Nobody Lives Upstairs

Moving In By the third trip from the car, James had stopped offering advice about the boxes and begun carrying whichever one Naomi pointed at. They had reached that part of the morning without discussing it. At the front door of the house he shifted a carton against his knee while Naomi found the right key, and as she turned it the whole handle came away from the door by half an inch. ‘You have to lift it,’ she said. ‘I am lifting it.’ ‘The handle, James.’ She leaned past the box to demonstrate, although he was already beginning to understand what she meant. He raised the handle with two fingers. The lock turned. ‘That’s reassuring.’ ‘Peter says he’s replacing it.’ ‘When?’ ‘He didn’t put a date in the contract.’ James looked at the handle and then at the box in his arms, which was labelled BOOKS — NOT ALL BOOKS. ‘You’d have written the date in if he’d given you one.’ ‘Probably.’ She held the door while he went through. It swung back with the heavy reluctance of a door made for a building with more people in it than now lived there. The hall smelt of furniture polish and old plaster. Its floor was laid with small red and cream tiles, several cracked but none obviously loose, and a broad staircase climbed from the other end, turning at a landing out of sight. There was enough space beneath it for a substantial umbrella stand and a dead potted palm. Naomi had seen neither on the viewing. The landlord had removed them before she moved in, leaving pale rectangles on the floor. Her flat was the first door on the left. She had picked it for the light, which came through two tall windows onto a strip of side garden that nobody seemed inclined to garden, and for the fact that she could put a table in the sitting room without having to step around it every time she went to the kitchen. It was a small thing to want. For twelve years she and James had had a proper dining room, and most evenings they had eaten standing at the kitchen counter because one of them was late or the table was covered with things that belonged somewhere else. James placed the carton beside a row of others. ‘Books go there?’ ‘For now.’ ‘You’ve said that about everything.’ ‘Everything is somewhere for now.’ He peeled a little piece of packing tape from his sleeve. There was another piece stuck to his forearm, which she would once have removed without thinking. She noticed it, nearly reached out, and left it alone. Their car, still their car in the shared language that outlasted practical arrangements, was parked on a single yellow line round the side. Naomi had checked the restriction twice; it did not apply on Saturdays. James had checked it again because the alternative was talking about the removal. They were using his car for the small things and a hired van for the furniture, due at noon with two men who had made clear they were only paid to put it inside a door. ‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘Have you got anything to make it with?’ ‘I’ve got a kettle.’ Naomi opened the cupboard above it, as though coffee might have appeared there since she last checked. ‘That wasn’t really the bit I was worried about.’ She opened the carrier bag on the counter. There were two mugs, a box of teabags, a packet of supermarket biscuits and a teaspoon. She had remembered to bring dishwasher tablets for a dishwasher the flat did not possess. The jar of instant coffee was still in a kitchen cupboard at the house. James said, ‘I’ll get some when I move the car.’ ‘You don’t need to.’ ‘I know. I’d like one.’ She could hardly argue with that. He took the car keys off the windowsill and went out, leaving a tidy stack of boxes which she set about opening badly. The first contained winter scarves, three framed photographs and the wire basket she had used for fruit. The second was an assortment of batteries, extension leads and stationery gathered at the last moment from the drawer under the telephone. The labels had seemed accurate in the old kitchen. Here they described decisions she could no longer remember making. The inventory lay on the counter beneath her folder of tenancy documents. Peter Morland had supplied six pages, mostly photographs of cupboards, switches and fixed appliances. The kitchen ceiling had been described as ‘good overall’; Naomi could see a brownish mark the size of a dinner plate around the extractor grille. One sash window had an uneven seal. There was a hairline crack in the bathroom basin and the rubber around the shower screen had lifted at one end. She took photographs of all three. She did not think Peter was trying to cheat her. She had spent enough years learning what happened when two reasonable people remembered the same conversation differently. She was crouched by the radiator, recording a dent in the white-painted metal, when someone knocked on the open flat door. Peter stood in the hall carrying a bunch of keys and a packet of screws. His coat was a dark green that might once have been brown, and one cuff had been repaired with thread of an entirely different shade. He was tall and stooped only slightly, with thin hair combed back from a high forehead. At the viewing he had talked with pleasure about the original staircase and with much less enthusiasm about the boiler. He now peered past her at the radiator. ‘You’re very thorough.’ ‘I’ve just noticed a couple of things. I’ll email the pictures over.’ Naomi straightened from the radiator and held up her phone, still displaying the dent she had photographed. ‘Of course. The old radiator there?’ ‘The dent’s already in it. That’s all I’m recording.’ He considered this and gave her a faint, apologetic smile. ‘There’s an awful lot of documenting now. We used to hand over the keys, and people told us if they were cold.’ ‘That sounds quite nice.’ ‘It was, until somebody painted over a leaking pipe and said the water had always been there.’ Naomi laughed. Peter did not quite join in, though he looked pleased that she had. He asked if she wanted him to move a small table from the far corner, which the previous tenant had left and which Naomi had assumed was part of the furniture. It wasn't listed. Peter lifted one end, discovered that it was heavier than expected, and called down the hall for James, who had just come back with two coffees and a paper bag. ‘You must be Mr Kearney,’ Peter said as James set the drinks on the counter. ‘James. Yes.’ ‘Are you moving in as well?’ There was nothing unkind in the question. Peter asked it in the interested voice of somebody fitting faces to names. Naomi was standing close enough to see the little pools of coffee spreading beneath the lids. James looked at her, not for permission exactly, but because they had agreed that if people needed explaining, she would decide how much. ‘No,’ she said. ‘James is helping me with the move.’ ‘Ah. Well. The stairs can take some punishment, so I’m grateful you’ve not brought a piano.’ ‘Nothing quite that bad,’ James said. ‘A chest of drawers that may have been made from one solid oak tree.’ ‘Those usually are.’ Between them they shifted the table into the shared hall for Peter to deal with later. Peter showed Naomi how the inner bedroom window catch should sit and said he would look at the front-door handle. He seemed genuinely bothered by the thought of a new tenant having to fight the lock every evening. Before leaving he handed her a separate key for the bin store, attached to a faded blue disc. ‘There aren't so many people here these days,’ he said. ‘Fewer than the house was built for. Very quiet, usually.’ ‘That suits me.’ ‘Good. The bins go out on Tuesdays. If I’ve told you Wednesdays in the paperwork, disregard it. It used to be Wednesdays.’ He paused at the threshold as if another instruction were waiting to arrive. ‘And you’ve sorted out the post?’ he asked. She had, mostly, and he told her the postman sometimes left letters on the little shelf by the front door. After he had gone she wrote TUESDAY beside the bin section of the tenancy papers. The shelf by the door was something she would look at later. James carried the coffees into the sitting room and found the floor. They drank with their backs against opposite stacks of belongings. His cup had too much milk in it because he had bought hers out of habit, and she had put the wrong lid on his when she set them down. He switched cups without comment when they discovered the mistake. ‘You should send him the photos today,’ he said. ‘I will.’ She reached behind her for the folder, which had already acquired a faint brown mark from somebody’s cup. ‘And get him to put the handle in writing.’ ‘He’s going to sort it.’ ‘That’s what people say when they don’t know when they’re going to sort it.’ She drew a line with her thumbnail through a smear on the paper cup. ‘We’ve been here fifteen minutes, James.’ ‘I’m only saying.’ ‘I know what you’re saying.’ He held up a hand, coffee balanced against his knee. ‘All right.’ They ate the biscuits because they had nothing else, and by eleven they had made enough progress to begin the familiar argument about what counted as necessary. James thought she should leave the old bread maker; she had not used it since the second lockdown. Naomi agreed, then asked him to put it in the kitchen cupboard because she was not ready to decide which of them should have it. He found space for it behind a stack of pans, and she went on looking for the box containing the good tea towels. The hired van arrived twelve minutes early. Its driver objected to the turn into the street, to the width of the front doorway, and briefly to the possibility of getting the chest of drawers through her bedroom door. Then he put a blanket round it and carried it inside with his colleague in less time than James had spent measuring it. By half past two the van was gone. The curtains were up on temporary hooks, the fridge contained milk and two supermarket ready meals, and every surface Naomi owned had acquired something she had not yet found a place for. James picked up his coat. ‘I can stay another hour.’ ‘You've done enough.’ ‘I don't mean that I deserve a medal.’ ‘I didn't say you did.’ He stood with the coat hanging from one fist. Naomi was exhausted and aching down one side from carrying a box she hadn't wanted him to see she couldn't manage. For a moment she wanted very badly to ask him to stay, just until the boxes were empty, because James knew where they put things and why they had bought them. Asking would have been easy. The next morning, trying to explain what she had meant, would not. ‘You've got the folder with the house sale stuff?’ he asked instead. ‘In my bag. I’ll email the bank forms on Monday.’ ‘There’s no rush till the end of the week.’ ‘Monday's fine.’ He came towards her and gave her an awkward hug, one arm around the boxes and the other around her shoulder. She put her hand against his coat, feeling the grit of dried mortar on one cuff. The workmen had brushed him against the wall outside. He used to complain that it happened in every house they visited. ‘Call if anything's wrong,’ he said. ‘With the flat?’ ‘With anything. I mean, if you need a hand.’ ‘Thank you.’ He glanced at the door handle before leaving. She saw him test it once, unobtrusively, and then give it the little lift Peter had demonstrated. He made it work. Through the tall window Naomi watched him reach the car, put a spare roll of tape on its roof while he found his keys, retrieve it, and drive away. That evening she tried to unpack the kitchen first, because it meant she could have a proper supper. James had carried in the cutlery box after all. She found it beneath two cushions and a bag of winter shoes, neither of which belonged in the kitchen but both of which had been placed there when the van men needed the hall clear. The oven took three attempts to switch on. A number beneath the timer flashed until she found the manual in a plastic envelope above the extractor fan. She ate pasta with butter and some grated cheese she had bought on the way back from the shop. There was no television connected. Her phone offered a programme she and James used to watch on Saturdays, and she tapped it out of habit before closing it at the opening music. In the kitchen, the saucepan she had meant to soak