Dear Neighbour

by Jane Claire Bradley

Genres: City Life; Friendship

Synopsis

Alice is a working hard to provide for her daughter, Mollie. But it's a challenge juggling her job alongside her duties as a single Mum in Leeds: a city she barely knows. Her neighbours keep to themselves and as much as she longs for a friend to rely on, she knows that things don't work out that way.

Bill has lived on Leodis Street for eighty years. It's where he was born, began his married life and eventually cared for his wife in her final days. Since Sally's death, Bill's home is a place of solitude, his talisman against an unrecognisable world.

When the residents of Leodis Street are threatened with eviction, Alice knows that she needs to make a stand. As she reaches out to her neighbours and learns about their lives, she is surprised to discover that she might already live next door to the friends she has been yearning for. Perhaps together they can build a community to be proud of and discover the true meaning of home.

Release date: June 15, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 80000

Sample

The news keeps threatening an Easter heatwave, but so far there’s no sign of it. Monday has been relentless grey drizzle, and Alice curses herself for not bringing Mollie’s pram. She stops halfway up the hill to reshuffle her handbag and tote bag full of lesson plans, then hefts Mollie into a more comfortable position on her hip. The toddler’s knackered from nursery, her arms snuggled around Alice’s neck, giving an occasional drowsy mumble in her ear.

Things at school have been hectic. The kids have been getting increasingly hyper as Easter approaches, the classrooms are chaos, and there’s never enough time for everything that needs doing, but noise and mess have never fazed Alice. She’d rather spend her breaks mopping up paint or prepping worksheets than in the staffroom, listening to the other TAs complain about school politics or comparing notes about their diets, boyfriends and book clubs. Alice tried bonding with the others when she started, but found herself spacing out so often that almost two years down the line she’s come to terms with keeping their interactions surface level and her real concentration on the kids.

Alice and Mollie weave past the lads breakdancing on rain-spotted sheets of cardboard outside the off-licence, a speaker blasting hip hop next to an upturned baseball cap with a collection of coppers and one grubby note, clashing with the techno from the Caribbean takeaway next door. In every cafe window, students type at laptops with ferocious caffeine-fuelled intensity, looking far younger and more fashionable than Alice remembers ever being when she came to Leeds for uni ten years ago. Pushing away a pang that accompanies that image of her teenage self, Alice focuses on that night’s to-do list. Sort the tea. Bath for Mol. Council tax bill. Get a wash on. Mollie’s becoming more of a dead weight with every step, but they’re almost back, turning onto Leodis Street just as the first spits of a harder downpour start.

Oppressive grey clouds leach the colour from the narrow red-brick terraces, casting the curved row of council houses in a murky gloom. Alice suppresses a snort, picturing her mum giving a theatrical shudder at the sight of the street accompanied with the words ‘grim up North’. Once Alice made it clear she wasn’t moving back to Liverpool after graduation, her parents had traded their own terrace near Anfield for an apartment in Nice. Her mum never tires of evangelising about expat life, her messages full of sunshine and passionate descriptions of nearby vineyards, markets and beaches. But while Alice can usually brush off her mum’s jokes about Leodis Street looking like something from a Mike Leigh film, today Alice grudgingly sees her point. The weeds snaking up through the cracked paving slabs, the damp-blotted brickwork and the potholes on the street can’t be masked by all the hard work Alice has put into making this little corner of Leeds a home. Alice glares at the dark patch above her bedroom window, weighing up its size. Is it bigger since last time she looked? She’s so distracted that she doesn’t immediately see the man sitting on the low crumbling wall that joins their house with its neighbour.

He’s slumped over, face hidden in his hands, so it takes Alice a moment to recognise Bill from next door, looking strange without his usual flat cap and coat. What’s wrong with him? Alice’s mind flashes to the first-aid course school sent her on, but blanks on retrieving anything useful. She nudges Mollie from her doze and sets her down, then bends to touch Bill’s shoulder.

