In the corner flat of our small, five-storey block, there once lived an elderly couple. To be fair, they looked like rather sweet old folksdevoted and always supporting each other. They were the sort who did absolutely everything together. No one really knew much about them; they were quietly mysterious. For a time, the neighbours had no idea that Grandpa was suddenly alone. Someone glimpsed an ambulance pulling up, but it wasnt until the funeral that everyone realised Nana had gone.
Whether out of loneliness or simply because no one else was about, Grandpa started getting out more often. Hed wander around, sometimes bumping into neighbours in Tesco or the post office. Previously, he was mostly unnoticed, but now he greeted everyone, inquired about their families, and wanted to know the latestwho’s got grandkids, whos moved away, all that sort. He even started chatting to me, grinning like an old friend, and offered to carry my shopping home.
And what about your husband? Doesnt he have hands to help you? he asked.
I haven’t got a husband yet. Hows that possible? You must be forty, and no husband?
I was only thirty-one, but arguing with Grandpa seemed pointless.
Frankly, he was spoiling my mood, so I tried to avoid running into himless exposure, fewer cheeky remarks. Little did I know, he was treating everyone to this routine. Mum came home from work one day, looking flustered, and revealed that all the grandmas out in the communal garden were gossiping about me: Shes ancient, still no husband, no kids, and living with her parents. I swallowed my pride, thinking it would blow over. It didnt. Grandpa collected tidbits about everyone and redistributed them like a busybody pigeon, spreading crumbs all over.
Eventually, they swapped me for the single dad upstairs, who apparently hosted ladies of the night while his kids were at school. Not to be outdone, Grandpa soon announced to everyone that the neighbour on the first floorwho runs a little workshophad never actually used a screwdriver, since he couldn’t fix some ancient car Grandpa owned ten years ago.
Our neighbours used to mind their own business; everyone kept to themselves and hardly acknowledged each other. Now, every corridor, bin and stairway is ringing with all sorts of gossip. Im embarrassed to leave the stairwell, convinced that every eye is trained on me, discussing my lack of a husband. I find myself pondering the stories about others, toonot talking with neighbours, but quietly soaking up the rumours. Not ideal, admittedly. And it’s all thanks to one meddlesome Grandpa.
The chairman of our residents’ association has decided to do something about him, after Grandpa started claiming he was helping himself to other peoples pension money without asking. Now the chairmans going door-to-door, collecting signatures for his grand eviction campaign, and the neighbours appear eager to oblige. But can you really evict someone from their home, decades in the making, just because of their penchant for tittle-tattle? Honestly, Id rather move myself and half the block than boot out Grandpa.
