Wrong Age Neighbour
Mornings at Peter Thompsons place always started the same way. The kettle would whistle, the kitchen radio would crackle to life, chattering about traffic and the weather, two or three front doors would bang as people left for work. He hadnt rushed anywhere in years, but the habit of getting up early stuck with him, just like the routine of walking around the flat, checking if the balcony was locked, the gas turned off, and the keys on the table.
Hed lived in his nine-storey block at the edge of Birmingham for over thirty years. He knew whose doorbell sounded which way, who slammed their door loudest, who always left a pram in the stairwell. His floor was quiet. He liked the hush. In the evenings hed settle into his old armchair, put on an ancient sitcom, and listen to Mrs. Wallacehis widowed neighbour at the end of the corridorcough through the wall. It made the building feel alive but never rowdy.
The block ran by its own unspoken rules. Peter straightened any crooked notices on the board in the lobby, and once even bought his own sellotape to edit a cleaning rota, reprinting it because thered been a misspelling. A rubber plant of his, re-potted in a cut-down drinks bottle, sat on the sill between floors. In summer he moved it to the landing for cheer.
On the day everything shifted, he was watering the rubber plant. The scent of frying bacon drifted up the stairwell; someone downstairs was making breakfast and the smell crept up. The lift juddered, groaned, and stopped. Out stepped a young mana suitcase on wheels, rucksack slung over shoulder, headphones in, headphone cable trailing to his phone, thumping out some barely-audible, pulsing music.
The lad paused, studied the flat numbers, then looked at Peter.
Morning, he said, popping out one earbud. Excuse me, is this 237?
Two thirty-seven? Thats next door but one, Peter replied. Our numbers are oddnothing in sequence.
The lad nodded and set off, suitcase loudly rattling across the tiles. The corridor filled with his stuffrucksack brushing Peters arm.
Oh, sorry! the lad called out, hastily. Im justmoving in.
The phrase moving in made Peter wince. Number 237 belonged to Mrs. Wallacea quiet widow with a cat. Hed overheard her say she was thinking of letting out a room. This must be the lodger.
Back in 235, Peter locked his door and lingered in the hallway, listening. Next door, someone pushed furniture about, cupboard doors slammed. Then the doorbell sounded a few timesmore people arriving, voices young and hurried, with quick laughter.
He shuffled to the kitchen, poured another mug of teatoo strong, as usual, but he drank it anyway. Mrs. Wallaces words played over in his mind: Well, pensions not what it was. Let the lad live here, students are quiet. Quiet.
That evening he learned just how quiet. When night fell, plastic bags rustled in the corridor, a door banged, then music started up next door. Not loud, but with a deep bass that pulsed through the wall. Peter switched the telly off to listen. The bass thudded steadily, like someone drumming a fist against his chest.
After ten minutes, Peter stood, rapped on the wall with his knuckles. The music didnt stop. He knocked harder. A minute later the bass softened but didnt disappear.
Quiet, my eye, Peter muttered, returning to his chair.
The night was restless. Around midnight the landing door slammed so hard it rattled his old wardrobe. Someone giggled, someone whispered; keys fumbled at the lock. Lying in the dark, Peter counted his own heartbeats, remembering the message hed once shared on the residents WhatsApp: Lets respect each other and keep noise down after eleven, please.
In the morning, he opened his door to find two pairs of trainers lined up outside, a new coat slung on the rack where, before, only his and Mrs. Wallaces coats had hung. A flattened pizza box leant tidily against the wall.
He gazed at it all, stood there a moment, then retreated. On his mobile, he drafted a message for the buildings chat: Dear neighbours, please dont clutter the hall and remember the quiet hours. Deleted it. Typed: Whos moved in at 237? Bit of a racket last night. Deleted that too. At last, he sent: Please dont leave rubbish on the landing.
Someone replied with a thumbs-up. Then, Whose rubbish? and Its clean outside ours. Mrs. Wallace wasnt answeringshe avoided the group entirely.
Later, he spotted her waiting by the lift with a bag of groceries, a loaf of bread and a bunch of parsley poking out.
So, have you got your lodger, then? he asked, edging into the conversation.
Oh, Jack, yes, she beamed. Hes a studentcomputers. Polite boy. Dont worry, Ive told him not to make a racket.
Hmm, Peter grunted. Polite.
That evening, as he tried to watch the news, the music started again next door, now complete with singingin English, dragging the syllables out. Peter switched the TV off, slipped on his slippers, and marched into the corridor.
