Not Quite the Same Age
My mornings follow a familiar ritual. The kettle whistles, the battered radio in the kitchen crackles to life with chatter about the roads and the weather, a couple of doors bang in the hallway above and belowpeople off to work. Ive long since stopped hurrying anywhere, but the habit of getting up early never left, nor has the tendency to potter about, checking the windows are latched, the gas hobs off, and my keys are sitting on the dish by the door.
Ive lived in this old block of flats on the edge of town for over thirty years now. I know who slams their door the hardest, which bell belongs to which flat, whose buggy is always clogging up the landing. My floor is generally quiet, which suits me. In the evenings, I settle in my armchair, put on an old sitcom, hear the cough of Mrs Wilkins, my neighbour at the end, and feel that the buildings alive, but not noisy.
Even the communal areas run like clockwork. I straighten any crooked notices on the noticeboard, and once I even retyped the cleaning rotaspelling mistakes annoy me. My rubber plant sits on the landing windowsill in an old ice cream tub. When summer comes, I move it outside to make things less gloomy.
The day things started to shift, I was watering the rubber plant. The faint aroma of fried sausages drifted up from somewhere below. The lift clattered, squeaked, and the doors wheezed open. Out came a young lad dragging a wheeled suitcase, rucksack slung on his back, headphones in, cable trailing to his phone. Some pulsing beat barely seeped out.
He paused, scanned the door numbers, glanced my way.
Morning, he said, plucking out one earbud. Excuse meis this Flat 237?
237? Thats just along, second on the left, I replied. The numberings odd, not exactly in order.
He nodded, hauled the suitcase which rattled along the tiles. With all his gear, the corridor felt suddenly narrow; his bag caught my arm as he passed.
Ah, sorry! he said hastily. Im, er moving in today.
The phrase moving in caught at me. Mrs Wilkinssweet old dear with a catlived in 237. Id heard she was letting a room for a bit of extra money. This must be her new lodger.
Back in my own flat, 235, I closed the door and lingered in the hallway, listening. Next door, someone shifted furniture, cupboard doors thumped. Soon the doorbell rang several timesfriends, perhaps? Young, brisk voices and the quick staccato of laughter.
I retreated to the kitchen and poured myself more teastrong, the way I liked it, though it tasted bitter. Mrs Wilkins had once said: Well, you know, the pensions a pittance. Let them instudents are generally quiet. Quiet, I thought.
By evening, quiet proved a stretch. After sunset, bags rustled in the hall, a door slammed. Then music started next door. Not blaring, but with a low, persistent thump that vibrated straight through the wall. I flicked off the tellyjust in time to hear the bass, measured as a heartbeat.
After ten minutes, I rapped on the wall with my fingers. The music didnt stop. I knocked harder. The bass dropped a notch, but didnt vanish.
Some quiet, I muttered to myself, settling back but unable to relax.
The night crawled by. Around midnight, someone clattered through the landing door so hard my wardrobe shuddered. Laughing and whispering, they fumbled with their keys a full minute before finally getting in. I counted my heartbeats, thinking of the message Id once posted to the residents WhatsApp: Dear neighbours, lets please keep the noise down after eleven. My own words, thrown back at me.
The next morning, the corridor was different. Two pairs of trainers by the door, a jacket on the hookuntil now only mine and Mrs Wilkins ever hung there. A discarded pizza box propped carefully against the wall.
I paused, considered, and then retreated to my flat, pulled out my phone and started to type into the WhatsApp group: Neighbours, please dont leave rubbish in the corridor and keep the noise down at night. Deleted it. Tried: Does anybody know whos in 237? Was noisy last night. Deleted that, too. In the end sent, simply: Please dont leave rubbish on the landing.
Got a quick reply: a smiley face. Then: Whos left rubbish? Were clean here. Mrs Wilkins didnt pitch in. She always avoided the group chats.
That afternoon, I bumped into her by the lift. She wore her usual tartan scarf and carried a bag from Sainsburys, a loaf and a sprig of parsley poking out.
