Watford Writers

ENTRY 1

LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR by Louise Welland

I hate my neighbours, so I keep myself to myself. When I moved here there were trees between us and next door. The first thing I did was get them cut down. Who wants to be sweeping leaves every Autumn?

We share a driveway with a strip of grass down the middle. I mow my side each week. When 'they' mow, they do the whole drive. Idiots!

I built some decking outside my back door, and I sit there every night smoking weed. I can see into their garden. Sometimes they glare up at me, but I ignore them.

They complained once because I burnt stuff. You know, junk mail and things with my address on. I put the burner as far from my house as possible, but that’s next to their bedroom window. How was I supposed to know that their window was open and that their washing was hanging out? I mean, who has their washing hanging out to dry these days anyway? They asked me to be more considerate, so I only do it twice a week now.

They have a shower at 7am each day, so I set my alarm for 6:55. As soon as their bathroom light goes on, I turn on all my taps! It affects their water pressure. It’s hardly the crime of the century, but it starts my day with a smile, and it helps save water.

I complained about their floodlights last year. Environmental Health went around to investigate, he said they were just lanterns and there was nothing wrong. I heard him in the garden explaining that he couldn't say who had complained due to confidentiality. She said, "Well it is obvious, we only have one neighbour"

She also said that if I hadn't cut the trees down I wouldn't be able to see the lights anyway! I'm not blind! And I'm not deaf. I often hear them chatting and laughing about me. Of course they deny it, but why else would they be laughing?

The council said they should complain about my decking as it shouldn't be overlooking their garden. They said they wouldn't as they don't want any disputes. Pussycats!

Talking about cats, I have one. It used to belong to them. I put treats out for him until one day he came in! They called him but he stayed with me. I will let him go back if he gets ill. I can't afford vets bills.

Once they picked up some of my dog’s poo and put it in a bag in my dustbin. How dare they? I can hardly be responsible for where my dog decides to leave his gifts. Anyway, it is a shared drive, not just theirs.

Got to go. I am going out and I like to run the car engine for twenty minutes before I leave; I also put my radio on full blast so that any potential burglars think I am home. The noise keeps the dog company as well.

ENTRY 2

MY NEIGHBOUR by Marion Witton

Look, this isn’t fiction and it certainly isn’t flash - it’s been going on for two years, threatening, personal attacking letters from next door. It got to the point where I fear going downstairs in the morning in case there’s another white envelope on the mat. Sometimes, when I went to bed, I hoped I wouldn’t wake up again.

According to the Local Neighbourhood Police, who, incidentally took 6 months and an MP’s letter to respond, it’s ok to write threatening letters to someone; they won’t get involved unless I get physically assaulted. Mental torture doesn’t hack it. And it is. An onslaught telling me where I can or can’t park outside my own house and when I can or can’t make a noise. So I put subtitles on the TV and turn the radio off if I open the back door. I am frightened in my own home and this man has diminished me, from having a successful career, into a nervous wreck.

Just the other day I stopped my car outside my house to unpack the shopping. Beeeeeeeeeeep. I jumped out of my skin. It was the neighbour driving his big fat car past mine into his drive. Ok it’s a beep. An Aggressive Beep. A beep that according to him meant I shouldn’t be stopping there. A beep that made my hands shake. I know, I know. I shouldn’t let it get to me but it does. He is in my head relentlessly.

I wake up in the middle of the night defending my actions, justifying (to myself) anything that might provoke another 12 page repetitive, oh so repetitive, letter on his work headed paper. Nasty personal attacking letters telling me he has extensive photographic evidence of my ‘misdemeanours’. Wanting increasing amounts of money for nuisance. I’m 71 for goodness sake, not some party animal.

I stopped the solicitor because I couldn’t afford it anymore. That’s when the texts started and late Sunday night emails. He is a Partner (Dispute Resolution, what a joke) in a big knob Firm of Solicitors, so it doesn’t cost him anything. He has picked on women before who paid up. But I’d rather go to prison than pay him a penny piece.

But now I’ve been served Court Papers. Friends say he is a sociopath and I shouldn’t worry. But what if the judge is his mate? Old school chums? Or Masons.? They stick together don’t they? The new solicitor says it may cost me up to 50,000 grand if I lose the case and if he gets his injunctive relief and I break it, I could go to prison. And if I win there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to stop him writing letters about anything else. For the rest of my life.