‘Bill? You okay, love?’

From behind his hands, Bill mumbles something Alice can’t make out. There’s a letter folded in his lap, a brown envelope and a white sheet of paper. Bill rubs his face hard, then lowers his hands, revealing a weathered face set with mistrustful blue eyes.

In the three years Alice has lived on Leodis Street, Bill’s barely talked to her. She only knows his name from the grunt he gave her when she first introduced herself. Since then, his only other communication has been the bangs on the wall whenever she and Mollie get too loud. Moody old codger. Alice knows she’s not a bad neighbour, but she needs music to get going in the mornings. She can’t help the occasional noise of her ongoing self-taught DIY, or Mollie’s sporadic nightmare shrieks. There had been that couple of wearing weeks when Sam idiotically gave Mollie a harmonica, but following a headache-fogged fortnight, Alice banned the instrument to Mol’s weekends with her dad. But Bill’s narkiness long predated that incident, so while it might not have helped matters, Alice knows it’s not the cause.

Alice’s wariness about Bill isn’t helped by the fact he hardly ever seems to go out. If only he went down the pub or whatever, we wouldn’t have to tiptoe around or risk pissing him off. Alice imagines her and Mollie cranking up the stereo and bopping round the living room, then scrambling to turn it down when they see Bill making his way up the path. But she never sees him go anywhere, though she assumes he must do his errands while she’s at school. He seems independent enough for his age, and he never wants help. In the cold snap last February, Alice had worried about him slipping – the street’s uneven pavements were annoying enough without the extra danger of black ice. But when she’d knocked to ask if he wanted any shopping, Bill scowled and told her not to fuss.

‘I’m fine,’ he snapped, the door already closing. ‘I don’t need anyone bothering me.’

‘Thanks but no thanks would’ve been an acceptable answer too, you know,’ Alice snarked back to the almost-shut door, but the only reply was the clunk of the Bill’s lock.

Even though Bill’s a miserable arse most of the time, it’s still unnerving seeing him crumpled over like this.

‘What is it, Bill? Has something happened?’

He’s still staring into space, but the second time she asks his pale eyes come into focus and he shakes his head, meeting her gaze.

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

‘Do you need me to do anything, Bill? Call someone? A doctor?’

‘Don’t fuss me,’ he grouches, creaking himself up from the wall and heading back towards his front door.

‘What will I find out?’ Alice calls after him as he goes, but before Bill can answer Alice hears footsteps behind her.

She turns. It’s AJ from three doors down, hurtling towards them in his scrubs from the hospital. He’s another one whose name Alice knows but not much more: they’d said hello about a year back, Alice passing AJ as he unloaded boxes from a banged-up gold Vauxhall with a Sheffield United pennant in the window, but their paths have hardly crossed since. Bill never goes out, but AJ’s never in. She imagines he’s got plenty of places to go when he’s not working. Alice has never seen him with anyone else, but AJ’s designer stubble and dimples make her suspect he’s not short of admirers, so she assumes he has endless options for company he’s taking up on the nights his car stays gone from the street.

AJ skids to a stop just before he crashes into them.

‘You get one as well?’ he demands, waving a brown envelope the same as Bill’s. The sight of it puts Alice even more on edge. Clocking Mollie’s look of panic at his sudden arrival, AJ pastes on a bright smile.

‘’Ey up, trouble,’ he says to the toddler, exaggerating the Sheffield lilt in his accent and holding his hand out for a high five. ‘You being good?’

Mollie smacks his palm with a nod, then wanders away up the path.

Alice turns to AJ. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

AJ’s expression moves from stressed to uncertain, then understanding. He nods to the tote bag stuffed with papers over her shoulder. ‘You just getting back from school, yeah?’

Alice nods. ‘Not been in yet. What’s going on?’

AJ grimaces, but his voice is gentle, and that makes Alice even more worried than before. ‘’S not my place to say,’ he tells her, tilting his head towards her door. ‘But you’ll see.’