So, is your new lodger in? I asked, trying not to sound too curious.
Oh, Oliveryes, hes settled. A student chapcomputer science. Very polite, honestly. Dont worry, Ive asked him not to be noisy.
Hmm, I said. Polite, is he?
That evening, just as I tried to watch the news, the music struck up again next doornow with vocals, English lyrics stretched and slow. I turned off the TV, put on my slippers, and stepped into the corridor.
I rang Mrs Wilkins bell. The music, muffled but insistent, floated out. In a moment, the lock clicked. Oliver, in a t-shirt and joggers, appeared.
Alright, Mr?
Mr Barker, I said. Would you lower it? Its past hours.
His eyes widened. Sorry! Of coursedidnt realise my speakers were on. Ive got headphones, just forgot. Ill turn it off.
Best do, I said flatly. We live here; its no uni hall.
He nodded. Understood. Wont happen again.
The music stopped almost at once. I returned and sat in my chair, not much calmer. Didnt notice, I muttered. How do you not notice music blasting?
The next day, mid-news, there was a knock. It was himOliverin jeans, laptop tucked under one arm.
Hello. Sorry to bother youjust wanted to apologise again for yesterday. And actually, I wondered do you get WiFi alright? My routers gone funny, doesnt connect. Mrs Wilkins mentioned youve lived here ages and might know who to call.
I wanted to tell him off for bothering me, but he looked uncertain, clutching the laptop to his chest like a book.
My Internets wired, I grumbled. Im not much good with it these days. Whats not working?
The router he said, scratching his ear. When I put in my password, it wont connect.
Whose password? I asked, wary. Mine?
Oh no! he said, flustered. Ive got my own connection. Mrs Wilkins said you once called an engineer when yours went down. Thought you might have the number.
In fact, Id taped it to the fridge weeks back.
Hold on, I said, shuffling into the kitchen. Whats your name again?
Oliver, he called from the hall.
Im Mr Barker. I returned, handing him the scrap of paper. Try himfixed it up last time for me.
Thanks so much! He exhaled, relief on his face. Ive got deadlinesI cant manage without the Net.
He hesitated before leaving. By the way if you ever need help with your phone, or computer, or anything He lifted the laptop. Thats my thing.
Everything works as I want it, I snapped. Good day.
He nodded, vanished. The door clicked quietly shut.
That night, wrestling with my phone, lost again after an update mangled the symbols, I remembered his offer. Pride stopped me. I pecked hopelessly at the screen, cursing the tiny icons, till the clock vanished from the homepage.
The WhatsApp group was soon full of moansboxes left out, trainers in the way. Someone posted a picture: a pair of trainers I recognised as Olivers. Messages followed: Residents in 237, perhaps? Lets keep the landing tidy.
I stared at the chat for a while, then typed: Best to mention things in person, not just in the chat. Surprised myself by sending it.
A day or two later, I returned from the greengrocer with a heavy bag of potatoes and found Oliver sitting outside on the front step, vaping and scrolling his phone. A Sainsburys paper bag lay at his feet.
You shouldnt vape outside the entrance, I said automatically.
He jumped, then stubbed it out on the bin. Sorry. Ill move.
No need now, I grunted. Youve done it.
Up the stairs, he picked up his bag, caught up, and held the main door for me and my shopping.
Cheers, I muttered.
We rode up in silence. At three-and-a-half floors, as ever, the lift juddered. Oliver hugged his bag closer.
Have you lived here long? he asked, studying the glowing number 8.
Long enough, I replied tersely.
Im just not used to flats. We always had a house. No one there mouths off about trainers in a WhatsApp chat.
What do they do?
Well, tell you, face to face. Dadd just chuck a slipper at you. Not take a photo for a chat group.
At the top, the doors yawned open.
You can always say something here too, I told him. Only, put your shoes away first, then argue.
He grinned. Will do.
