The flat opposite
Marian came upon the flat through a chance notice: Council flat, centre, cheap, urgent. It looked suspiciously cheap, with scuffed parquet and peeling windowsills, yet the ceilings were high and the windows vast.
After her divorce Marian was not seeking a home so much as a sanctuary a place where no one would ask, Are you sure you wont regret this?
She received the keys on a Friday evening. The town already smelled of damp leaves. October, that month when everything crumbles and then has to be built anew.
The first night she hardly slept. Wrapped in a blanket, she perched on the windowsill and stared at the windows opposite. The flat across the courtyard was like a palmsized map. Fifthfloor, a balcony streaked with crimson petunias, a soft, warm glow in the sitting room. A family lived there.
She saw a tall man in a grey jumper, a slender woman with a braid, as if shed stepped out of an old yoghurt advert, and two children a little girl and a boy. They were setting the table together; the girl hopped, the boy held her hand, the woman smiled. The man uncorked a bottle of wine. Their laughter drifted even through the glass.
Marian sank back onto her pillow. How many years had she gone without hearing laughter at a house?
The next morning she sipped tea on the same sill and watched again. Across the way they were having breakfast. The man read the paper, the woman gently smoothed the girls hair, the boy raced a toy car.
During the day Marian unpacked boxes. In the evening she walked to the shop opposite the courtyard. At the entrance she collided with the woman from the flat opposite, who was lugging bags of apples and a bottle of cherry cola. An apple rolled under Marians foot.
Oh dear! Sorry, the woman chuckled. Everything seems to slip from my hands, as usual!
Marian caught the apple and smiled.
No harm done. Need a hand? the woman asked.
It would be lovely! Im Ethel. You just moved in, havent you?
Yes, a few days ago. Marian, she replied.
Then you must try my apple strudel! Its a family custom to treat new neighbours. May I bring it over?
An hour later Ethel appeared with a steaming tray, the scent of cinnamon filling the hallway, and a small glass of icecream for dessert balance. She was spry as a cat, in jeans, with a higharched back and an overly wide grin.
They shared tea and conversation. Ethel told her:
We moved here five years ago. Luck smiled on us: an investor came along, we had the flat refurbished. My husband works in IT, the children attend the local grammar school. Im at home now, but Im thinking of opening a motherandbaby café.
A motherandbaby café? Marian echoed.
Just a cosy spot where mums can pop in with prams, have a bake, chat without rushing.
Marian listened, smiled, and felt a quiet, sharp stir inside something like envy.
You have it all genuinely, she said.
We try, Ethel nodded.
When Ethel left, Marian turned back to the window. In the opposite kitchen, Ethel stood by the stove, her husband slipped his arms around her from behind and she laughed. The children bounded, fell, squealed.
Marian sighed. This was how it ought to be warm, safe, driven by love.
She switched off the light, yet even as sleep neared she could see those opposite windows like a cinema screen, a film shed arrived late to.
* * *
Marian, are you home? Ive brought a honey cake!
Marian opened the door. Ethel stood with a slice in one hand and a crocheted bag in the other, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting. A fresh bruise lingered on her left collarbone, as if from a belt or a hard hand.
Youve a bruise. Everything alright?
Ethel tugged at the edge of her jumper.
Oh, that? Im clumsy. I left a cupboard door ajar, bent down silly accident.
Marian didnt believe her, but said nothing.
Ethel visited often. First once a week, then almost daily, bringing pies, salads, stories.
We and my husband have a truth day every Saturday, she said. We speak openly about what irks us, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It works, truly.
And the children?
We never argue in front of them. They must see us as a team.
Marian listened, yet the feeling grew that everything was too perfect, too textbook.
One evening, walking home from the shop together, Ethel confessed, I used to be completely different worked in advertising, lived on coffee and taxis. Then I met him. He turned my world upside down.
In what way?
In a good way, of course! He taught me to be myself, not to play roles, not to lie.
Marian nodded, but the words felt rehearsed, as if lifted from a handbook on female happiness.
A few days later Marian stood at her window out of habit. The opposite flat was dim, then a flash of light, a shout a man’s roar, then a womans cry, a childs whimper, and a slam of the door. The light went out a minute later.
The next morning Marian met Ethel in the lift. Ethel wore sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
All okay? Marian asked.
Yes. We just burnt out. It happens. Dont mind.
Marian didnt know what to say, but she nodded.
When Marian visited later, the children sat silent on the carpet, clasping toys as if hiding behind them.
Ethel set out tea. Marian asked gently, Are you sure everythings alright?
Ethel froze, kettle in hand, then slowly sat down.
Sometimes I feel Im living in a shop window. Everyone sees the happy family, the tidy wife, the obedient children. At night I sometimes wake up feeling Im shouting, but no one hears.
Maybe you should?
No, its not what you think. He doesnt hit me. Hes just tired. Im no sugarplum either. Who among us is perfect?
That night Marian watched the opposite windows again. They were drinking tea, laughing, yet she saw the little girl flinch when the father raised his voice, Ethel avert her eyes, the husband speak through clenched teeth. A beautiful story, but inside sharp teeth were clicking.
* * *
Marian often wondered: could she be wrong? Was this all a projection? After her divorce she trusted no man, no relationship, not even herself. Perhaps envy had simply sharpened her vigilance. Yet each new encounter with Ethel added to her anxiety.