In a Monty Python Sketch, the feller dreams he is in front of a firing squad. He wakes up to see his mother. ‘Oh mother I’ve had a terrible nightmare’. ‘No’ she replies, ‘this is the dream, that was reality’.

ENTRY 3

KIMBERLY by Sumi Watters

3:40 p.m., on the money.

John reverses his vintage red Alfa Romeo out of his garage onto the drive and stops before reaching the pavement. He climbs out—chamois in hand—and begins polishing the bonnet with meticulous care, just as he did yesterday and the day before.

I peer through the gaps in the blinds and see a steady stream of uniformed teens making their way home from school, their hormonally charged voices resonating along Clarendon Road like poorly orchestrated stadium chants. My daughter’s tangled mass of auburn curls is easy to spot. I see Sophie fifty metres away on the other side of the street, laughing and carrying on with a group of her peers. She appears happy and settled, despite only having started at her new school. I can’t help but smile and feel proud of my girl for having adjusted well to our changed circumstances.

But then I remember why I’m here, in the upstairs box room, spying on our next-door neighbour through partially opened blinds.

‘He stares at me, Mum,’ Sophie said three nights ago as we sat for tea. ‘Like, take-a-picture stares. It’s super creepy.’

‘Does he talk to you?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘No. He just watches my every move. From when I cross the street until I reach our front door. I think he’s a paedo.’

I chuckled. ‘John’s your grandad’s age, Sophie! Besides, he seems perfectly normal.’

‘You've spoken to him like once, Mum. Old people can be nonces, too, you know. Jimmy Savile was old.’

Evidently, Sophie had done the research. Good for her.

‘Fair point,’ I said.

‘So, are you going to call the police?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘To report a pervert.’

‘But we don’t know ….’

‘So you’re not going to do anything?’ she huffed. ‘Dad would do something.’

Your dad is too busy dealing with his pregnant mistress, I wanted to remind her. But I held my tongue and said, ‘Fine. Leave it with me. Just give me a few days.’

Sophie was right.

A chill shoots through me when I see for the third time John’s fixed gaze on my baby girl. He doesn’t pretend to be discreet about it, either. It’s no wonder Sophie’s feeling so … violated.

Later that evening, I slip out and march next door. Confrontation has never been my strong suit, but when it comes to protecting my daughter, the Mama Bear in me surfaces. I pound on John’s door and take a step back.

The door swings open wide, and John emerges in his dressing gown.

‘Oh! Hello … Eileen, was it?’ he says, smiling. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

I’m rendered speechless, not for dread, but because I glimpse a photo of my Sophie standing beside the red Alfa on the wall opposite the door.

John follows my eyes, then hangs his head.

‘That’s my Kimberly,’ he sighs. ‘She passed away just weeks before her seventeenth birthday. She never even got to drive her car.’

ENTRY 4

TERRACE TALK by Ian Welland

‘Eva, are you there? I have something to tell you.’

Eva looked over her fence. ‘Morning Muriel, what news’

‘I’m having it, I’ve decided. But of course, won’t be arriving for a little while so this should give me plenty of time to make space.’

‘Oh, I am pleased for you Mu. Secret’s safe with me.’

***

No sooner had Muriel retreated back inside her house, Eva spotted Gladys hanging out her washing.

‘Good drying day eh, Glad?’

Gladys moved across to chat to Eva. ‘Bloody right there luv. Now what’s all this from Number One. G’on you can tell me. I won’t tell a soul.’

‘Mu is having it after all!’

‘Having what luv?’

‘You know…’

‘Really!’

‘Really, but not for a few months.’

‘At her age! Well the saucy minx. D’you know I thought she was up to somethin’ that one. My lips are sealed, I don’t gossip as you know.’

‘She’s been seeing that accountant. Ooops, gotta go. Tarahh Glad. Off to town.’

‘Righty ho luv.’

***

Gladys heard Sheila belting her rug in her yard.

‘Psss, Sheila luv, I got some gossip for you.’

Sheila stood her broom up against her fence. ‘I’m all ears. Now what’s this Gladrags?’

‘Her, snooty at one. She’s in the club. I bet it’s that flashy accountant. You know, the one with the jag.’

‘He’s a looker, I’ll say that about him. Nice suit. What would he want with the likes of her?’ said Sheila with a smile.

‘Eva says due in a few months.’