Some days later, the water meter packed inletter from the council: readings missing, estimated charges looming. I rang up, told them Id try, but crouching under the sink nearly did my back in.
After a stubborn fifteen minutes, I remembered: I can help you if you need, Mr Barker, hed said. I gave in, shuffled to 237, and knocked.
He answered quickly, headphones still around his neck.
You said you know about tech, I started, realising halfway I didnt want to sound needy. Anyway, I need to read the meter and log it online. Cant see the numbers, and my backs gone.
He perked up. Course! Let me just grab my phone.
He came in, took off his shoes and neatly lined them upthe care stuck in my mind. Then, without fuss, he knelt, shined a torch under the sink, dictated the numbers, and input them for me online.
All sorted, he said. Youll get a text in a minute.
Thank you, I said, embarrassed by my need for help. They explained things as if I was a computer engineer.
Theyre like that with everyone, he smiled. You could get an app, actually. Makes things easier.
No apps for me! I protested. Im no good with your gadgets.
Its easy, really, he soothed, flipping through my phone with deft, careful fingers. Before long, a little meter icon appeared on my screen.
There you go. Next time, just tap thatstep by step.
I nodded, knowing already Id forget half of it.
After that, I viewed Oliver a little differently. His late-night guests and wafts of spicy food still grated, but now I felt less irked, more oddly involvedpart of a quicker, younger world, though not by choice.
One night, near midnight, a particularly raucous conversation broke out next doorlaughter, the sounds of a video echoing through the walls. I resisted at first, but then slipped on my dressing gown and stepped into the hallway. The residents chat was already full: Whats that noise? Is it 237 again? Should we call the police?
I watched the stream of messages, anger rising like a kettle on the boil. Finally, I firmly pressed his bell.
The noise died down and the door creaked open. Oliver appeared, hair tousled, and behind him, a lad and a girl, both his age.
Mr Barker, I
You know what time it is? I said quietly, but sharply. People are asleep. Early shifts, some unwell. Would you like it if someone kept you up next door?
He looked down. Sorry. Wewell keep it down. I just didnt think.
Thats the problem. You never think. You expect the whole building to fit around you.
The girl behind him stirred. Were leavingsorry, properly.
Fine, I sighed. Just keep it together. People are talking about calling the police.
No needI promise, well be quiet.
He shut the door, and within minutes, silence fell. Oddly, it brought no reliefjust a hollow heaviness, as if Id broken more than the peace.
Returning from the post office the next afternoon, I found him by the rubbish chute, reading a council poster on recycling.
Hello, Oliver greeted me. Just wanted to say sorry again about last night. We genuinely didnt realise how much it carries.
These walls are paper, I grunted. You hear everything.
An awkward pause.
Are you do you live alone? he ventured.
It was innocent enough, but it still pinched.
Whats it to you? I snapped.
Nothing, reallyjust, Mrs Wilkins told me youd lived here ages. Thats all.
Just look after your business, I retorted, stalking off to the lift.
In the smeared mirror inside, my own frowning face stared backhair completely grey, lines at my eyes, mouth clamped tight. What was that for? I thought. But said nothing, not even to myself.
A couple of weeks on, the inevitable happeneda leak in the building. I woke to a persistent drip. Not the kitchen tapit was coming from the hallway. Opening the door, I found water trailing in a line from the ceiling onto my doormat.
Cursing, I fetched a bowl, rang the maintenance number, who said the emergency crew were on their way, something had burst on the top floor. The WhatsApp exploded with soggy ceiling photos and urgent messages.
Amid my mopping, the bell went. Oliver stood there, clutching a plastic basin.
You got water coming through too? he asked.
Yes. Look. I showed the damp patch overhead.
Ive unplugged everythingwaters leaking onto my extension lead. Mrs Wilkins has gone to complain to the management. Dyou need a hand moving anything?
Between us, we shifted the cabinet away from the wall and set out more bowls. He hefted the furniture without a groanunlike me.
You shouldnt hurt yourself, he said. Let me.
