The Dream of the Garlic-Scented Flat
I had just moved into a new flat in a crooked, four-storey row house in London. My neighbours were a young couple with two boisterous children and, on the other side, a middle-aged woman named Margaret, who lived alone with her tabby cat, Whiskers.
At first, I assumed wed all rub along nicelyId never had a spot of bother with neighbours before. But one evening, as I stood at the hob frying garlic for a shepherds pie, the doorbell rang. There stood Margaret, her nose wrinkled in distaste.
“The smell,” she said, voice pinched, “its seeping through the walls. I cant even hear *EastEnders* over the stink of it.” She fixed me with a stern look. “Must you use so much?”
Baffled, I mumbled an apology and shut the door. A few days later, I made the same dishonly for my landlord, Mr. Thompson, to knock, stiff as a board, and inform me of a “persistent odour complaint.”
At first, I was cross. Going behind my back? Rude. But then, like a bolt from the blue, an idea struck. The next time I cooked, I marched over to Margarets, plate in hand.
“Perhaps,” I said, grinning, “the real issue is that it smells too good, and you fancied a bite.” I thrust the dish toward her.
She blinked, thenmiracle of miraclesinvited me in. Over tea, she confessed that as a girl, shed adored garlic bread. But her late husband, Henry, had loathed the smell, so shed given it up decades ago. My cooking had stirred up old cravings, and that, not the scent, had nettled her.
The next morning, a note appeared under my door: *”Delicious. Thank you.”* Now, whenever I cook, I make extra for Margaret. Sometimes, Whiskers watches from the counter as we chop and stir, the flat thick with the warmth of shared suppers and stranger things.