‘Can’t be him luv, that accountant has only been coming and going for about three months. It must be trucker John. You know, the one with the handlebar ‘tash, string vest and sandwich box.’

Both ladies laughed.

‘You are a one Sheila. Now, mum’s the word. Best you don’t mention this to Beryl, d’you ‘ear.’

‘Not mention what to Beryl?’ came a voice from number five.

‘Well, it’s a bit delicate.’

‘If it’s about John Lacey, I’m well over ‘im.’

‘Well, Beryl. I’m not sure how to put this.’

‘Spit it out lady or I’ll rinse it out of ya.’

‘Well, floosy chops at number one is having a kid by your John.’

‘Yer talkin’ cod’s wallop. My John’s been away for over six months. And while I’m at it, it wasn’t his fault, alright.’

‘It’s true! Floosy told Eva. Eva told Glad. Glad told me.’

‘Right, I’m going to see her Majesty and give ‘er a piece of my mind.’

***

Beryl, pinny, rolled down stockings and slippers, marched to number one and thumped on the front door.

‘Oh, it’s you. What d’you want Beryl.’

‘What’s this I ‘ear? You’re having a delivery?’

‘Who’s told you?’

‘Never mind lady, is it true?’

‘Oh, yes. Not arriving for a few months.’

‘You got some nerve I'll give ya that.’

‘My new Draylon suite. My boyfriend’s paying for it. Anything else, Beryl? Oh, if you’re thinking I’ve ‘eard from John, well I ‘aven’t and good riddance to ‘im.’

ENTRY 5

No. 64 by Liz Shaw

The houses down our road were built in the 1930’s and are a kitsch mixture of art deco bungalows and mock Tudor semis. We moved in in the eighties and our house has grown with the family. We have extended the kitchen, moved up into the loft and added a conservatory.

When we first moved in our neighbour was Mr Kirk who had bought number 64 when it was new and other houses in the road were still being built. He had been living there for over fifty years. His wife had passed away some time before. He showed me a framed photograph once. It was a picture of him and his wife at his works dinner dance. He, resplendent in bow tie, dinner jacket and cummerbund; she, tight lipped, broad bosomed and corseted in a stiff evening gown, fur stole and faux pearls. Her hair was lacquered into a pin curled helmet, her eyes invisible and inscrutable behind the camera flash reflected in the lenses of her winged spectacles. Neighbours said that he used to bully her. It was hard to believe.

Mr Kirk’s pride and joy was his garden – the front one only. He saw no point spending energy on the back garden which no one could see and where there were no passers-by to harangue. He was generous with his opinions and dispensed gardening advice whether you wanted it or not. He was against most things (trade unions, Europe, gay marriage). In his view gardens should not be relaxed swathes of informal planting and colour, but serried ranks of bedding plants, close clipped lawns and bonsai’d shrubs. When he died the house stood empty while distant cousins argued over his will.

The house was eventually bought by a professional couple, distinguished only by their strange taste in decor – a mixture of the baroque style and a seventies inspired colour palette (muddy orange, purple and brown).

Next in was Mad Max – a diminutive divorcee with a temper on her like a Tasmanian devil. The house was not big enough for her outbursts, and rows with her boyfriend often spiralled into the street, Max screaming like a banshee, her six-foot rugby playing boyfriend wheedling and pleading behind her. My kids used to pull up chairs to the window and sit munching on bags of crisps watching the next dramatic instalment. The grand finale came when the boyfriend (who had presented himself as a childless bachelor) was found to be married with six children. Max moved up north to be nearer her parents who, by the way, she had never got on with either.

The current owners have an ancient asthmatic pug who wheezes and wails up and down the garden tormented by a young chocolate Labrador pup who is clearly the heir apparent. Mr Kirk’s garden has been gravelled over to provide parking for two monster trucks, the pride and joy of Malcolm who lavishes as much time and effort on them as Mr Kirk did on his petunias.

ENTRY 6

THE JONESES by Mike Lansdown

“And this is the kitchen, and that’s the lounge up there,” Trish said pointing up the spiralling industrial-style staircase.”

“Wow! So, you have the dining-room and lounge on the first floor, and your bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchen in the basement. That’s so cool,” I said, running my hand along the smooth steel handrail. “Don’t you think, Miles?”

“Yeah. Real cool,” my husband replied flatly, giving me his ‘get-me-outta-here-quick’ look.