Alice glances over to where Bill’s still standing, watching them half-hidden by his partially shut door. For a moment, their eyes meet, and Alice thinks she can see something shifting in him, like he wants to say something more. He looks towards Mollie on the next doorstep, singing a low song to herself and colouring in the path with pastel-pink chalk. Bill’s face softens, just for a second. Then his door slams shut.

Alice turns back to AJ, who’s got a worried puckering between his eyebrows and the envelope half-crumpled in his hand. It must be something bad to have given him this knock. Alice usually only ever sees AJ whizzing past in his car, munching toast and doing his hair in the rear-view mirror, a blast of house music or Whitney Houston disappearing with a screech of tyres. His face and hands are always animated, drumming on the wheel or gesticulating in energetic conversation with whoever he’s got on speakerphone. Alice can’t imagine him having that calm grit that nurses need. He doesn’t even look old enough to be a nurse. That’s what she’d always thought, but facing him now Alice realises AJ must be mid-twenties or thereabouts, older than she’d first thought.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Tell me.’

But AJ just shakes his head. ‘Get yourself in,’ he replies, turning to go. ‘Don’t stress yet.’ He leans round her to shout bye to Mol, then slouches back towards his house with none of his usual bounce. Left alone on the street, the cool air and the still-spitting rain suddenly make Alice shiver.

Mollie bounds through their unlocked front door like a puppy. She’s collected the post from the doormat and decided it’s all boring before Alice has even set her bags down.

‘Oi. Get back here and give me those.’

But Mollie’s already in the kitchen, stretching onto her tiptoes to copy Alice’s usual process of dumping each day’s post onto the countertop. Following her, Alice retrieves the bundle and sifts through it, separating flyers, takeaway menus and the monthly listings magazine from the bills and bank statements. It’s there, in among the others: a brown envelope matching the ones Bill and AJ had been holding.

Alice’s stomach goes hollow and an icy, ominous sensation rockets through her. There’s no way that envelope contains good news. She spins through possibilities, but can’t think what it could be. Surely the council haven’t put the rent up again? She glances at the messy pile of paperwork on her makeshift kitchen table desk and crosses her fingers it’s nothing that’s going to cost her. She makes ends meet but it’s a tightrope act. When everything’s in balance she even manages to stash a bit away each month in Mol’s savings account. But it wouldn’t take much to wobble them. Later, Alice decides. She makes a mental note of the things she needs to do before Mollie’s bedtime, sighs and gets to work.

Once Mollie’s in bed, Alice heads back downstairs. The letter is a sinister presence in the room, but she can’t bear to open it yet, so she grabs her phone from the side instead.

There’s a flurry of new messages in her old Leeds University girls’ group chat. The messages are mostly cocktail-glass and thumbs-up emojis, so Alice has to scroll up to understand what’s going on. The original text is at the top, sent an hour ago.

Anyone about tonight? Two-for-one happy hour at The Alchemist while the lads are at the football?

Alice turns her phone off. She can’t be arsed with the inevitable strawberry daiquiri selfies later. She tries hard not to begrudge them their fun, but it’s tough being the only mum. She has to bite her tongue on the occasional times she still gets to hang out with them, and take care not to talk too much about breastfeeding, or sleep schedules, or her constant heart-dazzling pride and amazement every time Mollie does or says something she’s never done before. The messages have only made her feel worse, so she retrieves a half-bottle of white wine from the fridge and pours herself a glass, sits down at the little yellow table and takes a deep breath.

Alice grits her teeth as she opens the letter. The first two words are a punch in the gut.

EVICTION NOTICE.

Bollocks.

In a sudden sick wave of panic, Alice lets the letter fall from her hand. She downs her glass, the chill of the wine sharp against her teeth and slowing the tornado of thoughts storming through her head. She counts to ten, then twenty, and back down again.