He rang Mrs. Wallaces bell. The music behind the door thudded, but a moment later the lock clicked and Jack appeared, T-shirt and joggers on.
Evening, Peter said. Any chance you can turn that down? Its a bit late.
Jack blinked, pulling his headphones from round his neck.
Oh goshabsolutely, sorry! I had headphones on, didnt realise the speakers were going. Ill turn it down.
Off would be better, Peter answered flatly. People live here, this isnt a student hall.
Right, Jack nodded quickly. Wont happen again.
The music cut out almost immediately. Peter settled back in his chair, but the irritation lingered. Didnt realise, he fumed. How do you not notice your speakers are blaring?
The next day, while the lunchtime news ran in the background, someone knocked. It was Jack again, this time wearing jeans, clutching his laptop.
Afternoon, he said, awkward. I just wanted to apologise for last night. AlsoI wondered, does your WiFi work alright? I cant seem to connect. Mrs. Wallace said youve been here ages, know everything.
Peter wanted to retort that his WiFi was his own business, but Jack stood there, shifting from foot to foot, laptop hugged to his chest like a schoolbook.
My internet its wired, Peter said warily. Im no expert. Whats the trouble?
Its justthe router, you know? Jack wrinkled his nose. Ive entered the password but it wont connect.
Which password? Peters suspicion sharpened. Mine?
No, nomy own one! Only, Mrs. Wallace said you called an engineer for a problem oncethought you might have the number.
That was reasonable; he did have that scrawled somewhere, stuck to the fridge with a magnet.
Hold on, Peter said, heading for the kitchen. Whats your name, son?
Jack, came the shy reply.
Im Peter, he said, returning with the paper. Ring this chap, sorted mine out.
Thanks so much! Jack grinned, relief clear. Ive got lectures, cant manage without the internet.
He started to leave, hesitated. If you ever need anything with your phone, or the laptopI can help. Im alright with these things.
Ive got everything working, Peter replied bluntly. Goodbye.
Jack nodded and vanished. The door clicked softly shut.
That night, when Peter tried to figure out why icons had vanished from his phone after an update, he remembered Jacks offer. Pride wouldnt let him ask, so he jabbed away at the screen, cursing the tiny lettersultimately losing the clock from the home page altogether.
The next day the chat grew lively. Someone complained about takeaway boxes in the stairwell; someone else uploaded photos of trainers by doors. Peter recognised Jacks. Probably the new tenant at 237, someone wrote. Then: Lets respect shared spaces.
He stared at the screen for a while, then typed, Maybe easier to talk in person than moan in the chat. He surprised himself by sending it.
Some days later, returning from the market with a heavy bag of potatoes, Peter spotted Jack sitting on the front steps, smoking, eyes glued to his phone and a supermarket bag at his side.
No smoking at the entrance, Peter barked automatically as he passed.
Jack startled, hid the cigarette behind his back, then stubbed it in the bin. Sorry. Ill move away.
No point nowyouve filled it with smoke, Peter grumbled as he trudged past.
He climbed the steps, paused, and glanced back. Jack picked up his bag, jogged behind, and held the door open.
Thanks, Peter muttered, grudgingly.
They rode the lift in silence. The lift always hesitated between the third and fourth floors and Jack instinctively hugged his bag close to avoid bumping the neighbour.
Have you lived here long? he asked, watching the number 8 glow.
A very long time, Peter replied curtly.
Im justwell, not used to it yet. Back home, weve got a house. Its different. No group chats about trainers left out, either.
How do you manage? Peter couldnt help asking.
Well, if somethings in the way, theyll tell you. My dad would lob a slipper, Jack chuckled. Not take a picture and moan online.
You can talk to people here too, Peter pointed out. But tidy your shoes before you argue.
I will, promised Jack, his face serious.
A few days later, Peters water meter played up. A notice from the management company arrived: no readings, standard charge added. He called the office, was told hed better submit readings immediately or face extra charges. Peter crawled under the sink, tried to read the tiny numbers, wincing as his back pinched.
Muttering, he climbed out and sat on the stool, Jacks words ringing in his ear: I can help if you need. He dismissed the thought at first, then, with a sigh, shuffled down the corridor to 237 and knocked.
Jack opened the door almost at once, headphones around his neck, thankfully silent this time.
Peter? Jack blinked.
You said you know about these things, Peter admitted, hating to show weakness. I need to send meter readings online, but my backs gone and I cant see the blasted numbers.