“We call it our Upside-down House, don’t we, darling?”

“Certainly do! Come on, grab your vino and we’ll show you the rest of the place.”

With that, the grand tour commenced…the bedrooms, all en-suite, with views of the grounds; the nursery, playroom, library, and the mezzanine: surround sound and original works of art that even Miles recognised.

Following a meal, straight from The Ivy, we withdrew for coffees and brandy to the upstairs lounge where Trish’s husband, Ashley, regaled us with stories of their time working for the diplomatic service somewhere in east Africa. The evidence was everywhere - in the brightly coloured wall hangings, the beautifully carved head of a local woman, complete with elongated ear lobes, and the tasteless elephant-foot table. They had certainly lived a life before they arrived in Surrey.

Trish was hugging her knees and clearly desperate to say something.

“Sally, Miles, before you go, I musttell you something - we’ve bought the house next door!”

“What? You mean you’re moving?”

“No! We’ve bought it as well asthis place! Come, let me show you around!”

And so, the second tour of the evening began – the guests’ bedrooms; gymnasium; cinema, and music room for little Sadie…

Half an hour later we were driving home.

“Miles, I had to invite them back. It would have been rude not to.”

A month had passed when the doorbell rang.

“It’s them,” I said, smoothed down my skirt and made sure the bowl of nibbles was full.

“Trish! Ash!” Mwa, mwa, - I showed them in and told them to make themselves comfortable. Miles poured the drinks and soon we were sitting around the dining table enjoying a meal of Tempura Nobashi Prawns, Cote de boeuf, and Lemon posset, all washed down by two bottles of Condrieu, St.Cosme, 2019.

“Well, if we’ve all finished, let me show you the house,” I said. “And then coffee.”

First, I showed them the indoor pool, the sauna, and the games room with full-size snooker table and omni-directional treadmill. Then, onto the patio from where they could just see the outdoor pool and summerhouses. Lastly, the twin garages: the Porches, Maserati, and vintage Silver Shadow…

After they’d gone, we flopped ourselves down – Miles on the sofa, me on the recliner.

“Well, I think that went well, darling,” I said.

Miles yawned and nodded.

I searched for and took out the front-door key.

“Time to go home, but first I’d better feed the bloody cat and get the place cleaned up. Tom and Tara’s flight is due back in a couple of hours...”

ENTRY 7

HAPPY NEW HOME by Helen Nicell

With removal vans on the driveway, boxes filling the hallway, and Mum continually shouting ‘Where shall I put this?’ the knock on the front door was a welcome relief.

“Hi, I’m Ben from next door, I thought you might welcome a cup of tea.” Smiling, he placed the tray laden with steaming mugs and chocolate biscuits, on one of the boxes.

“Oh Ben, you’re a saviour” I said, “The kettle’s gone A.W.O.L, despite my asking Mum to not let it out of her sight! Thank you so much. I’m Nicky.”

“You’ll meet my wife Avril later. Our son, Harry was born yesterday. Give me a shout if you need anything.”

“Many congratulations. Is he your first?” I gulped the tea.

Ben beamed “Yes, after a very long wait. Just leave the mugs on the porch when you’re done. Good luck finding the kettle!”

Mum came from the kitchen, “Is that a tray of tea, how wonderful.”

“Yes, delivered by the neighbour. I think I’m going to like living here.”

“Oh darling, you deserve to be happy. The break up with ‘he whose name I won’t mention’ was very difficult. You just need to get yourself well now. Have a naughty chocolate biscuit!” she proffered the plate and giggled as we toasted my new home with tea.

Darren only featured once in my dream that night, telling me I couldn’t leave him. I woke up with a start, where was I? I became aware of a faint noise, was it a cat? No, it was a baby crying very softly. Oh yes, the new baby next door, was it Henry? No Harry. Going across the landing to the loo, the cries became louder. Darren never wanted children. I thought about Ben and his kind gesture of the tea tray. I just knew he was going to be a great Dad,

Venturing downstairs, ignoring the mountain of boxes, I filled the kettle. Mum had found it on the front seat of her car as she was leaving. The crying was getting louder, like me I thought, he’s just settling in. Opening the back door, I looked at the small garden with a lot of potential.

“Hi”, shouted Ben over the fence, “I have to pop into town for some baby stuff, do you need anything?”

“No thanks, I’m fine, is everything ok with Harry?”