Dear Ms Clarke,

This letter is to inform you of the impending purchase of Leodis Street land and properties from Leeds Housing Federation by Gatsby Luxury Apartments Ltd.

You are hereby notified to vacate the premises described in the address above within twenty-eight days of the date of the delivery of this notice to you, at which time your tenancy will be terminated.

Demolition of the property is scheduled for this date, therefore, if you fail to vacate the premises within this period, you will be considered to be trespassing on private property. Legal proceedings may be taken against you, with our security operatives taking immediate action to remove you from the premises if required.

If you wish to discuss this matter further, you are invited to do so at the forthcoming meeting with a representative from Gatsby Luxury Apartments (details enclosed).

We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause you, and thank you for your understanding and swift cooperation.

Paul Buchanan

Gatsby Luxury Apartments Ltd

A month? That’s all they give you to get sorted and get out before they bulldoze your house? After three years? And even as the thought pinballs through Alice’s brain, the nausea returns, because she knows other residents on the streets have been here longer. From his stubbornness and the old-fashioned nets in the windows, Alice reckons Bill’s been here decades.

They can’t. The two words loop in her head, between phrases like ‘security deposit’ and ‘three months’ rent required upfront’. She can’t do it. Not in a month, not without more time to plan, to do the sums, to look for somewhere else in between all the swanky places aimed at ‘young professionals’ with coke habits and actual career prospects, or the sorts of students who won’t do their own washing up. She can’t afford anywhere like that.

She could go back to the council, but Alice is already envisioning the shit places they showed her last time: the flat in Beeston with black alien tendrils of mould creeping from the bathroom ceiling, or the place in Armley with smoke and water damage from the fire that had destroyed next door. Alice had still been reeling from the conversation with Sam when they’d both finally been forced to recognise that it wasn’t going to work. She went to the viewings in a daze, big vintage sunglasses hiding her swollen, tear-tired eyes, a Leeds Housing Federation officer with neon nails and ladybird earrings cooing over six-month-old Mollie’s chubby arms and long-lashed eyes. Alice knew how much hinged on her next move, the fog lifting just a fraction as she assessed the issues with each property. Even with its wheezy boiler and treacherously steep staircase, it was obvious that Leodis Street was their best choice.

I mean, it wasn’t exactly paradise, but come on. Look at it now. Terrified but determined, Alice had dismantled Mollie’s cot and borrowed Sam’s car for an Ikea trip where she’d maxed out her credit card. Once they were in and sorted, Alice had relied on strategic rinsing of the B&Q sales and canny scouring of the posh charity shops in Ilkley to slowly turn the house into a home. If you call it bohemian, you can get away with anything. And it works: everything clashes but it all goes together, and it’s theirs.

Alice goes back to the envelope and examines it again, fishes out a flimsy slip of paper with the meeting details. Next Monday, at some offices in Meanwood, chaired by Paul Buchanan. Slimeball dickhead, she decides, head collapsing into her hands. But maybe I can appeal, or something. If they’re holding a meeting, maybe it’s not final yet. The capital letters of the eviction notice have a grim finality to them, but Alice makes her breathing as slow and calm as she can, and decides she’s got to hold out hope. I’ll go to the meeting, and I’ll fight it. Even if I’m the only one on the street who shows. They’re not taking this away from me. Not without listening to my case first.

She doesn’t want to have to change jobs. She doesn’t want to move Mollie to a different nursery. She doesn’t want to have to explain to Mollie that their home is worth more to someone smashed to bits than with them in it.

They can’t, they can’t, they can’t.

The last of the wine gets poured into Alice’s glass and by the time that’s empty, she’s empty and exhausted too. But there’s something else – a tiny ember of defiance. She’s not being evicted without a fight.