was still on the hob. She filled it with hot water and left it in the sink until morning. At ten she checked the front door from inside the flat, checked the bathroom window, and went round once more turning out the lights. The radiator knocked twice as it cooled, a wooden, irregular sound that seemed much larger than it was. She wrote in the margins of the inventory, HEATING — TWO LOUD KNOCKS AFTER SWITCH-OFF, then crossed it out. It had happened once. If it became a problem she would mention it. On Sunday Peter came by to take measurements for the outside handle. He had a small metal ruler and a notebook with so many slips of loose paper in it that Naomi wondered how he found anything. He apologised for interrupting her and accepted a cup of tea in the blue mug, which she had decided was now the mug for guests. He had brought the correct screwdriver and two incorrect screws, and spent ten minutes trying to find a match among the spare parts in his coat pocket. ‘You’d be better getting a new one,’ she said, watching him hold the handle at an angle to the light. ‘Probably. But then I’d have to replace the plate, and the new one would leave the old screw holes showing.’ ‘A patch of paint?’ ‘Which wouldn't match the door.’ ‘You could paint the door.’ He looked up at her, measuring whether she was serious. Then he gave a reluctant little laugh. ‘I could, yes. There's always a next job.’ He agreed to buy the replacement rather than force the old fitting. The visit had consumed most of an hour without improving the handle, although Peter remained optimistic about finding the right part. They discussed the draught at the bedroom window, and Peter showed her an old pencil mark on the frame where a previous catch had once been fitted. He seemed to know every unimportant alteration to the building. She asked how long he had owned it. ‘Most of my life, in one way or another,’ he said. ‘My parents bought it when it was rooms for people who came down for work. I've done bits to it since. Usually the wrong bits, if you listen to the builders.’ ‘Was it always flats?’ ‘No. The upstairs rooms were rented individually for years. Very different then.’ He pointed with the ruler towards the ceiling, as if the house's whole past were arranged above it, then returned to the latch. ‘They want proper fire doors for everything now, and quite right too. But each change costs you twice what you think.’ Once he had gone, she made a fresh list: front handle, bedroom catch, extractor stain, rear bedroom blind. She photographed the list so she could not lose it among the others. At the old house James would have added a column for estimated cost and begun phoning people that afternoon. Here she left it on the fridge with a magnet from a holiday they had taken together, a cheap enamel gull he had insisted was the ugliest thing in the gift shop. She had brought it without thinking. She kept it because it held the paper up. Monday was her first day working from the new place. Her colleagues needed two timetables corrected and a room-booking problem solved before half past nine, which was useful because it left no space for asking how the move had gone. At lunchtime she stood by the kitchen window on a call while a delivery man searched the adjoining properties for an address that wasn't hers. Behind the house, a strip of paving ran towards a low brick outbuilding. Beyond it were the backs of gardens and a tall gate with flaking black paint. She could see a separate service door in the main building; Peter had used it on Sunday, though she hadn't noticed where it led. She assumed it was for the bins or his office and went back to her desk when the call ended. By Wednesday, the kitchen cupboards were half organised. She had seen the tenant from the rear flat once, a man in cycling gear who was rushing out and apologised for not introducing himself. The first-floor tenant had not appeared at all. Naomi had begun recognising the sounds of the house: a central heating pipe somewhere behind her bedroom wall, the post landing on the shelf in the hall, the slow drag of the front door on its closer. She emailed Peter the inventory photographs as one compressed file, attached a short list of the repairs they had discussed and copied the general address from her tenancy agreement. She wasn't asking him to do everything that week. She said so in the final line, then removed it because the email already made that clear. The response arrived after six, when she was making a sandwich and trying to remember whether she'd used the last tomato. Dear Naomi, Thank you for sending everything through so promptly. I've saved your photographs with the check-in record and have passed the handle details on to Dad. He says he has the right part ordered, so we'll see! I'll confirm a date when he's got it in hand. I hope the first few days have gone smoothly. Do shout if there's anything we've missed. Best, Lydia Morland Naomi read the message twice to be sure somebody had acknowledged the attachments, then filed it with the tenancy documents. The reply was warmer than a letting agent's automated notice, and the small joke about her father suggested they had dealt with this sort of thing before. She wrote back to say thank you and that the flat was settling down nicely. Afterwards she took her plate into the sitting room, pushed a pile of books aside and ate by the window. A teenager went past on the pavement talking loudly into a phone, complaining that her mother had sent her out for milk and then changed her mind. Somewhere in the building a tap ran for a long time. Naomi found herself wondering who owned the upstairs rooms now that the boarding house was flats, but it was only a passing thought, displaced almost immediately by the question of which box contained her desk lamp. She found the lamp in the box marked BEDROOM — MISC, although it had never been kept in the bedroom. Its shade was crushed along one edge. She put it on the side table anyway and switched it on. The pool of light reached her chair and part of the books beside it. That would do until she had time to arrange the room properly.