geranium to her room. Our eyes met.
She said, You could have asked.
I replied, So could you.
That was the only time a spark flickered, real and raw, between usno row, just honesty. She retreated to her room, I to the kitchen. Over dinner, the matter was unspoken.
Victor noticed everything and stayed silent. Sometimes that silence irked me even more than Mrs. Bakers incursions. Men, I thought, so often hope that if a crack is ignored, itll mend itself.
It doesnt. Never has.
***
One evening when Mrs. Baker had gone to bed early, I sat working in my corner, the lamp casting its soothing pool of light. Victor came in, paused behind me, then perched on the bed.
Youre angry with me, he saidnot as a question, but a fact.
A little, I admitted. Not with you, exactly. With everything.
I know this is hard for you.
Yes, I nodded, not looking up. But knowing and helping are different things.
He paused.
What should I do?
Nothing, Victor. Im handling it.
He left it at thatmaybe out of fear of having to choose between us. He read a bit, fell asleep. I sat at my table a while longer, listening to the tick of the clock, hearing my own breath, and beyond the wall, the gentle breathing of an old woman who meant no harm, just lived a life that couldnt help colliding with my own.
What I thought, lying there later was this: The trouble in family troubles isnt hate. Hate, at least, is honest. The trouble is good peoplewho care about one anothermaking each other quietly miserable, and nobody sure why or what to do about it.
***
The repairs ended sooner than even Mr. Edwards could have promised.
Margaret rang menot Victor, meon Saturday morning. The crew had packed up last night. Everything was done, she said, just needed a sweep and an airing.
I thanked her. We talked a little more, and I felt something had shifted between usshe saw me not as just the sister-in-law, but a person able to get things done.
Now came the tricky bit: how to tell Mrs. Baker in a way that wouldnt make her feel pushed out.
I mulled on it all Saturday.
At dinner, as she recounted plans for the choirs Christmas concert, I smiled and said, Mrs. Baker, Ive something to tell youits good news, dont worry.
She paused, eyeing me.
I arranged for a builder I know to take a look at your placewanted it to be a bit of a surprise. Margaret says its all ready. You can move home now.
Mrs. Baker fixed those sharp blue eyes on mine, then at Victor, then back.
Youyou sorted this?
Not alonea neighbour helped. I didnt want you to feel awkward here any longer than needed. Youre happiest at home. Its your place.
Victor looked at me as if for the first time.
Mrs. Baker raised herself, came over, and took my hands in hersdry, warm, heavy with years.
Ellen, youre a good one, she said.
I didnt know what to say. I just squeezed her hands back.
***
She moved back Sunday. Victor went with her, carried her bags, made sure all was tidy. I stayed behindsaid Id make supper, but truthfully, I just wanted to walk the flat alone.
For half an hour, I wandered from room to room, touching walls. I paused at my north window by the worktable, stared at my frame.
Then I fetched the rosebud mat from the guest room. It looked forlorn now, ownerless. I lifted the last forgotten doily from the windowsill. Cracked the window open, letting Octobers breath into the room.
Turning to the kitchen, I discovered a neatly wrapped container on the second fridge shelf. I opened it. Inside was our favourite all-in stewVictors favourite, really, with her special mix of three meats. Mrs. Baker had left us food for two days.
I let the fridge door swing closed, and leaned against it.
People are strange. Three weeks, under each others feetand yet she left us that stew.
***
Victor came back that evening. We ate, spoke little, but peaceably. He did the dishes; I dried. As usual.
Before sleep, lying back, he gazed at the ceiling and said quietly, So you did all that, about the house?
I did.
Why not tell me?
I considered. You asked me to be patient. I didnt want toso I acted. I figured you wouldnt want to get involved.
You could trust me.
Victor, I said gently, I do. I knew youd feel guilty if you were part of it. I wanted to spare you that.
He lay silent for a long while.
It was clever, he said, softly. Andjust a littlehurtful.
I know, I answered. Im sorry.
We lay together, and I thoughtthis wasnt a perfect story. No one said everything they meant. No big, honest reckoning as in novels. It was all resolved by stealth, with the effort hidden.
Whether thats good or bad, I still dont know.
