When Joyce saw what her neighbour had done, she was spitting feathers
I t was smack bang in the centre of the communal gardens – a large plastic flamingo wedged between the ornamental pond and the wisteria arch.
‘What a monstrosity!’ Joyce grumbled as she stood at the kitchen window watering her geraniums. ‘Some people have no consideration for others.’
Joyce had not long moved into the one-bedroomed apartment on the edge of the little market town. It was a small, modest block, consisting of six other units, all of them sharing the one largish garden.
Joyce was still pining for the house she had lived in for 30 years with her late husband Richard. She particularly missed her own garden. It had been her safe place, somewhere she could escape to.
She had always been an introverted sort. Richard had been the extrovert in the relationship. When he’d died seven years ago, Joyce had found she sought out the company of others less and less. She rarely used the communal garden here, resenting the intrusion of the other tenants.
She did, however, like to look out onto it – and a life-sized plastic flamingo was not her idea of tasteful landscaping.
‘I bet it’s that Maureen from number five,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘She seems like the sort who’d consider it a good thing to have a giant plastic water feature.’
Joyce had only met Maureen twice – once in the communal garden, on one of the rare occasions she’d ventured out, and then at the local Co-op. Both times, the woman had overwhelmed her with her flamboyant manner and her incessant chatter.
‘I suppose I’ll have to have a word with her,’ Joyce thought. ‘Somebody has to.’
The opportunity arose the following Wednesday. Joyce had just returned from the library, and Maureen was climbing the communal stairway with two loaded carrier bags and a bunch of gladioli. She was wearing one of her usual voluminous, patterned dresses and was attempting to hitch up the trailing material so as not to trip on her ascent. This was proving difficult because of the bags and flowers.
Joyce called up after her. ‘Can I help with those?’ She intended to be amicable about the flamingo situation. After all, she knew how to be neighbourly.
Maureen turned at the sound of Joyce’s voice. Her face was flushed, and her hair, dyed a radiant shade of red, framed her full cheeks like a cheerful feather duster.
‘You’re an angel.’ Maureen gripped the banister and puffed a little as she tried to catch her br
