Alright, so, you know Eleanor Smith? She was standing by her window in Manchester yesterday, watching Margaret Davies next door hanging washing on the line. Moving slow, you know, like every bit of it was an effort. Eleanor turned away, but this heaviness in her chest wouldn’t budge. Six months now she hadn’t been able to look at Margaret without feeling awful, all because of that residents’ meeting.
«Mum, you’re at the window again?» Her daughter Beatrice came in with a cup of tea. «What’s so fascinating?»
«Nothing much,» Eleanor brushed it off, but her voice gave her away. Bea caught it straight off.
«Mum, your voice sounds shaky. What’s wrong? Is it that neighbour again?»
Eleanor sank into her armchair, taking the tea with trembling hands. How could she explain this weight on her soul? How to tell Beatrice what she’d done?
«Bea, darling,» she asked instead, «do you remember what I was like… before?»
«Well, obviously! You’re my mum. Why?»
«No, I mean my character. Was I… mean? Envious?»
Beatrice perched on the chair arm, wrapping an arm around her mum’s shoulders. «Mum, what? You were always kind, fair. Remember how you helped neighbours when they were poorly? You cooked for Auntie Jane from flat five for a whole month when her ankle broke. What’s happened? Why ask like that?»
Eleanor closed her eyes. Yes, she’d truly tried to be good her whole life. Worked as a librarian, raised the kids right, never refused neighbours. And then, late in life, she’d done something that gnawed at her like a worm in an apple.
Started last autumn when this new managing agent took over their building block. Young folks, ambitious plans: fix the roof, paint the hallways, install a proper entry phone. Needed a fair whack of cash though. Residents gathered.
«It is a big sum,» admitted the agent, Peter Harrison, tapping his calculator. «But you’ll have peace for ten years. New roof? Dry and warm. Entry phone? Essential these days, with all the thefts!»
Most agreed. Some grumbled about cost, but knew repairs were needed. An old building, council patches weren’t holding up.
Then Margaret Davies stood up.
«I object,» she said loud. «Haven’t got that kind of money. Tiny pension, my grandkids come, I help them out. We’ll manage without the repairs.»
«Mrs. Davies, but this is for all our benefit,» Peter tried. «We can arrange instalments?»
«I won’t pay anything!» Margaret flared. «Twenty years I’ve lived here, minding my own business. What now, you’ll force me?»
The meeting dragged. Needed full agreement. People got restless. Someone offered to chip in for Margaret, but she wouldn’t hear it.
«Don’t need your charity! Managed without for years, carry on same!»
Then she added the sting that truly got Eleanor: «Especially not from neighbours who only know how to live at others’ expense!»
Everyone turned. Margaret was looking straight at Eleanor. Something unpleasant, almost scornful, in her eyes.
«Who exactly do you mean?» Eleanor asked coldly.
«You know who. Got divorced, moved into someone else’s flat, now cooking up repairs on our dime.»
Silence fell thickly. Eleanor felt her face flush. Everyone knew her story: after the divorce, she’d moved into her sister’s flat while her sister worked abroad. But the flat wasn’t «someone else’s»! Her sister owned it outright! And she could afford her share; she wasn’t sponging!
«How dare you?» Eleanor stood, feeling a furious heat inside. «What right do you have?»
«I have. I’m a true resident here, not some blow-in.»
Something snapped in Eleanor then. Hurt, shame, anger – all knotted together. She’d worked honestly, raised her kids right, and now this neighbour dared utter such things!
Afterwards, Eleanor couldn’t settle. Beatrice rang, told her not to dwell on it. «Mum, honestly love, why bother? People are awful sometimes. Said it in anger, probably forgotten it.» But Eleanor hadn’t forgotten. Or forgiven. Worse, she knew something about Margaret that could cut deep.
See, Eleanor worked at the council library over thirty years. Once, a student needed local history help for his dissertation. She helped him sort old archives, and found lists… lists of folk evicted from their very block back in the early Thatcher years for unpaid council tax.
Margaret Davies’ name was on that list.
Eleanor hadn’t thought much of it then. Times were hard, people struggled. But after that public humiliation, it flooded back. Eleanor realised she could hit Margaret right where it hurt.
Margaret always boasted about being a «true resident», living here «twenty years». Truth was, she’d been evicted once, somehow got back – probably not all above board.
Eleanor wrestled with herself. It felt tawdry, unethical. But the hurt burned relentlessly. One evening, gossiping with neighbours in the square, she cracked.
«Listen ladies,» she said casually, «heard something interesting recently. Turns out our Margaret Davies isn’t quite the pillar of the community she claims.»
«What?» gasped Auntie Pam from the second landing. «She bangs on about her twenty years!»
«Twenty years she might have lived here,» Eleanor pressed, «but not continuous. Got evicted in the eighties for council debt. Saw the papers myself.»
The women exchanged looks. Scandalous. Everyone knew Margaret’s snide remarks about newcomers.
«You sure?» asked Auntie Jean.
«Positive. Saw the documents myself helping that student. Name, address – matched.»
The gossip spread like wildfire. Knew everyone in the block by teatime. Some were shocked, others quietly pleased – Margaret had offended plenty.
Then, a few days later, something Eleanor never expected happened.
Margaret knocked timidly on her door. Eleanor opened it to find a different woman: not proud or sharp, but shattered, aged.
«Eleanor… might I have a word?» Margaret asked, voice trembling.
They sat at Eleanor’s kitchen table. Margaret stayed silent, then began: «I know what you’ve told people. And… it’s true. But not the whole truth.»
Eleanor felt guilt pricking, stayed quiet.
«Yes, I was evicted,» Margaret continued. «My husband hit the bottle then, lost his job. Just me and a small son, broke. Couldn’t pay council tax. They kicked us out. Lived with relatives, sofa-surfed. My son got ill from the stress, hospitalised.» Her voice shook more. «Then… my husband died. Drink walking. The council gave me housing. As a widow with a kid. Back here! I was overjoyed! Thought we’d start fresh. Son get well, start school.»
Margaret dabbed her eyes with a hanky. «But people remembered. Remembered the eviction. Whispers behind backs, pointing fingers. Son heard kids at school: ‘Your mum’s a lush, kicked out!’ And he’d done nothing! Absolutely nothing!»
Eleanor listened, something tightening inside her.
«I vowed never to tell the truth. Said we’d lived here ages, true residents. Wanted a quiet life for my son. He grew good, got educated, works away now. Family, kids. And no one knows our past.»
Margaret fell quiet, then looked Eleanor straight in the eye. «Now you’ve told them all. And it’s starting again. Neighbours whispering. My grandson came home from school yesterday in tears. Classmates teasing, saying gran’s a liar.»
Eleanor felt the floor disappear. She’d just wanted pay
And forever after, looking out at Margaret’s stiff shoulders in the Manchester drizzle, Eleanor tasted acid in the back of her throat — her own bitter victory now just a bleeding reminder that some stains don’t lift, no matter how hard you scrub, and no telling how long the burn lasts.