One day Ethel arrived with pancakes, her hand awkward, barely bending.
Everything fine?
Of course. I pulled a muscle. Yoga isnt a joke.
The same plastic smile, the same showcase face.
You can trust me if you want.
Ethels demeanor shifted, as if a switch had been flipped.
Marian, please dont start. Hes not a monster. Hes just tired. He works hard for us, and I I can be unbearable. I know that.
Youre not the only unbearable one You have that bruise, Ethel. You wear sunglasses when its grey. You whisper to the children.
Thats how it has to be.
What do you mean has to be?
If you dont understand then youve never really been married.
Marian had no answer. Then Ethel left.
That night Marian watched a drama on TV, but heard nothing. Her heart thumped, a light panic rose as before a storm.
Then a sound.
First a muffled thump, then a scream a womans, followed quickly by a harsh male shout: Quiet! I said quiet!
Something crashed, metal shrieked.
Marian froze, rose, and went to the window. Light flickered in the opposite flat. Shadows moved quickly, like a stage rehearsal. A scream again, then a childs sob.
Silence.
Her hands trembled as she dialed 999. The operator answered calmly, almost soothingly.
Are you sure its violence?
Yes, I heard blows, a scream. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call? Any confirmation?
I
She stopped. No confirmation, just her and the night, and the feeling that if she didnt act now, things would worsen.
Well log the call. Patrol will be there, but youd best stay out of it.
The patrol arrived after forty minutes. First footsteps, voices, then the door slammed and silence fell.
Through the window Marian saw the husband, Ethels spouse, standing in the doorway, speaking politely to the police, papers in hand. Ethel was nowhere to be seen.
That night a soft knock came at Marians door. Almost silent.
Ethel.
Her eyes were swollen, hair hastily tied, fingers trembling.
May I come in?
Marian let her in without a word and set a kettle boiling.
Did you call them?
Yes. Im sorry, I had no other choice.
Ethel sat, staring at a spot on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wife if I smiled, cooked, listened hed love me. Hed soften. Hed see my effort. But he only tightens his grip, a little more each week.
You could leave.
Where? With two children? I have no job, no relatives, nothing.
You have me.
Ethels eyes rose, then she pressed a hand to her lips and began to weep.
Youre the only one who refuses to look away. Everyone else turns their heads. Even at the grammar school, people know but say nothing. It feels like a dark corner of someone elses life.
Im not a dark corner.
But youre not a rescuer. Youre just a neighbour.
And youre not a thing.
Ethel fell silent, then stood.
Ill leave. Not today, but I will.
Marian nodded, feeling at last she was not merely a spectator but a small light in anothers window dim, but warm.
* * *
The night was thick as candied jam. Darkness filled the panes, silence hung in the air, only the rain whispering faintly on the sill.
When Marian heard a knock, she first thought it was imagination, then again, twice, cautiously.
She opened the door, breath caught.
Ethel.
In a halfopen dressing gown, slippers on, no umbrella. Wet strands clung to her face, a fresh cut on her lip, a bruise on her cheek, a plush rabbit clenched in her hand.
May I just sit? she whispered.
Marian let her in.
Ethel curled on the sofa corner, hugging the rabbit. She stayed mute, shoulders trembling.
He said I ruin his life. If I dont learn to be silent, hell teach me. Then he struck. Not hard, but it wasnt the first time.
You the children?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Ethel, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere else. He has money, contacts. Im nobody. I cant even find work. No one will take me with the kids.
Marian sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of her being.
Youre a person. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill find something. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Marian. Im so tired of fearing and of hoping even more.
Im here. Not a hero, but I wont turn away.
Ethel fell silent, then rested her head on Marians shoulder, hugging the rabbit, soft as a child.
Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt turn away, who doesnt say Its your fault, who simply is.
And Ill stay, until you have the strength to say Enough.
They sat long, wordless, listening to rain wash away old pain.
Two weeks later Ethel left, no suitcase, only a rucksack, a bag of childrens things, and a tidy folder of documents.
Marian held that folder as they stepped out into the night, the house asleep. The children walked quietly, the girl holding her brothers hand, the plush rabbit poking out of the rucksack like a distress signal.
The flat Marian found for Ethel was modest: a single room, a peeling bathroom, an ancient fridge. But it was quiet, and there was no one shouting, ordering, or throwing things.
Here well start anew, Ethel said as the children fell asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Marian youre the first line on this page. Thank you.
Marian merely nodded.
Then everything whirled. Marian contacted shelters, called lawyers, filed reports. Ethel relearned to live: taking remote jobs, buying food from lists, sleeping with the lights off without fear.
The children adjusted slowly. One day the boy handed Marian a drawing: two women, two children, and the words For Marian above it.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, and something thawed in Marians heart.
She rose early, made tea, and, as before, went to the window.
The opposite windows were empty.
The woman who had lived there had gone not just from a flat, but from a life she had trapped herself in, from a showcase where she was displayed as the good wife.
Marian watched and felt no longer jealous, no longer hurt, no longer alone. Simply at peace.
Her home was here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded at the door and she went to answer.
On the threshold stood Ethel in a coat, cheeks rosy, the children behind her. The girl clutched the plush rabbit, the boy a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? Ethel asked.
Marian laughed.
Come in. I just pulled it out of the oven.
The door swung open, not merely into a flat but into a morning, into a life where perfection was not required, only honesty.
