Nightingale Court

Mrs Cockroach, my neighbour from 507 Nightingale Court, had a distinctive door-knock. It was like the first four notes of Beethoven’s fifth; three quick taps and one solid rap. 

   I’m coming! I said, closing my laptop. Hold on, Cally! 

Her dishevelled straw mop and skimpy summer dress made her look like a knock-kneed scarecrow after an autumnal storm. 

   What’s up, neighbour? I asked. 

   There’s a taxi on its way, she said, scratching her blotchy elbow. I need help to move out of my flat.

* * *

Nightingale Court is at the intersection of Balham Hill and Nightingale Lane, and perched above the entrance to Clapham South Underground Station. I lived on the east side of the apartment block overlooking Balham Hill, better known in London parlance as the South Circular. Entire fleets of the capital’s biggest juggernauts roar along this arterial highway night and day; only easing off at three in the morning before picking up again around four. Looking back, I wonder how I ignored the constant throb of diesel engines, horn blasts and brake squeals, twenty-three hours every day. 

   Apartment 509 was a concrete-lined sarcophagus on the fifth of five floors and boasted roof-top views of the city with easy access to public transport and a variety of handy independent stores. That wasn’t far from the truth because the 355 to Clapham Common chugged under my balcony every fifteen minutes, and at lunchtime, when I was working from home, I’d smell sizzling hot fat wafting up from Moxie’s Fish Bar below. It was a half-decent ‘chippy’ abutting Moxon’s Fishmongers, whose nauseating odours were less welcome during the summer months. The parade of shops also included Mox’s hair salon, who’d give me a quick trim for cash, MoxiFix for knackered PC repairs and, if all else failed, Moxwell’s funeral directors. 

   Who could ask for more? 

   A bar, you ask? 

Of course, there had to be a place to hang out after a long day at the office. Number 3 Nightingale Lane offered respite from life’s hustle-and-bustle and a ‘quintessential English menu with contemporary twists in luxurious surroundings’. Despite trip advisor’s spectrum of conflicting reviews, Beverley Moxon never failed to satiate my thirst with her trademark ‘Moxito’ – a lethal combination of ice-cold white rum, fresh mint and zesty limes. 

   Beverley was the enterprising proprietress of the Balham Hill business empire and my landlady at apartment 509. ‘Moxy’, as she was known, had been everywhere and done it all. She’d both a patient ear and a strong shoulder, and offered sound advice to all and sundry. Number 3 Nightingale Lane was also a popular venue for the local constabulary, because of her late opening hours. They turned a blind eye to the licencing laws providing she drew her curtains and locked the doors before last orders, and all the punters remained compos mentis. I neither witnessed any trouble on the premises nor heard about complaints from the local community. The heavy police presence put a stop to any nonsense, period. 

* * *

It was Mr Warbuoy from apartment 505 who first referred to our neighbour Cally as Mrs Cockroach. All right, I admit Calista Roche sounds a bit like a cockroach. Given the circumstances, it was funny the first time he made the comment, but then I realised he wasn’t joking. He had a ‘thing’ about her accent that was both cruel and quite irrational. Mr Warbuoy despised any foreign influence in his parish and often ranted about the ‘invasion’ from Eastern Europe after the war. 

   Occasionally, he cornered me on my way to the lift and engaged me in conversation about his latest campaign to cleanse Nightingale Court. They brought pestilence and disease here, he’d say, sweeping his hand as if making a profound and grandiose statement. She does nothing but complain about cockroaches, don’t you know?

   I couldn’t argue with him on that account. Cally had a terrible time with the little devils. She’d knock on my door in tears of desperation after employing the latest spray or powder to rid herself of the problem. Whatever she’d tried made no difference, and the cockroaches only returned in force. The stress had affected her health, and she’d developed eczematous dry and inflamed skin. 

   Mr Warbuoy had no sympathy for Cally and the more she complained, the more he referred to her as Mrs Cockroach. He’d curse ‘her kind’ as invaders and saw them as cheats and thieves who’d come to abuse the welfare system and destroy his way of life. When his face turned scarlet, I knew to change the subject and make my excuses. On one occasion as I retreated, he’d collared me with a gnarled claw and whispered, I blame hussies like her at apartment 507. My jaw dropped as he turned to jab his forefinger at her doorway, as if placing a curse on the poor woman. 