Ben lowered his voice, “Avril’s having trouble feeding him. I’m going to get some baby milk.”

I started unpacking in the lounge, there seemed to be a lot of activity next door: knocking, banging, loud voices, then a different cry, not the baby. I looked out of the front window to see a woman being escorted to a police car. What an earth was going on? Switching on the radio in time for the local news, ‘Baby Henry has been found safe and well after being abducted from the maternity unit yesterday. A woman in her mid-thirties has been charged with his abduction.’

I sighed, Happy New Home….

ENTRY 8

LOCAL KNOWLEDGE by Geoff Brown

“My mummy’s fallen down the stairs.”

The female emergency call handler knew that the tiny voice in her ear belonged to a young child.

“OK darling, what’s your name?”

“It’s Ella and I’m three and a half.”

“What’s your second name sweetheart?”

“It’s Lara.”

“No, sorry love I meant what’s your full name?”

“It’s Ella Lara.”

“That’s fine darling. Can I speak to your mummy please?”

“No, she’s asleep now. She gave me the tefelone and then she closed her eyes.”

“Is your mummy hurt darling?”

“Yes, she banged her head and it’s bleeding.”

“OK love, can you tell me where you live?”

“I live in a house with Mummy.”

“Do you know what street your house is in?”

“It’s got lots of trees and there’s a park with swings and a roundabout…”

“You’re doing really well Ella. Can you tell me anything else about where you live?”

“Yes, my best friend Rita lives at the end of the road.”

Do you know her second name sweetheart?”

“No, but she’s very pretty and has a pony-tail.”

“Do you know who lives next door?”

“Nobody does ‘cos it’s a shop.”

“What kind of shop?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does it sell, love?”

“It has lots of sweeties….and Mummy buys me my Haribo there and gets her paper from Mr Patel.

“That’s good Ella. I think I know Mr Patel’s shop….I’m going to send some nice people round to help your mummy. Can you please stay on the phone sweetheart and I’ll tell you when they get to your house. You’ve been a really clever girl and your mummy will be proud of you.”

“Do you think she’ll buy me the dolly I saw on the telly?”

“I’m sure mummy will get you something really nice but you’ll have to ask her when she wakes up.”

A few days later the Daily Mail printed this human interest story.

“Three year old Ella Marlowe of Elm Road Surbiton managed to alert the emergency services to the plight of her mother, Maria, who was hurt after a nasty fall. Before she lost consciousness. Maria had dialled 999 and her daughter then picked up the phone. Coaxed by a patient call handler, the child managed to identify her address by saying she lived next to a newsagent owned by Mr Paresh Patel. The paramedics arrived within ten minutes, forced entry to the property and Mrs Marlowe is now in hospital recovering from a fractured skull and a broken leg. There was an unexpected twist to this heart-warming story. Alerted by the 999 call, a police patrol vehicle arrived at the scene just as two men were running from Mr Patel’s shop. The police officers gave chase and apprehended the men who had held Mr Patel at knife point and stolen all the cash in the till and several hundred cigarettes. The newsagent has given Ella a bumper pack of Haribo Starmix to thank her for bringing the police to his door at the opportune time.”

ENTRY 9

STEALTH by Louise Welland

I had half promised that I wouldn't order any music cd's for a month. I say half promised because it was a promise which I only half intended to keep.

I had overheard my boss (Sergeant Frederick Coles) explaining his use of Amazon Lockers to purchase golf equipment without his wife’s knowledge. "It's simple, you buy whatever you want, have it delivered to a locker, and no one needs know!"

I googled "Amazon lockers", up popped a detailed video explanation, how simple!

I felt guilty, however the wife was keeping tabs on our spending. She wants an overseas holiday, so has introduced several cutbacks. No treats for the cats, no takeaways, no new clothes and no new music.

When I made this pledge, I hadn't realised that a remastered Beatles album was due for release. I ordered the cd and awaited the "ping" on my telephone 24 hours later. My package was awaiting collection.

The next morning I left home early. "Got to start a bit early today" She wouldn't have thought anything of this scenario. We often have a longer briefing if there has been a major incident in town, or a difficult arrest the night before.

I drove to the Co-Op and found the brightly coloured lockers. I stood looking at the different shapes and sizes wondering which door would open for me.

