It was my first time living away from the student residence at university. The six months I had spent there had been horrid and frightening. The constant noise, the drunken parties that raged through the night—I could barely sleep enough to function during the day. Faces changed continually, and it felt like living in a busy railway station filled with rowdy football fans caught in a perpetual frenzy.
Realising that sleep was vital, I asked to leave the residence and find quieter lodgings. My request was denied unless I forfeited the entire accommodation fee for the year. Others, with more desperate complaints than mine, were also turned down. I began to wonder—was I living in a madhouse, or was the place itself driving me mad?
Then tragedy struck. The quiet girl in the room opposite mine took her own life. I never knew what burdens she carried beyond the chaos of that residence, but surely the sleepless nights and constant turmoil did not help. In the wake of her death, the university finally allowed those of us on that wing to leave without financial penalty. I accepted immediately, though I could not shake the thought that perhaps she, too, had begged to leave.
I found a small flat in Portstewart near the sea, sharing it with a girl from Limavady whom I knew from school. Our flat was the upstairs floor of a house owned by an elderly lady named Tita. She must have been suffering from forgetfulness, for there were little sticky notes everywhere—reminders to “buy milk,” “turn off light,” “close this.”
White-haired and impeccably dressed, Tita was tiny but indomitable. Every meal, even tea and biscuits, was arranged neatly on a tray with an embroidered napkin in a silver ring, and beside it, a tiny vase holding a single flower. She never used mugs—only delicate, floral cups and saucers. She lived alone, except for a small talking bird that endlessly repeated, “Poor Tita, poor Tita.” It wasn’t surprising; she herself murmured those same words throughout the day.
We learned that Tita had grown up in that very house with her parents and siblings. During the Spanish flu outbreak after the First World War, they had all died, leaving her entirely alone. The local newspaper had once carried the tragic story. Grief had enclosed her life within the same walls, as though she, too, were a bird in a cage.
My flatmate and I were young and inexperienced, and our housekeeping skills must have appalled her. Yet I luxuriated in the quietness of that home and the soothing rhythm of the sea. Walking on the beach brought solace and peace—I could finally breathe, and sleep returned to me.
Then strange things began to happen. Once, we threw out a damp, clumped-up packet of Rice Krispies. To our astonishment, we later found it back in the cupboard. Tita, it turned out, had retrieved the cereal, carefully dried it in her oven, and replaced it in the box. It unnerved us—we began to doubt everything in our cupboards. Other odd happenings followed, and only later did I realise those sticky notes had been signs that her mind was failing. But at the time, in our youthful ignorance, we didn’t understand.
When we finally moved out, we thanked her sincerely for her kindness. I visited her over the following years. Her bird had died, and someone had replaced it—but this new bird did not say, “Poor Tita.” She was heartbroken and could not understand why. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. It felt too cruel to deepen her sorrow.
Life can deal such harsh hands. To that gentle student who died in the residence, and to this lonely, grieving landlady—I often think of them both.
If we truly knew the burdens carried by those around us—our neighbours, our friends, even the strangers we pass in the street—we would be kinder in every way, and look upon them with the compassion they so deeply need.