Of course! Jack brightened. Let me just grab my phone.
Jack slipped his trainers off with care at the doorPeter noticed the small, respectful gesture. Jack knelt easily by the sink, lit up the meter with his phone, read the numbers aloud, and filled in the form himself.
All done, Jack announced. Youll get a confirmation text soon.
Thank you, Peter said, awkward. They explained it on the phone like Im a coder or something.
They talk to everyone like that, Jack grinned. You could get their app. Makes it easier.
No chance, Peter waved him off. Not interested in all your apps.
Nothing tricky, Jack replied gently. Want me to show you?
He demonstrated. Jacks fingers slid confidently over the touchscreen, but Peter watched as if it was some kind of conjuring trick. Soon an icon with the companys logo appeared.
There, Jack said. Next time, just tap here. Step by step.
Right, Peter nodded, not admitting hed already forgotten half of it.
After that, Peters view of Jack shifted. The late visitors and laughter still irked him, as did the mingled smells of Jacks suppers and the sound of guests, but other feelings crept inlike hed been shoved into some unfamiliar, faster world, without asking for it.
One night close to midnight, a party started next door. People laughed, someone played a video so loud the dialogue bled through the wall. At first Peter endured it, then slipped on his dressing-gown and stepped into the hall, seeing yet more complaints in the group chat: Whats that racket? 237 AGAIN? Calling the police?
He stared at his phone, simmering like a boiling kettle. At last he rang Jacks bell, decisively.
No answer at first; then giggles paused and someone shushed the others. Jack appeared, hair askew, two young friends peering out behind him.
Peter, er Jack started, but Peter cut across him.
Do you even know the time? His voice was low but hard as flint. People round here sleep. Some need to be at work tomorrow, some arent well. You like it when people shout all night?
Jack dropped his gaze. Sorrygenuinely. Well wrap up. I wasnt thinking.
Thats just it. You never think. Youll have the whole block dancing to your tune.
A young woman in the background spoke up. Well leave, she said softly. We didnt mean to upset anyone.
Good, Peter sighed. Cut it out. Group chats already talking about calling the police.
No need, Jack said hastily. Itll be quiet now.
He closed the door and, sure enough, the flat fell silent. But Peter didnt feel reliefmore an ache, as if hed broken something precious, not just left a neighbourly comment.
Next day, coming home from the Post Office, Peter spotted Jack at the bins, two rubbish bags in hand, scrutinising a notice about recycling.
Morning, Jack greeted him, sounding oddly formal. I wanted to say sorry againfor the noise. We honestly didnt realise how loud it was.
These walls are like cardboard, Peter replied. You can hear everything.
They stood in silence for a few moments, the crinkle of the carrier bags loud in the stillness.
Are you Jack ventured quietly, Do you live on your own?
There was no malice in the question, but Peters stomach twisted defensively.
Whats it to you? he snapped.
Nothing, Jack backed off. Mrs. Wallace said youve lived here decades so Iwell, just wondered.
Mind your studies, Peter shot back, heading to the lift.
In the lift, he caught sight of his reflectiongrey hair, crows feet, lips pressed together. Why did you bark at him? he wondered. But he said nothing aloud.
A couple of weeks later, a leak sprang in the block. That Saturday Peter woke to a strange drip-drip sound not from his kitchen, but the hallway. He opened the front door and found water streaming from the ceiling by his doorway, pooling underfoot.
He muttered, fetched a washing-up bowl, then called the management company. Emergency teams on their way, they said. Someones burst a pipe up on nine. In the group chat, photos of soggy ceilings flew past as neighbours panicked about wiring.
While Peter gathered towels, someone knocked. It was Jack, holding a plastic mixing bowl.
You got a leak too? he asked.
Looks like it, Peter sighed, pointing upwards.
Its dripping right onto my extension lead, Jack explained. Ive unplugged everything, but its a mess. Mrs. Wallace has gone to the office to complain. Thought Id see if I could help you shift thingsget valuables out of the way.
Side by side, they edged Peters heavy wardrobe away from the wall, Jack shifting it with no noise or fuss. Peters back was a misery, but he wouldnt stand asidehelping out, tight-lipped.
You shouldnt strain yourself, Jack remarked.
Im not decrepit yet, Peter snapped. No such luck.