I carefully typed the combination of numbers and letters into the keypad. A door flew open. As I moved towards it there was another "Click" as a second door opened; not widely like the first, but just enough to see inside. I grabbed the cd sized package from the first locker and put it inside my jacket pocket. I glanced around, no one was paying attention, so I picked up the second package, the size and weight of a heavy book.

I closed both locker doors and headed back to the car, placing the packages in the boot. I headed for the station. Sergeant Coles (normally at work before the rest of us) arrived twenty minutes late. He looked dreadful; Pale and stressed, hands shaking.

"Sarge, are you ok? You don't look well"

"I don't feel it" he replied. "I had an important package being delivered today. I went to pick it up, but the locker was empty." I gasped and quickly swallowed but said nothing. I needed thinking time.

I struggled to concentrate all day, wondering what Coles had lost, what I had "found" and if the two incidents were connected.

Driving home that evening I pulled into a layby. Using my ignition key, I sliced the brown tape on both packets. The first was of course my cd. I tore the packaging into tiny pieces and placed into a rubbish bin.

The larger parcel was wrapped in strong brown paper. The cardboard box within was tightly packed with small self-seal plastic bags containing white powder. Taped inside the box lid was a hand-written note:

Freddy

1kg = £40k

Thank you for your custom

ENTRY 10

THE GIFTS HE BRINGS by Sumi Watters

‘Who was that at the door, babe?’ Marcus asks when I re-enter the kitchen.

‘Oh, just Sammy from next door.’

Marcus looks up from his morning paper and smiles. ‘What did he bring you this time?’

I reach into my apron pocket and take out the folded pink-and-white striped paper bag.

‘What is that? A Pick-n-Mix bag?’

‘I think so.’

‘That’ll come in handy, should you need a sick bag today,’ Marcus chuckles.

‘You tease me, but I bet I’ll find a use for this bag sometime today. Just you wait.’

‘Still convinced that Sammy’s clairvoyant, are you?’

I pull out a stool from beneath the counter and sit across from my cynic of a husband. ‘Well, how else would you explain why every time he brings me a gift, I find a use for it that very same day? Like the time he brought me a plaster and I ended up with a nasty paper-cut. And do you remember when he gave me that safety pin? Thank goodness I had it with me when I popped a button on my blouse. My bra would’ve been on show for everyone at Tesco if it wasn’t for that pin.’

‘Has it never occurred to you that those could be coincidences? I mean, don’t you usually carry around plasters with you anyway? If he hadn’t given you one, surely you would’ve used one of your own?’

‘Well, yes. I guess. But that’s not the point. I’m telling you, Marcus, I know the boy doesn’t speak, but there’s something extraordinary about him. There’s wisdom in his eyes. Like he’s an old soul or something.’

Marcus gulps down the remainder of his tea and sets down his mug. ‘I’ll tell you what, Claire. When that child prodigy brings you the winning lottery numbers so I can take an early retirement, I’ll believe he’s a psychic.’

He stands up and kisses me on the cheek. ‘That’s me. See you tonight. Love you.’

‘Love you, too,’ I say, and see him out the front door.

Sorry to say, I didn’t stumble on a need for Sammy’s gift all day. By the time Marcus returned from work, I had to admit to myself that he’d been right all along about the whole coincidence thing. Perhaps I’d been reading too much into it. Looking for a little magic, I suppose.

‘Turn on BBC One, will you?’ Marcus asks as we settle down in front of the telly for the evening.

‘It’s time for the lottery draw.’

He takes a ticket out of his wallet and focuses his eyes on the screen. As each number is drawn, Marcus’s breathing grows more and more rapid.

‘Babe … Claire …,’ he says between gasps of air. ‘We’ve won. We’ve won the jackpot, babe!’ And that’s when he starts hyperventilating, as if he’s sprinted a marathon.

I calmly retrieve the paper bag out of my apron pocket and hand it to my husband. ‘Here. Breathe into this. Take long, deep breaths.’

ENTRY 11

NOTES FROM A DIARY by Andrea Neidle

I saw him again today as I was coming out of Next. He was waiting at the door. The minute he saw I had seen him he turned away and fiddled with his phone.

My face felt clammy and I could feel my heart beating faster. This was no coincidence. It was the third time this week that he had turned up in the same place as me.

When mum phoned this evening, I told her what had happened. You’ve got to report it to the police, she said.

I sighed wearily.