* * *

I never allowed myself the luxury of a drink before five o’clock. However, I recall one frantic lunchtime when I needed a break from work and ventured round to Moxy’s place for a stiffener. Straight away, I noticed Cally sipping a modest glass of Cava at the bar. She smiled and raised her glass as I approached. Hey, neighbour, Cally said. What are you drinking? 

   He always has a Moxito, said Moxy, from behind the bar.

   Another Cava and my usual, I said, returning her wry wink.

   It was odd meeting Cally in an environment away from Nightingale Court and the gloss-painted corridors that perspired glistening droplets throughout the year. I’d hoped we might escape our usual topic of conversation. However, she spoke at length about her various allergies and how her youngsters drove her mad. They’re exhausting, she said. You’ve no idea. 

   Cally was right. She had far more experience of raising children and bore the scars to prove it. I know she moaned about the endless infestation problem and whinged about her little ones, but she never mentioned Mr Warbuoy’s sarcastic comments. So, either she was incredibly thick skinned or hadn’t noticed his pointed remarks.

* * *

Mr Warbuoy had an insistent door-knock. It was like a road drill; four fast raps and a triple tap, repeated in quick succession. He refused to be ignored, especially on a Sunday morning, and continued pounding away until an adjacent neighbour appeared to quell his zeal. I’m off to church, he’d say, clutching his trusty folding-bike. Will you join me in worship today? 

   I’d decline his kind invitation every week, but like a true and valiant pilgrim, he saw it as his sacred mission to encourage me and cleanse my weary soul. Perhaps next week, neighbour? He’d say, strapping on his homemade bike helmet. 

   I don’t have a bike, I’d say, curious about his odd headwear.

   Why waste good money on designer gear when one can make do?

A good question, however, I’d met no one else who’d constructed a bicycle helmet from expanded polystyrene packaging, secured with acres of thick black duct tape and used a bungee-tie as a chin strap.

* * *

The day Cally vacated Nightingale Court was the first time she’d invited me inside her apartment. She looked like a tiny lost fledgling as I followed her inside. I’d imagined her living quarters would be both dirty and disorganised. But, I was wrong. Cally had packaged all her small family’s possessions into four suitcases, three bin liners and two sports bags. The furniture and fittings belonged to Moxy and there was nothing left to arrange other than load the taxi down below.

   I caught my breath and swallowed with embarrassment as I scanned the flawless walls, brushed carpet and neat kitchen. Her flat was immaculate; every surface gleamed, and she’d suffused each room with fresh-smelling air cleanser. All right, the general odour had a hint of biocide, but either way, it was spotless. I bit my lip when I recalled laughing at her unkind nickname with Mr Warbuoy. We knew nothing about her life. 

   Mr Warbuoy was mean spirited, but maybe that’s because his wife had died and left him incapable of keeping house. After all, he was a member of that generation of men who married women in order to be looked after, fed, and watered. They never imagined what would happen if their loved ones departed first.

* * *

Mr Warbuoy was never the same after Cally departed. Perhaps he missed that burst of rage first thing in the morning when he witnessed Cally struggling to control her brood of dishevelled ragamuffins. I’m sure he relished the self-righteous indignation when her uncouth whirlwind of unbridled youth careered past his door, shouting and squealing on their way to school. 

   He was calmer than normal when he requested help to shift a second-hand sofa into his apartment. It was the first time I’d entered his property, and it came as a surprise to witness his front room, or what I could see of it. The room was full of newspapers; piles of cuttings bound with string, bundles of red-tops and bails of broad-sheets stacked high like rusting vehicles in a breaker’s yard. 

   After returning next door, I wondered whether the infestation had come from Mr Warbuoy’s home. He was clearly a man who had difficulty parting with possessions. There were piles of once-glossy Sunday supplements dating back twenty years or more. Apart from providing an immediate fire hazard, the stacks of yellowing paper would provide ideal nesting material for colonies of burrowing mice. I imagined the vertiginous towers of paper hollowed out like a Swiss Emmental and chock-a-block with chuckling rodents, scampering round his apartment with impunity inside their spiralling superhighways.

The End