Bill makes boiled eggs and buttered toast for breakfast. The estate and its surrounding area have changed a lot in the time he’s been here, but the local bakery is still going strong. Each time he goes, the prices seem to have crept up and he no longer recognises the names of half the things on the chalkboard menu above the counter. Still, it’s part of his ritual: once a week in a slow loop that stops at the market, the library, and sometimes the doctor’s or the post office, to pay his bills and withdraw his pension. The bakery is on the way back, saved until last so the loaf keeps that soft flour warmth and smell. He does other excursions when he has to, but for the most part his life has shrunk to a one-mile radius, especially since the bus he used to get to the Yorkshire County Cricket ground changed its route. He doesn’t know where it goes from now.

It’s early, only just gone six, but the sun is already streaking the sky pink and gold. That and the birdsong that comes with the sunrise are a comfort to Bill; his body clock seems set for early mornings, once it’s past a certain time he’s awake with no chance of further sleep. It’s harder in winter, when he’s always been up for hours by the time the sun comes sneaking up and the few buzzy street lights still working finally flicker all the way out. When his day has been in progress for what feels like for ever by the time it even starts for anyone else. When the cold gets in his bones so that his arthritis becomes tight, knife-hot knots in his knuckles and hips, and it’s hard not to get trapped going round in circles remembering when things were better. The noise from next door doesn’t help: Bill knows it’s not Alice’s fault that their houses share a wall, but when he’s knackered and in pain every sound grates on his nerves. Some days, it sounds like pandemonium next door: the little one caterwauling, the hairdryer blasting, cartoon theme tunes mixing in with the high motorised whine of the washing machine. The chaotic image it conjures up for Bill makes him bristle even more when he recalls Alice’s intermittent attempts to bond with and help him. Needs to get her own house in order before she starts mithering me. I’ve told her I’m fine, haven’t I? Wish she’d bloody well just take me at my word and leave me well enough alone.

Breakfast made, Bill eases himself into the armchair by the window, thankful for the temporary peace. The leather on the chair’s arms is soft and splitting, and Bill smooths his fingers over the familiar texture like a good-luck talisman before reaching for his pint mug of tea. He still thinks of it as Dad’s armchair, which is daft because Dad’s been dead and buried half a century at least. But Bill can’t unstick that way of thinking: the entire house is layers of people and memories, all pasted over each other. There are little echoes of Mam, Dad and his brothers all over the house. The bookshelves in the alcove by the fireplace: his dad built those for Mam, and for years they’d housed her sewing and recipe books. When Mam died, Dad boxed them away, using the shelves for his collection of battered murder mysteries and sci-fi paperbacks. A few of Bill’s favourites remain there even now, kept from when he and Sally took the house over after Dad’s death. There’s a dint in the bannister from the impact of Bill’s six-year-old head, the casualty of a zealous battle with Alfie on the landing that ended in Bill roly-polying down every thudding step of the steep staircase. He’d bounced back upright with a dazed expression, swearing vengeance and only realising he was bleeding when he sprayed red everywhere. He’d nearly bitten through his lip, and Mam’s shrieks at the blood had been a long-standing joke on the street for years after. She’d hurled Alfie and Eddie out into the street to play while she bundled Bill to hospital, but his brothers put their exile to good use. By the time Bill and Mam got back, Alfie and Eddie had been begging at all their neighbours’ doors, doing a dramatic retelling of his injury and promising future errands in return for a few donated pennies. They spent their scraped-together windfall on tin soldiers and sweets, presented to Bill with utmost solemnity on his return.

Sally’s still everywhere, of course. She was always far better at the domestic side of things than Bill, and he can’t bring himself to undo her hard work. Besides, it suits him to have reminders of her. His bedroom now is the same one he was born in, but it was his and Sally’s so long he can’t remember it being Mam and Dad’s. Darker, he thinks, and not as comfortable. All through her cancer, Sally had fretted about what he’d do when she wasn’t there to take care of him. He’d taken care of her as best he could, but taking care of himself is harder. Keeping to his routine helps: after rinsing his breakfast plate, he settles down with yesterday’s paper and its halfway-done crossword. That letter is still on the mantelpiece. How long is it since it came? Three days, . . .