It’s no good mum. I’ve tried and they’re just not interested. To have your ex following you around is par for the course to them. One of them joked to me that he must be really smitten. They don’t seem to consider it as stalking. He’ll have to kill me before they sit up and take notice!

Come home for a bit, mum suggested.

How can I? I need to be in Watford for my job. I’ve only been at Next for a few weeks and I really love it there. I said I’d see her at the weekend and left it at that.

Aside from that one time when I spoke to the police, I haven’t told anyone other than mum. I can’t help feeling it’s my fault somehow that he’s following me. One of the young coppers asked, had I done anything to encourage him? As if. It’s not as if we had been going out for that long. I only knew him for a few months. It was fine at first. I liked the fact that he was very attentive. It was flattering that he wanted to spend every spare moment with me.

After he moved in, that’s when he became more controlling, even to the point of taking away my phone. It all became too much and I tried to break it off a number of times. He went crazy, threatening to kill himself if I kicked him out. I didn’t know what to do.

In the end I just didn’t go home. I told him mum was ill and that I was going to see her. But instead, I went for the Next interview and got this job at Watford. One of the girls there is letting me stay at hers for a while. But now, somehow or other, he’s tracked me down. Maybe he’s hacked into my Facebook account? I’m so scared. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t live my life like this forever looking over my shoulder.

……………………………………

How old was she?

Only 23, poor thing.

These notes we’ve found aren’t very helpful. I’m going round to her mother’s again to see if she has a photo of the lad. The name we were given turned out to be false.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s done this kind of thing before. We need to find him before he does it again.

ENTRY 12

SUBURBAN BLISS by Helen Nicell

Ron and Bert lived next door to each other for over 40 years. Their children played together and their wives were happy to have a chat over a cuppa and put the world to rights. But Ron and Bert had an ‘uneasy’ relationship. Bert worked hard and liked to have everything in the house and garden just so. Ron enjoyed a drink and socialising. DIY and gardening were not top of his agenda. Work was a necessity to pay the bills.

But there was a competitive edge to their relationship. If one bought a new car then the other would get one soon after. Ron would say ‘Did you see the new sitcom on ITV last night Bert?’ Bert would sniff and say ‘We only watch the BBC.’

Bert would say ‘Just taking Mavis to Asda to do the shopping.’ Ron replied, ‘Oh we only shop in Waitrose.’

Bert enjoyed Astronomy and photography.

Ron liked home brew beer and a sing-a-long at the local.

And so, the superiority complex battled with the inferiority complex.

The situation came to a head when there were visitors at Ron’s house one evening. Their car parked outside Bert’s house.

Bert knocked on Ron’s door,

‘Sorry to trouble you, but your guests are parked outside my house.’

‘Yes’ said Ron, ‘but not over your driveway Bert!’

‘Well they are slightly and it’s going to make it awkward to reverse on to the street.’

Bert had never paid the Council for a dropped kerb, so there was a piece of wood shaped as a ramp across the driveway. It was something that always agitated Ron.

“Well I’m sorry about that Bert, but people can never see where your driveway entrance is, as you don’t have a dropped kerb, like I do. ‘

“Let’s not have that argument again Ron, can you ask your guests to move their car to outside your house!” Bert’s voice was getting louder and the guest came out to move his car. Later that night, after a few beers and when everyone had gone to bed, Ron went out in the moonlight. Gently prising the lid off the paint, he picked up his brush.

‘We’ll sort this out once and for all!’ thought Ron.

The next morning Bert got up and opened the curtains in the front bedroom. He gasped and called his wife.

“What the hell is that?”

Painted on the road, the full width of his driveway and garden wall, was a double yellow line.

He quickly realised who’d painted it, the lines were not straight and touched in places. There were also drips of paint leading to Ron’s front door. Bert’s anger soon turned to laughter, “He couldn’t even do that properly!” he said, “But he’ll have to work out how to take it off or the council won’t be too happy.”

His wife smiled and said, “I’ll make a cup of tea.”

ENTRY 13

JUST ONE NIGHT by Brian Bold

The day after my birthday party, they started the demolition of next door. For a year, we’d objected to the new owner’s plans but eventually he lowered the roof by a metre and the council approved the new build.

Two years later, next door boasted a house twice the size, with five bedrooms all on-suite, a completely glazed open-plan ground floor, a cinema room and a lift. Shortly after, the owner accepted a job in North Carolina and the house was offered for rent at £5k per month. That’s when we met Sunni.

