6April The stairwell outside flat6 in our block on Camden Road always smells of damp umbrellas and fresh cement. Spring feels especially sharp here; the air is cool, yet the evenings linger with a glow that makes the day reluctant to leave.
The Smiths my dad, mum and I were returning home after the market. Each of us lugged a bag of veg and a loaf, the tops bristling with long green leeks. A few drops clung to the hallway door; someone had just entered without shaking the rain from their umbrella.
Pinned to the doors and the communal letterboxes were fresh notices printed on a homeoffice printer. In bold scarlet letters they read: Attention! Urgent replacement of water meters! Must be completed by the end of the week! Penalties apply! Call to book number below. The paper was already curling in the damp, ink feathering at the edges. Below, Aunt Maud, who lives on the ground floor, stood by the lift, trying to dial on her phone while holding a bag of potatoes in her other hand.
they say youll be fined if you dont change them, she whispered anxiously as we passed. I called them and a young man told me its a special campaign just for our block. Maybe its time?
Dad shrugged. It sounds oddly urgent. No one warned us beforehand. The managing agent is silent no letters, no calls. And campaign it sounds a bit too loud.
Later, over dinner, I slipped another notice out of my school bag the same flyer, folded in half and tucked into the door frame. Mum turned it over, checked the date of our last meter inspection on the bill.
Our last check was only a year ago. Why the rush? she asked. And why does nobody here know the company?
Dad thought a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyer. And what kind of service is this, handing out notices everywhere?
The next morning the stairwell was livelier. Voices echoed up the flights someone arguing on the phone, another group near the refuse chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat3 shared their worries.
If we dont replace them, theyll cut off our water! one exclaimed, panicked. I have little children!
Just then a doorbell rang. Two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, moved from flat to flat. One brandished a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, dear residents! Mandatory watermeter replacement under urgent instruction! Any unit past its inspection date will incur a penalty from the estate agent! The taller mans voice was booming, overly slick. The other hurried to the opposite door, knocking insistently as if he wanted to tick off as many flats as possible in one go.
Dad and I exchanged looks. He peeked through the peephole strangers, no badges, no identification. Mum whispered, Dont open the door yet. Let them move on.
I walked to the window and saw a driver in the courtyard, smoking, eyes glued to his phone, a black van with no markings parked nearby. Reflections of street lamps danced on the wet asphalt after last nights rain.
A few minutes later the two men moved on, leaving damp footprints on the carpet outside Aunt Mauds flat. Water trails ran in a thin line along her doormat.
That evening the whole landing buzzed like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the managing agent receiving vague answers. In our family WhatsApp group we debated whether to let those men in. Why so urgent? we asked. A neighbour from flat17 chimed in: They even had odd little ID cards just laminated paper with no logo. When I asked for a licence they slipped away.
Dads caution grew. Tomorrow well try to catch them and ask for full documents. Ill also call the managing agent directly, he said.
Mum agreed. I promised to record the conversation on my phone.
The following morning the trio returned same jackets, same folders, moving faster, knocking on every door, urging immediate registration.
Dad opened his door only halfway, the chain pulled tight. Show us your paperwork. Give us your licence and the reference number from the estate agent, if this is a scheduled job.
The first man fumbled, digging out a sheet with an unfamiliar logo and thrusting it through the crack. The second glanced away, scrolling on his tablet.
We service this building under contract heres the contract, he said.
What contract? With our managing agent? Name the responsible person, give the request number and the dispatchers phone, Dad asked calmly.
The men exchanged nervous glances, muttering about deadlines and fines. Dad then pulled out his mobile and dialled the managing office right there.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent service technicians today to replace water meters? Weve got strangers walking round the flats I heard a clear reply: no planned works, no dispatches, and that any genuine specialist would be warned in writing and signed by the residents beforehand.
The men tried to excuse themselves must have been a mistake, wrong address but Dad had already captured the call on my phones recorder.
Night fell quickly, the landing slipping into a halfdark. A cold draft slipped through an open window, the wind rattling the higherup windows. Umbrellas and shoes piled near the entrance, a wet trail from soggy boots leading to the rubbish chute. Behind the doors, neighbours voices rose, rehashing what had just happened.
The climax felt almost ordinary: we realised wed been faced with a scam posing as a mandatory meter swap. The solution seemed obvious warn everyone and act together.
As the hallway darkened, Dad called Aunt Maud and the lady from flat17, and a few upstairs neighbours joined us, their children clutching school bags. The smell of damp clothes mingled with fresh pastry someone had just brought a loaf from the bakery. I turned on the recorder so anyone who couldnt be there could hear the exchange later.
Listen, Dad began, showing the phone screen, the managing agent never arranged this. Those men are impostors no licence, no request number. Theyre fraudsters.
I already signed up! shouted the flat3 neighbour, turning pink. They sounded so convincing
Youre not alone. We also got a call, her mother added. If it had really been the agent, wed have had a written notice first.
A flurry of questions followed about fines, about personal data wed already handed over. Dad soothed everyone: Do not let anyone in tomorrow and do not pay on the spot. If they return, demand documents and call the agent on the spot. Better yet, keep the door shut.
I displayed a sheet Id printed earlier, listing the hallmarks of a genuine inspection: dates on the bill, the agencys phone number for verification, and that any fine must come from a court order, not a vague threat.
Mum suggested, Lets draft a collective letter to the managing agent so theyre aware of these visits and can alert other residents. And put up a notice on the ground floor.
Everyone nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old file folder. As we wrote the letter, a feeling of solidarity grew it was easier to face a swindle together than alone.
Through the landing window I could see the occasional passerby hurrying home under a drizzle; the courtyard glistened with puddles under the street lamps.
The notice we posted was blunt: Attention! Fraudsters posing as service technicians have been seen in the building. The managing agent confirms: no work is scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! We slipped the paper into a waterproof sleeve and taped it over the letterboxes in several layers.
Almost everyone present signed the statement. The flat3 neighbour volunteered to deliver it to the managing office the next morning. The rest promised to spread the word to anyone on holiday or staying elsewhere.
When we finally went back to our flats, the atmosphere had shifted wariness turned into purposeful chatter and a few jokes. Now theyll never trick us again! We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad, someone quipped.
Dad smiled. The good thing is we now know each others faces. Next time well meet over tea, not panic.
Late that night, only a couple of umbrellas lingered on the radiator and a forgotten grocery bag sat by the front door. The stairwell fell quiet; behind the doors muffled voices discussed plans or shared news with relatives on the phone.
Morning brought immediate change: the bogus replacement notices vanished from every door and mailbox as swiftly as they had appeared. No more service men roamed the courtyard or the landing. The caretaker only noticed a crumpled flyer with red lettering tucked under a shrub, a strip of tape still clinging to a door.
Neighbours met by the lift, exchanging grateful smiles; each now knew a little more about their rights and the tricks of strangers. Aunt Maud brought over a batch of homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the lady from the top floor left a note on our door that simply read Thank you!.
The courtyard was still damp from the nights rain, but the tracks of yesterdays chaos faded with the last droplets beneath the morning sun.
Back on the landing, residents talked about the latest news: some boasted about a brandnew water meter installed properly a year ago, others laughed about the service men, and a few simply enjoyed the newfound trust among us.
We, the Smiths, learned the price of victory: an evening spent explaining, filling out forms, a neighbour feeling embarrassed, and the loss of blind faith in a simple door notice. Yet the whole building is now more watchful of strangers and a little closer to one another.