***
A week on, Mrs. Baker called. She sounded well. Told me the flat was just as she wanted itbright and fresh, beige walls, her favourite cups rediscovered in a box, back in their place. Shed visited her old neighbour, Mrs. Evans, whod been ill and was glad to see her.
Ill carry on with the choir, she announced. Mr. Johnson said were auditioning for a competition in February. Mrs. Newman and I are going together.
Thats lovely, I said.
Ellen, she began, in a different tone, I know I must have got in your way, living there.
I didnt say, Not at all. We both knew that would be a lie.
Were just different, Mrs. Baker. The main thing is, youre happy now.
She paused.
Yes, she said, thats the main thing.
***
Sometimes I think back to those seven weeks. Not often, but I do.
To the rosebud mat. Three pans cluttering the counter. The geranium on my sill. The tub of stew in the fridge. The warmth of Mrs. Bakers hands around mine. The way Victor said a little hurt and meant more than all his words those weeks.
I didnt win a battlethere was no battle. There was just a job to do, and I did it. A home, which I held, not harshly, but firmly.
Not heroics. Just the quiet business of keeping lifes shape when someone, without malice, but by old habit, starts to reshape it.
Boundaries are not walls or quarrels. Sometimes, they are just knowing what you want, and quietlystubbornlywalking towards it.
And family Family is this odd creature. It survives in the oddest conditions, breathes through the cracks. Sometimes it leaves you a tub of stew in the fridge before it goes.
***
In November, I delivered the banner to my client. He was delighted, paid the balance. I treated myself to a new spool of Japanese silksoft gold, like a brittle autumn leaf, put away safely in my table drawer.
Three plant pots sit on the windowsill now: ficus, sansevieria, rosemary. No doilies.
The flat is peaceful. Smells of coffee, a hint of beeswax from a candle I light in the evenings. Victor reads in his armchair. Outside, winter nears.
Everything in its place.
***
A month later, we visited Mrs. Baker at her new place. I brought a box of pastilles from that bakery she liked with Mrs. Newman. She ushered us in, proudly showing us the renovationsrooms full of light, soft beige walls, just as shed wanted. On every windowsill, a doily. Beside the sofa, the same rosebud mat.
I looked at it all and felt nothing. No irritation, no superiority. Just acceptanceher home, her world.
Over tea, she told us, Do come to the choir competition in February. Were singing HopeI want you both to hear.
Victor replied, Of course well be there, Mum.
And I echoed, Definitely.On the bus home, evening folding down round the city, Victor dozed beside me. I watched the streetlights blink past, thought of Mrs. Bakerher voice suddenly radiant, rehearsing songs in another life that didnt brush up so abrasively against my own. I pictured her, strong and upright in her rehearsal skirt, shaping music out of air, rooted in that space shed reforged as hers. And I realizedI wasnt angry anymore. I wasnt even relieved. Only grateful that the shape of my days fit me again, and hers fitted her.
When Victor woke, he squeezed my hand. You know, Mum looks ten years younger.
Funny, isnt it? I replied, watching our reflection ripple in the window. Maybe she just needed her own shadow back over her walls, her own rhythm underfoot.
He smiled at that, a little uncertain, but I rested my head on his shoulder and let the silence fill up with promises neither of us had to make out loud.
When we reached our stop, the wind had a bite to it, bracing and new. We walked the last stretch home, streetlights glimmering in puddles, our small flat shining aheada fragile promise of order, of comfort, of the life wed quietly reclaimed.
Inside, the warmth folded around me: beeswax and coffee, light from my worklamp pooling gold across the table. I touched the edge of my embroidery frame and, just for a moment, imagined Mrs. Bakers handstidy, fussing, forever rearranging. I saw, then, the care underneath it all. Sometimes, love comes disguisedas a rosebud mat, a stack of pans, a tub of stew, even the gentle, persistent remaking of a space.
I turned on the radio. A choir was singingclear and strong as the last leaf still clinging to a November branch. I listened, letting the music fill up the corners, and felt, for once, entirely at home.
Outside, something like hope drifted up through the eveningsubtle, stubborn, and, for just a while, perfectly in harmony with everything I held dear.