He was renting next door and invited us to a house warming party at the weekend.

“There’ll be food, music and a firework display,” he promised.

“Are you expecting many?” I asked.

“Probably between twenty and thirty if all the neighbours come.”

I can’t remember if Sunni told me his life story then or next time I saw him outside, cleaning his red Ferrari. He’d sold a chain of supermarkets up north and was moving south to be near his new girlfriend whose two sons attended the prep school down my road. He’d offered to buy next door but they’d declined and suggested he’d buy my house if I wanted to sell. He was separated from his wife and son. He wanted to move them to his farm in Australia otherwise his wife might take his son to India and he would never see him.

I have lived in this road for nearly 40 years and party night was only the second time I have been next door. The first time was an emergency visit to help my aged neighbour lift her husband from the floor. This time, it seemed the Great Gatsby had come again in Northwood.

Lamps of many colours turned the garden in a fantasy. A sari-clad singer played a violin to the accompaniment of a drummer, enticing food odours floated in the breeze and costumed waiters readily replenished our champagne flutes. We drank freely. We could walk home.

Sunni brought the neighbourhood together. We met a solicitor and his wife from across the road, a banker from two doors down and a young couple from further along.

We only saw the ground floor area, a design worthy of a magazine article. Everywhere, heart-shaped balloons shouted “I Love You.” Their significance became clear when later in the evening the partygoers formed a circle around Sunni and his girlfriend and gasped when he presented her with a necklace from Tiffany’s.

Back in the garden, before the Neighbourhood Watch deadline, we marvelled at the best firework display since the Millennium.

We never saw Sunni’s girlfriend again. A month later, his wife and son moved in. He asked me again if I was interested in selling my house. I might be, I said. But I missed my opportunity. Sunni was gone by Christmas. Off to Australia, I was told. Three years on, I have only seen the neighbours again when we clapped for the NHS.

ENTRY 14

MOON WATCH by Liz Shaw

Gold fiery sun, iron grey Mercury, blood red Mars, then our sapphire Earth with its sea pearl satellite, the moon.

The sun hides behind its blinding glare, the stars glitter galaxies away, pin pricks in the night sky, but our neighbour the moon reveals itself to the naked eye, evidence of planets and other worlds, feeding our imagination.

To me the moon is female, benign and mysterious. Born of the earth she orbits her mother. Her gravitational pull rules the ebb and flow of the tides. Sea creatures phosphoresce in her light. Seeds germinate at full moon. Our watery bodies respond as she waxes and wanes. Myths bind our mood and fertility to her phases. Witches blend their potions and cast their spells at potent points in the lunar calendar.

For others the moon is unstable and malign. Lunatics and werewolves appear at the height of her presence. Vampires fly and creatures of the night hunt their victims. She reminds us of our insignificance in the vast universe and observes our puny attempts to conquer the heavens. Her absences signify ageing, loss, death. Her dark side is never revealed.

This dichotomy is reflected in the different moon stories throughout the world. Chang’e, a beautiful Chinese woman stole and drank a bottle of the elixir of life from her husband and flew to the moon where her husband could never reach her. Mawu (an African moon god) and his wife the sun are famous for their love making during lunar and solar eclipses. Anningnan/Igaluk in Greenland and Alaskan mythology raped his sister the sun and now pursues her relentlessly. The Mayan moon goddess Ixchel represents fertility but also its loss. The crescent moon is both a symbol of Islam and the Virgin Mary.

In Roman and Greek mythology the moon has many goddesses: Selene, Cynthia, Artemis, Hecate, Diana, Luna. Our language and culture are littered with lunar references: blue moon, blood moon, harvest moon, fly me to the moon, shoot the moon, ask for the moon, over the moon, love you to the moon and back.

Thousands of miles away and yet reachable, touchable almost, the moon hangs in the sky gently gleaming. Our celestial neighbour orbits protectively around the Earth, an unjudging, unblinking witness to our fleeting lives. We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep - words written by William Shakespeare under the same moon that saw Van Gogh paint Starry Night, Beethoven writ Moonlight Sonata, the development of space travel. She remained an impassive spectator of war, genocide, the atom bomb. She did not flinch when Apollo 11 landed on her soft skin. But she saw all this, cannot unsee, and she will continue to watch long after humanity has disappeared.

FLASH FICTION - NEXT DOOR - JULY 2022