Im not decrepit yet, I retorted. Not just yet.
After half an hour, the emergency team killed the main, and the leak subsided, leaving splodgy stains on the ceiling and a sodden mat. We sat in my kitchen drinking tea from mismatched mugshim damp-haired, shirt marked with rusty water.
Back home, he said, staring at the window, when the roof leaked, my dad ranted for days, then went up and patched it himself. Course, Id moved out by then. Only told me after.
Why move out? I heard myself ask.
Courses, uni. Didnt want to hang around and let it slide. Here, the cityeverythings different. Busy, anonymous. I tried the halls, but it was chaos. Thought here would be quieter.
Thats rich, I snorted.
He half-smiled. I do try, you know. Only sometimes it just gets too quietlike a museum or a library.
Quiets not so bad.
No, but too much silence, and your mind starts working overtime.
He gazed into his mug; I stared into mine, the drone of a drill from next door filling the void.
So, youre into computers? I asked.
Mmm, he nodded. Programming. Still feel lost most of the timebarely scraped through exams. Sometimes think maybe I shouldve just stayed home, found some job. But Dad would call me weak.
Fathers do like their words, I sighed. Mine too.
I said nothing about my own move to the city, the days in student digs lugging bricks in the evenings to make ends meet. It felt like another age, but Olivers uncertainty rang clear and familiar.
Afterwards, I started seeing him differently. In the lift, at the post boxes, we exchanged the odd word. Oliver kept his music lowor if he forgot and it thumped, hed turn it down before I could even think to complain.
Come early winter, it grew dark by half past four and my knee seized up, bad enough I could barely hobble to the kitchen. My tablets were in the bedroom, out of reach.
Calling the GP seemed dramatic, so instead I rang the number Oliver had left after the meter episode.
Hi, he answered.
Its Mr Barker. Are you in?
Yeahsomething up?
Nothing serious, I lied. If youre free, could you pop round a sec?
He was there in minutes.
My knees gone. Pills are in the bedroom. I just cant get them at the minute.
He fetched them, brought a glass of water, helped me into the armchair, pillow under my leg.
Shall I call a doctor?
No needold battle scar, I muttered.
From what?
Years back, fell down some stairs. Never let me forget it.
He perched on a nearby chair.
If you ever need anything, just ring. Im usually up late anywaystudying.
Do. Study, I mean. When we were your age, we knew about bricks, thats all.
At least you actually know how to talk to people. We just moan in WhatsApp groups.
He laughed. To my surprise, I found myself doing the same.
As winter set in, the landing grew chilly, drafts sneaking through the old window frames. Everyone hurried through the corridors, clinging to their radiators and cups of tea behind closed doors.
In January, Mrs Wilkins went to visit her daughter. She left a message in the group: If anything comes up, Olivers at home. I read it, grinnedhe was the man of the house now.
One evening as snow fell thick outside and the onions sizzled in my pan, the bell rang. It was Oliver, a carrier bag in his hand.
Made a stew, bit too much reallydidnt want to waste it. Would you like some?
What about you?
Theres loads left. Mrs Wilkins isnt here to share it with, and you once said you liked a good stew.
I didnt remember saying that, but I took the tub anyway.
Thanks. Bring the container back later.
Will do. Enjoy.
Surprisingly good, that stewsalty, but hearty. As I ate, it struck me how unlike my first impressions Oliver now seemed; the noisy lodger ended up bringing my supper.
A few days later he knocked with his laptop.
Mr Barker, theres a match on, but my streaming apps blocked. Mrs Wilkins said you still have cable. May I watch it with you? Ill be quiet, honest.
Part of me wanted to say I couldnt care less about football nowbut old habits stirred. Watching a game, cursing the refereesomething almost comforting.
Come on inshoes off.
We sat together, barely shifting on the old sofa. The teams darted about, commentators voice rising and falling. At halftime, Oliver boiled up some tea.
I thought you supported the other team, he said, spotting the faded scarf on my dresser.
