Lucy froze by the front door, key in hand. Rustling and faint murmurs came from inside the flat. Tom was at work, and she’d come home early, treating herself to a half-day after an exhausting week. But now her heart raced. Burglars? She cracked the door open and heard a familiar voice—
«Oh, Lucy, Tom, you’re so messy! Dust on the windowsill, curtains all crumpled! You ought to hire a cleaner—this is no way to keep a home!»
There in the hallway, broom in hand, stood Auntie Joan, their neighbour. Lucy was stunned.
«Auntie Joan? How did you get in?» Her voice trembled between shock and irritation.
«Oh, just being neighbourly, love!» Joan beamed as if her presence were perfectly normal. «Saw your door ajar and thought I’d check everything was alright. Then I spotted the mess, so I tidied up a bit.»
«The door was locked,» Lucy said coldly, gripping her bag. «I’m certain of it.»
«Oh, don’t fuss—locked, unlocked, what’s the difference?» Joan waved a hand like shooing a fly. «We’re all friends in this building, no need for secrets! At least it was me and not some troublemaker!»
Lucy didn’t know what to say. Her new home, hers and Tom’s first proper flat, suddenly felt invaded. She muttered a «thanks» and ushered Joan out, but anger simmered inside. How did Auntie Joan have a key? And why did she act like she had the right?
It had started six months ago when Lucy and Tom, a young couple, moved into the quaint but ageing maisonette on the outskirts of London. The flat was their pride—three years of saving for the deposit, skipping holidays, cutting back on everything. When they finally got the keys, Lucy nearly cried with joy, and Tom, usually reserved, spun her around the empty living room, laughing.
«This is ours, Lu! Ours!» he’d said, eyes shining.
They settled in slowly: a second-hand sofa, cream curtains, a potted fern on the windowsill. But the little things meant the most—morning coffee in their tiny kitchen, cosy film nights under a blanket, plans for renovations.
The day after moving in, the doorbell rang. A petite woman in her sixties stood there, neat grey bob, holding a basket.
«Hello, youngsters! I’m Joan Fletcher—third floor, flat next door. ‘Auntie Joan’ to you, dear.» She grinned so warmly Lucy couldn’t help smiling back. «Brought you some sausage rolls. Neighbourly welcome!»
«Oh, thank you!» Lucy took the basket, flustered. «Come in for tea?»
«Just a quick cuppa,» Joan said, already stepping inside, eyes roaming. «Oh, what a lovely layout! Though these walls could do with a fresh coat. And the kitchen’s a bit snug, eh?»
Lucy hesitated but nodded politely. Tom, making tea, added, «We’ll decorate when we can. Bit by bit.»
«Smart thinking!» Joan patted Lucy’s shoulder. «I know all the best tradesmen round here—just ask!»
The sausage rolls were delicious, and Auntie Joan was chatty—gossip about neighbours, stories about the building’s history, even tips on convincing the caretaker to salt the steps earlier. Lucy and Tom exchanged a glance: maybe they’d found an ally.
But soon, Joan overstayed her welcome. She’d pop by «just to say hello,» bring more baked goods, or insist on «checking the taps» because «the pipes in this old place burst if you blink.» Lucy, raised to respect elders, stayed polite, but the remarks grated.
Once, Joan barged in as they painted the lounge sky blue.
«Lucy, love, that shade is dreadful!» Joan wrinkled her nose. «Too chilly! Should’ve gone for peach. And that roller’s all wrong—you’ll get streaks.»
«We like blue,» Lucy said tightly, gripping the brush.
«Pfft, ‘style.’» Joan scoffed. «I’ve lived here thirty years. Trust me, repaint now.»
Tom wiped his hands. «Tea, Auntie Joan?»
Over tea, Joan mentioned how «the fifth-floor woman» complained about their «racket,» and how the caretaker thought their recycling was «all wrong.» Lucy’s cheeks burned. They’d been considerate—were people really talking behind their backs?
«Are we doing something wrong?» she whispered to Tom that night.
«Joan just loves stirring the pot,» he said, hugging her. «Let’s keep our distance.»
But Joan didn’t back down. She’d corner Lucy in the lobby, probing about jobs, salaries, baby plans. Once, Lucy came home to find their postbox open, bills neatly stacked on the bench.
«Joan, did you go through our mail?» Lucy confronted her.
«Just helping, dear! Box was overflowing—thought you’d lose something. Blimey, your electric bill’s high! I could show you how to tweak the meter…»
Lucy’s face flushed. She mumbled thanks and left, but suspicion gnawed. Why was Joan so invested?
Then a greasy estate agent knocked, pressuring them to sell. «Place is falling apart,» he said. «Joan reckons you’ll take a fair offer.»
«Joan sent you?» Lucy’s stomach dropped.
«She’s tipped me off for years—gets a little kickback.» He winked.
Lucy slammed the door, shaking. Joan was selling them out?
A week later came the «open door» incident. Lucy told Tom, and he exploded: «She’s got a key! We changed the locks!»
Security footage confirmed Joan had let herself in multiple times while they were out.
«Is she spying? Stealing?» Lucy’s throat tightened.
«Nothing’s missing,» Tom said. «But this stops now.»
Their confrontation was tense. Joan paled when confronted but blustered: «Old key from the last tenants! You’re accusing me after all I’ve done?»
They demanded the key. Joan reluctantly handed it over, muttering about «ingrates.»
Days later, Lucy overheard Joan whining to another neighbour: «Those newcomers are so rude! Good thing I told the agent—he’ll have them out soon.»
Lucy called Tom. A lawyer friend confirmed Joan and the agent ran a scam—pushing new residents to sell cheap, with Joan getting a cut.
They set a trap. Inviting Joan over for «peace talks,» they recorded her admitting the scheme. The lawyer sent it to the police.
Joan fled to her daughter’s in Bristol. The agent got fined. Life quieted.
One evening, Tom handed Lucy a coffee. «Who knew buying a home came with battlefield lessons?»
She smiled, touching her fern. «Worth it. No more ‘neighbourly’ sausage rolls.»
The other neighbours, once wary, now greeted them warmly. Some might say they’d been harsh, but Lucy and Tom knew: peace was worth defending.