Annoying Neighbor
“Mrs. Hartley, might I borrow some salt? I forgot to stock up,” the grinning man asked at my doorstep. Clara marched to the kitchen in silence, scooping some into a jar. When she turned, he lingered, eyeing the cozy interior. “A tidy little place you’ve got here,” he remarked. Her temper flared. “Did I invite you in? Take the salt and leave.” He shook his head. “So cold-hearted for a neighbor, aren’t we?” Clara yanked the door wider. “Bugger off. I’ve had enough.”
The terraced house had belonged to Clara’s grandfather until his death, when his illegitimate daughter, Agnes, surged into the scene. Sharp as a tack, she dragged documents to court and carved out two rooms for herself. Rather than settle there, she sold them to an unknown bloke. He partitioned the space, installed a separate entrance, and drained what was left of Clara’s grandmother.
This all happened when Clara was fifteen. She’d watched the chaos unfold, turning her against the neighbor. Though he wasn’t the root of the trouble, she couldn’t shake her resentment. Afterward, Clara’s mother remarried a stiff-backed man with a second property where Clara was banished.
It all traced back to her childhood—her large facial birthmark. Cruel nicknames followed: “Speckled” was the tamest. Her stepfather once overheard her being mocked, declaring, “That face of hers will scare the neighbors off.” Clara barely saw her mother after that, only when she visited.
She avoided people, not out of fear, but to stay under their radar. When her belly swelled and William was born, the town gossiped. Who was the father? None knew Clara had begged her childhood friend, Matthew, to father the child for a fee. He agreed, and the matter stayed quiet. Matthew wasn’t one to boast, and Clara craved a son.
When William turned five, the neighbor died, leaving his nephew—or some relative—to occupy the space. He began renovating, slapping up extensions and plumbers. Clara gritted her teeth through the drilling, but William sneaked off to join the work. The lad would crouch by the tools, hammering nails. Clara knew he missed a father but frowned upon the friendship.
She confronted the man—William called him Uncle George. “Let the boy get used to manual labor,” he shrugged. “My dad gave me a tiny hammer at three. I’ve got my eye on him. My brothers grew up with tools in hand.” Clara tried to keep William away, but he’d pout like a sullen adult in the corner. Relenting, she sighed. His eyes lit up as he shouted, “Uncle George, I’m coming to help!”
The man’s frequent visits for borrowed sugar, matches, or tea didn’t sit well. Yet he’d return in bulk, leaving items on the porch. Clara eventually accepted—they weren’t hurting, and maybe his coin could help.
One day, she overheard William whispering, “My mam’s beautiful, but I wish I had a dad. I can’t tell her.” Clara froze. The man replied, “She’s a beauty, William, but too headstrong to let anyone close.” William mused, “I hit Pete Sutherland when he said her birthmark looked like a witch’s.” George chuckled. “Fair comparison. Thought I’d sell this place after meeting her but—well, never again.”
Clara cut in, “William, dinner.” He rushed to her, then turned back: “Mam, can Uncle George stay?” Clara’s voice softened, “Only this once.”
At the table, William fell asleep. George carried him to bed, tucking him in. Clara braced herself. “Tea or off to bed?” he asked. “Both,” he smiled, leaning in to kiss her. Her head spun, but she pulled back. “What’s your game?” George grinned. “You’re prickly like a hedgehog. But prickles fade if you care to scrape them.” Clara smirked, touching her face. “Does it not bother you?” “Not a jot,” he said. “I see your stubbornness, your gentleness. That’s just… simple to fix.”
Tears welled. “It’s ruined my life. I work from home so no one stares. God forbid, pities me.” He pulled her close. “Good it’s the least of our worries.” She looked up. “Ours?” “Yours and mine,” he affirmed. “Time to merge our houses. I’ll start repairing it tomorrow.”
Clara finally exhaled, a real man by her side. The birthmark no longer mattered. True beauty wasn’t in a face, but in the soul behind it.