6B the stairwell where the smell of damp umbrellas and old concrete lingers, feels especially crisp this spring. The air is cool, yet each evening the light seems to linger, as if the day is in no hurry to leave.
The Bennet family trudged home: my wife, our teenage son Jack, and I. Each of us carried a bag of veg and a loaf, the tops of the bags spilling long stalks of spring onions. Water dripped from the doorframe someone had just entered without shaking off their umbrella.
Fresh notices were pinned to the doors and post boxes plain white sheets printed on a home printer. In bold scarlet letters they read: Attention! Urgent replacement of water meters! Must be completed by the end of the week! Fines apply! Phone to book see below. The paper was already curling in the damp, the ink feathering at the edges. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy stood by the lift, trying to dial a number while clutching a sack of potatoes in her other hand.
They say therell be fines if we dont change them, she murmured anxiously as we passed. I called; a young man told me its a special offer just for our block. Maybe its time?
My wife shrugged. It feels a bit sudden. No one warned us beforehand. The managing agent has been silent no letters, no calls. And this offer it sounds too loud.
At dinner the conversation went on. Jack fished another slip from his school bag identical to the first, folded in half and slipped into the door gap. My wife turned the paper over, eyes landing on the installation date of our current meter on the bill.
Were only due for a check next year. Why the rush? she asked. And why has none of us ever heard of this company?
I thought for a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyer. And find out what this service actually is and why theyre handing them out everywhere.
The next morning the stairwell buzzed. Voices rose on the landings someone arguing on the phone upstairs, a small crowd by the rubbish chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat3 shared their worries.
If they dont replace it, theyll turn off our water! one protested. I have little children!
Just then a knock sounded. Two men in matching jackets, briefcases at their sides, paced the hallway. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! This is an urgent directive to replace water meters. Anyone whose last inspection is overdue will be fined by the managing agent! The taller mans voice was loud and overly enthusiastic. His companion pounded on the opposite door, eager to cover as many flats as possible.
The Bennetts exchanged glances. My husband peeked through the peephole strangers, no badges, no IDs. My wife whispered, Dont open. Let them move on.
Jack went to the window and saw a car with no markings parked in the courtyard; the driver puffed on a cigarette and stared at his phone. Streetlights reflected on the wet tarmac, still glistening from the recent drizzle.
Within minutes the two men moved on, leaving damp footprints on the carpet by Aunt Lucys door. A thin trail of water traced down the runner by the entrance.
By night the whole stairwell hummed like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the managing agent, receiving vague answers. In our blocks WhatsApp group the debate raged: should we let these men in? Why the urgency? A neighbour from flat17 chimed in, Their IDs looked odd just a laminated card with no seal. I asked for a licence and they fled.
My husband grew more cautious. Tomorrow well try to catch them again and demand to see all their paperwork. Ill also ring the managing agent directly, he suggested.
My wife backed the plan. Jack promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The following morning the trio returned, still in the same jackets and folders, rattling through the floors, urging instant signups.
I opened my door halfway, chain pulled taut. Show me your documents. Give me your licence and the managing agents reference number if this is a scheduled job, I demanded.
The first man fumbled, producing a sheet with an unfamiliar logo and thrusting it through the crack. The second glanced at his tablet.
We have a contract to service this block heres the agreement, he said.
Contract with who? Our managing agent? Give me the name of the responsible person, the job reference, and a dispatchers number, I replied calmly.
They exchanged nervous looks, muttering about penalties and deadlines. I dialed the managing agent on the spot.
Hello, did you send anyone today to replace water meters? We have strangers walking our flats, I asked.
A crisp voice answered: No scheduled works. We never send anyone without written notice and a signed agreement with each resident.
The men stammered, trying to excuse a mistake and a wrong address, but Jack had already hit record.
Evening fell swiftly; the stairwell slipped into halfdark. A cold draft slipped through an open window, rattling the frames. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entrance, a wet trail from the boots snaked toward the rubbish chute. Behind the doors, neighbours voices rose, recounting what had just transpired.
The climax arrived in a very ordinary way: we finally understood we were facing a scam disguised as a mandatory meter swap. The solution was obvious warn everyone and act together.
The lights were dimming, but we didnt wait. I called Aunt Lucy and the lady from flat17, and two more residents from the top floor joined us, along with a few mums with toddlers. The landing smelled of damp coats and fresh scones someone had just brought in a bakery treat. Jack turned on the recorder so we could share the dialogue with anyone who couldnt be there.
Listen, I began, holding up the phone screen, the managing agent confirmed theres no work planned. These men have no licence, no job reference. Theyre fraudsters.
A woman from the third floor yelled, I already signed up! and flushed. They sounded so convincing
Another neighbour added, We were called too, but a genuine notice would have come in writing from the agent.
I calmed the crowd. The main rule: dont let anyone in tomorrow, and dont pay anything on the spot. If they return, demand proper documents and call the agent right then. Better yet, keep the door shut.
Jack displayed a sheet outlining what a legitimate inspection looks like the next due date on the bill, the companys name checkable via the agent, and that any fine without a court order is just intimidation.
My suggestion, my wife said, is to write a collective letter to the managing agent, informing them of these visits and asking them to alert the rest of us. Lets put a notice on the ground floor as well.
Everyone nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old folder, and we drafted the letter together. A sense of solidarity settled over the stairwell: none of us wanted to be duped alone; together we felt steadier.
Through the landing window, occasional pedestrians hurried home in the drizzle; the courtyard glittered with puddles under the streetlamps.
The notice we pasted was simple: Attention! Fraudsters posing as watermeter technicians have been seen in this building. The managing agent confirms no works are scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! We laminated the paper and taped it securely over the postbox area.
Almost everyone signed the statement; the woman from flat3 promised to deliver it to the agent the next morning. Others pledged to spread the word to relatives and friends on holiday.
As we dispersed back to our flats, the atmosphere shifted from suspicion to purposeful camaraderie, even a hint of humour. One neighbour joked, Now our WhatsApp group should be called AntiScam Squad!
I smiled. The key thing is we now recognise each others faces. Next time well meet because were neighbours, not because were frightened.
Late that night only a couple of umbrellas rested on the heating column and a forgotten grocery bag lay by the side. The landing fell silent; muffled voices drifted from behind doors, sharing plans and phone calls with relatives.
By morning the bogus flyers had vanished as quickly as theyd appeared, and no more strangers prowled the courtyard. The caretaker even found a crumpled flyer with red lettering tucked under a shrub, its tape halfpeeled.
Residents gathered by the lift, exchanging grateful smiles; everyone now knew a little more about their rights and the tricks of impostors. Aunt Lucy brought us a batch of homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the lady from the top floor left a note that simply read Thank you! on our door.
The courtyard was still damp from the nights rain, but the remnants of yesterdays chaos faded with the final drops of water under the morning sun.
On the landing, conversation returned to the usual news: a neighbour boasted about a brandnew meter installed properly a year ago, another teased the meter men, and a few simply enjoyed the newfound trust among us.
We realised the price of victory: an evening spent explaining, paperwork, a few awkward moments in front of neighbours, and a loss of blind faith in doorposters. Yet the whole building is now more vigilant towards strangers and a little closer to each other. The lesson I take forward is that vigilance and community are far stronger than any hurried notice or slick salesman.