Howd you know who I follow?
Just noticed. Old, that scarf.
Im old myself, I joked.
But loyal, he laughed.
We both groaned at missed goals, cheered good shots. Itd been years since Id laughed out loud with another person.
Afterwards, standing at the door, he thanked me. Felt almost like home, that. Dad used to get more wound up than you, though.
I could still give him a run for his moneyI just mind my manners in company.
He smiled faintly. Im hardly company now, am I?
Silence lingered. I nodded.
Spring crept in quietly. The last of the playground snow melted, revealing wrappers and last years sand. Fresh paint smell wafted from the stairsmanagement finally had the walls done. A painter daubed with little care.
One sunny afternoon, Mrs Wilkins stopped by as I was tending the rubber plant.
Mr Barker, mind if I pick your brain? Olivers probably moving soonexams, work placement and all that. Not sure whether to let the room again. Could use the money, but Im getting weary of it all.
Hes leaving? I tried not to react.
Seems likely, she nodded. Hes found somewhere nearer to uni, less travelling. Do you think I should take another lodger?
Thats up to you, I shrugged, feeling something sink inside.
After she left, I stared at the plant basking in the light, baby leaves uncurling.
That evening, spotting Oliver by the lift, I ventured: Heard youre off soon.
Most likely, he agreed. Got a place twenty minutes from campus. Here, its three buses across town!
True enough. Youll manage.
In the lift, we rode up silently until, unprompted, he said:
Ill leave you the WiFi passwordmight be useful if someone else moves in after me. Could leave the old router too, if you want.
Ill muddle by, I said, smiling despite myself. Still havent figured out all your fancy apps.
Up to you.
During his last weeks, we had tea in my kitchen once or twiceargued about films, discussed the news. He carried my groceries for me, and I fixed a rickety chair for him.
Moving day brought a suitcase back to the corridor. Oliver fussed with the lock, rucksack already on, Mrs Wilkins telling him not to forget his sheets.
I stepped out.
Well, I said. Youre off then.
He grinned. Thanks againfor everything: meters, football
Not for the noise, mind, I gruffed, but without malice.
For the noise, I apologise, he replied seriously. Really, I did my best.
We were quiet a moment.
Remember to stick with your coursedont give it up, or youll end up lugging bowls of water round like me.
He laughed. I wont. If you need anythingphone, Internetjust text me. Ill do my best to help.
Ill bear it in mind.
The lift whined up. Oliver rolled his bag inside and gave a wave.
Goodbye, Mr Barker.
Good luck, Oliver, I said.
When the doors shut, silence settled again. Too much silence. Only my coat hung on the hook, no trainers, no boxes. Just paint and the faint scent of baking from downstairs.
That evening, I sat with the radio on, the flat impossibly quietso quiet, I could hear water running in the radiator. Scanning through my phones contacts, I found Oliver halfway down. I opened our chat, hesitated, then typed: How was the move?
After a long pause, I pressed send.
A couple of minutes later he replied: All fine, thanks for asking. Then: Is it quiet there? with a little smiley.
I grinned to myself.
Quiet, I wrote back. Maybe too much so. Then, tongue-in-cheek: Remember, this is a home, not a student hall. Smiley face.
I will, came the reply.
I set the phone down and put the kettle on, out of habit reaching for two mugsthen putting one away. Looking out the window, I watched boys kicking a ball about, someone walking a dog, a door slamming across the way.
I made my tea and sat by the window. The rubber plant basked in the light. Staring at the empty chair opposite, I thought that maybejust maybeone day, someone else would sit there. Not necessarily Oliver, not necessarily young. Just someone to argue with about noise, ask a favour with a phone, or watch the football with.
The thought didnt seem as alarming as it once had.
I sipped my tea. The flat remained silentbut the silence wasnt empty. Instead, it felt like a pause between lines in conversation, the sort you share with someone whos only briefly stepped out and will be back soon, shutting the door not quite as loud as before.