When the repair team finally turned up and shut the mains off, the flooding stopped, leaving yellow stains on the ceiling and a sodden rug. Peter and Jack ended up sitting on the kitchen chairsseparate mugs in hand, Jacks T-shirt blotched with rusty water.
When our roof leaked back home, Jack began after a while, Dad cursed for days. But in the end he fixed it himself. I was away at uni by then. He just told me after, on the phone.
So whyd you leave? Peter asked, surprised by his own interest.
Wanted to study. They only have a technical college in my town. Got a spot at the university heremum and dad told me to go for it. But Jack trailed off. This place is huge. Nobody knows anyone. I started off in halls, but it was chaos. Thought moving here, itd be quieter.
Quieter? Peter snorted. Some hope.
Jack smirked. I do try, honestly. Just sometimes it feels like a library heretoo still.
Whats wrong with quiet? Peter asked.
Jack shrugged. Nothing. Justwhen its too quiet, your mind wanders.
He stared into his mug. In the hush, they heard the faint whirring of a drill in the next building.
So youre computers, are you? Peter said, to fill the pause.
Programming, yeah. Bit scared of it, to be honest. Barely scraped through first term. Sometimes I think I should pack it in, move home, get a job. But then Dadd call me a quitter.
Dads do love talking, Peter sighed. Mine was just the same.
He stopped short of saying how hed run off from a Midlands mining village once, lived in student halls, worked building sites in the evenings. It all felt like another life. But the note in Jacks voicefear of failurestruck a chord.
After the leak, they saw each other more oftenby the lift, at the postboxes. The music next door was softer, and if it crept up, Jack would hush it himself within minutes.
In early winter, as darkness fell before tea time, Peters knee seized up and he could barely make it to the kitchen. Sitting, he realised hed left his tablets in the bedroom. Too far to hobble.
He grunted, then reluctantly phoned Jackwhose number hed saved after the water meter episode.
Hello? came Jacks voice.
Its Peter, he said, forcing his voice level. Are you in?
Yes, whats up?
Nothing, Peter lied. Justcould you pop round if youre free?
There was Jack a minute later, in the hallway.
My legs gone, Peter admitted, defeated. Tablets are in the bedroomcant reach.
Jack, without a word, fetched thembrought water, helped Peter sit, propped a cushion under his knee.
Want me to ring a doctor? Jack asked.
Ill live, Peter waved him off. Old injuries.
How come?
Fell down stairs years ago, Peter said. Its just catching up with me.
Jack perched on a stool.
If you need anything, message me. Im not far. Im up half the night revising anyway.
You study, Peter said. Not like us lotwhen we were your age all we knew was shifting bricks.
At least you know how to talk to people, Jack replied wryly. All we do is row in group chats.
Peter let out a grin he didnt expect.
Winter crept into the flats quietly. It was colder by the stairwell, a chilly breeze tickling through the window frames. People scurried inside, drawn to the warmth of radiators and kettles.
In early January, Mrs. Wallace went to visit her daughter for a week. In the chat, she said, If anyone needs anything, Jack is heredo ask him. Peter laughed when he read that: Now hes in charge.
One evening as snowflakes drifted past the glowing windows and onions sizzled in Peters frying pan, the doorbell rang. Jack stood there, holding a bag.
I made stew, he said, a bit embarrassed. Too mucheven for me. Do you want some?
You sure? Peter asked.
Ive eaten, Jack smiled. And Mrs. Wallace isnt here, cant give her any. You told me you like soup.
Peter didnt recall ever saying so, but he accepted the Tupperware all the same.
Thank you. Dont forget to fetch your container back.
I will. Enjoy your supper.
The stew was surprisingly goodoversalted, but hearty. As Peter ate, it struck him how odd things had become: the lad hed once thought was nothing but noise was now feeding him his tea.
A few days later, Jack called by, laptop at the ready.
Peter, he said. Our teams on TV tonightcup match, and my subscriptions down again. Mrs. Wallace said youve still got cable. Mind if I watch at yours? Promise Ill be quiet.
Peter thought of objectingfootball didnt interest him much nowadays. But something stirreda memory of watching games, cursing the referee, arguing over tactics.
Come in, he said. Shoes off.
They sat on the sagging sofa, Jack upright and cautious. As players darted across the screen, Jack fetched them both a mug of tea at half-time.
I thought you supported someone else, Jack observed when he spotted the old scarf slung over a cupboard door.
And how would you know who I support? Peter shot him a look.
Theres an old scarf there, Jack nodded. Looks ancient.
Like its owner, Peter agreed.
But still loyal, Jack replied.
They watched, both groaning at missed chances, sometimes cheering in unison. Peter realised he hadnt laughed that much in years.
When it was over, Jack lingered by the door.
Thank you, he said. Felt a bit like being at homedad and I used to do this, only he swore more.
I still can, Peter smirked. Just not in front of strangers.
Im not quite a stranger any more, Jack answered softly.
Peter didnt know what to sayhe just nodded.
Spring crept up quietly. The playground snow melted, revealing last years sweet wrappers. Painters appeared, slapping fresh paint on the hallway. Peter watched his rubber plant stretch towards the sunlight, new leaves unfurling lazily.
One afternoon, Mrs. Wallace knocked.
Its me, Peter, she said, voice gentle. Wanted your advice. Jacks moving out soon, exams and placements coming up. Thinking of letting the room again, but Im tired of the drama.
Moving out? Peter repeated, as if he hadnt heard.
Yes, hes found somewhere nearer campus. The travels too much. Do you think I should rent again?
Peter shrugged, feeling an odd hollowness inside. Up to you. You have to live with whoever comes.
Suppose so, she sighed. Got used to him, in a way. Bit noisy sometimes, but hes a decent lad. Could get someone much worse She trailed off, but they both knew what she meant.
After she left, Peter sat in the kitchen, watching his plant lean into the light.
That evening, in the lift, he found Jack.
Soyoure off? Peter tried to sound neutral.
Seems that way, Jack said. Found a room near unisaves me an hour each way. With exams, I need to be closer.
Best to keep moving when youre young.
They travelled in silence. Between the fifth and sixth floors, the lift doors opened pointlessly, then shut again.
Ill leave the WiFi password for you, Jack said, stepping out. If Mrs. Wallace gets another lodger, you might need it. Orif you want, I could leave my old router for you?
Ill be fine, Peter waved him off. Only just got used to your apps.
Whatever you say, Jack grinned.
Over those two weeks, they drank tea in Peters kitchen a few more times, talked the news, argued about films. Jack helped carry heavy bags from the shop; Peter mended Jacks wobbly stool, showing him how to tighten the screws properly.
On moving day, the corridor was blocked by Jacks suitcase again. He fiddled with the handle, rucksack already shouldered. Mrs. Wallace darted about, reminding him not to forget towels or plates.
Peter stood in his doorway. Off, then?
Off, Jack nodded. Thank youfor everything. The meters, the football
Not for the noise, Peter grumbled, but kindly.
For the noiseIm sorry. I genuinely tried.
They fell silent.
Look after yourself, Peter said finally. Dont give up on your course. Or youll end up lugging buckets about like me.
I wont, Jack promised. And youve still got my number. If you need help with the phone, or internet, message me. Ill try to explain.
Alright, Peter agreed. Ill remember.
The lift arrived. Jack dragged in his suitcase, glanced back: Goodbye, Peter.
Take care, Jack.
When the doors closed, the landing felt suddenly too quiet. Only Peters coat hung on the rack, no trainers, no cartons around. The scent of fresh paint lingered, mingled with a whiff of baking from downstairs.
That evening, Peter sat in his armchair, radio murmuring in the background. The room was so silent he could hear water chugging through the pipes. He scrolled through his contacts, pausing at Jack. He opened the chat, read through the empty thread. Then typed, Did you get there alright? and hovered over the send button.
At last, he sent the message.
The reply came in a minute: Got here fine! Thanks for checking. Then: Is it nice and quiet there? with a smiley.
Peter smiled too.
All quiet, he wrote back. A bit too quiet, really. Then, Dont forget, this is a homenot a student hall! with another smiley.
Ill remember, Jack replied.
Peter set his phone down and wandered to the kitchen. Out of habit, he took out two mugs, then put one back. He peered out of the windowthe boys outside were kicking a football, someone walked a dog, a door slammed in the next block.
He poured his tea, sat at the table. The rubber plant stretched towards the sun on the windowsill. Peter glanced thoughtfully at the empty seat opposite, and wondered if one day, someone else would sit there. Not necessarily Jack, not necessarily young. Just someone to argue with about noise, to lend a hand with the phone, or watch the match together.
The thought didnt seem so frightening after all.
He sipped his tea as the quiet drifted around the flatno longer empty, but poised, like a pause between two lines of conversation. As if someone had only stepped out for a moment and would be back, shutting the door gently behind them.
